5. Things Get A Tiny Bit More Out Of Hand
Things Get A Tiny Bit More Out Of Hand
Timeline: Fifteen hours after the opening of the Great Midsummer Market.
Elian
Trading wrapped up by early afternoon. I’d been forced to pack up simply because Kill’em had cleared every single piece of my inventory.
He’d even flogged the silk ribbon talismans—and at full price, too.
The concept of a discount eluded him; my suggestion of one had earned me one of his are-you-insane looks.
Word of a handsome, otherworldly warrior with magnificent shoulders vending matchsticks from my stall had spread through the market and adjacent villages like wildfire, drawing every nosey bugger within walking distance.
The rumours had morphed at breakneck speed into the absurd.
As Settie had informed me, giggling and blushing all the while, the whispers now claimed I’d summoned a deadly assassin from another plane because no local could satisfy my more…
carnal urges. Kill’em didn't offer a word of commentary on the matter, but the smirk that appeared on his face suggested he didn’t feel offended by the implication.
As the early evening settled in, we were holed up in my cottage trying to find a solution. Despite hammering away at it for hours, we’d hit a complete standstill. I couldn’t believe the situation had devolved into such a total, utter clusterfuck. All because I’d wanted some shuteye.
My house, small but cosy and comfortable, featured wooden beams, mismatched velvet armchairs and shelves crammed with whimsical, magical trinkets that occasionally lit up or whistled. It was also, of course, on the opposite end of the spectrum from tidy.
Right now, however, the hive of activity centred on the kitchen. We crowded around my large wooden table, its surface buried beneath an avalanche of heavy volumes, sprawling scrolls, half-empty carafes and ceramic mugs. Not a single sliver of timber remained exposed.
The drink selection, a testament to our collective stress, consisted of cherry wine, cider, pomegramon liquor and mead.
The mead had turned out to be Kill’em’s drink of choice.
Since I had dragged the poor man across dimensions, I figured the least I could do was cater to his specific tastes.
I’d gone down to the cellar to break out my best bottle—the one I’d been saving for a special occasion.
If having an interdimensional warlord sitting in your kitchen didn't call for the good stuff, I didn't know what did.
I stuck to snow-syrup tea. Fern had banned me from touching alcohol after my week-long binge on tempest-root.
I comforted myself by adding a double amount of cinnamon swizzle sticks to the mug.
The brew was on the candied side, but like most magic-producing elves, I craved vast amounts of sugar the moment the sun went down.
We’d already inhaled a massive dinner ordered from The Bold Trader, an inn just off the market square.
Despite the underlying sense of foreboding in the room, our appetites had remained intact.
The volume of roasted meats Kill’em could devour in a single sitting defied belief, though I supposed his towering stature and having tumbled between realms entitled a man to a few extra servings.
My only real intellectual accomplishment of the day included figuring out that Kill’em most likely spelt his name with an e and an a.
I sensed the presence of an h in there somewhere, too.
Not bad for a renowned alchemist, eh? Still, my mind had always worked in strange ways; I decided to continue calling him Kill'em in my head out of some bizarre sense of sentimentality.
I stole a glance at him from over the rim of my mug, trying to be inconspicuous.
He’d undergone a complete transformation—that little vixen Rowan really knew her shit.
At first, Kill’em refused to accept my money for new clothing, suggesting he would pawn his silver hairpiece instead.
The thing resembled an ancient family heirloom worth a couple of villages, so I’d become cross until he relented.
As I’d pointed out, he had single-handedly earned me more money in six hours than I usually accumulated over an entire market season.
The harsh, high crown hairstyle that bespoke his military rank was gone.
In its place, a relaxed braid gathered his pale quartz-blond locks at the nape, draping over one broad shoulder.
A few loose strands escaped the weave, softening his features and casting gentle shadows across his brow.
He wore a silk set of combat robes and an overlapping, cross-collar tunic a deep shade of indigo with tapered sleeves.
A leather girdle cinched his waist, paired with matching vambraces on his forearms, from wrist to elbow.
The tailored cut accentuated his powerful torso and long, lean legs.
He still looked as if he could snap a man in half, but he no longer stuck out like a sore thumb with barnacles on it.
This attire mimicked that of a skilled martial artist or a high-ranking escort travelling incognito.
It lacked the terrifying edge of a military commander, yet it carried an equally devastating appeal.
I couldn’t help glancing at him now and then, his physical closeness a constant distraction.
The moment, however, called for focus. I let out another long-suffering sigh, rubbing my knuckles into my eyes as I stared down at the blueprints of the Matches of Tranquillity and Lost Property lying side by side.
Trying to understand how the two had blended to create the hybrid spell made my temples throb.
I hadn't the faintest clue how to begin inventing a counter-match to send Kill’em back.
A strange, hollow feeling blossomed in my chest at the mere thought of him returning to his world.
But I shut down that train of thought, refusing to examine the peculiar emotion right now.
The threat of imprisonment still hung over our heads.
The fact Fern had managed to appease Cholerius for the evening didn't mean we could afford to become complacent.
I glanced across the table at my friends, counting my silent blessings despite the grim circumstances.
Settie paced the perimeter of the kitchen, far too restless to take a seat, fidgeting with a bunch of dried rosemary hanging from the beams. Verity and Morrigen, the other two members of our old Academy quartet and geniuses at the top of their respective professions, slouched in the chairs opposite me.
Morrigen Hertc, an outstanding theoretical magicist, a high-ranking scholar and a librarian, hailed from Dun Steorra.
Years of living in Emberleigh hadn't diluted his northern accent one bit. He was buried behind a stack of books, his nose practically touching the parchment. Beside him sat Verity d’Albanion, a brilliant lawyer from Gearwick who specialised in two distinct areas: magical patent law and general marriage contracts.
The pair remained engrossed in research.
At one point, Verity reached across a pile of scrolls to hand Morrigen a reference guide.
Their fingers met, brushing together for a beat too long.
A quiet, lingering moment passed between them before they snapped their hands back.
Verity stifled a cough into his fist whilst Morrigen turned a faint shade of pink.
I exchanged a pointed look with Fern, wishing I could have rubbed an I-told-you-so in his face.
Perched on a high stool at the head of the table, Fern winked at me and tossed back a shot of liquor. Unable to sit idle, he continued organising empty mugs and plates. His steady, grounding presence kept everyone level-headed.
Kill’em must have noticed me blanking out because he gave me a quiet, worried side-eye, leaning just a fraction closer. "Are you all right?" he muttered.
“I'm fine," I lied, grateful for his attentiveness but sick with guilt that my carelessness had upended his entire life. "It's just… I should have a solution by now."
His giving my elbow an awkward squeeze offered a fraction of solace.
"Let’s not get discouraged,” Fern said, clearly also noticing my spiralling desperation. He set down a fresh teapot with a reassuring smile. "Let's look at what we know so far and review all the bits we've gathered."
"Well," Morrigen began, adjusting his spectacles. "I can tell you what I understand of the matter so far. Mind you, this is highly hypothetical, as the libraries record no such occurrence in history, but there is enough theoretical data here to construct a working hypothesis."
"All right," I said, leaning forwards. "Let’s hear it.”
"Hem.” Morrigen cleared his throat. “We know that because of the accidental compound cross-contamination, both spells fused into a highly volatile, hybrid manifestation.
" His voice slipped into his clinical, academic rhythm; his ‘r’s rolled and his vowels rounded.
"The Match of Tranquillity forced Elian into a deep sleep, which lowered his conscious mental defences.
Simultaneously, the Lost Property Match—which is designed to locate and retrieve whatever the caster fundamentally feels belongs to them and what is missing from their life—activated.
It bypassed any physical objects entirely, locking onto the exact coordinates of the one entity Elian's subconscious was actively longing for.
Commander Ke?lhem. Since they already shared an unexplained dream link prior to the strike, the commander was pulled cleanly through the planar veil. "
A dead, heavy silence fell over the kitchen.
"So…" I squeaked, my face burning as I realised my pathetic pining had been exposed to my entire friend circle.
I bit my lower lip, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
"Are you saying I pulled Kill’em through the veil because my mind registered him as someone who truly belonged to me? "