I don't know what it is with this whole me-churning-out-new-chapters thing, but I like it. I have another chapter of Circles of Change almost ready to post, and Simply Charming Chapter Four and Fellowship Chapter Five are on their way. Man, changing my hours all the time messed with my head so much it got my muse going again. W00T!
And yes, I am well aware of the I-only-turn-out-a-new-chapter-every-few-months thing. The original "130 written pages" went out the window because I decided that plotline was something you only see in Mary-Sue fics. This is not a Mary-Sue fic. This is a realistic drama involving fictional people in situations that do happen in real life.
Thanks to: Moonjava, Avara, Joska, and Moondance.
Notes: I'd like to make it clear that from this point on in the story, most of what I will be going on will be what I observed in various visits to the hospital and what bits of truth I can glean from "real drama" TV shows. Everything else will be Artistic License for those of you curious as to whether I've ever been to a hospital at all. If you'd like to correct me with some concrete information I can use, other than, "O that is sooo wrong thats not how they do it at al you idi0t!" please do. I appreciate people criticizing me and telling me what I need to fix.
The first song featured in this chapter was Date Rape, by Sublime. The second was the classic Greensleeves. The third was Borrowed Time, by Leahy. The fourth was Here's to the Night, by Eve 6. Here's to the Night was also my senior class song, if anyone cares.
Another hand to Craig, whose persistence in getting me to return to Adria events has inspired me to write another chapter.
Chapter Five: Gladys' Leap
Reanna sat on the edge of the hospital bed and listened to the nurse prattle on about the results of the tests as she twisted Mr. Teddy's paws into a knot and avoided looking either of the nurses in the eyes.
"Your hymen is still intact, my girl, and since there is no evidence of–" here she lowered her voice and looked meaningfully at the other nurse. "Anal penetration, or mention of oral sex, we can conclude that sexual abuse was not evident in this case." She nodded at the other nurse, who made a notation on her clipboard. "We've restitched that wound on your arm and applied ointment to some of the others. And a prescription is currently being filled in the hospital pharmacy for antibiotics–some of those cuts are infected–so you'll have to take those. You've had a few cracked ribs–nothing we can do about those except bind them, which we did–" Reanna tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but the bandages around her middle underneath the paper hospital gown wouldn't let her. "–and–oh, look. Are you from Child Services?" she asked a craggy-faced man peering in at the door.
"Yes," the man said, extending a hand as he entered the room. "My name is Benjamin Sullivan, pleased to make your acquaintance." His sharp gaze lit upon Reanna. "This would be the girl?"
"Yes. Reanna Wyr, seventeen years old. Mother deceased, father missing, no known relati–"
The worker cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I know the details, Miss–" here he looked at her nametag. "Peskin. I'd like to speak with her alone for a few moments, if that's all right. I just need to ascertain a few things."
When the nurses had left the room, he pulled a chair up next to the bed. "All right, Miss Wyr. You have no living relatives on either side of your family, your father is missing, though we don't know why. The police said you wouldn't say, however your friend at the police station was most cooperative–"
"Chris? Where is he- is he okay, can I see him?" the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
"He's currently being held on bail since we can't corroborate his story. Care to make anu substantial corrections? He says that he's innocent of any wrongdoing in regards to you, other than taking you in for the night and giving you medical attention. He also claims that it was your missing father who did this to you, and that he's been doing it for a very long time. Is this true?"
Reanna didn't answer.
"Miss Wyr, if you don't confirm or deny his story, he can be released as soon as he can raise the bail money. Do you want that?"
"I-I-I–sir, Chris is innocent, sir. He didn't–he didn't beat me," she said quietly, muffling it in Mr. Teddy.
Leaning forward, he asked, "Then who did?"
"Mr. Sullivan–"
"Please. Call me Ben," he said, smiling encouragingly.
"Ben, if I tell you then you'll lock him up and I'll lose him. I can't."
"Reanna, if someone is beating you black and blue and cutting you up with beer bottles, it's considered child abuse. He obviously abused you. Tell me his name and we can lock him up."
"Haven't you been listening?" she began furiously. "I can't tell you! He's all I have left, and he's going to get better! Just leave us alone!"
"If he's going to get better, then why did you go to the Renaissance Festival that night?" he asked reasonably.
It took a while for her to answer. "Because. . . I wasn't thinking very clearly, I guess. It seemed like a safe place, like a second home. I know the people there won't hurt me . . . so . . . I went."
He eyed her.
"I should have never left home," she stated bitterly, looking at the ground. "If I hadn't then this wouldn't have happened. All I do is make trouble or get people into trouble. Why is everything always my fault?" she cried the last word, and rose off the bed. "Where are my clothes?" she asked him. "I'm going to tell them to let Chris go."
"Do you even know how to get there?" asked Ben.
"I've been here loads of times," she assured him. "Please–can I go now?"
He gave her a sideways look. "Not until you tell us who beat you."
"I can't," she repeated. "Why can't you people understand that?"
"Reanna," he started impatiently. "We pretty much know it was your father, so why not just make it official and let us start officially looking for him on assault charges."
"But–" she began, looking frightened.
"Reanna, your father is a sick, sick man, and he needs help. They can give him that help, so just tell them it was him," a female voice came from the door.
Surprised, Reanna exclaimed, "Saera!"
The blonde woman sauntered into the room, past Ben, and sat next to Reanna on the bed.
"How did you know I was here?" the teenager asked quietly, avoiding her gaze.
"Chris called us first thing from prison and told us to find you. Being that this is the nearest major hospital, I came here first."
"He–he did that?" Reanna asked, awed that he wouldn't have tried to raise the bail money first.
"Yes, he did. Now would you please tell Mr. Sullivan here about your dad so we can go bust Chris out?"
"How did you know my name was Sullivan?" the child services worker asked in surprise.
"Uh . . . it said it on your ID," she offered lamely.
"My– hey, where's my–" he said, fumbling around in his pockets.
"Here it is," Saera said, producing a brown leather wallet and handing it to him. "I found it in the hallway," she finished smoothly, and let go of the wallet.
Feeling ashamed, Reanna cleared her throat. "Mr. Sullivan?"
"Yes?" he asked expectantly.
"Um . . . it was my father, sir. He . . . he was the one who . . . who beat me . . . sir," she said, barely intelligible. Saera put an arm around her shoulders in a comforting way.
Ben just nodded. "Can we get you to sign an affidavit stating just that, and if the need arises, testify against him in a court of law?"
"I . . . yes," she said reluctantly.
"Good. Now, if you'd just sign here . . ."
§
Chris was bored. Really bored. After Paul and Officer Leah had finished questioning him, he'd been left in this cell. This really boring cell. Not that it was a bad cell, it just wasn't a place he'd have picked as a vacation spot. It was empty of everything interesting save a cot that was bolted to the wall, and a bathroom behind a low wall. It would have been cold, too, except for the fact that they'd given him his jacket back when he'd asked for it.
Surprisingly, the old adage about getting only one phone call had proven untrue; he could make as many calls as he needed to, so first off he'd called Saera and told her to find Reanna, and to tell Jack what had happened with the car. Then he'd called Brad and told him to try and get him out of jail. Those had been an hour ago. Where was everyone?
To amuse himself, he began singing.
"Let me tell you 'bout a girl I know, had a drink about an hour ago. Sittin' in the corner by herself. . . "
By the time he'd gotten to, "One night it was getting late; he was butt-raped by a large inmate, and he screamed. But the guards paid no attention to his cries," the guard had come around twice and told him to shut up, and two of the other inmates down the hall had joined in.
"Have you no respect for authority?" A short, honey-haired man grumbled as the guard led him to the cell, and Chris stopped in mid-word and rose to face his friend through the bars.
"Thomas! Can I leave?" he asked hopefully, widening his eyes innocently.
"Not yet," Thomas said regretfully, crushing Chris's hopes. "When Brad called me–I was busy, and I left work to find that you were in jail over some girl you picked up off the street." He shook his head and sighed. "Chris, Chris, Chris."
"It wasn't like that!" Chris protested. "I was–she was–she needed help, Thomas! I couldn't just leave her like that! Brad and I practically had to lock the door to keep her from leaving, and then today she wanted to check on her dad, and this whole mess blew up, and—"
"Your parents called," Thomas said, cutting Chris off in mid-babble.
"I–what?"
"They called for you, but since you weren't home, I took a message and said you'd call back later. Your mom said something about finalizing the divorce, and that you'd need to sign some papers." Thomas looked at his friend sympathetically. "I'm sorry, man. I really am."
Chris looked at the floor. So it was finally official, was it? His parents were separating; Mom would leave and go to California like she'd always wanted, and Dad would probably stay put–he wouldn't want to abandon the law firm.
Frustrated that it had finally come to this, he tried to run a hand through his hair but winced when it caught in some tangles. He removed his hand and folded his arms across his chest and fell back against the wall in one smooth motion. Then he slid down it, entire posture of a man in defeat.
"All right. I guess I'm going to have to drive to Florida, soon, then," he said unhappily. "And I know that when I get there, they're just going to start bickering again and try to sign everything to me instead of each other." He sighed gustily and changed the subject. "Where did it go wrong? Where did I go wrong? I must've factored in somewhere, so what part did I play in this separation?" he looked pleadingly up at his friend, "You know me well enough, and you've met them. What could I have possibly done to prevent this?"
In that moment, Thomas pitied his friend. He was in jail, didn't know where the reason for it was, and had just found out that his parents were getting divorced. "Chris, look," he began, "You couldn't have done anything. When two people don't love each other anymore, they don't. Simple as that may seem, it happens a lot. Their kids can't do anything about it, and even when the parents do decide to stay together for the sake of their children, it rarely ends up going the way the children wish it would. Tension builds, and sometimes erupts into violence. I seriously doubt there was anything you could have done."
"I know," Chris whispered. I guess . . . if only Cammie was here. She'd be able to make them see reason."
"Cammie's gone, Chris," Thomas said gently. "Twelve years gone. Now you have to face facts. Your parents are getting divorced. There's not much you can do except support them through it; I bet it's just as tough for them as it is for you. . . thirty-five years of marriage doesn't end easily."
Chris nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. How do you know so much about this?"
Linda Agorn was a marriage counselor, and coincidentally the woman Thomas was currently courting, and planning on sticking around for a while after the Faire was over.
"Linda told me. She's a marriage counselor."
"Oh," Chris said.
"But listen," Thomas said. "You can't dwell on what's past and what you can't help. Now, what's the status on the whole you-getting-out-of-jail-before-Wednesday thing? You have a demonstration at that private school at nine, remember?"
The flautist groaned. Of course. But they were paying him two hundred bucks, and teaching a bunch of kids was better than playing Time to Say Goodbye twenty times in a row in the semi-frigid air of Monroe, New York.
"Damn. I'd almost forgotten about that," Chris grumbled. "Hey!" he yelled at the guard, who had retreated down the hall to his desk and copy of The New York Times when the conversation had turned to Chris'sparents. "Hey!"
The guard looked up and scowled. "What?"
"When can I leave?" Chris called, and Thomas groaned.
"When your lawyer calls!" the guard yelled back.
"Did you call your lawyer?" Thomas asked.
"My lawyers are my parents," Chris told him. "Of course I'm not going to call them."
"Chris. . ." Thomas moaned, and the phone on the guard's desk rang.
"Yes?" the man growled when he'd picked up. "Oh. Yes, I see. Yes, I'll do it now. Thank you–yes, yes. Have a nice day." He huffed and stood up, walking around his desk to Chris's cell.
"You're free, kid," the guard said as he unlocked Chris's cell door. "The girl finally 'fessed up, so you get to go." He scowled again as Chris stood up, revealing himself to be taller than the guard. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."
When Chris had exited the cell, the guard slammed it closed and led them back down the hallway, past the desk and to another officer who stood waiting with Chris's things in a metal pan. "If you'll just sign this waiver, sir," the young woman said uncertainly, brandishing a piece of paper between Chris and the pan. He took it and scanned it; signed it.
"Where do I get the car?" he asked her, and she handed him a claims slip with directions to the lot that Jack's car was impounded in. He exchanged the waiver for the pan, and he arranged the objects among his pockets and walked out the glass front door with Thomas.
§
"So we need to go to the lot and get Jack's car, and then we can go–Chris? Chris, buddy, you okay?" Thomas looked at his friend, and his eyes narrowed. Chris was white as a ghost, and his gaze was fixed on something on the street that curved around the side of the police station. "Chr–oh. Oh, man. Don't look at that. C'mon, let's go." There was a wrecked car slowly being towed into the garage at the back of the station. Dried blood covered the front, and the windshield was cracked and crazed. From this distance, Thomas knew he was only imagining it, but he thought he saw little bits of hair and bone in the clear parts of the windshield. The rest of the car was undamaged, but it looked like the car had hit a person.
"C'mon," he repeated, and tugged Chris to the car. "Hey–you okay?" he asked. "Chris?"
"Did you see them?" the musician asked in a low, frightened voice.
"See what? The bits of . . . person?" Thomas asked, confused. Maybe he hadn't imagined seeing them.
"The shadows," Chris said. "Those dark shadows that were attached to the hood like they were feeding on it."
Thomas looked back at the retreating car. He couldn't see anything, so he told Chris so.
"You mean you honestly can't see them?" Chris asked, face pasty.
"No. Maybe you were in there too long and the sun's playing tricks with your eyes."
"They're definitely there," Chris said.
Thomas shuddered at the haunted look on the flautist's face. "Look, let's go, creepy boy."
Chris turned away as the last of the wrecked car crept away around the corner, and he got into the car, face returning to a normal color. .
"You know where this place is?" he asked Thomas once the car had been started and they were driving away from the police station.
"Mmm-hmm," Thomas said.
They drove to the impoundment lot, which turned out to be only a mile or so away, claimed Jack's car, and were soon on their way back to the park.
§
"I'm not letting you borrow my car again, Christian," Jack said sternly, surveying his car with his hands on his hips.
"I know, Jack."
"Good." The big man jerked his head toward the campers. "Go on. Maggie wants to question you, and I'm sure you want to get home."
"Thanks," Chris said, and started walking towards his camper. Halfway there, he ran into Maggie, the Entertainment Director.
"Heard you got into trouble, Mr. Banyon," she said casually.
"Uh. . . yeah, I did," he admitted.
She rolled her eyes. "Did you mention the Faire or get us involved in any way?" she asked him. If he got the Faire into trouble, the director would be brought into the mess, and Willy Lembeck did not like being brought into messes. He liked it even less when it had to do with something he was running, and if it did, hell would rain down on the participants of said mess.
So no, he didn't have to be brought into this particular mess.
Chris reassured Maggie that he'd in no way involved the Faire, then went his merry way, intending to go back to his camper to contemplate those shadows. They'd been dark and ominous looking, vaguely man-shaped in a distorted way, with huge glowing yellow eyes and reaching hands. . . .
Thomas had left to go park his Taurus, stating that he intended to find something to do that didn't involve friends in jail or damsels in distress.
Brad was who-knew-where, so he figured he was home free to worry about the shadows and figure out what he was going to do about Reanna. He hadn't really considered what was going to happen after last night, or what he was going to do with her. She certainly couldn't stay with him; could she? It would be inappropriate, he mused as he walked.
Hopefully Saera had gotten Reanna out of the hospital, but from that point, he had no idea where the blonde would have taken the violinist.
When he saw his camper, he knew. The setting sun was behind him, so he knew that the light coming from inside his kitchen wasn't sunlight. A little annoyed, he marched up to the door, intending to tell Saera off for breaking into his camper.
He opened the door and charged up the steps, only to come face-to-face with Reanna.
"Uh, hi," he said, suddenly speechless. Her green eyes widened. "Chris! Oh–I'm so sorry that they arrested you! I tried to tell them that you hadn't done anything, but they just wouldn't listen. This is really all my fault," she said, looking down.
Suddenly he really looked at her, and noticed that she was wearing old clothes that looked like they had a few bloodstains that matched the placement of some of her more noticeable scars. Then he noticed the bag.
"Where are you going?" he asked, already knowing what she was going to say.
"I don't know," she said. "Probably home."
Not again, Chris thought disgustedly.
"Reanna," he began, but she halted him.
"Please don't try to stop me," she said quietly. "I should never have come here. All I do is get people into trouble, and I've already imposed on you for one night. On top of that, you wound up in jail, and your friend's car got towed. All because of me. I've got my stuff back, and I'm going to go home and try to get back into a normal life."
"What about your father?" Chris asked heatedly, still blocking her way. "Who's going to support you, feed you, and clothe you?"
"I will," she said defiantly. "I fed myself and my father ever since he started spending every penny on booze, and I kept us clothed, too."
Unable to decide between startled and appalled, he asked her, "And you intend to survive without utilities as well?"
"No. We went without using much electricity after he threw me–broke the TV," she amended hastily. "Water is cheap, and I don't have or need a cell phone. Or a regular phone, for that matter."
"But–" he began again, but she pushed past him.
"Chris, please respect my wishes and let me go."
"Reanna!" he called helplessly.
"Tell everyone I'm sorry, and thanks," she called back, barely audible.
Saera came around the side of the trailer. "What's all the fuss about?"
Chris came down the steps and landed hard on the ground. "It's Reanna. She wants to leave again."
"If she wants to leave, there's not much you can do," Saera said as she shrugged, but he saw the concerned look in her eyes. "False imprisonment. . . ."
"She wants to go home!" he cried, and she snapped to attention.
"She told me she was going to a hotel!" Saera said indignantly.
"Home, she said," he told her, torn between racing after the girl and doing what she wanted.
Reanna had started walking again, hiking her small bag up on her back, ignoring the curious stares of a group of squirrels.
"Saera, do something!" Chris said helplessly as Reanna marched towards the path leading to the Faire entrance and the bus stop.
"Reanna!" Saera ran after her, and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She said glanced nervously at Chris, said something too low for the flautist to hear, then Reanna looked back at him critically. "That's not enough of a reason for me to stay, Saera. I'm sorry," she said.
"But he does care! We all care!"
"I know. I just don't want to trouble you any more."
"How 'bout this one? You go home and you're gonna die," Saera said seriously.
"Die?" Reanna said uncertainly.
"Yes, die. He left town because he thought he killed you. If he has the guts to come back, he's going to find that there's a manhunt for him, and that he's wanted on charges of child abuse, child neglect, and attempted murder. If he finds you he'd going to be pissed enough to try and merit those charges; he'll be that desperate."
Saera looked desperate and beautiful. Her frizzy hair was in disarray, and her eyes looked haunted. "He will kill you, Reanna. Before I wasn't sure, but I am now. He will."
Cynical, Reanna asked, "How do you know?"
Impatiently Saera said, "I just do. Please don't go. At least wait until he comes back into town," she pleaded.
"Can you prove it?" Reanna asked.
"I–yes, I can. Just stay, will you?" Saera leaned in again and whispered something in Reanna's ear. The girl's resolute expression slowly melted, and without looking at Chris, she walked back towards the camper.
He reached out to pat her on the shoulder, but she ducked under his hand and went into the camper. He gave Saera a hard sideways look, but she shrugged it off and followed Reanna. Confused, he reentered the camper and shut the door behind him. Reanna was sitting at the table, and Saera was sitting across from her, leaving him the decision to sit wherever he pleased. He chose to box Reanna in, and sat next to her without quite knowing why.
"The explanation?" Reanna asked pointedly.
"Ah," Saera said, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I um . . . don't quite know how to put this, but . . . my parents were . . . my parents were criminals, to put it in a nutshell." Chris was about to protest that her parents were perfectly nice people, but she noticed and held up a hand to stop him. "The parents you know aren't my real parents, Chris. My parents were cruel, cold Amish people who lived in Washington quite a few years ago. They abused me quite often, calling it discipline, and one day my father took it too far. He dragged me out into the woods and tried to rape me." This was said with no inflection in her voice, and Chris knew that the calmer Saera was on the outside, the more emotion she was feeling inside.
"Quite fortunately for me," she continued, "there were some very kind people watching my house, and although they couldn't find me in time to stop the rape, before he could kill me, they quite literally swooped in and carried me off."
Saera pulled a necklace that Chris hadn't noticed before out from under her shirt. "I carry this with me as a reminder of them, and how they healed me." She wouldn't remove the pendant from her neck, but fortunately it was on a long chain, so Chris got a good look at it after Reanna was done. It was a simply cut, clear red stone mounted in a silver setting that wrapped ivy tendrils around its prize, but the setting was intricately made, with every miniscule leaf molded in detail, including the crease in the middle of each leaf.
"You know, I'm sure a jeweler would kill to know how they did this," he said conversationally. "So you gonna tell us the rest of the story?"
She nodded. "After they rescued me, I spent some time healing, and then they found me foster parents who had once been in the same situation. Those are the parents you know. Now I keep an eye out for children in the same situation, like you, Reanna. I thought I recognized the signs, but I couldn't be sure–you hid them so well."
The violinist nodded, clearly unsure whether to take that as a compliment or not.
"They also couldn't come here, so I couldn't very well ask them for advice, so. . . ."
"So who were these mysterious saviors of yours?" Chris asked, interested despite himself.
"I don't think you'll like the answer, so we'll avoid that, shall we?" Saera said, giving him a plastic smile.
"You brought up the way to make her stay, now you finish it," he said.
"Chris," she said. "You've played Shi Beg, Shi Mor, right?"
"Way to change the subject," he told her.
"I'm not. What was the song about?"
"Elves?" he said uncertainly.
"Elves," she said, nodding. "Precisely a battle between dark and light elves. Do you see where I'm going with this?"
"Your protectors were elves?" Reanna said hesitantly, looking surprised and a little hopeful.
"She's quick," Saera said to Chris.
"Wait, are you telling me that those people who rescued you were elves? Like the kind that bake cookies?" he asked, unsure whether she was playing a joke or not.
"Yes, and no, they don't bake cookies."
"Elves. We're talking pointy-eared people who trap people underground and hold them there until a hundred years have passed, then they let them go and the people age in a second then die, right?"
Saera winced. "That's happened. . . ."
"Why couldn't they help me?" Reanna asked.
"They couldn't help you because they're currently embroiled in an all-out war with their Dark counterparts."
"War among the elves?"
"You got it," she said, looking uncomfortable.
Chris decided to change the subject. "How did they know how to find you?"
"They looked for my mind. Do you know what psi powers are?"
"No . . ."
"Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, empathy, telepathy. . . "
"Oh, those. Like, uh, moving things with your mind?"
"Yeah. Telekinesis. It's like . . . to them, psi powers are kind of hard to find, but if you really look hard enough, they're like little moonflowers in a sea of dead orchids. At least, that's how my teacher put it. It's how they found me."
"So what's your power?"
"I can move things with my mind," Saera said.
"Like what?" Reanna asked, fascinated.
"At age seven I could move a penny across the table just using my mind. I can do more, now, but if I use it too much I get a headache."
"And I can assume that's how you got into the camper?" Chris asked, only half sarcastically.
"Yeah."
"Show us."
She sighed and reached into her pocket. "I knew this was going to be hard to get you to believe me."
Her hand dropped a penny on the table, but it didn't fall flat. It landed on the side and started rolling around the table. When Chris managed to tear his attention from it, he saw that Saera was staring intently at it, and when her eyes went in a certain direction, the penny went that way.
Hesitantly, he reached out and waved his hand on all sides of the continuously-moving penny, nearly colliding with Reanna, who had reached out her hand to do the same.
"So it's real," he said rhetorically. "Elves, tele-whatsit, all of it. Great. I guess that music power is real, too, then?"
"Music power?" Saera asked sharply.
"Chris and I both have this thing where we can do things to our audience. I can make them dance to jigs, and cry at arias, and he freezes time," Reanna explained.
"Do you, now?" a voice said out of nowhere.
Saera paled. "Brad, please tell me that was you."
"Nay," the voice said out of the same place. "Bards," it said, and Saera froze. "Of course," she muttered. "Why didn't I recognize it before?"
"Bards, you will prepare yourselves to be taken by Lord Mergause," the voice said. Outside the camper, there was a loud banging of metal on metal. "Bards! Come out!" a male voice shouted.
Saera stopped Chris from getting up with a Look. "Let me," she said, and rose from the table, crossed to the window. "Damn," she muttered, face pale. "It is." Turning back to the other two, she instructed them, "Stay here and do not go outside. As a matter of fact, don't even go to the windows. Chris, do you still have your SCA armor?"
"Yes," he said, puzzled why she would need it, and itching to look outside.
"Can I borrow your helmet and your chainmail shirt for a few minutes, please?"
"Uh, yeah." He went into his bedroom and pulled his armor chest out from under the bed. Rummaging through it, he finally pulled out his rarely used steel chainmail shirt. It would be heavy on her, and so would the helmet, but if she wanted it. . . .
He returned to the table, where she was binding her hair into a quick, messy ponytail. She grabbed the armor from him and practically dived into it, keeping her hair tucked under it. "Helmet?" she asked, and he handed it to her. Then she turned and reached for the fold-down ladder in the hatch in the ceiling. When she'd got it down, she clapped the helmet on her head. The banging outside was louder.
"Bards!" the voice shouted. "My patience wears thin! Come out before I blast your Iron monstrosity to pieces!"
"We're coming!" Saera shouted back. "Identify yourself! Seleighe Court or Unseileighe Court!"
"I would never be seen with those Seleighe dogs!" the voice shouted in indignation.
"Good," she muttered. "Now I have no problems with what I'm about to do."
She grabbed Chris's sword from the corner before he could protest, climbed the ladder, opened the hatch, and squirmed onto the roof. Instantly, Chris rushed to the window just in time to see Saera land on a man dressed in blue-black armor and knock him to the ground. The man screamed, but Saera didn't move.
As Chris watched, some of the man's armor seemed to melt away. He screamed again and shoved Saera off of him.
"Chris, get your flute!" Saera screamed as she rapidly rolled away from the advancing man–no, elf, Chris corrected himself as he noticed the pointy ears–and managed to roll to her feet and run behind a tree.
Chris lunged for his flute-case, which stood on the counter next to the sink. He fumbled it open and started jamming pieces together, while Reanna watched the fight worriedly.
"What should I do?" she fretted.
Saera looked over and saw her at the window. "Stay inside!" she yelled as she ran from her tree to around the camper where she couldn't be seen by the humans or the elf. There was a resounding clank, and Saera staggered back into view. There was a smoking dent in the helmet, and she was shaking her head as if to ward off dizziness.
"But--"
"Inside!" Saera shouted back as she struggled to remove Chris's sword from its sheath. Oh no, he realized. It was peace-tied to keep within the dress codes, and she couldn't get the plastic strip off.
Chrisgrabbed a kitchen knifeand flung open the door.
Saera ran back around the trailer. Apparently she was leading the elf in circles."Shut the damn door!"
He pulled back inside and slammed the door closed as the elf rounded the rear corner of the camper. It saw the closing door, snarled, and grabbed for Chris, but the door closed, and its bare fingers splayed against the black matte paint job. It screamed and pulled its fingers back–it's a wonder no one's come yet, Chris wondered–and ran after Saera again, who was panting beside a tree. Clearly, she was at the end of her rope. A hail of pinecones picked themselves up from the ground and threw themselves at the elf, but it snarled and batted them away with its sword.
He opened the window and threw the knife at the elf. "Not working!" Saera shouted. "Get--"
Then he had an idea. He jumped into the cab areaand turned on the camper. Then he proceeded to try and run over the elf. It dodged and nearly danced around a tree that was in the way. It wasn't so lucky when a writhing root caught its foot and unbalanced it.
Saera came back into Chris's viewsight around and finally managed to pull his sword into the open air. She lunged at the elf, who was still cartwheeling, and plunged the sword into its chest. It didn't even scream, but folded around the blade. Before Chris's astonished eyes, it seemed to disintegrate into nothing. Saera sighed with relief, let the sword drop to her side, and trudged back toward the now-parked camper.
"Why'd you body-slam him?" Chris asked as she rid herself of the still-smoking helmet and he climbed out of the cab.
"My teacher's motto was 'Always strike the first blow,'" she told him, but her eyes were troubled.
Reanna was still staring at the spot where the elf had been. "Why did you have to kill him?" she asked quietly.
"He was trying to kill me," Saera replied. "And to send a message that the Dark Court isn't going to drag us into their war."
"Oh."
Chris decided to change the subject. "Reanna? What exactly did the Child Welfare people say when they got to the hospital?"
"He wanted me to sign some papers," she said. "And . . . I have to go back to school tomorrow. Mr. Sullivan said that if I don't, I'll get reported for truancy."
"Can't you get your GED?" Saera asked curiously, trying to free her hair from the chainmail.
"I don't know enough," Reanna said reluctantly. "What with me being 'sick' and all, I'm not smart enough to pass the test. If I had been, I'd've dropped out a long time ago, gotten my GED and busked all day till I could find a better-paying job."
"You busk?" Saera asked in surprise.
Reanna rolled her eyes a little. "I busk to put food on the table and clothes on my back. Apparently I'm good enough for people to drop money in my case every now and then, so I live off of that."
"Speaking of which, you wanted to get it, right?" Saera asked as she finally freed her hair and shook it out from the ponytail.
"Yeah . . . I left it in the attic."
"Why the attic?" Chris asked curiously.
"I had to hide it up there because my dad would've hocked it for beer if he could've found it. It's not a Strad or anything, but it is worth a few."
"Hundred?"
"Thousand," she said. "I inherited it from my great grandfather."
"Wow. It must be a pretty good instrument," he said, impressed.
"Oh, it is. Can we get it? I don't know what the temperature will have done to it; I usually don't leave it up there for more than a few hours at a time. . ."
"Sure," Chris said with forced cheer. Back to the circus.
"Chris, Jack said you got off with Maggi–well, hel-lo! Can I assume that you're the infamous Reanna?" Thomas asked as he clambered through the door. "Saera, why are you holding Chris's armor? And Chris, why're there knives everywhere?"
Chris looked. There were knives everywhere. In his haste to find a knife to throw, he must have knocked the rack onto the floor.
"Long story," Saera said. "Listen–it's dark out. Would it be possible for you to take Chris and Reanna over to her house so she can pick up her fiddle?"
"You want to go back there?" Thomas asked Chris in awe. "You're a real nutter," he said. "But I'll take you, if only to see you get arrested again.
"Gee, thanks," Chris grumbled.
"Shall we go, then?" Thomas asked, taking Reanna's hand and placing it in the crook of his arm like a gentleman.
Chris had to restrain himself from snatching Reanna from his friend and pulling her under his arm. Saera must have noticed the brief flash of annoyance on his face, for she looked intently at him, but said nothing.
Thomas pushed open the door and led Reanna through the campers, leaving Chris and Saera behind in the trailer.
As they walked away, Chris heard Reanna exclaim shyly, "You have purple eyes. Wow. Those're kinda rare."
Chris felt like there was something stabbing him in the kidneys.
"Listen, I'm gonna head home," Saera yawned. "It's been a rough day."
"Have fun," he told her sourly.
"Something wrong?" she asked him sweetly.
"No," he growled. "I'm going after them. Watch your back."
"Will do, lover-boy."