Page 7 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

“What are their names?” Ashia's winged eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown.

“Olivier and Jessica Elasalor.” All the color drained from Ashia’s face. “Ashia,” Shalendra leaned toward the woman. She clasped her hand around Ashia’s. “What is it? Did you recognize their names?”

Ashia nodded. “I refuse to tell you a falsehood, so until I know more, I will keep silent. Just know they are not dead. Now, do you have an idea for this escape?”

Shalendra shrugged. “Not really, but I just know something will happen that will give me a sign—.” A sudden crash shook the cell, and small pebbles from the ceiling broke off, falling on them. Loud thumping sounded above them, and down at the other end of their long hall, they heard the guards hollering in the dwarvish tongue.

“What are they saying, Castien?” Shalendra asked.

“They want to know what’s going on—who’s attacking the prison.” His gaze darted toward the hall as another guard hollered before the heavy clanging of the metal doors slamming shut drowned him out. “The second guard asked if it was a prison riot. Closing the door isn’t a positive sign, though. It’s the only way we can get out of here. There is no other entrance on or off this level, and several levels exist between us and the outside. If someone is attacking the prison, we should be okay, but if it’s the other way around and the prisoners are rioting, they won’t care who gets in their way.”

“That may be.” Shalendra rested her elbows on the sides of her knees. “But we can use this. This is the sign I needed. We can hide among the attackers or the rioters and leave when they do.”

“What if they don’t leave?” Ashia asked. “It’s a dangerous plan either way.”

“I know it is,” Shalendra agreed. “But it’s all we’ve got.

3

Alfheimr

Cyran strode through the front door of the new palace Lamruil and Ailuin had finished not long ago. Becoming co-regents of all Elfkind had not been an easy decision, but he believed the twins would be the only two who could unite the Elven factions, especially with Ailuin’s wife, Raisa. She had a unique quality about her that people responded to, although he had always thought she was a little sharp, but hey, who was he to judge?”

People thought he was flippant and never took anything seriously. His thoughts turned to his childhood and the lack of laughter or fun in their home when his stepfather had been around. His mother loved to laugh and always found beauty in the world. He missed that about her. Hell, he missed her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, to share with her.

With a quick knock on the gilded door, he pushed the heavy door inward and stepped into the twin’s massive sitting room. As large as a ballroom, it was filled with a mixture of elegant furniture on one end. Rich burgundy tapestry cushions adorned the chairs in a nice contrast with the dark mahogany-turned wood. It reminded him of something he had seen in Europe. Tapered legs and matching tapestry-covered arms and backs, the chairs stood solid against a man’s heavier weight.

The other side of the room was less formal and made for a comfortable lounge where people could relax and talk around the hand-cut stone fireplace. The fire crackled and popped in the open space—large enough for a person to stand in if they were shorter than seven feet—and drew his attention to the fact that he was not alone. Several women were seated on two sofas and a chair, staring at him.

He bent at the waist, and with a wide flourish of one arm across his body, he raised his head with a crooked grin. “Good evening, ladies. Am I interrupting?”

Natalya Abramovich chuckled. “Of course you are, and you know it.”

His grin widened as he stepped forward and draped his hands over the back of an empty chair. Natalya and her sister Lilyann Duquesne sat on a two-seater sofa. To their left, Raisa Vakas sat on a pale green round chair with cream-colored pillows tucked in around her. Aleksandra Matthau and Alva Marchand sat on a matching cream sofa perpendicular to the sisters.

“So, ladies, what’s going on?” Cyran met each of the former Night Witch’s gazes, except for Alva, who had been Freyja’s assistant during the war. He had nothing but admiration for the Russian pilots. Each woman had been in an elite Soviet air squadron during the war on Midgard. Their bravery, in his opinion, was top-notch. Anyone who could fly small biplanes built from plywood and canvas with open cockpits during the brutal Soviet winters earned his admiration.

Unlike their male counterparts, the Night Witches had no aviation equipment other than rulers, pencils, stopwatches, and compasses. Each pilot had to be a bit crazy to do what they did—and did very well. Without the 588th night squadron bombing the German front lines, the Allies might not have won the war as quickly. These women were fearless.

“We’re comparing notes on our charges, trying to figure out how to make it a bit easier for each group,” Lilyann answered.

“What charges?” he asked.

“The draugar and werewolves,” Raisa answered. “The two groups helped us correct Bernard’s almost fatal mistake when he changed past events during the war, erasing the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The draugar were being controlled by someone very powerful, and we helped break the spell they had on them, forcing them to do whatever was demanded of them. To help the draugar and the werewolves, I gave each of us a group, along with a few outsiders like Hel and Émilien. Who better than the original cursed werewolf since he understands what they’re going through? There were too many for me alone to control, and they kept picking fights with each other instead of trying to get along.”

Aleksandra nodded. “We’ve all had experience with the werewolves. Jakob and I were the first to work with them. Alva, though, discovered she could talk to the draugr king, and then all of the draugar decided to adopt her as their liaison, so to speak.”

“True,” Alva agreed. “It was a shock, and I’m not quite sure why I can communicate with them, but I think empathy for their pasts and the tragedies that befell each one has something to do with it. Most of us have had at least one devastating moment in our lives. I believe drawing on those emotions is the key to helping the draugar.”

“I haven’t been around them much.” Cyran forced the jovial expression to remain on his face as he met Alva’s gaze. “But, like everyone here, one person lost, one horrible moment, on top of the war on Midgard and in Alfheimr were enough for me to commiserate with them. As soon as I return from wherever the twins need me to go, count me in to help the draugar acclimate to society again.”

“Without getting anyone into trouble?” a familiar male voice said behind him.

He turned to see Lamruil grinning at him, one blond brow arched. “Bacraut.”

“Ohh, that didn’t sound very nice,” Lilyann chuckled. “What did you call him? I may need to learn how to say it when Charles pisses me off.”

Cyran caught the laughing, blue-eyed gaze of the blonde sitting next to Natalya. “I called him an asshole in our native tongue.”

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