Elfish, Julie Steimle [chrysanthemum read aloud .TXT] 📗

should not be shocking as he never hid this: “I grew up in Middleton Village, Massachusetts.”

Her face went pale. She took a step back from him. And that was proof she was a genuine witch. Middleton Village was an epicenter of witchcraft. True witches knew about it. Almost no one else knew it even existed. It wasn’t even on the map.

“And I was in the same grade in school as Howard Richard Deacon the Third,” he added for good measure. “Though we called him Howie.”

She went to the door, grabbing the doorknob.

“It was nice to meet you, Pat,” Peter said, smiling with a wave.

She nodded, feigning a smile as she quickly fled the room. Once she left, he felt safely alone.

She now knew that he personally knew the Middleton Village Witches, and one famous werewolf. The only thing he did not reveal was if he knew they were witches and werewolves—but he was sure she had guessed he did.

Peter continued his research, though he wondered how much more he ought to do. If Daniel’s lead was correct, he really did not need to do any more searching here.

And on that thought, Peter closed up the manuscript and decided to head off to train station so he could hurry off to Kensington. He wanted to get in some more Egyptian research at the British museum. It was always a tiring journey from Oxford to London and he liked to leave early. Though he enjoyed the view through Chiltern while on the train, he just did not like the commute. He figured he could get back before the weekend and the lecture he most wanted to hear. Prof. Birtwistle might finally give him something useful.

Prof. Taylor was not in the office when he passed through to leave.

Peter paused before locking up. Something in him said he ought to leave the professor a note.

He walked over to the professor’s computer where the man still kept sticky notes and peeled one off. The one underneath it had a message in the professor’s handwriting.

 

Peter, beware. I have a feeling you have stirred up something dark by being here. I know you are sincere and looking for something good, but I may have been mistaken in sending you to my colleague’s lectures. Something is going on around the school which I cannot be further explicit about. I will be there at the lecture this weekend. Join me, please. Summon your friend if you can.

Regards,

Hamish

 

Peter pulled off that note. It was definitely in Prof. Taylor’s handwriting, so it wasn’t a fake. Of course Peter was in a habit of taking sticky notes so the professor knew the likelihood of him getting the message was high.

Tucking the note into his books, Peter wrote the professor a message on the next note and stuck it on his computer screen.

 

Gone to London.

I was invited to Prof.

Birtwistle’s Saturday lecture.

I hope to see you there.

Peter@

 

He made sure the mark was in his name. If he had stirred up some local witches, he did not need them tracking his every move.

Peter promptly rushed to the train station where he got his usual ticket and hopped onto the train going to London. He had the feeling he was being followed, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew where he went when he took the train to London. They could find him easily. He napped on his ride over, and upon arrival at the train station, he quickly got a taxi to the museum where he immediately checked in, then went right to work. Hardly anyone turned an eye when they saw him in the museum. He was expected.

Peter was not the only ‘intern’ working in the Egyptology department with the translations and transcriptions of the dig’s artifacts. Most papyri were inspected by more than one scholar to give a greater chance for accuracy. However, Peter was a favorite, and they secretly enjoyed the insight he had on each translation. Many of the professors there said he was a ‘natural’—though not to his face. Publicly, he was ‘just an intern’.

Prof. Kingsley smiled when he saw Peter arrive. He quickly beckoned him over to the most recent papyrus, which they had set between two plates of glass, neatly rolled out and pressed for clear inspection. Others had already had their hands on it, but they were waiting for what he had to say.

Peter was in the habit to sketch out what was written on each papyrus, which he started immediately on art paper. People said he was almost like a copy machine in his accuracy. Some said he was an artist. But Peter knew that with artifacts like this, every jot and tittle mattered. Like with any writing, some authors put in secret marks that showed more than artistic style. There was double meaning in the hieroglyphs—and he wrote both whenever he translated.

Fact was, Peter did not believe in the ‘Overton window’—the idea that there was an acceptable reality and the rest were outliers to be cast off. He often believed that the outliers were telling of a greater truth. It was humanity’s incapacity to deal with the greater truth that made them throw away useful and valid information. So Peter always made multiple translations with different interpretations. And that meant more than two. He lived with the rare philosophy of ‘AND’ rather than the common mindset of ‘OR’. He believed that perception often blinded people from truth. It was one of the main reasons people thought he was so weird. The other reason, of course, was obvious. At the Museum, they knew he believed in the supernatural.

“What crazy theories have you come up with this time, Witchdoctor?” Malcom Plaskitt sauntered up. He was another intern, also from Oxford, but he grew up in Bristol. “Are you looking for elves here too?”

Snorting, Peter peeked at him. “Do you sit in Prof. Birtwistle’s lectures also?”

Malcom shook his head. “Rumor gets around though. Come on. What are you really looking for in these papyri? The curator knows you are searching for something in particular. That England-Egypt link?”

Smiling, Peter chuckled. And thinking on it, he decided to tell him the truth. “Have you ever heard of the legend of the Holy Seven?”

Malcom shook his head, which was something to behold. The man had those British curls, the kind you see on men in BBC Jane Austen productions—the kind girls envied and wanted to have themselves. 

Nodding mostly to himself, Peter continued, “It is a rare legend. And the players are thus: eight magi, thirteen witches, a sacrificed virgin, a vampire, an imp, and a god-level elf—the one like Prof. Birtwistle talks about. The story goes eight individuals were chosen as magi—wise warriors for God—in Egypt, one of the oldest and most advanced civilizations of the ancient world. Their job was to combat and restrain the unruly supernatural world. Put genies back into bottles, basically. But they had severe opposition—especially among a coven of thirteen witches. These witches kidnapped the purest of virgins, the vilest of vampires, and one stupid, fat imp. With the aid of a traitor—one of the eight magi—they created a demon so vile, so powerful that it would eat the hearts of thousands, live for three hundred years, and hunt the other seven who had remained holy—then reincarnate at the end of the three hundred years to start it all over again for repeated generations.”

Malcom drew in a breath. Clearly he had never heard of it, but was intrigued to know where Peter had. “Where does the god-elf fit in?”

Peter nodded. “I’m glad you were paying attention. The god-elf was given to the Seven as an advisor and help, as penance, I believe, for the Elf. The god-elf’s job was to aid each generation of the Seven until the End of Days. But… from legend, the Seven have to also seek out the god-elf, as the Elf would and did diminish, going back to ancestral land. And as far as I’ve heard, no one knows where that is.”

“I’ve never heard that legend before,” Malcom mused aloud. His eyes peered over the manuscript, searching out for such wording.

Peter was unable to restrain a smirk as he said, “Very few know it. But my problem is not the god-elf. I am not looking here for that. Right now, I am trying to find out how one would end the curse of the vimp.”

“The what?” Malcom stared at him, entirely confused.

“Vimp,” Peter said again. “The demon the witches created from the blood, and possibly soul, of a virgin, a vampire and an imp. It’s an abbreviation. Vampire-imp. Vimp.”

Malcom stared, this time with full incredulity. “You are making this up.”

Peter shrugged. “I wish I were. The last incarnation of the vimp was born in California. She’s currently a year younger than myself. And she is unique in that she has been fighting her bloodthirsty nature. Rumor has it, in fact, she has crossed the threshold of wicked to holy, and she is now living as a death angel, working for God. Nice twist, don’t you think?”

Stepping back, Malcom stared with even more incredulity. “You are making this up. There is no such thing.”

Peter grinned, enjoying this. Often the truth was enough to turn people off from what was really going on. Weird people out, and they left you alone. It was his philosophy.

However, Peter said, “And yet you take Prof. Birtwistle seriously when he talks about god-elves.”

Malcom huffed, immediately leaving him.

Which was what Peter wanted.

Thing was, Peter wondered if Prof. Birtwistle had set Malcom on to follow him now that he knew Peter was not just a ‘mindless footballer’. And more, he wondered what Malcom might tell the professor. Would the man believe his report? And would he understand it if he did?

But Peter shook that off and went back to his transcribing. This was more important right now.

The Witches

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Daniel woke in little room then showered. He was hoping the Elf would give him audience that day. If Puck came through, he would be able to speak with the Elf that afternoon and find out if she really is the one they were searching for.

Truth was, he and Peter and gone around meeting possible elves for quite a long time, and this was not the first time they had thought they were close. They had spent an enormous amount of time in Scotland and Ireland before finally settling on England as the Elf’s home. Scottish and Irish elves were more ‘public’. More active and identifiable. However, this time felt real. It was not just a gut feeling. It was something swelling his chest, a sensation like meeting destiny.

That, and he had been having weird dreams since they started into this research. Silvia always said to pay attention to his dreams, that dreams were not just the subconscious mind speaking to him, but sometimes a conduit for the supernatural to send messages. If indeed he was chosen by God to act as a warrior for Him, then surely he would be guaranteed Divine Help. Daniel was amazed at how insightful his half-sister could be about things she had shied away from, such as God… considering she was raised a witch. Though they had never quite got on when they were kids, he was growing quite fond of