Ogreness, Black Lake-book5

Chapter 11

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Sunday was nothing but conference calls. I dragged my butt into the office before dawn Monday morning to give the staff one more shot at me before I disappeared for the week. Darshee and Wizper wore their leathers to the conference room, carried their matchin’ go-bags. Clearly they hoped for a short meeting. Leather had to have gotten pretty hot, because the meeting went longer than I expected.

By 9:00 the front desk was textin’ me that I had a guest at the entrance. That didn’t encourage me to cut off the discussion. I was in no hurry to sit for hours with our grumpy Northern, non-votin’ representative.

Nuel wouldn’t be any angrier than Darshee and Wizper. The two hens treated me as though I went out of my way to insult them, for not two-wheelin’ it with them. As though I hadn’t looked forward to the Range’s twisties on my bike. Versus sittin’ in the Green Hornet with that Grinch hen. I was eager for the scent of fresh pine and the nip of mountain air too.

I was surprised Darshee and Wizper didn’t bail on me Saturday when I told them about my change in plans.

At 9:45 I growled, “No more questions. I’ll be on email this evening,” and beat everyone out of the conference room, Sissy nearly trippin’ me.

Followin’ behind me with Wizper, Darshee said, “Love the cargo shorts.”

What. Now she has a problem with my shorts? Everything was gonna tick her off for the next year. I hate hens.

Nuel rose from a guest chair as we entered the atrium. Her eyes went up and down Darshee, then Wizper, then repeated, lower lip crimpin’ up on her tusks. What was that? Coming to a stop I peered back at my two friends and they wore the same expression. Uh oh. What was going on?

At least Sissy and Nuel had a less aggressive hello.

“Ya must be the Northerner that’s keepin’ Ike off his bike,” Darshee growled. Her chest kept vibratin’, which is an ogre invitation for no particular reason to brawl in a tavern after a couple pitchers—which is why the furniture in ogre taverns is typically tough stuff, but Darshee offered her paw for a shake.

Nuel introduced herself and vice versa, as the two tried to break each other’s hands. I finally had to snarl, “Enough.”

“Enough, what?” Darshee purred with the least sincere smile I’d seen in decades.

“Nuel, Wizper.”

The two shook. I didn’t hear one knuckle crack. At least Wizper was takin’ the high road.

“We’ll follow ya,” I said.

The two hens harrumphed, and strode for the door. Sissy followed them.

“Who are they, exactly?” Nuel whispered.

I ignored her, wafted my hand for her to precede me.

We were on the highway five minutes later, with neither of us talkin’. There was no chatter comin’ from Darshee and Wizper on blue tooth, either. Sissy whined every few minutes, not happy Nuel stole her regular seat. She’s almost as territorial as an ogre hen.

Two hours later the road was risin’ into the low foothills which promised we’d be in the peaks of the Range soon and we hadn’t spoken yet, so I turned on my music.

“Not country music,” Nuel cried, as though I’d backwashed in her beer.

I changed to another playlist, hillbilly rap. Not something I ever listen too, if I was being honest. I just wanted to niggle the knife of irritation in her ribs a little.

She gushed as though she was gonna vomit. In truth, if I’d left that on the player long, I would have borrowed her barf bag.

With a wave of my hand I offered her control.

She flipped through my playlists for two minutes shakin’ her head, flipped to satellite, and had pop playin’ a moment later. I closed my eyes a moment. Was she gettin’ me back? No way I could listen to pop for the next five hours. I’d have an eye tic and cardiac arrhythmia. I think that's a thing.

“I imagined ya as a pop enthusiast,” I said.

She didn’t speak for two beats. “What’s not to like about pop?”

Uh, the vomit eruptin’ out of my esophagus, for one. “The never changing rhythm and repetitive stanzas prolly a favorite for all Northerners. Works well when ya’re crammed together with a thousand loud strangers on mass transit, I spose.”

The muscles in her jaw may have tightened.

I nibbled some more. “The smog, crowds, miles of asphalt and high rises, pop probably helps a citizen keep a happy jive going.”

She turned the music up a couple decibels. Serious, passive aggression. I guess that was better than chattin’. I focused on the two motorcycles twenty car lengths in front of me.

Within ten minutes I shoved my seat all the way back and invited Sissy to join me. I needed the company. She wasn’t budgin’. She curled up and hid her face between the seatback and her leg.

I changed the fader so there was no music in the back speakers. That might help her survive, but I may be toast by the time we reached my parent’s.

An hour later I couldn’t take any more, and pressed the power button. Nuel didn’t hint any emotion. I would have gone to battle before I took another ten minutes of pop. Pop. My achin’ head. At least we were in the hills surrounded by forest.

A stop for the bikes to gas up, the hens a stretch, and we were back on the road.

An hour later Darshee and Wizper took the off ramp.

“Where are they going now?” Nuel groaned.

“Side stop,” I mumbled.

“For what?” Nuel’s hands were fisted in her lap.

I didn’t answer her. The hens made it through a yellow light. I didn’t challenge the red. So when we got to the condo, the hens and my folks were standin’ out front chattin’, waitin’ for us.

Sissy piled out over my lap and Mama sat on the curb to love on her. She and Mama have a great rapport. They’re both females who’ve stuck by me despite my faults. Papa stepped my way to break my hand and crush my ribs. Did a good job tryin’ to slap my lungs through my ribcage.

It’s an ogre thing.

We were headin’ for the condo before I realized Nuel never joined us. Actually, Mama asked about my travelin’ companion. Papa chuckled. Papa always knows everything. He says he’s retired, and though all evidence suggests he does nothing but garden, his fingers stay busy in the ogre world. Among others.

Mama walked to the Green Hornet. The four of us took a few more steps away for safety. Over my shoulder I noticed Mama givin’ Nuel a welcome hug. Mama will hug daemons and goblins, so that didn’t mean a real welcome.

The two of them finally caught up with us, and Mama introduced Nuel to Papa. He leaned forward and gave the hen a human-like hug-cheek-kiss-thing.

They must do that in the North. Years past, Papa did spend more time than was healthy up North.

Papa was beatin’ on my back again, stressin’ they expected us earlier. Mama was glad I came surrounded in steel. She pulled Darshee and Wizper tight, arms around their shoulders as though they’re one of her own.

Nuel straggled indoors behind us, Mama drownin’ my friends in questions, Papa subtly listenin’ to every word. Within minutes we were all gathered around Mama’s open oven while Papa pulled food out of the twelve-foot-long fridge.

Everyone, even the hen feelin’ the outsider, worked together to get the spread ready to dive into. It’s an ogre thing. Food. Eatin’. Brings us together. Like nothing else.

We settled into bar chairs at the long kitchen counter with full pints of beer and full platters, all the talk zingin’ between Mama, Darshee, and Wizper. How it always is. Hens like to blah, blah, blah. Papa and I would have to escape to the back patio for peace, but not today. We were expected in Black Lake this evening.

I had finished my first turkey drumstick when Papa asked Nuel, “So what will ya be tellin’ the council?”

Six pairs of tusks stilled.

~ Nuel ~

His parents were surprisingly kind and down to earth. Ike must be the dark seed. Or it’s the name. Up North, Ike is anathema outside the ogre community. This Ike is a direct descendent. Must be where he got his evil personality. Clearly it skipped a generation, because Bliar is a sweetie, if a little direct.

~