Lionel wakes up with his back to a tree trunk that’s so chill it feels damp. He’s sitting on knobby roots, and his feet are bare. He’s surprisingly comfortable despite that. Tara is still sitting between his legs. She’s using his left shoulder as a pillow and breathing gently. Beneath her coat, and her body, he’s so warm that the chill on the rest of him is a pleasant counterbalance. And the feel of her against him is exquisite. She has the physique of a Valkyrie, but she has curves that are soft and feminine. He longs to explore them.

Somewhere, something screams in the swamp. Tara stirs beneath him, her body shifting against him in a perfect way, sending heat racing through him.

“Good morning,” he murmurs in her language, and finds himself pulling the phrase apart and dissecting it. The Elves’ salutation for the morning translates to English directly as, “another bright day in infinity.” “Good morning” is so much more immediate, so much more in the present. So much more urgent.

His arms tighten around Tara, remembering the kiss she’d pressed against his cheek the night before. She doesn’t find him disgusting, and he wants so much for her to reassure him again that he isn’t hideous … whatever he is. They need to get away from here, but unable to resist the urge, he drops his lips to her crown and presses a kiss there.

He hears Tara gulp. When she speaks, her voice is breathy. “So, I hope your soulmate isn’t upset about this.”

Her hands are smooth against his forearms, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he sucks in breath. It takes his lust-filled brain a few beats to comprehend her words.

“She doesn’t even know me,” he huffs. “And even if she did, elves aren’t jealous,” he murmurs. Not that that distinction applies to him.

“Oh, right … Still, I feel weird about it,” she says, and she pulls out of his arms. It stings as she scoots away, not meeting his eyes. But Lionel remembers his manners. The only thing worse than being rebuffed is doing the rebuffing, and the fear of reprisals. To assuage her worries, he does the polite thing—tries to cover up that a proposition was offered by acting as normal as possible, and covering the silence with words. “Of course,” he says gently, “even if she were the jealous type, I’m sure she would prefer I did not die of cold. We needed each other’s warmth, Tara, and that was what this was.”

Not all it was, but it isn’t a lie. She has no need to feel worried that he’ll be a bore.

She blinks at him. Sleepily or confused, he’s not sure, but it’s enchanting. “Well, we better get moving, right? I mean, it’s dangerous here …”

There is a howl and blue flames rise to the height of the tree just a few paces to Lionel’s left. Tara gasps. A thing that looks like it can’t be more than gray-green skin stretched over bones retreats into the muck.

“We should leave,” he says. “The circle won’t work forever. It would just take a decent rain to wash it away.”

They look at one another for a moment, and then, as one, look at the sky. The clouds are gray and oppressive.

“So, how far do we have to go to get to your people?” Tara asks, standing and brushing herself off. “I’m guessing that’s the plan.”

Lionel can’t quite contain a wince. “That is the plan.”

“What’s wrong?” Tara asks.

Climbing to his feet, he swears the creatures beyond the circle buzz louder and he feels like the swamp is closing in on them. “I’m not sure exactly how far away that is, and we have to cross through the swamp without magic, and there are animals … monsters.”

“Could we light torches or something?” Tara asks.

“Light torches?” Lionel says, gazing at her in incomprehension.

“Isn’t fire supposed to scare away animals?” Tara says, sounding as uncertain as Lionel feels. “I mean, it isn’t magic—but I think it works for bears and stuff, so …”

“You might be right,” Lionel says, actually impressed. “I guess since you are—” He catches himself before he says “a lesser race.” It’s not that he thinks she has a right to be offended, but he also doesn’t need to be hostile.

Tara lifts an eyebrow.

“—not magical, you’ll have welcome input as to how to survive in this environment,” he finishes smoothly, unable to stop the smirk stretching across his face.

Her eyes narrow.

Brushing himself off, he says, “The trouble is, I still don’t know which way we should go. When I sent out my avatars, the black waters around us disintegrated them.”

“You can’t climb up the tree and just look?” Tara asks.

Lionel blinks.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.” She adds dryly, “And if you’re up in the tree, you’ll actually get to be the higher race.”

She had divined what he’d been thinking earlier. Lionel finds himself laughing despite himself. “You’re able to keep your sense of humor even when we are facing the possibility of death.”

“Get up the tree, Lionel.”

Something in the swamp screams, and another thing wails in pain.

“Right,” he says.

A few minutes later, he is at the top of the tree. His heart falls when he gazes east, but then he gazes southeast and he nearly bounces on the branch. “I see the Golden Road—and the boundaries of my village—my former village,” he cries down to Tara. “It’s two thousand paces … a little more. But it could be much worse.”

“We’re looking for a yellow brick road?” Tara asks.

“Yes, I guess it fits the description,” Lionel replies, climbing down.

“I shouldn’t be surprised by that,” Tara murmurs to herself.

Lionel drops down from the last branch, and she thrusts two branches toward him. “Think you can turn these into torches?”

Lionel tilts his head. “I think that torches usually have cloth soaked in oil at the tops.”

Tara’s shoulders fall.

“But I should be able to make them smoke a lot,” Lionel supplies.

She frowns. “I think it’s the smoke they’re afraid of … I’m sure it will work.” She doesn’t sound sure.

Rolling up his sleeves, Lionel focuses on the branches, and envisions the molecules at the end of them jumping and frenzied. Faster than he anticipated, they light, and they both have a smoldering branch in hand.

Taking a deep breath, Tara says, “Lead the way.”

“Right,” says Lionel, rolling down his sleeves. Catching sight of his forearm, he pauses. His soulmark has stretched in either direction and faded. A chill runs through him.

“Are you all right?” Tara asks.

He wipes his hand over his chin and feels the unfamiliar bite of stubble and bile rises in his throat. Elves don’t have stubble … He is an elf. He will be an elf. He’ll change back, no matter the agony.

He pulls his sweatshirt down and says, “I’ll be fine.”

In the swamp, something screams.

Steeling himself, Lionel says, “Let’s go.”

Tara freezes as Lionel draws to a stop in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers.

They’re twisting their way through a corridor of grasses that rise above her head. Her feet are ankle deep in muck. Just a few feet to her left and right are open pools of smooth, black water.

“I thought I heard voices,” he says.

“Your magic is working?” she asks, hope rising in her chest.

Turning to her, Lionel touches an ear. “They’re still pointed.” His voice is defensive. He’s changed … she doesn’t understand why, and she thinks maybe he doesn’t, either. He’s scared. He hasn’t seen himself since the transformation—and it has been dramatic. In the daylight, she’s been able to see just how much his features and physique have changed. His cheekbones are wider, his nose is a little stronger, and his jaw is a bit more pronounced. He has a day’s worth of stubble a shade darker than his white blonde hair. He looks older—more Tara’s age, less like he’s barely legal. He might not know that he still looks good. More than good, even though his hair is ragged and burnt at the ends. “You are gorgeous … just different … you don’t have to worry, Lionel.”

He stands too still and she can’t read his eyes. She drops her gaze. Behind them, she hears what sounds like the rush of wind in the grasses, and hears voices far above.

She looks up and sees two black shadows.

“Huginn and Muninn!” Lionel says.

Tara beams. “Your friends!” And then she notices that Lionel isn’t smiling. Before she can ask, she hears a sound like a dove cooing behind them.

The shadows swoop lower. “Hey kid!” One of the birds rawks. “We found him, Muninn!”

“He’s grown!” squawks the other. “Master was right!”

Tara squints. She seems to remember a pair of ravens in Norse mythology. Who did they belong to? Thor maybe? Hadn’t they said something about “the Big Guy?”

Muninn whistles. “Look out behind you!”

Tara hears the sound of wings near the ground and spins, swinging the smoky branch. Not three feet away from her, a face that could belong to an iguana crossed with a turkey protrudes from between the tall grass stalks. The thing is about as tall as her chest. It opens its mouth and … gives a coo. If it weren’t for its rows of teeth, Tara might be charmed. She pokes the smoldering top of her stick at it, and it draws back with a hiss.

“Velociraptors,” squawks one of the ravens.

“Plural velociraptors?” Lionel says.

“Oh, Helheim,” squawks the other raven. “There’s a whole flock, Muninn! Hang on kids, we’ll get help!” Tara’s dimly aware of them flying away.

Another head pokes through the grass. Lionel swings his branch at it while Tara keeps hers aimed at the first one. “I thought they were smaller,” Tara says, remembering some chart she’d seen with a Jurassic Park velociraptor compared to a real velociraptor of the Late Cretaceous.

Swinging his branch at another deadly cretaceous turkey, Lionel says, “Up ahead is a spot of dry land. If we get there, I can use magic.”

A third head peers out of the vegetation. Somewhere beyond it, Tara hears another coo. Hissing and spitting, one of the raptors tries to flank them. Tara jabs it with her stick and the smell of burning feathers makes her grimace. The creature backs up, and one of its legs plunges into the black water. With a terrified-sounding shriek, it leaps back into the foliage just as another lunges. Swinging at it, Lionel cries, “It’s working!”

He sounds way too optimistic, and Tara cries, “Don’t jinx it!”

At her words, a raptor goes flying over their heads, flapping its rudimentary wings and shedding feathers. She hears a thud, and whispers, “What happened?”

“I jinxed it,” says Lionel. “Fascinating that both our languages have the concept of ‘jinx.’”

“Lionel, focus!” Tara shouts, sidestepping a lunge at her calf.

Lionel replies, “Just a few dozen more paces!”

“Dozens?” Tara squeaks. The raptors have edged them closer to the water. It gives them only three sides to cover instead of four, but the raptors are afraid of the water, and Tara's pretty sure she should be too.

“It could be worse,” he mutters.

“Don’t say that!” Tara protests. That is exactly the moment a raindrop lands on her nose. “You so jinxed it,” she grinds out.

“What?” Lionel pants.

Thunder rumbles. More drops thwack against the grasses, and Tara’s smoldering branch steams and hisses.

“I jinxed it,” Lionel admits.

Tara looks at the black surface of the water, riddled with raindrops. “Can you swim?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She eyes a mound of earth a few yards across the black expanse of water. It’s high ground. He should be able to use his magic there. “We’ve got to swim.”

“Whatever is keeping them out of the water is going to eat us!” Lionel says.

“The raptors are going to eat us!” Tara retorts. She never thought she’d ever give up her Jimmy Choo boots, but she kicks them off in a flash and takes off her coat. “And I don’t think they can swim.” They’re just overgrown turkeys, or nasty ostriches … neither of those can swim, right?

A raptor shrieks, far too close, and there is a thud and a crack. “We’ll swim,” Lionel mutters. “A lady in the lake or selkies can be bargained with. On two,” says Lionel.

“One,” says Lionel.

A raptor opens its mouth and makes a shrill scream. “Now!” shouts Tara. She shoves the dead end of the torch into a raptor’s maw, throws her coat on another, and dives. She hears Lionel splash beside her.

The water is cold, and she still has too many clothes on, but Tara’s a good swimmer.

“They aren’t following!” she hears Lionel say, a few feet behind.

“Don’t … Look … Back!” Tara cries between strokes.

She hears a splash.

“I jinxed us again,” Lionel gasps. In the corner of her eye, she sees him catch up to her with a decent freestyle. She doesn’t look back to see what he means, but all of a sudden, she feels something snake around her waist. She tries to swim faster, but the snake-thing tightens. Tara gasps for breath and struggles against it. Looking down, she screams. “Is this a tongue?”

“Maybe a tentacle,” Lionel says, struggling beside her.

Tara tries to kick at the tentacle-tongue, and gets dragged beneath the water. In the blackness, she thinks she makes out a set of glowing blue-green eyes, each as large as her head. Beside her, she sees bubbles, and realizes Lionel is being dragged down, too. She struggles against the creature, but feels herself weakening. Her lungs feel like they will explode. Her muscles start to go slack … and suddenly she is above the water, gasping for breath, Lionel beside her. Before she can thank her luck, she catches sight of four velociraptors swimming directly toward them.

“Damn,” she mutters, and wonders if death by bog monster would be quicker.

One of the first velociraptors goes underwater, and then the next.

“What?” says Lionel.

“Is it diving?” Tara says, searching the water for sight of the creature.

“I don’t know,” says Lionel.

The third and fourth velociraptors disappear. Tara holds her breath, waiting for the bite of teeth underwater. They don’t come.

The velociraptors on the shore squawk and shriek at them. Before Tara knows what is happening, she and Lionel are lifted by the tongue-tentacles into the air and thrust toward the shore. The tentacles do not release, and the force of reaching the end of the thrust rattles Tara’s teeth. The raptors leap toward them, and before she can blink, she’s yanked backward with more jaw-rattling force. The velociraptors splash into the water and then disappear into the depths.

“Is it fishing with us?” Tara cries.

She sees a few more velociraptors peek from the grasses. Before she can count how many, she and Lionel are thrust forward and back again. One more beast jumps, and it disappears into the black water. The others vanish into the grass.

The tentacles pull Tara and Lionel back to the center of the water where they’d first been caught, but don’t let them go.

Catching her breath, Tara says, “Thank you for not eating us, mister …” She almost says “monster” but decides that might be rude. “Amazing water creature who must be like an octopus of my home world. They’re very smart and also cute.”

The tentacles slide away, leaving Tara and Lionel sputtering and treading water.

“And thank you for that,” Tara says.

“Tara!” says Lionel. “Don’t talk to it, swim!” And then his eyes get very wide and he looks at a point beyond Tara’s shoulder.

Instead of swimming, she looks.

Two enormous blue-green eyes with the depth and luminosity of opals are staring at her. Between them stretches a skin that’s mostly black but swirls with blues and purples. Tara is dumbfounded. It’s possible that she is maybe about to die, but why would it let her go if it was going to eat her? She can’t out swim it; its tentacles are everywhere.

“Hi,” Tara whispers. “You have beautiful eyes.” And wonders if she is about to become a candidate for a Darwin award again.

She hears splashing behind her and before she knows it, Lionel has wrapped an arm around her waist and is pulling her toward the shore. The eyes rise out of the water on a head that looks very octopus-like, but it opens a mouth that has as many teeth as a shark.

Lionel curses. The head expands with a whooshing noise. And then the head lowers, and bubbles course toward them, pushing them to the shore.

Tara laughs, and Lionel says, “You’re lucky we don’t taste good.”

“It’s a real alien!” Tara cries. She is living in Star Trek!

Her feet hit the bottom of the pool, and Lionel lets her waist go, but grabs her arm and drags her onto dry land. The wind must have picked up because she hears branches clacking together. He’s walking so fast. It may be the narrow escape from death, but she finds herself babbling. “It understood me, I know it did. Inky, I’ll be your bait for velociraptors anytime!”

A jet-black tentacle pops above the water and sways. “Inky is waving at us!” Tara exclaims. Lionel doesn’t even pause to look back.

“What’s the rush?” Tara asks. “I’m tired and hungry. We can rest here. If any more meanies show up, Inky will eat them.” And maybe they could snuggle again. Tara feels warmer just remembering her night in Lionel’s arms.

Lionel finally stops. The rain has stopped as suddenly as it began, but his hair is still plastered to his head, and his ears are pointing between the strands. “Tara, you can’t play bait for the kraken. Much longer in the water and we’d catch hypothermia.”

“No, I’m not cold—” At that moment, she realizes that what she took to be tree branches snapping in the wind is her teeth chattering. “Oh.”

“Come on,” Lionel says. “We have to get moving. We’re on a ridge. I should be able to use magic as long as we walk along it.”

Tara follows him along the “ridge.” Instead of grasses, it’s got trees, and the ground beneath their feet is more solid, but she’s only wearing socks, and she keeps stepping on things that poke and prickle. Lionel’s feet have been bare since they left the circle, and he hasn’t complained. She finds herself wishing he’d complain so she could complain, too.

Lionel turns to her. “I can’t believe you named a kraken Inky.”

Tara scowls. “You’re the one who was doing a cross-cultural linguistic study in the middle of a fight with velociraptors.”

He stops in his tracks. “And so I did.” Meeting her gaze, a smile spreads across his face. It’s kind of cheeky, definitely unashamed, and it takes her breath away. As much as his face has changed, he still has that dimple. Her heart stops, and her lips part.

From the air, she hears rawking. “Over here! Over here!”

Lionel looks to the sound. “Huginn and Muninn!”

The two birds swoop overhead. “Follow, quick! Quick!”

From behind them comes a familiar cooing, and then a shriek.

Tara clutches his arm. “Velociraptors!”

“It’s better to face them than to run,” Lionel says, putting himself between her and the raptor cries. “And I have my magic.”

Peering around him, Tara sees the shapes of the raptors emerging from the trees. Lionel raises a hand toward them, and then looks down at it. “I don’t have my magic,” he whispers. “It’s the water from the lagoon … it’s in my hair and my clothes.”

The velociraptors charge from behind the trees, leaping into air above their heads, and a strange whistling fills the air. The last thing Tara sees are talons as Lionel spins and tackles her to the ground.