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

into an ongoing war between British witches and their Elf—though they might not have known this elf was connected to the Holy Seven.

“In Greece, she was barely mentioned—though it is said she had carried the Tree of Life with her and had left it in the charge of the Greek gods—or in this case, god-elves. There, the tree created the fruit for ambrosia. And back then, she was called Ailuros.”

Peter felt sick. What had the professor said earlier? He was going to prove she existed? And their Elf had been enraged by witches back in Wells. She was coming here. He knew that. But that meant she would be here in a fury. That was bad. But this reveal somehow made it worse.

“She continued on to Egypt, where she took on the persona of Wadjet—the Eye of Ra, the Lady of Flame. You see the common aspect between these goddess incarnations is fire. It is her strongest power.” Prof. Birtwistle nodded to one of the ladies in the first row. Imogen rose and rushed out quietly.

A shiver went through Peter. This man was an idiot. Did he actually think he could control the Elf? Especially an elf whose most powerful aspect was fire?

“After many years, Wadjet diminished again into Bastet, the cat goddess. Yet even Bastet was diminished by Sekhmet. For those who do not know, Bastet was the protector goddess of Lower Egypt, represented as a woman with a cat’s head. The word alabaster is named after her. Early images of Bastet were carved from that stone. She was also a sun goddess, and a Lady of Flame, also called the Eye of Ra. However, the Greeks turned her into a moon goddess when they took over Egypt, and compared to her Artemis who became Diana for the Romans. But I believe she had already left Egypt by then. Bastet was the last goddess incarnation of the Elf.

“Rumor has it, this god-elf had repented of her ways and returned back to serve the invisible God—becoming the destroying angel in Moses’s Egypt. This sets her at 1450 BCE.”

The reactions the crowd, Peter noticed, had grown skeptical and bored. Mentions of the Bible turned them off to the lecture. They didn’t want anything to do with Judeo-Christian anything. It wasn’t in vogue. But they were fools if they listened to one religious theory and threw out the other just because of politics.

“Story is, she eventually returned to her homeland as the last token of her penance—which was England.” Prof. Birtwistle put on another slide. It showed a picture of the Isle of Man. “She was to diminish further and garden her little plot of the earth faithfully to the end.” He chuckled. “However, tales say that though she came home, she had forgotten who she was—Brigidt, Shamsiel. And further, we have traced legends of an active historical elf to Glastonbury… even into the legends of King Arthur.”

Peter stiffened. Was that why the professor was recently lecturing about Merlin?

“Some even assume she was the Lady of the Lake who gave Excalibur to Arthur.” Prof. Birtwistle shrugged. “But I do not believe she was Niviane. Rather, she remained a nameless elf, and legends got mixed up. And as far as we know, she has remained a nameless elf to this day.”

More skeptical murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Peter could tell some thought this professor was being silly.

“Now, as I said, this is merely a game of ‘What if’, following the legends and stories.” He chuckled, accepting the premise that maybe he was indeed being silly. “But what if it were true? What if there were fallen angels who played god, got caught, and punished, and diminished?”

More murmurs.

“I don’t know how many of you recall the scandal of the faked Elf capture in the early 80’s,” Prof. Birtwistle continued—a story Peter had not heard about. He glanced to Prof. Taylor who had averted his eyes to the floor. That man had known. But what had he known? And why had he not told him about it?

In marched Imogen—and Mia. Peter stiffened, feeling out for the Elf’s hair which as a magical item would at least cause his palm to itch. But he could not get a sense for it. Though he rubbed the red crystal, reaching mentally out for combustible elf hair, he could not sense it. Both ladies handed something to the professor then sat in their seats, each looking self-satisfied.

“But what if it wasn’t fake?” Prof. Birtwistle proposed, palming whatever they had given him. “What if the discovery of a living elf were real, they had indeed captured it, and it had escaped; yet the incident was covered up as they had in fact unearthed a god-level elf without meaning to and were unprepared to contain it?”

Damn. He could see where this was leading. Peter looked to the exits, hoping Daniel would get there soon. He would have to take on the entire coven by himself—and an angry Elf—if he didn’t. Bad news. The Seven’s strength was in unity. And he was only one.

“I am now going to summon and present to you a real live god-elf, living in England,” Prof. Birtwistle declared, stepping into a circle that was drawn in chalk on the floor that Peter had not seen until then. Prof. Birtwistle lifted up in his hand a sealed, corked glass flask, clearly without oxygen inside to burn.

“Damn,” Peter swore aloud, rising.

Malcom grabbed him by his shoulders. “Sit down!”

The four lady witches below stepped up and around the professor, each with a lit candle in her hand, standing at the five points of the inverted star—minus one—murmuring under their breaths.

Peter’s hand stung with heat from the upsurge of magic. He set it on Malcom’s hand. The heat burned Malcom to make him let go.

Up above, a window shattered. Something bright and hot flew in fast.

Elf Presented

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

Peter had seen plenty of elves before. But this one was a whole other animal. He could see how she was once an angel. Blazing with light, fire licking off her hair and body as if she too were made of fire, the Elf had transformed from a giant fiery falcon into a glorious woman with wings of flame when she landed in the front, facing the four women and the professor on the fifth point of the star. 

The entire audience screamed, eyes on the Elf who was as real as life, burning a black spot in the wood floor.

Once more, Malcom grabbed Peter from behind, this time bracing his arms around Peter’s neck for a headlock. Peter seized Malcom by the head, ducking with a heave to throw him over his shoulder to the middle aisle. He tumbled with him to break free. Loose once more, tumbling down the steps, Peter scrambled back onto his feet as everyone else backed away from the furious Elf—who was very real and blazing within the hall.

 “Give me back my hair!” The Elf’s voice resonated in the room like thunder, painfully deafening their ears.

Prof. Birtwistle trembled inside the chalk circle, eyes wide on her, but did not move. Instead he muttered together with the witches an even more dreadful incantation.

In swelled up fury, the Elf blasted the cluster of witches with fire, which seemed to come out of her like solar flares. Instantaneously, the podium was a tower of flame, as was the floor around them. The air-blackening smoke immediately set off the sprinklers. The shower was enough to drive out the rest of the attendees and dampen the podium and floor—but the water had zero effect on the fire whipping off of the Elf.

Yet, none of the witches, nor the professor were even singed.

“No!” Peter ran down to stop whatever it was they had planned for their Elf, shouting.

The Elf turned her head, seeing him. Her face was like molten metal in the form of a woman, except for her eyes which were hot white with all the black Egyptian markings of the Wadjet Eye around them. She conjured up a solar flame and threw it at him.

Instinctively, he lifted up his sun-scarred hand. The fire sucked into Peter’s brand mark filling him with its energy. The light of the flames whiffed out, but he began to glow.

“Oh crap,” Malcom from behind said, staggering away from Peter.

The witches below gasped. Prof. Birtwistle stared in horror.

“Peter?” Prof. Taylor said, staring from his damp seat, having not yet left with the mob but still with Sean who had frozen in terror.

“I told you who I was,” Peter said, stepping down to get closer to the Elf.

“Who is he?” Sean hissed at Prof. Taylor.

“One of the Holy Seven,” the Elf growled out. She did not look happy.

Peter’s body shook. Her voice had that deadly edge. Damn. This was going to be difficult. He called out, “I’m not your enemy.”

Her eyes sparked, narrowing on him. “No? It was the Seven who destroyed my memory!”

She threw another flaming solar blast.

Peter caught it with his burning hand, though barely. His fire crystal was now glowing, absorbing the heat. His scar stung fiercely. “I wasn’t even born then! Look! We’ve been searching for you! We had no idea what happened to you!”

Two more solar flares whipped at him. Peter barely caught both. Sweat and damp from the sprinklers dribbled down his face. She was going to burn him alive if he did not stop her.

“The witches are using you!” he shouted.

Her neck stiffened, then ticked sharply to the right, turning back upon the five in the drawn star “Give me back my hair!”

“You have to do as I tell you.” Prof. Birtwistle’s voice shook. Oddly, none of them were damp from the sprinklers. They had somehow made a protective shield around themselves.

“No!” the Elf screamed. Yet as she reached out for him, her body convulsed, flickering from fiery goddess to mortal looking woman with curly hair that had been savagely hacked into a bob, and badly burnt clothes. She grabbed her head, yowling. The flames around her expanded as if she would go supernova. The walls started to steam, scorching black.

“She’s going to burn Oxford down, Hugh!” Prof. Taylor shouted out, ducking out of the flames with Sean. “Don’t be a fool!”

 Peter advanced. Surprisingly, the flames did nothing to him except make him sweat. The light within him protected him. He quickly stepped between the Elf and the remaining people the room, hoping to shield them as they escaped.

“I’ll burn London down,” the Elf shouted, her form breaking fractal—like a kaleidoscope. Going from various fire goddesses in pieces, the mortal form of Heather suffered in the midst as the one who had to obey the command of the witches.

“Oh… come on.” Peter marched down. “Don’t do that. I’ll get your hair back.”

She looked sharply to him, her fire cooling, though she was still radiating heat and light, shifting shape, though less.

“He wants something from you,” Mia called out. “Don’t trust him.”

Moaning, Peter held up his hand which was illuminating painfully from the magic he could feel off the Elf. “Are you’re going to listen to a witch?”

“Better than a betrayer,” the Elf seethed back.

Affronted, Peter stared at her with sincere grief, pressing his non-burning hand to chest. “I’ve betrayed no one. For pity’s sake, calm down Shamsiel. I’m