Price Of Peace
Less than a mile from the Rim, where the enclaves of Wind Clan elves were backed by virgin forest, one lone façade blazed in defiance. The red neon sign proclaimed fearlessly ESSIE’S ORIGINAL HOT DOG SHOP. A small blue sign stated firmly, HOME OF THE ‘O’ FRIES, WINGS AND BARBECUE, SUBS AND BEER. The door stood open, letting out a wave of hot perfume of grilled hot dogs, fried potatoes, melted cheese, and spilled beer. How it managed to serve this bounty of food while stranded on an alien planet, under siege during a war between two inhuman races, Olivia had no idea.
It was, however, a welcome human refuge. She paused just inside the door, blinking at the sudden unforgiving light of ancient halogen overheads. The busy cooks ignored her entrance, lifting baskets out of the cooking oil, turning hot dogs, and delivering up paper-lined baskets while chanting out filled orders.
Olivia pushed her way into the crowd waiting for their food, beers in hand. The day had been a blur and her stomach was clenching up into a tight knot that lately was followed with vomiting. She was vaguely aware of the wave of silence and widening eyes.
“Next!” the girl at the counter cried, slapping the last slip onto the counter by the cooks.
Olivia was fairly sure that she was jumping the line, but the line seemed to be in the process of trying to escape what was trailing behind Olivia. Nothing she could do about the situation, so she was determinedly ignoring it for now. She scanned the menu. No wonder the restaurant still had food after a month of being stranded on another planet. It featured jumpfish, saurus, stag, and something called indi. The fish was breaded and fried, the indi was served as kabobs, but the other meats were made into sausage as substitute hot dogs. Her stomach nearly revolted at the idea of mystery meat on a bun.
“Can I have a large fries with cheese?” The menu board proclaimed them as homegrown potatoes, which meant they most likely came from one of the South Hills farms. She might have problems with the grease if she just ate fries. She scanned for a safer option and spotted a turkey sandwich listed at the bottom. Until a few weeks ago, there were large flocks of the wild Earth birds everywhere, flourishing in the abandoned backyards all over the city. By the end of winter, though, they might be extinct on Elfhome. “Can I have a turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles? And a ginger ale.”
“Turkey hoagie with the works. Large fry…” The girl trailed off as she glanced up and then behind Olivia. “Oh crap.”
Olivia ignored the curse and the temptation to turn around. Nothing she could do. She pushed a crumpled twenty across the corner. She tried not to think of what she had done to make the money. Shame, however, burned hot on her cheeks.
The girl continued to stare until Olivia waved a hand in front of the girl’s wide eyes. “Oh! Yes!” She made change, counting out bills and coins. Halfway through, the girl paused and frowned at Olivia. “You’re not Princess Tinker.”
“No, I’m not,” Olivia said.
The girl continued to look at Olivia, obviously expecting a name. Olivia had abandoned her human name when she fled Kansas. For weeks she’d been introducing herself only as “Red.” (Her hair was more auburn than carroty-red; besides, the nickname of “Ginger” pissed her off.)
What was the name that Prince True Flame had given her? Somehow he’d known that “Olivia” was Latin for “Olive Tree” and then twisted it slightly. “I’m Olive Branch Above Stone.”
“Stone?” The girl’s frown deepened. Her fingernails and lip polish were Wind Clan blue and she was wearing a Team Tinker T-shirt. Her glance flicked to over Olivia’s shoulder. “Eeeewww.”
Olivia clenched her hand tight on her change. It would be one thing if the girl was simply a bigot, but her reaction was much more selective than blind prejudice. Obviously elves were fine as long as they were pretty. Turn the other cheek…with my fist. But Olivia resisted the urge. She had to think about “them.”
“Is something wrong?” a deep male voice said in Elvish.
Olivia sighed and turned around. So much for ignoring “them.”
Elves were impossibly tall, broad shouldered, and handsome even to the human eye. The holy caste of sekasha was no exception. The elf warriors added in “heavily armed” and “extremely dangerous” to that description. Considered above the law, the sekasha could and would kill anyone that pissed them off. In the last few weeks, they’d mowed down oni soldiers and spies, suspected human collaborators, a Pittsburgh police officer, and one of their own lords. Advice on the street was to stay as far as possible from the sekasha.
Which was impossible when five of them were intent on following Olivia around.
The ones quickly clearing out the hot dog shop were Wyverns; sekasha from the Fire Clan and part of the royal troops that came to Pittsburgh with Prince True Flame. They looked like identical quintuplets to her, all red haired and stunningly green eyed, and exactly a foot taller than her. Besides the scale armor vest and the protective spells tattooed down their arms (both in Fire Clan red), their caste was identified by their long swords said to be magically sharp and able to cut through anything. (Nothing was said about the rifles and multitude of knives that they also carried.)
She wasn’t sure which of the Wyverns had spoken. She could barely tell them apart. Unsure, she fixed her gaze on the one that seemed to be the leader of the five. At least, he was the only one that addressed her directly all night.
“It’s been a hard day and I’m easily upset.” She kept to the truth since elves thought lying was the ultimate sin. “It’s in the middle of the night, in a war zone, I no longer have a house to go back to, and I’m going to…” She had no idea how to say vomit in Elvish. “Hurl.”
“Hurl?” the elf repeated the English word.
“Saemata.” The counter girl murmured. “Forgiveness!” she squeaked when both Olivia and the holy warrior glanced hard at her. “I—I—I couldn’t help but overhear.”
“You’re ill?” the elf asked Olivia.
“I’m pregnant!” she snapped. “And my stomach is empty. I need to eat something.”
“Holy shit!” the girl breathed. Another hard look made her tear off the order and slap it down in front of the nearest cook.
“And this place serves food?” The Wyvern’s tone suggested that he doubted that was the case. He eyed the sizzling basket of French fries cooking in hot oil.
“Yes,” Olivia growled and turned back to the counter. “Can I have my ginger ale now?”
“Oh, sure, here.” The girl pulled a cold bottle from the standing cooler and popped off the metal lid. A tiny cloud rose out of the top of the chilled bottle like an escaping genie.
Careful what you wish for. Olivia had wanted safety for her unborn child; she’d gotten a twenty-four hour guard of the scariest elves on the planet. The damnable thing was that they weren’t really guarding her. They might even consider it convenient if she was killed.
She realized that only the leader of the Wyverns was focused on her. The other four were paying strict attention to their true charge, Forest Moss, while maintaining the most distance that the small restaurant allowed. He was rocking in place, muttering darkly, while braiding and unbraiding a handful of his pure white hair. The rest of his long hair flowed loose as spun silk over his shoulders and down his back to past his hips. It covered his rich clothes and beautiful good eye, leaving only the empty socket of his left eye, sewn shut with a starburst of scars radiating out from it, visible.
Her heart ached at the sight. He wasn’t old enough to deserve white hair; at least in elf years. He’d been betrayed and tortured and then abandoned to total isolation for hundreds of years. A weaker person would have killed themselves. Forest Moss had simply gone slightly but not completely mad. At least, not until this week. The war and the royal troops seemed to be bent on destroying what little sanity he had left.