Elfish by Julie Steimle (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

“He’s a damn waste of time…” Peter muttered. It was a wonder Prof. Taylor had even befriended the creep. Though both were proud, he decidedly disliked Prof. Birtwistle. That professor was the kind of man who deserved to get spirited away by the faeries, just to teach the pompous wind bag a lesson.

Peter turned to go to Prof. Taylor’s office to continue his document search. As he did, the gaggle of four girls followed, the redhead calling out to him. “McCabe? Sir Witchdoctor? Can you hold up?”

He halted, blushing. He looked back. They were pretty. His eyes locked with the brunette’s again then took in the others. They reminded him a bit of the girls back home in Middleton Village, less modernly dressed, yet in a more retro way—like they were doing it on purpose. The two blondes grinned, one absolutely 50’s perky, the other having that 70’s, hippie vibe with her long dishwater hair. She even wore a white crystal on a chain, clearly into new-age stuff. And the redhead gave off a Molly Ringwald “Pretty in Pink” vibe.

“Can we have your autograph?” the faux Molly Ringwald asked, more forward than the rest.

Flattered, especially as they were probably not really into football like most of his fans, he nodded with a broad smile. “Sure.”

They handed over their notebooks, choosing any page. He pawed himself over for a pen, making a show of it at least. He had been advised ages ago by Daniel’s sister Silvia, as a precaution, to never sign autographs with his own pen. After watching him, one of them handed him her pen, which he took with a nod and began to sign on the corner of her open page.

“Can you write: ‘To my dearest Mia’?” the redhead said.

Nodding, Peter sketched it up, signing his name with the added distinctive swirly mark with a star in the center of his signature, putting a swooping line across it—something else Silvia had taught him. Silvia was a ‘reformed’ witch whose advice in this regard, he trusted.

He could see Mia shudder, then pale. She looked up at him, blinking as he handed back her notebook with a smile, taking the next one.

“Address mine to Loveliest Imogen,” the hippie vibe lady said.

As he wrote it, Mia asked, “That’s an interesting signature you have.”

He smiled, handing Imogen hers back, taking the one from the brunette this time. “Thanks.”

“I wonder…” Mia continued in a pursuant tone, “Why do you put that funny mark in the middle?”

Imogen inspected her autograph the same time her friend requested he write: ‘To my sweet Pat’. When Pat, the brunette, took hers, she examined his writing as well, her expression a little pale.

Signing the last one to ‘Marvelous Eunice’ for the perky blonde, Peter replied, “Oh. That’s my trademark.”

“Trademark?” Imogen echoed, scratching at it as if it would give off a scent if she did that long enough.

Chuckling, Peter nodded. “Yes. I’m sure there is another Peter McCabe out there—but only one Witchdoctor. This one shows it is definitely me.”

He handed back the last notebook, then the pen. Mia took it, but oddly like he had gotten his germs on it, not touching where he had touched. Peter logged that under ‘highly suspicious’ in the back of his brain. Mia was smiling, but it was more of a forced smile now. Pat smiled more broadly, as did the blondes, but it also came off as dramatically saccharine.

“Nice meeting you,” he said with a wave, and strode off to go to Prof. Taylor’s office. They lingered where he left them.

The professor was not in when he arrived, but Peter had a key—a copy the professor had handed to him once he realized how serious Peter was. The documents he had been studying from were exactly where he had left them.

So far, Peter had singled out a handful of presumed elf identities their Elf could have taken. He looked at Maeve/Mab for a long while before crossing her name off. Tom Brown had met her a number of times already, and it was clear she was not their patron elf. Maeve led the Unseelie Court and was a danger to anyone who met her. But Peter wondered if Prof. Birtwistle had any theories on Queen Mab, and if he was stupid enough to provoke her. Peter doubted the prat would give him the time of day let alone hear a warning from him about her.

It was funny. Peter lingered on that thought as he stared at the same sentence in the manuscript. Most British people were pleasantly polite to him. And if they held any feelings of smug, self-superiority towards him, they had wisely hidden it. Some were even delighted at the questions he asked them in his academic pursuits—though equally shocked that a ‘footballer’ was interested in that kind of thing. Peter found it annoyingly ironic that a society that professed to value a kind of equity looked down on people who did certain sports for a career. He wondered if they would have sneered at him if he had excelled in tennis instead. Then again, he reminded himself, that England still had a queen—which for him was a thing of cartoons and fairytales. Medieval.

As he refocused on the words in the document, Peter felt a warm sensation in the middle of his branded palm. Opening his hand, Peter stared at the sun-dragon scar. It glowed a rosy red. He had not felt this kind of burn in a long time, but he recognized it all too well. Someone was performing a spell not far away. And for that matter, not a spell favorable to him. Witchcraft.

Closing his eyes, Peter reached to his sharks-teeth necklace and grasped his red crystal with his right hand, wrapping the heat from the burn around it. The crystal warmed. Inside his mind’s eye, Peter felt out for the source of this magic, not quite seeing it. It was dangerous, seeking. Prying. He sent the heat back to it. Peter hoped to burn a spell book or maybe a scrying map—which seemed the most likely in this case. He focused on paper. And ink. That felt right. He felt the magic of the fire stone lock on that combustible.

The heat surged up in his hand intensely, enveloping his hand in flames—then, whoosh! It all went out.

His hand was cold. The firestone remained warm, but no longer active. Whatever it was had burned up—magic ended. Unfortunately, his shirt front was a little scorched. Peter groaned. Daniel was not likely to forgive him quickly for ruining one of his shirts. He would have to buy him another one.

 After two hours of more research and no more magical interference, Peter closed up his notes, gently packed away the records. He quietly stowed them back on the shelf. When he emerged into the main office, he was surprised to see the professor in his seat, a handkerchief over his face, snoozing. He had not heard him come in.

Shrugging, Peter closed the records room door and locked it.

Startled, Prof. Taylor sat up. He blinked at Peter. “Oh. Oh, you’re here. I… I guess I should have expected that. Are you finished for the day?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, Professor. All done. I’ll be back on Wednesday, after Prof. Birtwistle’s lecture.”

“Oh, that’s right, you are sitting on them.” Prof. Taylor perked up. “How did today’s lecture go?”

Making a face, Peter huffed. “He’s a pretentious ass.”

Prof. Taylor blinked at him, stunned.

“I mean, the lecture was fine. About Merlin. But for a man who was more than open to answer questions of the other students, he totally blew me off.” Peter shook his head. “You at least gave me a chance to say my piece. That guy, though, kind of deserves to be whisked off by faeries.”

“Oh, don’t say that…” Prof. Taylor shuddered, his mind going back to when that had happened to him.

Peter huffed. “No, really. His attitude is like a kid poking a beehive with a stick.”

But the professor shuddered more, clearly remembering his experience.

“Look,” Peter said, trying to reassure him, as he could see it sincerely terrified the man, “I’ll try my best to be patient with him. I’ll give him his fair chance, but the guy thinks he’s be all end all in supernatural research. I mean, have you made him aware of the greater supernatural world? Even the SRA?”

Prof. Taylor nodded. “I did. I swear. I passed on their information years back.”

“What about Mr. McDillan’s info?” Peter asked, wondering how far Prof. Taylor had a falling out with the retired California monster hunter.

The professor cringed. He shook his head. “Well, that’s different. I did not exactly get Mr. McDillan’s permission to share his involvement. And to be frank, Prof. Birtwistle was rather reticent to even discuss the SRA. He was rather skeptical that they were serious.”

Peter stared. “He what? They’re connected to government.”

Prof. Taylor nodded. “I told him that also.”

Thinking, nodding, Peter murmured, “What exactly did he say when you told him about the SRA?”

The professor hung his shoulders with a heavy sigh. “He…” The professor shook his head. “He seemed to think they were ignorant monster hunters… not that different than how you reacted, to be honest.”

Leaning back, Peter blinked on that. “Really?”

Prof. Taylor nodded.

“And how did he develop that attitude?” Peter murmured out loud, not really asking the professor. “Does he have sources which would give him that impression?”

“Sources?” Prof. Taylor stiffened. “What do you mean? He has werewolf friends?”

Peter looked sideways at him. “Uh… I doubt that. But… you described him becoming macabre. What if…?” He shook his head.

“What if what?” Prof. Taylor inched closer. The man’s eyes were full of theories and worries. He approached Peter, almost in desperation.

Shaking his head, thinking about his burning palm, Peter thought, “I don’t want to say anything right now. You need your solace. And there are things I know that you don’t need to be tangled in.”

The professor went a little pale, but he nodded. It was fairly wise of him to back off, especially after his previous elvish encounter. But Peter was thinking about that spell he has sensed earlier. It had been witchcraft. He knew all the signs. It was possible Prof. Birtwistle had to be dealing with witches, which was the stupidest thing to do.

Shaking it off, Peter chuckled. He headed to the door. “I need to get home.”

Acknowledging him with a nod, Prof. Taylor sighed. “I will see you Wednesday then. And, young man…?”

Peter halted with his hand on the doorknob.

“It’s raining. You really should bring an umbrella.”

Closing his eyes, Peter chuckled. “Yeah… I kind of forgot it.”

When he opened the door, the professor asked, “Where do you go after here? If I can ask?”

With a smile, Peter replied, glad someone was not blowing him off, “The British Museum. It is a bit of a trip to London but it is totally worth it. I get to sort and translate ancient papyri and other old records found in a recent dig. They were just shipped here from the Cairo museum on request.”

Prof. Taylor looked confused. “And this is for the same research?”

Peter shook his head. “No. It is for our friend Eve. We’re sure the cure for her is in Egypt—or at least their writings. And this is connected to a site that is possibly linked to her.”

“The vimp…” the professor murmured palely.

Peter nodded in earnest, thinking of Eve’s situation. “Yes.”

“A tool of dark witchcraft,” the professor continued to muse aloud. “A demonic assassin.”

Nodding more, Peter sighed. “Yes. Which is what we are trying to end.”

Meeting his gaze the professor nodded again, this time more solidly. “I see. Well, then maybe I will help you research that.”

Chuckling, Peter nodded. “She’d appreciate it.”

He almost stepped out again when the professor asked, “Do you know where the vimp is now?”

“Eve?” Peter shrugged. “Well, she’s a destroying