Carrie Jones - Entice

“Up there,” she says, gesturing toward the head table. A lanky-looking man flutters his gray cloak over his shoulder. A staff rests on the wall behind him. A cloth patch hides one of his eyes. He waves for me to come to him.

I cut a path through the tables. The warriors pause in their eating and are silent as I pass. I get to the table and quickly salute him the way Astley taught me.

“Odin,” I say. “Thank you for your audience. It is gracious of you.”

“How could I not grant an audience to one who has sacrificed so much?” His voice is a deep, kind rumble. He reminds me of Gandalf and Dumbledore and all the wizards in all the books my dad read to me when I was a kid. His eye sparkles.

I can feel the stares of the curious taking in my clothes, my sword, everything. A dark-skinned man smiles at me and nods just a bit. He sits at one of the many tables. Everybody begins eating again, helping themselves to the food and drink, reaching over one another like some big happy family. Manners don’t seem to be very important either. I try to ignore their stares and focus just on Odin. My knees, I am ashamed to say, shake, but I can’t back down now. Nick is just down the hall, just behind the door, just barely out of my reach. I clear my throat, meet Odin’s eye.

He does not blink and asks, “You are here to get your warrior?”

“Yes.” I look around again. Everyone is listening. Focus. I have to focus. “He is needed in Bedford.”

I almost say “on Earth,” but we’re still on Earth too, aren’t we? I don’t know.

“Make your case, Zara, new queen of the pixies,” he orders.

For a second I am more confused. Make my case? “Oh, you mean tell you why Nick should be released?”

“His role here is vital,” a large man yells. “To fight here with us for Odin is to fight for the most lofty of causes, the most vicious of battles, the most valiant of all claims, the most glorious of all-” He seems to lose his train of thought, because he abruptly cuts himself off and then starts again, glaring at me. “You would take him away from his rightful place as a warrior of Odin for a paltry thing such as love?”

“Erik, enough,” another man growls. “Let the female speak.”

Great. I’m “the female” now. Odin nods at me.

“Nick Colt belongs in Bedford because he is too young to be here,” I start.

“Ha! I am four years younger,” one warrior bellows.

Odin raises his hand for silence and I begin again, flinching. “He belongs in Bedford because Bedford is weak without him. He is our leader and we face a terrible battle with a band of rogue pixies who are attacking humans.”

“Is this true?” the man next to Odin asks. “If so, why does not the pixie council stop this?”

“They are compromised. Traitors in their midst,” Odin explains, like this is some everyday occurrence. “They have charged the young king Astley to try to hold peace for that region, first because the other king had been too weakened and compromised, but now he is no more.”

The man next to him raises an eyebrow, shakes his head, and downs some ale out of his large silver cup. “That makes no sense. One so young…”

I rub my hands against my legs and start again. “The pixie king charged with keeping peace is having difficulties. There are traitors within our own realm.”

People begin grumbling.

I continue on. “But it is more than that. Nick is the leader of the non-pixies. We look up to him and he gives everything he can to protect the humans there, and the other weres. He has sacrificed his time, even his life, but we are losing without him. There are murders. There are missing children. The entire world is starting to notice, and Nick-” I hiccup with emotion but fight through it. “We need him. I can’t lose him. The world can’t lose him… not yet.”

“Your plea is well thought out, Zara of the Birch and Stars, Zara of the White, but Nicholas Colt is not the leader,” Odin pronounces. “You are.”

I am?

Blood rushes to my head. The smell of roasted meat overwhelms me suddenly.

“But-but-,” I protest, and scramble for words that make sense and pretty much fail. “But I’m not even a good fighter.”

“Being a leader is not always about being a fighter,” Odin says. “A leader inspires and pulls together. A leader’s actions transition her people’s goals, their wants and dreams, into reality. A leader entices her people to do the right or the wrong thing. You are the leader.”

The hall is silent. Thruth leans against a far wall, arms across her chest, glowering at me. I glance over the entire crowd of men, trying to look brave and tough and queenly despite a tear that’s escaped, dripping out the corner of my eye.

I am a leader. Me.

Thruth harrumphs in the corner as a large hand wraps itself around mine. It is Odin. He pulls me a step closer to him and says, “In order to win back the wolf, you must defeat the one who sent him here.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in.

I gasp once I get it. “That pixie king?”

“Beliel.” Odin says the name and his face becomes infinitely weary. He drops my hand. “Also known as Frank.”

The crowd erupts. I think some people are placing bets. Others are saying things like how unfair it is to put such a puny thing (me) against such a monster (Frank, aka Beliel, also known as Astley’s uncle).

“I am not a good fighter,” I try to explain again, fingering the edge of my shirt. “I mean, I am really bad at fighting, not as bad as my friend Issie, who is possibly the least fightery person in the world. I mean, I’m getting better, but still… I mean- Oh, I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”

Odin smiles slightly. He closes his eye for a moment, as if my begging is too much, and then says, “He’s already here. We fetched him when Heimdall saw you coming.”

At least he is not at the fight in the clearing, but still…“You knew?”

“We knew that you would not want to return home without your warrior, so, yes, we knew.” He smiles softly. “We are gods after all.”

I follow his gaze to Frank, who is standing in the back of the room. He’s wearing this ridiculous red outfit. Red leather pants with matching jacket is just not cool unless you’re a 1980s pop star. Especially when it comes to the too-tight pants. A giant man with a bright auburn beard and muscles that would make any professional wrestler jealous holds Frank by the arm.

“Thor,” Odin says, “would you mind bringing our visitor a bit closer?”

They walk through the tables. Many of the warriors-pixie, were, elf, and fairy-seem to hiss and recoil as the pixie king walks by.

“They all want to attack him. We don’t fancy evil in here,” Odin explains to me. “But it’s necessary.”

Beliel or Frank or whatever walks up to us. Thor lets go of the pixie’s arm and looks at his own hand.

“I feel like I could drink four kegs of ale,” Thor says to me and then turns to Odin. “Or just have a nice beheading.” He laughs with a hearty ho-ho-ho. There is a piece of fuzz in his beard. I thought gods would have immaculate beards. His good mood seems to shift and his eyes grow softer. He adds, “Good luck, warrior queen. Heimdall sends you luck as well.”

It takes me a second to realize that when he said “warrior queen,” he meant me. I nod and say, “Thank you, Thor.”

Beliel lifts an eyebrow. Just that movement seems deadly.

“You will fight with swords,” Odin says.

Swords?

Fight?

“You can’t be serious,” I say, moving backward. This is the guy who killed Nick. This is the guy who wounded my father. I am so bad at swords. “I can’t fight with swords.”

Odin’s hands spread out flat on the table, framing his plate. His eye does not waver. “I am indeed serious. I am also sorry. Are you sure you want to do this, Zara White, queen of pixies, creator of alliances?”