Page 80 of Fate Calls the Elf Queen

Powers: Her powers are of the strongest among the gods. She can manipulate darkness and shadow as well as turn into a shadow form herself to slip through the attacks of others. Levitation in this form is possible as well but she does not fly over long distances. She can form light, illuminating the dark like the stars and moons and even conjure the moons’ power to produce a shield or attack. Serpent-like deadly vines with poisonous blooms to impale or trap her enemies. As with all the gods, enhanced speed, strength, and persuasion over lesser beings.

Layala blinked and reread the section. This was certainly more power than she expected. She’d produced a shield and of course her vines but turning entirely to shadow, and levitating were difficult to fathom. Also persuading people with words like Hel and Mathekis?

She read on:History: Valeen is one of the Drivaar, who worship the All Mother. She ruled the solitary night territory also known as House of Night alone until she met her mate Zaurahel or Hel, a Primevar, the group believes in the superiority of the Maker, he is the god of magic and mischief. When they combined their territories, it became known as Villhara, where she became queen and he king over both.

No known children. It is said she left her own night territory and her mate for his cousin, the god of war, to rule over Ryvengaard with him, causing the great war amongst the realms. Later she was punished by the Runevale council, and her immortality bound, to die and be reborn again and again.

With a groan, Layala tossed the card and downed the rest of her wine. She pressed the cool empty glass to her forehead and shut her eyes.Did I leave Hel because I loved War more? Was it because Hel was a complete bastard, dick, ass, prick…she ran out of names to call him. She couldn’t accept that she simply cheated on Hel with his best friend, his cousin behind his back. It wasn’t like her or Thane. Something else must have happened.

“Look at these,” Tif said, holding up the card for Hel and War. “It says, the extent of Hel’s powers are unknown, making him ranked in the top three amongst the Runevale gods despite not being a primordial… What’s a primordial?

“It’s the original gods not born from anyone but created by the Maker and All Mother.” Layala rested her arms on the edge of the tub. “And War?”

“It says, War is known for his brilliant mind and prowess in battle. He is not a primordial either but born of two gods, Balneir and Rivenna. Second generation gods.” Tif chewed on her lower lip, “War is said to be the only god Hel trusted or cared for until Hel met his wife, Valeen.”

“Oooff.” Layala cringed at the betrayal.

“Don’t be sad,” Tif said, setting the cards down. “Will you sing a song for me?”

The wine made her feel up to it. “Something fun? Or romantic or—”

“You pick.”

“Alright.” She started humming first, swishing her toes along the surface of the water. Steam curled around her face, and she inhaled the wonderful, scented soaps from the tub. A tune began to form. Words drew from her lips; she didn’t know from where, but the song was sad, melancholy, and in a language she couldn’t understand, but somehow she got the feeling of broken hearts and goodbyes. She might not consciously know the language but some part of her did. Her voice lilted off the bathroom walls, the perfect atmosphere for singing that made her voice sound clear, lovelier, and tears sprang to her eyes.Why am I crying?

Tif pressed her hands flat over her heart and closed her eyes. The final word fell from Layala’s lips, and she blew out a breath and plunged under the water where the silence became peaceful. She popped back up, and Tif was wiping tears off her cheeks.

“I knew you had a good voice. Although we could work on your higher register.” She put her hand over her stomach. “You gotta really breathe deep and sing from down here.”

Layala swiped water off her cheeks and giggled. “Singing hasn’t been a priority of mine. But I liked to sing as a young girl. Aunt Evalyn was always humming or singing something.”

After her fingers and toes were pruned, she finally rose up. Rivers of water rolled down her body splashing into the tub as she wrung out her hair. She reached for a towel on the nearby shelf, but it was empty. “Where are the towels?”

“Umm, well I spilled something earlier and had to use them. But I promise I’ll bring them back, freshly washed, and dried.”

“I need a towel now, Tif, not later. Am I supposed to stand here and drip dry?” She sighed, remembering she left one hanging on the back of the chair next to her vanity and she stepped out of the tub getting water all over the floor. A chill ran across her body from the cool air on wet skin. She hurried into her main room, turned her head, and screamed. Layala slapped her arm across her breasts and a hand over her groin, then turned away.

“Get out!” Layala hollered.

Hel laid sprawled across her bed, a civar between his lips, ankles crossed as if this were his room and his bed. With the flick of his wrist the towel on the back of the chair appeared around her shoulders.

“I didn’t look,” he said as if he were about to laugh. “I know if I did you’d gouge my eyes out. Probably with your nails.”

How did he know she was thinking exactly that?

“I saw you do it once to a peeping tom. Not pretty.”

Layala snatched the edges of the towel and wrapped it around her body, then she whirled around, wet hair flying out and slapping against her skin. “You can’t come in here whenever you feel like it!”

He didn’t move, didn’t so much as tilt his chin down to see her standing wrapped in a towel. “When you didn’t answer the door, I got worried. Would you have preferred I entered your bath chambers or waited here?”

“When someone doesn’t answer the door, it means they don’t want to be bothered, not to come in. I locked the door for a reason.”

“I can walk through walls, remember? Locked doors are worthless.”

He snapped his fingers and in an instant with a quick puff of air she was fully clothed, and dry, even her hair. In astonishment, she touched the clothes; her usual style of black pants, boots, a long, belle-sleeved top, this time in a royal blue and a black vest, weapons belt on and all. He’d done it before, but she was still shocked by it.

He sat up and blew out a stream of smoke, staring into her face and—seeing too much. “A lament for my broken soul,” he said.

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