Wood Sprites(170)
He glanced up the sweeping staircase as Celine herded the twins down them. “Have you checked their pockets? Wood sprites are like pack rats; they always have some nasty surprise hidden away.”
“No, husepavua. Forgiveness.” Celine stopped them at the foot of the stairs and turned out their pockets. Louise’s heart hammered in her chest, trying to pretend that she was only confused by what was happening as the female tugged and pulled at Louise’s jeans. The taste of blood still filled her mouth as it dripped from her bloody nose.
Celine frowned at the scraps of white rabbit fur, thimble, and spool of thread left over from making the mouse skins. “They’re making something.”
“Of course they are,” Yves said. “It’s in their blood.”
“We’re making designer clothes for our dolls,” Jillian snapped, anger in her voice. Her eyes, though, were on the blood leaking through Louise’s fingers as Louise kept her hand pressed against her nose. Tears started to shimmer in Jillian’s eyes.
If Jillian started to cry, Louise was sure she would break too. She took her hand from her nose and smeared the blood like war paint on her cheeks.
Yves shook his head. “Wood sprites. Always so ridiculously brave for how stupidly small they are. I could never decide if they were our greatest success or our worse failure. Certainly, they are the most dangerous of our rebellious creations.”
Louise stared at him, trying for brave, but was only achieving fearful confusion. What did he mean by rebellious creation? Did this mean that Leonardo Dufae wasn’t their male genetic donor?
Yves laughed dryly. “You don’t even know what you are, do you?”
“We’re nine years old.” Louise said it before she remembered that Esme warned her not to be snarky. She was sure that Yves was going to tell her; he thought their helplessness and ignorance was funny.
“All you see. The electricity. The light bulbs. The horseless carriages that drive themselves. All the trinkets of human civilization are the results of a handful of genetic mutants that humans call geniuses. It’s so purely random that anyone that attempts to influence it via breeding is called immoral. God’s touch alone elevates the great thinker from the common human.
“But we are the gods of elves, and we made you.”
“I’m fairly sure Esme had us made from her genetic material.”
Yves laughed. “Oh, she only combined together what we wrought several thousand years ago. Two of our greatest achievements in three little females.” He was counting Alexander in with the twins. “And surely there are more than just three…”
The bodyguard nearest the door lifted his hand to his ear, and cocked his head to listen to some report over an earbud. “Husepavua, Feng’s car just pulled into the driveway.”
Yves growled. “That idiot. I didn’t send for him.”
“Should we turn him away?” Several of the bodyguards moved toward the door, placing themselves between the entryway and Yves.
Yves glanced toward the twins, apparently hoping that they could give him a clue. Louise could only sense onrushing disaster in every direction. “No,” Yves said finally. “Let him come. Perhaps he has some useful news.” He turned from the door to point at a set of Elvish wyvern armor standing in an alcove. “Pack that.” He pointed at a Van Gogh oil painting beside the armor. “Sell that.”
The front door swung open and Ambassador Feng walked through. He checked at the sight of Yves and all the bodyguards in the foyer.
“Yves?” Feng said in confusion.
“What are you doing here?” Yves snapped in English, putting lie to his claim at the museum that Feng couldn’t speak English.
“Where is Aumvoutui? A force from the MSS just landed at Newark…”
“Have you gone native?” Yves interrupted him. “Use words, not letters.”
“The Ministry of State Security for the People’s Republic of China,” Feng growled out. “They have the authority to arrest me and my entire staff and most likely that’s why they’re in New York. The people of the Republic have realized that they’ve shouldered the funding for the hyperphase gate, five spaceships to a mythical colony that doesn’t exist and the settlement to the United States for the loss of Pittsburgh. Trillions of Yuan. All so our people can return to Elfhome. They are not happy. Riots have broken out in Beijing. They make your Americans look like misbehaving children. They’re calling for blood.”
“Another century, another witch hunt,” Yves stated coolly. “We have taught you the song. Now dance to it.”