“The magic has rules. Ancient, inconvenient rules.” I reinforce another window. The shadow with the battering ram looks disappointed.
“You were ready. You knew exactly what to do. You were already nearby.” She tilts her head. “You were watching the library.”
“I patrol this area.”
“On Wednesday nights specifically?”
“The treaty can activate any time within the week of the solstice.”
“But you were already here. Already waiting.” Her eyes narrow behind those ridiculous taped glasses. She stands, swaying slightly, and walks toward me with determination. “Why?”
“I was at my post,” I say simply.
“Liar.” She is close enough now that I can smell the wine on her breath.
The truth is complicated. My post is of my own choosing. I often visit Henderson’s statue, yes, but not for any patrol. I go there because Henry Henderson was the only human who ever saw past the frost and the ears and the otherness.
He brought me books. We discussed philosophy and argued about poetry until dawn. He died in 1873, and I have been alone since. It is not for lack of humans, but for lack of one who looked at me and saw a person worth knowing.
Rianne looks at me and sees an ice elf. A problem. A seven-foot-tall obstacle between her and freedom.
The rejection from the ritual was not merely magical.
“I do not lie,” I repeat, pushing the memory away.
“Your ear twitches when you’re not telling the whole truth.” She reaches up as if to touch my ear, then seems to realize what she is doing and drops her hand. It hits the desk with a thump.
I touch my left ear self-consciously. “It does not.”
“It just did it again!” She grins triumphantly.
From the conference room, Keith calls out: “KEITH IS READY! KEITH HAS ACHIEVED OPTIMAL SLIDE TRANSITIONS!”
“We should attend Keith’s presentation,” I say, guiding Rianne toward the conference room before she can vomit on the carpet.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I am supporting Keith’s corporate journey.”
“You’re definitely deflecting.” But she allows me to steer her into the conference room.
The conference room has been transformed. Keith has somehow manifested a projector and refreshment table with cups of something that looks like coffee but definitely isn’t.
Carl has made himself comfortable in the corner, apparently appointed as Keith’s assistant. He is wearing a small name tag that says “CARL - SHADOW RESOURCES INTERN.”
“Welcome, welcome!” Keith says, gesturing to seats in the front row. “Please take your seats. Keith has prepared refreshments.”
“I’ll pass,” Rianne says, looking at the maybe-coffee with deep suspicion.
“Keith understands. Keith’s coffee is an acquired taste.” Keith seems unbothered. He has manifested a clicker and is testing it repeatedly.
The presentation begins. Slide one fills the screen: “Shadow Creature Integration: A Journey Toward Productivity.”
I settle in for what promises to be an interesting experience. Rianne drops into the chair beside me with enough force to make it roll backward. I stop it with my foot. She has opened the Chronicle on her lap, trying to read it in the projector’s light.
Rianne’s finger traces a particular passage in the Chronicle. I lean over to see what she is reading. The words are clear: permanent bond, eternal connection, unbreaking union. Her finger stops. She has found it.
“Stenrik?” she whispers.
