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Nox and Grimm – A Convocation of Elements, Part 3 May 3, 2014

(Picking up the story where I left off last November… sorry for the long gap, it was a rough winter! And I’m a little rusty, so comments will be very welcome!)

—-

Nox was a daughter of the House of Ice. She was supposed to be calm, steady, immovable in the face of adversity. Giggling like a loon was just not done. She struggled to keep a straight face while Grimm threatened to toss the assembled nobles ‘off his lawn’ if they didn’t behave.

“How am I supposed to follow that?” she whispered.

Loki leaned over and whispered back, “I don’t know luv, but you’d better do something soon. This crowd is starting to get ugly.”

She looked at the faces of the men and women standing around her, gauging the best way to address them. They were angry, obviously. They’d been scolded like children and told that the youngest, and yet-to-be-confirmed representative in the Convocation was to enter the Hall before them.  To say that they were pissed off at her was an understatement.  The fact that every one of them was both physically larger and more powerful than she was should have had her shaking in her boots.

But Nox was a true child of Ice. She’d be damned before she let a crusty old pack of politicians intimidate her. It was time to follow in her father’s footsteps, and take charge.

She put a finger and thumb into her mouth and let out a whistle so piercing that the nobles standing nearest to her all jumped, with several of them landing in a heap on the lower stairs.  “If you want answers, I will give them to you.”  She gave those standing in her way the same cold, measuring look that her father always used, and the crowd reluctantly parted.

When she gained the top stair, she gestured toward the entrance to the Convocation hall. “You need look no further than the Ward stone at the end of this passage. All the sigils of the Houses are there, in the order that they swore fealty to the House of Winds when the Convocation was formed. As you can see, Ice is the next in line.”

This was it. The moment she’d prepared for her whole life, to be confirmed as heir to Ice. Nox fought past the brutal heat of the day and focused on summoning the sliver of pure elemental Ice she would need to activate the Ward stone. For a brief moment she thought she’d failed, but then her palm tingled and a tiny shard formed. With a triumphant cry she flung it down the hall, letting loose the Air casting she’d prepared to speed it on its way.

She had not, however, taken into account that this building was designed by the Wind Lord himself, to enhance the works of his people.

Casting marks that summoned the North Wind lit up along the entire length of the hallway as her Air casting moved past them, glittering cold and white.  Their energy touched the little Ice shard and sparked off a howling gale, coating everything in an inch-deep layer of frost and slamming into the Ward stone with enough force to make the entire building ring like a bell.

Nox covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh dear. That was a little bigger than I expected.”

Loki grimaced, radiating heat to melt the frost from his jacket. “That’s the least of your worries, luv. Take a look at the Ward stone.”

It was only then that Nox noticed that everyone else was staring at it in shock.  Not one, but three sigils were lit on the stone pillar.  One for Ice. One for the Northern Air tribes, and the first mark on the pillar glowed brightest of all – the sigil for Wind Lord Galen’s House, Zephyr.

Grimm’s deep, rumbling voice echoed outwards from the heart of the Convocation Hall.  “All Hail the Lady Zephyr, heir to Ice and Winds.”

—

This was not in the plan. Loki kept a wary eye on the crowd, waiting to see who would be the first to pick a fight over Grimm’s pronouncement. Not surprisingly, it was Lord Snow. He’d already challenged Nox once that day, and now he looked like he was in the midst of an apoplectic fit.

“Black hair,” he sputtered, jabbing a finger at Nox. “Every damned one of your family has black hair!  You lying bastards, you have no right to rule Ice! You’re Air kin!”

Nox gave him an innocent look. “We have never hidden the fact that we summon the North Wind.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

Loki put a restraining hand on Lord Snow’s arm. “You are forgetting, the sigils for both Air and Ice lit for her.”

Nox nodded, as unruffled as ever. “Galen’s wife, Elenna remarried into the House of Ice when Galen died. Her children were adopted as the heirs, and the Houses of Ice and Winds have been joined as one ever since.  Legally that gives us every right to rule.”

A commotion to their left caught Loki’s eye.  The representative from the House of the Sun moved forward, and the crowd shifted nervously away from him.

Loki ignored Nox’s protest and moved to stand protectively in front of her, the dragon tattoo coiling restlessly on his forearm.

The Sun priest stopped in front of him and raised his voice to make it carry.  “All that has been proved here today is that this…abomination,” he said, pointing at Nox, “is more of a mongrel than we already thought. Do we allow a half-blood freak to enter these hallowed halls?”

Dragonfire coiled around Loki’s fists. “Watch your tongue, lackey, or I’ll remove it.” He turned his burning gaze on the crowd. “I doubt there’s a one of us here, outside of Grimm that has a single element. The Houses have been inter-marrying for years. Anyone want to deny that?”

The priest sneered at him. “My element is pure.”

Loki gave him a disgusted look. “Mutilating yourself to replace your true element with another doesn’t make you pure; it only makes you a fool.”  He leaned in, until he was an inch from the priest’s face. “What will you do when night falls, Sun worshipper?  The fires of earth will still answer my call when your distant star has fallen below the horizon.”

A trickle of nervous sweat rolled down the priest’s brow. “Do not question the power of the all-conquering Sun!”

Loki leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Wrong answer, priest. But while we’re questioning things, I’d like to know why you’re here.  I don’t seem to remember acknowledging your right to break away from Fire, and form a new House.  And since you murdered my father before the House of the Sun was formed, he couldn’t have done it.”

“You would cast us out?” The priest looked oddly triumphant.  “Is that it, boy?  You want to start a civil war? I assure you, we will be glad to give it to you!”

“No. I want justice, for everyone you’ve killed.”  The dragon tattoo flowed down into Loki’s hand to form an obsidian blade, and he held the tip to the priest’s throat.  “Kneel, you bastard.”

The priest let out a harsh laugh, and raised his voice once again to play to the crowd. “War is coming! Think hard on which side you choose, for there will be no middle ground.”  Then he dropped a small coin to the ground, and fell backwards into the portal that it opened beneath him, and was gone…

<–Previous   ~~Go to Beginning~~

Nox and Grimm – Knight Wind September 6, 2013

The chill of the flagstones woke Morvrain, as he found himself still lying on the floor of the guard room in a pool of his own blood. The stab wound in his gut burned like acid, and if he could have caught his breath he would have howled in pain.

The Wind Knight, Grimm, had managed to get the door to the chamber shut, and was busy activating the protective casting marks on either side of the door. It shook under repeated blows from the Truthfinders outside – they were all Stone kindreds like Morvrain, and he knew it was only a matter of time until they broke in.  Them, and whatever that thing that was that controlled Malach.

Grimm turned and knelt down beside him. “The protections on this room are solid, but very old. They’ll hold for a little while, but we will need to move soon.” He placed his hands palm down on either side of Morvrain’s wound, and closed his eyes.  “Try to stay still. This won’t hurt, but it will feel odd.”

Warmth spread outwards from his hands, and Morvrain shuddered as he watched the hole from the sword wound close itself. It would have been fascinating to watch if it hadn’t been his own stomach writhing back into its original shape.

The pounding on the door stopped, but the wall behind them rattled as the other Truthfinders tried to rip open a new entrance. “Forget me,” he said, “go and get that creature out of Malach! Kill him if you must, but free him!”

Grimm let out a rude snort. “I’m sure Katya would love that. Leave you here to bleed out, only to have her jump out of Malach the second I cut him down? She’d have me framed for two murders then.”

The aching cold left Morvrain’s midriff, and strength slowly returned to his limbs. He found he could sit up, with Grimm’s help. “It’s a she?  And you know it?”

“I ought to. I nearly married her.”

Morvrain thought of the oily black substance that had run from Malach’s eyes, and he recoiled in horror.

“To be fair she was a lot prettier back then,” Grimm said, pushing himself back to his feet. “Although, I guess that was a borrowed body as well.” He shook his head. “Women. You can’t live with them, and I can’t seem to kill this one. But it’s not for lack of trying.”

The wall next to the door started to crack under the repeated assaults.  “Hmm, time to go, I think.” Grimm held out a hand to help Morvrain to his feet. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“No,” Morvrain said cautiously. “Why?”

“Good.” Grimm clapped his hands together in a quick pattern, and a gust of wind shot them straight upwards.  A panel in the ceiling slid aside just in time to let them past, and they rocketed up through a narrow tunnel, popping out into the leaden skies over the Convocation hall. The rain sheeted around them as they hovered, at least fifty feet above the ground, but they remained dry in the middle of a bubble of air.

Later, Morvrain would be pleased to remember that he had not screamed aloud. If he had had a lot to drink he might admit that it was probably only because he was shaking so hard his teeth rattled in his head. At the time, however, he was still in too much shock to say anything.

Grimm put a steadying hand on his shoulder, and another wave of warmth rushed through him. “Hang in there, friend. You only need to do one more thing before you can rest.” They floated across the rooftops, and stopped again over a broad, flat area. “The main hall is below us. I need you to break that fire charm she put on the Wardstone. I can’t hold off your colleagues, and her, and put the stone back into the correct pattern at the same time.”

Morvrain forced his sluggish thoughts back into motion. “Won’t that charm start affecting us again as soon as we go back in?”

“Probably,” Grimm said. He lowered them down onto the roof, and carefully removed a few roof tiles to reveal a maintenance hatch. “If it makes you feel the need to get fanatical about something, focus on breaking the charm.” He pulled the hatch open, and peered inside. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Grimm gave him a crooked smile. “Down we go.”

They lifted up abruptly, and shot down through the opening, at a speed that Morvrain was convinced had left his stomach somewhere back on the roof. The hall spread out below them, a cavernous amphitheater with balconies lining the viewing boxes that covered the back wall. They flew over the tiers of chairs, through the open doors and landed right behind the Wardstone.

Morvrain had a single moment when they landed to draw in as much energy from the stone as he could, and then the charm hit him again. It was like a fever in the mind, burning away reason until there was nothing left but a wild, uncontrollable rage. And it needed a target.

Grimm was already locked in combat with the other Truthfinders. Something in Morvrain’s mind snapped when he saw this stranger fighting his men. His friends, his comrades. The man had dared to lie to him, a Truthfinder, if only by omission. The rage built, a searing blaze that turned his vision red.

Morvrain’s sword was in his hand, glowing like a beacon as moved to stab Grimm in the back.

As he raised the blade, a small voice to whispered to him, “How is this justice?”

His sword had only spoken to him so clearly once before, on the day it had chosen him to join the ranks of Truthfinders. He froze, arm poised, as the Knight fought desperately to keep the other Truthfinders at bay.

“Hurry up!” Grimm yelled. “I don’t want to have hurt them!”

Morvrain shook himself, as if waking from a dream. The sword hummed in approval and grew heavier, pulling his arm down to point at the base of the Wardstone.  Odd markings glowed on its surface like coals, tampering with the protections built into the ancient pillar.  His eyes narrowed and the boiling rage built up inside him again at the sight of it. The obsession with justice had a new target.

He slashed downwards with all his might, drawing in so much strength from the ancient stones that he sheared straight through the marks and buried his sword in the pillar.

The blast as the Fire charm broke picked him up like a giant hand and threw him back toward the door. He saw the door frame rushing toward him, and closed his eyes, knowing the impact would crush him…

…and then he stopped, hanging in mid-air as the Wind Knight spun around, gathering up all the energy of the blast into a vortex around him.  Morvrain saw a single sigil near the base of the pillar light up. “You’re from House Cyclonis?” he said, stunned. “But they’ve all been dead for two thousand years…”

He had almost convinced himself that the knight was some imposter, a Storm kin masquerading as a Wind Knight. Why else would the rain bend around him? And yet, he had healed Morvrain’s wound, and the markings on the Wardstone were never wrong…

The winds died down and he settled onto the floor. His colleagues lay around the Wardstone, unconscious but apparently unharmed. The knight stalked forward toward Malach, who had somehow remained standing. “Ditch the puppet, Katya, and let us finish this.”

Liquid darkness streamed from Malachs eyes and nose and mouth, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, convulsing. The oily shadows formed into a cloud that swirled around and settled into the shape of a woman. Morvrain gasped as it solidified into a stunningly beautiful Woods kindred. A teasing smile curled her lips. “Well, beloved? Is this truly the end?”

Grimm motioned to the side with his blade. “Move away from the boy.”

“Ah yes,” she said, laughing. “Trust issues. Very well, my darling Grey. But I want a kiss before I go.”

He moved forward, the sword held out between them. “Death is the only lover you need court now.”

She looked at the blade, licked her lips nervously and backed away. “It wasn’t all an act, you know. Ask that young Fireborn, Loki.  He was a spy once, he will know – even when you infiltrate an enemy’s camp, you can’t lie with someone without feeling something.”  She looked up, her leaf-green eyes welling with tears. “I had to do what I did. You don’t walk away from the Shadowkin, beloved. Not for anyone.”

Morvrain held his breath, captivated by the drama unfolding before his eyes. Her words wrapped around him like a balm. Surely the knight would forgive her?

Then Morvrain’s sword whispered, “She’s lying.”

Grimm must have heard it as well. He exploded into motion, his broadsword scything through the air –but Katya had already darted away.  The lovely apparition collapsed into an oily black cloud that wailed as it ran before him, and disappeared out the front doors into the pouring rain.

The knight skidded to halt just inside the doors. “Oh no. I won’t go running headlong into your traps again, beloved,” he said, the last word ending in a growl. On the floor at his feet, his shadow warped and took on the snarling visage of a hound.

Morvrain looked from him, to his shadow, and back again. “What in Hel’s name are you?”

Grimm shook himself, and his shadow went back to normal. “Complicated.”

And Morvrain’s blade indicated that was the truth. It almost sounded like it was laughing as it said it…

<–Previous   –Beginning–   Next->

Nox and Grimm – The Devil Inside August 23, 2013

Following an armed stranger into a hidden room was probably not one of the brightest things Morvrain had ever done. Every instinct was telling him not to trust this man – but then, his instincts had told him to kill him without trial or proof of guilt. He couldn’t trust them either.

Morvrain shook his head. The only way to find out which of them to believe was to play along with ‘Grimm,’ until he showed his true colors. He would not let his men take such a risk however. He motioned them to take up positions outside, with one holding the door open, and cautiously followed the knight into the musty, ancient guard chamber.

The room itself was something of a marvel. It was lit by cunningly placed mirrors that reflected daylight in through narrow channels in the thick stone walls. They also allowed the occupants to view the area in front of the main entry doors without being seen. Clean, cool air without a hint of the rain outside circulated through the chambers, keeping the obviously antique furniture from being covered with dust. Racks of weapons, as brightly polished and sharp as the day they were set aside covered one wall, and a doorway led to a barracks room with neatly made beds. Personal effects from their former occupants were scattered about, in various states of decay. One still had a book sitting open on it, with a ribbon down the spine to mark where the reader left off.

The knight’s shoulders bowed as if under a great weight. “They thought they were coming back.” He let out a heavy sigh, and sat down on one of the sturdy benches that surrounded a central trestle table. “Have a seat, gentlemen. I’m sure the spirits of those that once served here would not mind.”

Morvrain sat gingerly on a bench. If his guess was right it was several thousand years old, and he half-expected it to turn to dust beneath him. It only creaked a little, but he still sat lightly on it. “By all accounts you are one of those spirits.”

Grimm let out a rumbling laugh. “No. Not quite. Though I was under a curse for a very long time.”

“How long?”

A crooked smile was all the answer he got to his question. “Channel some of your element. It will help counter the effects of the Fire charm that has been clouding your judgement.”

That at least sounded like a good idea. The first one he’d heard all day. The sword at his hip hummed in agreement. The stones here were ancient, laden with power, and as he drew on their strength he felt the headache that had plagued him fade away. It was time for him to retake control of the situation. “I’ll ask again, who are you?”

“The question you want to ask is, who was I.”  Grimm looked back at the barracks, lines of sorrow etched in his face. “I was a Wind knight. Does that make you feel any less fearful?”

Morvrain bristled at the dodge. “Your name, sir knight.”

“I told you my name.”

“My sword says otherwise.”

“Your sword,” he said, turning back, “isn’t old enough to understand nuance. I answer to Grimm now.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough that Morvrain was willing to let it drop. For the moment. “You mentioned a Fire charm?”

The knight leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s a subtle one. Fire is passion, which can be expressed in many ways. In this case, a person touched by the charm becomes so passionate it turns to obsession, and it clouds their reason. Look at you and your men. You became so fanatical about enacting ‘justice’ on the one you thought had altered the wardstone that you were willing to commit murder.”

The energy from the ancient stones still flowed into Morvrain, helping stave off the urge to renew combat. But a part of him screamed that ‘Grimm’ was lying by omission about his true name, and to lie to a Truthfinder meant death.  Nothing else he said mattered. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his hand twitched down toward his blade.

Grimm followed the motion with his eyes, but made no move to draw his own blade. “We are on the edge of war. Imagine what will happen if all those volatile, angry, and scared Lords of the Great Houses get touched by this charm. Someone wanted a bloodbath.”

Morvrain had never killed a suspect without the due process of a trial before, but there was always a first time. His hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword – and it gave him a jolt that set his hair on end. Reason came back to him in a rush, along with the sick realization that his mind was not entirely his own right now. He jumped up from the bench so quickly that he knocked it over. “What is happening to us?”

The guard holding the door open moved inside and let it snap shut behind him.  “He’s cast a spell on you, justice Morvrain. Stand by me and together we can take him.”

Morvrain looked from the knight, back to his junior officer. “Malach. Channel energy from the stones. That’s an order.”

Grimm moved up to stand by his side. “Ask him his name, Truthfinder. His real name.”

Malach hissed, and the shadows cast by the light streaming into room seemed to wrap around him. “You were always a clever one, Grimmalkyn.”

Now the knight drew his sword. “Leave the boy go, Katya. This is between you and me.”

An oily black substance filled Malach’s eyes, and wept out of them like tears. “If you want me, you must kill my puppet, darling. I find I like wearing Stone kindreds. They last longer than most.” He let out an off-kilter laugh. “Oh, but wait. You bear Death’s sword, and cannot take a soul before it’s time. Oh yes, there is still a bit of Malach left in here. Somewhere.”

Morvrain drew his own sword. “Malach would rather be dead than this.” Behind him, he heard Grimm yell, “NO!” but he had already gone on the attack.

Every other time they had sparred, Morvrain came out the better. But not this time. Malach seemed to have gained a skill far beyond his years, his blade dancing around Morvrain’s defences. There was no room to retreat, no space for the knight to fight beside him.

He heard the knight start chanting and the air moving through the room picked up speed.

Malach’s eyes narrowed. “A good try, Grimmalkyn, but too late.”  His sword flashed out, and suddenly Morvrain was on the floor. A dark pool spread out from his midriff, which burned and felt cold all at once.

Malach fled through the door. “The suspect has killed Justice Morvrain! To arms!”

The last thing Morvrain remembered was his sword giving him the useless message that Malach was lying…

<–Previous   –Beginning– Next->

Nox and Grimm – Friend or Foe August 16, 2013

The rain swept down the city streets in waves like heavy grey curtains. The summer heat had finally broken in violent storms that buried the cobblestones in ankle-deep water, and thunder made hollow echoes in the alleyways. A lone figure made its way toward the ancient Convocation Hall, wrapped in a heavy cloak with a deeply cowled hood.

Truthfinder Morvrain watched his quarry from the shadows of a side alley, sizing up his opponent. The target was almost certainly a man, tall, broad shouldered, and by the way he moved he wore armor beneath the cloak. The rain seemed to bend around him as if he were the prow of a ship, leaving his cloak completely dry.

Morvrain held his breath as the man passed his hiding place. He paused for half a heartbeat, head tilted slightly as if listening, but there was no way he could hear anything over the drumming sound of the rain. Was there?  Thankfully he kept going, and Morvrain exhaled slowly in relief.

Then he waited until he was sure his target had gone far enough ahead before following. Someone had begun to tamper with the wardstone that guarded the entrance to the central meeting chamber. He’d interrupted their work by accident last time, as he patrolled the marble halls on another rainy, windswept day.  They’d gotten away then but he knew if he was patient, they would come back to finish the job.  They always came back to the scene of the crime, a fact that never ceased to amaze him, if only because it seemed so foolish.

The man strode quickly across the street in front of the Hall and took the stairs two at a time. He stopped before the massive carved oak doors and studied the frame around them for a moment, before touching a worn carving of a windflower. The doors swung open without a sound, and the darkness inside swallowed him up.

Morvrain signaled to two of his own men who were also waiting in side alleys to follow him in.  He stopped for a second at the entrance, and for the first time ever he noticed the hint of weathered, old casting marks on the carvings.  They faded away as he watched, answering the question of how he had missed them before.

His men caught up, and two more came out of the gloom from side hallways. One of them leaned in close to whisper, “He went straight for the wardstone.”

He nodded his thanks. “Fan out, and be ready for a fight.”

The cloaked man knelt before the stone – though in reality it was more a pillar, thirty feet of granite rising up to a rough-hewn capstone at the roof.  It was covered with casting marks that twined around its length, mixed in with the symbols for each of the Elemental Houses. Morvrain strained his eyes through the darkness to see what symbol lit up as his quarry touched the stone, but it was hidden by the cloak. Only a breath of air stirred, sighing through the empty halls.

All five Truthfinders moved forward as one, drawing in energy from their own element of Stone to muffle their footsteps on the cold marble.  Morvrain gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling the enchantments forged into it thrumming beneath his hand. He waited to draw it though, not wanting its glow to give him away.  Their circle tightened, and his heart pounded with equal parts adrenaline and anger as he moved into place. With a roar he drew his sword in a blinding flash of light, and attacked.

The man should have had no chance to defend himself but somehow he whirled around, faster than anyone his size had a right to move. He caught Morvrain’s blade on his own, sidestepped, ducked beneath a second sword thrust and neatly disentangling his own blade while shoving one of Morvrain’s men into a third with his free hand. He continued the movement, never stopping, the heavy broadsword he wielded whistling through the air as quick as a willow switch. Two more blades clanged together, and the light on one went out as it flew from its owner’s hand.  The sword their opponent held had no light at all. If anything, it seemed to swallow it up.

Morvrain swore as the man made a sudden rush to break through their lines.  He threw himself in the way, just barely catching the dark blade on his own. “Fool! You should have never come back!”

He caught a glimpse of a craggy, weather beaten face that was criss-crossed by the faint silver lines of old scars. Dark grey eyes glinted in the light of Morvrain’s blade.  “Back? I haven’t been here in centuries.”

“Liar!” Morvrain snarled, trying to maneuver his opponent into the path of the other Truthfinders.

He batted Morvrain’s blade aside. “Look to your sword, man. If I were lying it would know.”

A pulse of warm, soothing energy ran up through Morvrain’s palm, and he looked at the softly glowing light that ran along the sword’s edge. It was clear and steady.

The man moved to allow himself to keep a wary eye on his five opponents. “I know my information is badly out of date, but I thought Truthfinders at least gave a man the right of trial before taking off his head.”

The truth of those words hit Morvrain like hammer blows. What was he doing?  He had dedicated his entire life to serving justice, yet here he was, attacking a complete stranger from behind without warning, and trying to kill him without so much as learning his name. His head started to ache so badly that he thought it would split open, till it was all he could do hold up a shaking hand to call off the attack. “Who are you?” he croaked, his mouth suddenly gone dry. “Why are you here?”

“You can call me Grimm.  I am here to check on the castings built into ward stone, although, I would say that is not the only thing that’s been tampered with.” He sheathed his sword in a smooth, practiced motion and moved to a wall near the entrance to the building. A touch of his hand and whispered word opened another door that Morvrain never knew existed. “Let’s have a seat in the guard room. We need to talk…”

<–Previous   –Beginning–  Next->

Nox and Grimm – Foxy Lady July 20, 2013

Loki rode through the cobblestone streets of town, whistling cheerfully all the while. There was a note in his pocket, one of Nox’s paper messenger birds. It said simply, ‘bring dinner for three to the workshop’.  He had a picnic basket tied across the back of his saddle, the smell of warm bread wafted out from it. “Just like old times,” he thought.

It had been a long time since he was last at the workshop, but of all the places they’d been together, it was his favorite. It was where he’d first fallen for Nox. Literally and figuratively. He’d collapsed on her doorstep, wounded, and she’d taken him in without question and healed him.  He could still remember that moment, the surprise when he saw who had saved him. Ice kindreds normally had harsh, chiseled features but Nox was soft and sweet, with those big blue eyes. It was like a finding a rose in the wilderness, where no garden had ever been.

He reined in his horse and dismounted in front of a plain brown stone building, which had a curious door with no doorknob. He took the basket in one hand and pressed the other to a small panel set into the frame. Casting marks lit up and crawled across its metal surface, followed by three loud clunks as the wards disengaged the locks.

“Hey honey, I’m home!  And I brought…dinner?”

Grimm was sprawled out across the couch upstairs, as usual. The hound was arguing with a small, white fox that sat on the coffee table in front of him.   He looked up as the door clanged shut. “Oh, it’s you, fireborn.  Come on upstairs.”

“You should have told me you were bringing a date,” Loki said. “I would have gotten dinner for four.”

Grimm flattened his ears. “Very funny.”

The fox laughed so hard it fell over. “It’s hilarious!”

It was only then that Loki noticed the fox had big blue eyes. “Oh no,” he groaned. “What did you do?!”

The hound heaved a sigh. “We were trying to give me some control over my shape-shifting. Unfortunately Nox changed with me the first time we tried it – ”

“ – and now you can’t change her back,” Loki finished for him. “This is damned inconvenient.”

“That’s an understatement. I seem to be stuck this way as well now. I’m almost afraid to see what will happen if we try it a third time.”

“I told you, that casting mark needs to be more curved.”

Grimm growled at the fox. “Air doesn’t work like that.”

Nox tapped a stack of papers with her paw. “I got this from Galen’s notes on the key to Winds. I guarantee you, it does.”

“I should think after two thousand years I know a bit more about Air than you.”

“But you don’t know everything.”

Loki plunked the basket of food down between them. “All right, calm down you two. If I remember right shapeshifting takes a lot out of you. You’ll think better on a full stomach.”

Nox’s ears perked up and her nose twitched, but she gave the basket an uncertain look. “How do I eat like this?”

“Same way I always do,” Grimm replied. “Face first. Oh, but watch the nose. If you get sauce up there you will regret it.”

After several minutes, and a failed attempt by Loki not to laugh at Nox’s efforts, they started dissecting the casting. Loki pointed to the offending mark. “You said this was one of Galen’s making. Are you sure you know what it was meant for?”

“It was from the enchantments he was using to try and reverse the curse put on Grimm.”

“But are you sure that was all it did?” Loki said.  He poured himself another glass of fire wine while he waited for her to mull that over.

It was Grimm that finally answered him. “It would have been very like Galen to try and take the curse on himself, to free me.”

“Oh, crud,” Nox said, her tail twitching fitfully. “You’re right. This would have transferred the enchantments to me. No wonder we’re stuck. Galen would have made sure the enchantments couldn’t snap back to you. I don’t think he counted on you willingly changing shape again though.”

“Or being soul-bound to you. We share our fates.”

“All right, we know what happened now,” Loki said. “Can you fix it?”

Nox and Grimm exchanged a long look.

“Maybe.”   

“Possibly.”

“Well, hurry up and find a way to make that a Yes, luv,” Loki said. “This puts a serious crimp in my amorous intentions toward you. My morals are sketchy at best, but I draw the line at fluffy.”

He hadn’t realized a fox could blush, but somehow Nox managed it. Grimm let out howl of laughter.  “Leave it to a fire kin to think with his hormones.”

“At least I’m honest!” Loki said, with an unrepentant grin.

Nox hopped off the table and scooted downstairs. “All right, let’s try it again. I think I know how to fix this.”

“Wow, you must be in a hurry to get some of those amorous intentions,” Grimm teased.

“Grimm!” she wailed, her cheeks glowing beneath the white fur.

Loki leaned against the railing of the loft and chuckled to himself. “Yep. Just like old times.”

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