Debra L. Rollins - Revenge For the Huntsman

Burly finally found the Gramercy Park address near sundown after a lot of wrong turns and bad directions. The Tenth Kingdom was a maze of roads and walkpaths; its denizens strange indeed. Most seemed to be on great missions, scurrying along, heads down, not even bothering to glance up. The few who paid heed to his presence looked at him through odd little boxes that lit up, blinding him, at the touch of a small button. They seemed mostly curious about his attire. One little, dark-haired woman went even so far as to ask what movie he was working on…whatever a movie was. After a dozen blinding confrontations, he found his way to the address on the scrap of paper.

The doorman on duty was not a short man, but he had to crane his neck in order to greet the extremely tall man walking in the lobby of the secured building.

“May I inquire as to whom you are needing to visit, sir?”

“No, you may not.”

The doorman winced. That certainly was blunt enough. This one was going to be a troublemaker for sure.

“Look, sir…in order for you to visit a tenant in this building, I need to confirm you are expected by our tenants. Security reasons only, I assure you.”

“I can assure you,” Burly smiled without humor, “I do not want your tenant to know that I am here. It’s a big surprise and I hate it when someone spoils my surprises.”

“I am sorry, sir. But I must ask you to leave. I cannot let someone in without the authority of the tenant. If you don’t leave I will be forced to have you removed by security.”

The doorman motioned to a red phone proving he meant business. Burly meant business also. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, blowing a bit of its contents in the man’s face. The pink dust worked rapidly, knocking the doorman out before he hit the floor. Burly dumped the man’s body around the lobby desk and onto the floor where no one would notice.

“Nighty-night!” Burly called triumphantly, then made for the stairwell and his original quarry.

His long legs made short work of the dozens of stairs between the lobby and the sixth floor of the apartment building, not even winding him, although the shoes Dooren the seamstress found for him hurt his feet after the many miles of walking around the Tenth Kingdom. Perhaps a change of clothing more comfortable and to his liking could be found. The suit he wore was fussy, uncomfortable, and totally unnecessary at the moment. The soonest possible moment, he would dispose of them for something more to his liking.

The hallway was deserted and he found the apartment quickly with the help of the little numbers listed on each door. These humans made capture so easy, he thought with disgust. He tried the door. It was locked but he made short work of the lock with his needle. If no one was home, he did not wish to advertise the fact that he was laying in wait in the apartment. With any luck, the witch would come home first, and then he could use her to bait the Wolf. He needed Wolf to become his old Troll self once more.

Burly closed and relocked the door behind him. The room he entered was barely lit, but looked rich with plush furnishings and beautiful paintings adorning the walls. The grandmother appeared to be a woman of great wealth, perhaps even titled. If he had been with his brother and sister, they would have taken the time to plunder this place, take the riches, and then trash the rest. Ah, for the old times!

A slight noise, barely discernible, captured his attention. It seemed to come from a closed door off the hallway from where he stood. He hid around the corner, waiting as the noise stopped and the door opened to reveal its occupant.

Burly sprang out, grabbing the person in the near-darkness of the hall, then wrestled the figure onto the floor, cuffing them harshly. The struggling stopped. Burly was disappointed. He had hopes of a bit of a workout. These Tenth Kingdom natives were weak, easy to take out in a fight, if you could call it that. He hefted this one over his shoulder, carrying his prisoner into the room he first entered and deposited the body on the large settee. Burly then lit a fat candle he found nearby so he could see.

The candlelight was not very strong, but it did allow enough light to accent the luminescent sheen in his captive’s long, silver hair. It glowed like a moonbeam on a clear night. Burly cursed himself.

“Cierce,” he groaned. Her skin appeared translucent in the low lighting, a bruise beginning to darken her swollen, right temple where he had hit her. If only he had known, he would have taken care. He was mad at her for running off from him, but not enough to hurt her this way.

Cierce whimpered, causing him to panic. What was he supposed to do now? He searched the room frantically, trying to locate something, anything to ease her comfort. Racking his brain, he thought back to when he was a small Troll. Dad had taken him and his brother and sister on a winter hunt for rabbit. He had gotten lucky and killed his first whitetail, but the other two did not. Relish had praised him, but degraded the others so his siblings were not in good humor on the way back to the Troll Palace. Irritated with his boasting, Blabberwort or Bluebell decided Burly needed to get off his high horse, for one of them poked his horse’s rump with a sewing needle, causing the animal to rear up in pain. Burly had tumbled backwards, landing hard on the rocky path below, breaking his arm. The break was clean, but the pain intense, the arm swelling up instantly. Burly had blubbered until Relish cuffed him for acting like a “sissy Elf”. Trolls gave and took pain without whining. Being the son of the Troll King made him no different. Relish had applied ice from a nearby pond in the area of the break before splinting Burly’s arm, numbing the pain and reducing the swelling. Burly hoped the same remedy would lessen Cierce’s pain and swelling also.

He raced from door to door of the large apartment, finally locating the kitchen, where he came upon a large box that looked promising. He opened the refrigerator cautiously. No more booby-traps for him. The last time he and his siblings were trapped for hours. Abet, it was a much larger box. This box, however, carried what he sought though he never saw ice so perfectly formed in such tiny little squares.

More magic?

He didn’t bother with the thought any longer. Cierce was in need of help and though the wolf deserved a punishment for running off without him, he wasn’t going to lose his chance at returning to the Troll Palace triumphantly with the witch, Virginia, at his side in chains.

He hurried back to the large sofa where Cierce lay. She had not moved since he left, which worried him. He knelt down beside the inert form, bending over her to listen for signs of life. He couldn’t tell if she were breathing, so he placed his ear upon her chest to listen for a heartbeat.

The reaction was instantaneous.

She gasped involuntarily, the air rushing to her lungs as he detected a low, but steady heartbeat. He pulled back quickly, but not quick enough. Her scent enveloped him, causing his breath to escape raggedly as he wrapped the ice in a small cloth he found in the kitchen then applied it to her temple lightly. She whimpered as the cold rag touched her head, shivering from the coldness of the ice and shock of her injury. She struggled to find warmth even in her unconscious state, shaking uncontrollably as Burly worked on her head.

Suck an Elf! What was he going to do now? She needed more warmth than her body could provide, but he was fearful of leaving her to find something to cover her with. What if she had a turn for the worse? No…he would stay here. There was no other way to help her but lay down beside her and share his body warmth. Yes, that was a good idea, wasn’t it?

The soft sofa was long and deep, holding both their bodies easily as Burly positioned himself along side Cierce. She groaned, snuggling as close as she could get to his body heat. He echoed her groan as he succumbed to the combination of her aphrodisiac scent and sensuous curves as he held her body close. Staring wantonly at her softly parted lips; he wondered what it would feel like if he touched them with his own. Trolls did not kiss. Their teeth made it impossible to do so. They showed affection only when coupling as a general rule, then it was a fierce union without reservation. Not that he had ever tried himself. Trollines were fearless warriors, selecting only the strongest and most virile of Trolls for such unions and he seemed to fail miserably in both departments.

Cierce whimpered pathetically in her unconscious state as if dreaming. She sighed deeply as she draped her free arm across his chest while the other stayed tucked away between them. Burly wrapped her tighter in his arms, calling himself all kinds of a fool. What was he doing? He was a Troll and not just any Troll, but Prince Burly, heir to the Troll Kingdom. This little she-wolf meant nothing to him, did she, he asked himself? She was nothing but a sly, scheming, little shrew that was so far nothing but a thorn in his side. What would his dad think if he were still alive? What would Blabberwort and Bluebell think to see him cavorting with a wolf…of all creatures? He growled, wanting desperately to toss her aside, to prove not only that he was the Troll that his dad had expected of him, but also the whole of the Troll Kingdom.

He tried to break away, but she enticed him, even in her unconscious state, so he fought no longer. There was no one here but he and Cierce and she was out cold, so what harm would come of it after all?

He dipped his head, tentatively touching her lips experimentally with his own. He reared back slightly, not very impressed. What did the humans get out of kissing, he wondered? Perhaps he was doing something wrong. He decided to try again.

He bent his head once more, this time applying more pressure. Cierce’s full lips opened of their own accord, allowing him access to her moist tongue as she moaned deep in her throat.

Burly immediately felt as if he were set afire. He moved boldly over her lips now, exploring the soft folds of her inner mouth as he pulled her even closer to him. Now he understood why humans kissed, he thought, his breathing ragged and uneven. The sensation was indescribable and quite desirable, even to a Troll…a transformed Troll at the very least.

Cierce glanced frantically over her shoulder. Someone or something was chasing her through the deepest part of the forest. She called out to her mother, yipping pitifully into the darkness. Where was Mother? Why did she not come to her call? The faster she ran the faster the noise behind her seemed to be coming. She stopped running, her lungs aching for air. She could go no further. The noise came closer. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest until she wondered if the whole of the forest could hear. Horror lit up her eyes as the tall brush parted to reveal…”

“Burly?”

Cierce woke with a start to feel the Troll at her side. Her arm was wrapped around his waistline and she pulled away as if seared by flames.

Burly had fallen asleep, but he was awakened rudely as he landed painfully on his rear end on the hard wood floor.

“Ow!” He yelled as they both struggled to get up, each nursing their own wounds. “Why did you do that for?”

“You were touching me!” she growled deeply, as she made her way to her feet unsteadily.

“I was holding you to keep you warm,” he explained, “You have a head wound and you were shivering.”

Cierce’s eyes narrowed to flashing blue slits.

“Just how did I acquire this head wound?” She touched her temple carefully. It was very tender and she pulled back to lessen the dizzying pain. “I can barely remember someone, an intruder…then a scuffle…then…then…”

She searched his guilty face, realization hitting her like icy cold water.

“You hit me! Why you…you oaf! You beast! You…Troll!” She stomped off to inspect herself in the mirror of the bathroom.

That last bit hurt. But he was a Troll; there nothing to be ashamed of in that was there? He came from a fine line of Trolls too. He was every bit as royal as King Wendell himself and he stomped off to remind her of just that.

The apartment’s facilities were luxurious, much better that what the Troll Palace had to offer. Even Burly appreciated the fine workmanship of the marble flooring and accessories. Cierce was making quick work of bandaging her wound, smoothing down her long tresses and trying to press out the deep wrinkles in the ballgown. The Roman bath called to her, she felt so unclean, but had to make do with a quick dousing from the water out of the sink. Her slippers were ruined; a mixture of blood and dirt marred the silver material from which they were made. She would have to find a change of clothing soon. The gown was lovely, but she found it hard to maneuver through the city’s walks without someone stepping on her train. She paused in brushing her hair as Burly burst into the room with a very irritated look on his face.

“Now what do you want?” Cierce sniffed, then turned back to brushing her hair. “To beat me again?”

“That may not be a bad idea!” he yelled, livid at her dismissal of him. “I am Prince Burly, son of Relish the Troll King, feared throughout the Nine Kingdoms and you, little wench, will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

“Pah!” she spat back. “Royalty means nothing to me, nor to my kind. You will be no better off than I was…a prisoner to your home and to the rules sat forth by others before you. I, on the other hand, will be free. Free to roam the forest or mountains, to go where I please without answering to anyone.”

“Anyone except a hunter’s arrow,” he sneered, then reached out and wrapped a long tress of her hair around his hand, pulling her roughly against him. He fingered the sheer beauty of it while he spoke. “Your hair is most becoming as a human, but a silver wolf pelt would be worth thousands of gold Wendells to many a huntsman.”

Her face blanched at his words, leaving Burly with a momentary feeling of triumph, only to have it ebb quickly away as she brushed past him to escape the small confines of the room, a muffled sob escaping her mouth.

“Dragon’s dung!” he cursed himself, ramming his fist against the hard, marble countertop. Now he would have to say he was sorry. Their relationship was fast going from bad to worse and they had yet to see the witch or her Wolf. Burly promised himself that if he ever won the throne he would never take a wife. Females were just too hard to deal with.

Especially a little, silver-haired wolf called Cierce.