Elfish by Julie Steimle (librera reader txt) 📖

he would use his magic to take advantage of her. So, she schemed not only an escape plan, but also a way to take him down.”

Niviane sounded like a witch to Peter. He knew a number of them. He went to school with a chunk of the Middleton Village coven for pity’s sake—or at least their Junior League. Witchcraft had a smell that was distinctly herbal. Usually if girls smelled like that, it worried him.

“Niviane told Merlin that she would never love him unless he swore to teach her all of his magic.” Prof. Birtwhistle shook his head. “This was a dangerous deal, but Merlin was so enamored with her that he agreed.”

Several murmurs went through the room.

 “Niviane manipulated Merlin, even as he tried to woo her. Once, on the way to rescue Arthur from the schemes of Morgan Le Fay, Niviane and Merlin had stayed the night in a cave where two lovers had once inhabited. After Merlin told her the story of the lovers, who had been placed in a magic tomb with in a room there, Niviane cast a spell on Merlin while he was asleep, placing him in a magic tomb so that he could never escape. And there he died.” Several drew in breaths. “Or at least that is one version of his death.

“There are others,” the professor went on. “In one telling, he was confined in the forest of Brocéliande with walls of air. In Le Morte d'Arthur, it was said he was buried under a large rock. But the most unfortunate telling said that Merlin had angered Arthur to the point where Arthur beheaded him, cut him in half, burned him and cursed him.”

Peter thought that was perhaps his most likely death. History was more gruesome like that. Of course it was also possible he had upset an elf and was indeed buried under a rock.

The professor closed his speech with more words about the lack of evidence for any conclusive answer to which story was the closest to the truth, yet elaborated on which end he believed would most likely be the case. He was more of a romantic and would have considered Merlin’s death one of a crossed-lover situation than a simple execution by his king. However, he did add, there was one more death of Merlin which had to be accounted for. The Myrrdin form of Merlin had reportedly prophesied his own death would be by falling, stabbing, and drowning—which according to a record had been at the hands of a gang of shepherds, who had driven him off a cliff, where he was impaled on a stake left by fishermen, and he died with his head below water. Myrrdin’s grave was reported to lie near the River Tweed near Selkirk.

“If you could prophesy your own death, what do you think it would be?” Prof. Birtwistle said, his eyes fixing on Peter briefly.

Peter smirked. He wondered if that was a threat. However, the professor made that a writing exercise for his students and closed up the lecture.

Peter took his time collecting his notes and packing his bag. Prof. Taylor said he had a manuscript he might be interested in connecting Egypt with Ireland which was in files, and that he looked forward to. Of course, since Daniel had texted the day before, he felt Daniel had a better lead on their elf than this research was giving them. So, he really did not need this professor anyway.

Rising from his seat, Peter headed toward the door.

“Are you keeping up?” Prof. Birtwistle called to him just as he was about to go out.

Peter halted. There were snickers around him, including from that girl Pat down below. He noticed her notebook had a huge ink stain on it, as if her pen had exploded. His autograph was entirely covered. Only one of her friends was with her, that Imogen.

In a deadpan voice, Peter turned his eyes to the professor as he said, “I don’t know. How can an ignorant Yank like me keep up with a smug toff like you?”

Several eyes turned, mouths forming oohs without making a sound.

Prof. Birtwistle bristled, his shoulders squaring, nose up. “That kind of disrespect can get you banned from my classroom, if not the university.”

Stepping out from the doorway to remove himself from the path of the others who definitely wanted out, Peter sighed with an even drier expression. “Look, when I came here, I just wanted to ask you about your elf research, specifically about god-elves. Prof. Taylor told me you were the foremost expert on the subject.”

Several of the students perked up. Apparently everyone knew Prof. Birtwistle’s theory about elves—and about Prof. Taylor. Possibly, they even knew his tale about being whisked away by the Unseelie Court. Yet Prof. Birtwistle pulled back. His eyes raked Peter over a second, startled.

But that moment passed. His haughty demeanor returned. Peter could see the gears in his arrogant mind working. He thought Peter was still dabbling, having a vague curiosity. Peter decided to let him think that. If the professor were a witch, it was best the man not take him seriously. When witches considered someone a threat, someone usually ended up dead.

“You are interested in elves?” Prof. Birtwistle stepped toward him. “You?”

Peter nodded.

“So they could speak to Santa Claus for you?” the professor asked, his lower lip puffing down in a pout.

Several in the room laughed.

Peter laughed along. However, he fingered his red crystal, as the scar on his right hand stung. “Cute.”

Approaching him more closely, Prof. Birtwistle said, “So… you are the one causing Hamish Taylor so much grief?”

Peter shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it grief. He’s a friend of a friend, and they swore he was the foremost expert on elves—until Prof. Taylor referred me to you.”

“Friend of a friend?” Prof. Birtwistle’s expression shifted out of mirth. “And yet you say ‘they’ said. Is this someone who uses the ‘they’ pronoun or more than one person?”

Grinning a bit like a shark, Peter nodded. “More than one person. My apologies. They met the professor ages ago—uh, in California. On Halloween.” Peter proceeded to walk away, allowing the man to comprehend on his own what that meant. Peter was not sure how many people were aware of Prof. Taylor’s story of being kidnapped by the Unseelie Court—only that Prof. Birtwistle knew about it and believed him.

“These friends of yours,” the professor asked, his voice growing tense, “Were they Californians?”

Peter turned, masking his expression of enjoyment. “No. Of course not. I’m an east coaster. These friends were New Yorkers.” He nodded again and marched through the door.

This time the professor followed him out. “You’re joking.”

Peter halted, this time in the hallway. He turned with a straight face. “Not in the slightest. They were friends of a friend of mine. We were introduced on a sudden trip to New York City. We were kids then, in high school. Today, one is police officer in New York, the other a… well, normally we’re not supposed to talk about it, but he’s CIA. They recruited him out of high school.”

Several around him whispered.

The professor wanted to accuse him of making that up, but he could see in Peter’s eyes he was not. “And… what brought you to England again?”

Grinning, Peter lifted his chin. “I am a student of archaeology, specifically Egyptology. I am also a student of… well… let me just say in my research I’ve discovered some anomalies which connect Egypt to England. Long story short, I’d like to hear your theories on elves.”

“How does that connect?” someone murmured.

Head shook. Shoulders shrugged. But the professor completely understood. His gaze met Peter’s. Then his eyes trailed to Peter’s necklace, specifically the red stone on it. 

The professor said, “I am giving a lecture this weekend on the nature of my research into god-elves. You may sit in on it.”

Nodding, Peter smiled. “Thank you, professor. That will be most helpful.”

This time, he walked off—and no one stopped him.

Though Peter went to Prof. Taylor’s office directly, something felt off when he arrived. He had the distinct impression that he had offended someone—or that someone dangerous was following him. Probably both. Shivers had gone up the back of his neck, the hairs standing up. Peter glanced behind himself a few times, but did not see anyone. He also did not feel any magic in the vicinity concealing anyone from him. The hallway was empty too—no students walking by or looking nonchalant in chats. Peter had to conclude either he was getting paranoid (which was likely), or someone he hardly noticed or was exceptionally good at hiding was following him.

When Peter went into the office, the professor was not there again. Peter crossed straight through to the locked records room and unlocked the door. This time he heard the door behind him open. Turning, he saw Pat. She just entered the room and was blushing.

“Hello.” He turned, closing the records room door again, letting it lock.

She stepped in further. She seemed nervous, twisting the end of her brown hair where it curled. “Uh…” She peeked over her shoulder at the door she had come through. “I just… wanted, um… to ask. You… uh… said something to the professor about, uh, Prof. Taylor’s, uh, trip to California.”

Peter lifted his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“What people recommended you to Prof. Taylor?” Pat asked.

Peter chuckled, blushing. “I’m sorry. Um. What’s your name again?”

“Pat Penfield,” she said, blushing more.

He nodded to himself, thinking about her ink-stained notebook. “Yes, Miss Penfield—”

“Call me Pat, please, or Patrice, if you like,” she said, cheeks flushed. She reminded him painfully of this girl back home, Marta Lindon. They had the same unassuming girl-next-door look about them. Marta was also a witch.

“Yes, Pat,” Peter said, his eyes taking in her Celtic jewelry again, eying also the tri-faced moon pendant on her necklace. Silvia Lewis, Daniel’s half-sister, had one similar. “Uh, I am not really at liberty to discuss that with you.”

She stiffened. Yet she recovered beautifully with a dismayed shoulder hunch and a face that was half-whine half-sweet-girl who just needed a white knight to rescue her. If he had not grown up in a witch town and had not seen that act a thousand times before, he might have been fooled by it. She smelled of bay leaves and some Asian herb he did not recognize. Neither were herbal cough drops smells. There was also a hint of lavender oil, intended to be soothing mentally. This meant she was probably a skilled witch. He wondered if she was as good as Marta, or Silvia for that matter.

“The thing is,” Pat said with sympathy, “Prof. Taylor has some crazy stories about that trip.”

“Oh really?” Peter feigned ignorance and mild interest. He was good at that.

She nodded in earnest. “H… has he told you anything about it?”

Peter decided to tell the truth. “I actually have heard the rumors. My two friends, the ones I mentioned, had actually flown back to New York on the same airplane with him after that incident. I can’t give you any details, but they said he was rather pompous and high strung.”

Pat blinked, genuinely looking startled to hear that. “What did they tell you about the professor?”

He wondered how much he should say. A partial truth was good enough. “That… well, he was from Kensington and was a Professor of Mythology and Mysticism at Oxford—an expert in the field of Medieval and Celtic Mysticism. They thought it was the most ridiculous thing they had ever heard.”

“Is your friend really a CIA agent?” Pat whispered.

Peter grinned, nodding. “Sure is. And is his best friend is an NYPD cop. He works homicide mostly.”

She frowned. Peeking to the door, she asked, “Do either of them work with an organization called the SRA?”

Wow. Peter though that was bold. Most British people were not that direct when speaking. So he replied, “No. Though I have heard of them.”

“You have?” She lifted her eyes to his face.

“Well, of course I have,” Peter smiled with a chuckle, deciding to reveal more—though it