Page 18 of Under the Lion Star

“I told you I had found a nice young man who offered to paint the siding,” she sighed. “Honestly, Alda, do you listen to a word I say?”

“So, what? He’s auditioning to be one of your many lovers?”

“Something like that,” Grandma replied with a wink while El choked.

“Just painting,” he said quietly.

“No need,” I waved him off, moving to the cart and reaching for the cans of paint. “Thank you for helping me transport the stuff, but I can handle it from here.”

“Alda,” Grandma scolded.

“I gave her my word,” El said sternly, setting his hand on mine to stop my work.

His eyes were fixed on me, a wordless exchange taking place that let me know he wasn’t going to back off. I released my grip, pulling my hands away from the supplies with resignation.

My grandma walked with us the rest of the way to her house, prattling on about the latest small-town gossip. El split from us, continuing to bring supplies from the cart to the side of the house near the dilapidated shed that was rarely used. He was lining everything up in neat rows, seemingly unaware anyone else existed.

“You be nice to him, Alda,” my grandmother whispered.

“We don’t know him,” I countered quietly. “He could be deranged. A monster walking around the countryside and praying on elderly women.”

“You don’t have to know someone to recognize a tortured soul. That boy is not painting my house to be kind. He’s doing it to escape whatever haunts him for a few hours. Let him have this.”

I wanted to laugh at my grandmother referring to El as a boy, but I knew if I made an ‘all man’ comment aloud, she would share some story from her past that I did not care to hear. Watching his movements, I studied El carefully while he focused on his task. He rolled up the ends of his sleeves, each muscle in his forearm flexing as he worked to retie his hair back.

He glanced up at me from the corner of his eye, and I realized that his held that same hollowness that mine often did. A remnant of a stain that could never entirely be covered over. Like recognized like.

“Do you want to start here while I fix the cabinet hinges inside?” I asked, digging through one of the canvas bags to locate the screws and bronzed hardware I’d purchased.

El nodded and pulled a dagger from his belt, which he used to pry open a can of paint.

It was the same blade he’d slid over the man’s throat. The memory made my stomach churn slightly, but I was more focused on the elf before me, wondering why I wasn’t afraid of him despite having direct evidence that he was dangerous.

El frowned at me as a shiver ran up my spine, but I forced myself to turn away. I didn’t want to further acknowledge the fact that the last time I saw him, he was ending the lives of two men.

Two men who were going to hurt you.

I found my grandmother lying back on the couch in her living room. She was reading a book with a large golden rose on the cover as she fanned herself. Having learned my lesson at a young age, I didn’t ask about her novel.

Luckily, I discovered that most of the hinges didn’t require much work. A few of the screws only needed to be tightened, while others had stripped the holes which once secured them and would have to be re-affixed.

After a few hours, every cabinet in the kitchen was again in working order. I pulled out a couple of glasses, holding them to the window to inspect that they were actually clean. After filling them both with water, I left one in front of Grandma, who had fallen asleep.

With the second cup in hand, I walked outside to make an offering to El. One quick glimpse of his sweat-slicked chest and I turned my back to him with a high-pitched yelp.

“I brought you water,” I said in a small voice.

“Thanks,” his smooth timbre came from directly behind me.

With a steadying breath, I turned slowly, assuring myself I would keep my eyes on his and nothing else.

I failed spectacularly.

El stood before me, shirtless, his golden skin tinted with pink, likely from the sun he had been working under while I was comfortably inside. Several scars crossed his muscle-bound torso, but I couldn’t produce any words with my parched mouth, let alone ask him about their sources.

His hair was still pulled back, but loose strands had escaped once more, falling over his face and neck, clinging to his skin with sweat. A few lines creased around his eyes, and the corner of his lips twitched as I finished my perusal.

“Water,” I said, thrusting the cup toward him.

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