Tooloo shook her head, continuing the odd conversation as if Jane hadn’t replied. “Oh the tears when they realized that you bluffed and made them fold with a pair of kings when you’re holding nothing. The eyes well up, the lip quivers, and then the name calling. Trickster.”
The rooster clucked loudly. “Bok caw.”
“Cheater,” Tooloo said.
“Bok caw,” the rooster clucked.
“Swindler.”
“Bok caw.”
“Liar,” Tooloo said.
“Bok caw!”
Chesty whimpered as if the insults were thrown at him.
Jane pinched the bridge of her nose. This was utterly surreal. Why was Tooloo telling her this? (Why did she have a rooster on a leash?) Jane had sat through the described meltdowns often when her brothers were young. It was a phase they all went through. Lying, though, was the gravest sin to elves. It would hit an elf hard to be called a liar. “They grow out of it. They forgive you.”
“Only if you’re careful never to take anything too dear to them,” Tooloo said.
Was that some kind of veiled warning? “Can I help you with something?”
“Perhaps,” Tooloo said again. “A few days ago, another player suddenly sat down at the table. A child. Clutching tight to her handful of cards. I didn’t see her coming. A first for me. I suspect things will not end well for her. I wonder if she’ll hate me for the loss of her cards.”
“You could let her win.” When her brothers were very young, Jane played without bluffing so they’d learn the basic rules. It made the game more a thing of luck than skill.
“It’s a cutthroat game,” Tooloo whispered. “The stakes are high. I have no idea how well she plays.” The elf reached out to run a finger over the Chased by Monsters logo. “So little in poker depends on the cards. It’s tiny things. Do you keep your cards well hidden? Can you keep count of the cards in play? Do you know when the person across from you is lying? Do you know how to misdirect attention away from you? Can you abandon all that you put at stake to guard what you have left?”
Jane wondered if they were talking about a literal card game or a figurative one. They were speaking English. Jane wasn’t misunderstanding the basic sentences, but everything Tooloo said could have a second meaning. Nigel had said that Lemon-Lime were two little girls. Chased by Monsters arrived in Pittsburgh just days ago, armed with the monster call and knowledge from the twins. If they were talking about a figurative game, then Lemon-Lime might be Tooloo’s “new player.” What side was Tooloo on? Unlike all the other elves in Pittsburgh, she wasn’t part of a large extended household. Tooloo lived alone without any elves or humans to call family.
“Do you want something?” Jane asked.
“Bok caw!” The rooster clucked.
Tooloo laughed. “If you live long enough, it all becomes a little hazy on the edges. What were you doing? Why was it all so important? You’re left standing in the kitchen, wondering what it is you planned. You open the fridge and stand there looking in, hoping that something jars your memory.”
The elf was bluffing now; Jane was sure of it. The dodge was a misdirection without lying.
Tooloo stared into Jane’s eyes as if looking into the very heart of her. This elf had sought Jane out, wanting to know something. The question was: what? Which side Jane was on? The fight with the namazu would have made that obvious. Lemon-Lime’s identity? Jane didn’t know it. What Jane planned to do next? Fight to the last breath in her body.
Tooloo’s lips upturned ever so slightly in what might have been a smile. “As you stand there, in cold blast of the fridge, yesterday’s leftover staring back at you, there’s this flash of memory. A touch of a hand. The brush of skin. The warmth beside when you sleep. It’s all you have left of someone that you loved with every fiber of your being — and you’ve nearly forgotten that too. Revenge is cold because all the warmth in your life has been stolen.”
“Bok caw!” The rooster clucked.
“Who did they take from you?”
“Myself.” Tooloo gave a slight tug on the leash, making the rooster squawk. The two turned and strutted away.
What the hell? Jane stared after them.
“Keep your cards close to your chest, my little storm fury!” Tooloo called before turning the corner.
Chesty grumbled at the indignation of having to be nice to insane fowl now that the rooster was out of sight.
“You ready, Jane?” Taggart asked through the headset.
She turned her mic on. “Yeah, almost. Give me a second.”
She unlocked the CBM production truck and let Chesty in. She glanced one last time at where Tooloo had vanished. What the hell was that all about? She replayed the conversation. Did Tooloo really mean that some secret spy skullduggery involving Nigel and the twins, or was she simply crazy as a loon talking about a weekly poker game? Except for the bit about the refrigerator and leftovers, certainly there wasn’t anything that didn’t fit into a conversation about a child sitting in on a high stakes card game.
“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered.
“What?” Taggart asked.
“Nothing.” She climbed into the truck and flicked on the monitors.
In Geoffrey’s workshop, Hal was tied to a chair while her brother showed off his tools sharpened by magic. When was Hal going to learn that her family meant it when they said “don’t touch?” Seriously, this was one of the reasons she didn’t find him sexy.
She clicked on her mic. “Hal is still in frame, Taggart.”
“Jane!” Hal whined as Taggart shifted slightly.
She felt a stab of guilt. He really was good natured about the casual abuse. She would feel guiltier if she didn’t know him so well. It was for his best interest to be contained. Last time they were here, he nearly cut the toes of his left foot off. “Shush, or I’ll have him gag you too. Light levels are good. Let’s roll.”
“Ironwood is an amazing and beautiful wood.” Nigel stood in front of a “speakeasy” door of ironwood that Geoffrey started out making. It was popular with the elves and humans alike as it echoed the spyhole-style used at the enclaves. “Just look at this. Isn’t it beautiful? It has a very straight, even grain with a fine texture and high natural luster. It seems nearly luminescent since it reflects so much light. The very core, the heartwood, looks like polished gold. This is a truly amazing material. Wood hardness is measured via the Janka hardness test. It’s the pounds of force required to imbed a small steel ball into the wood to half the ball’s diameter. The hardest wood on Earth is Quebracho, which is from the Spanish term ‘quebrar hacha,’ which literally means ‘axe breaker.’ Ironwood is ten times the hardness of Quebracho. Because of that, it is amazingly difficult to work with. The only way to craft it into amazing pieces like this,” Nigel shifted to show off an elaborately carved headboard of a king-sized bed, “is to use magic.”
He took a few steps, sweeping his hand to take in the cavernous workshop. “I’m here at the marvelous Gryffin Doors, a custom furniture maker that specializes in ironwood. It is the only human-owned company that does so on two worlds. This amazing young man, Geoffrey Kryskill, is the wizard behind all the magic.”
Geoffrey blushed and looked younger than his twenty-two years. “Thank you, Nigel.”
“Please, can you explain the process of turning those massive trees into something like this?”