Enchanted No More. Robin D. Owens

of black between brownish curves of flesh. “Mistweaver, Desertshimmer, Cirruswisp,” she rumbled again, defining Jenni’s ancestry.

      “I’m Jenni Weavers in the human world.”

      “Please wait,” the dwarfem instructed, and gestured with a stubby hand to two semicircular groupings of furniture in the space between the elevator and the desk. Both were black and cushiony, one side was leather, the other looked like leather but was actually made from the hide of naugas.

      Jenni was not early enough to sit down. They were making her wait. Her inner fire simmered. She heard the tiny clicks of multikeystrokes from a nearby room and tasted another wave of magic. With a smile, she headed for a corridor off the lobby. She found what appeared to be a smooth wall with a bespelled door behind the illusion. Jenni waved and the spell vanished.

      “You can’t go in there,” snapped the dwarfem.

      Jenni shrugged a shoulder, opened the door to ripe swearing of the minor Waterfolk kind. The room was long and narrow, painted a stark white that none of the eight Lightfolk and Treefolk workers would appreciate. There was a long counter holding eight computers, a mixture of desktops, laptops, tablets and pockets, according to the size of the beings.

      Just in front of her was a naiader—a minor Waterfolk male—who was slender with a bluish tinge to his skin and natural spiky green hair. He stood next to a chair, shoulders hunched as he typed. A mug of hot chocolate made with real cocoa steamed on the desk as if he’d just gotten it.

      Programming lines rolled across his screen.

      Jenni stepped near him to look at the code on his monitor without him being aware, as he was so caught up in his own irritation. Orange symbols, magical symbols, lit the screen along with regular white human programming lines and mathematical formulas. She nearly choked on her tongue.

      Magic.

      And technology.

      These Folk were writing spells on the computer to draw magic into…into what?

      She frowned. She knew this spell, but it was an old and slow and limping one when they needed a big, gliding one to…store electricity? A magical and electrical battery?

      Snared by the problem and the knowledge that she could flick it and fix it, she slid into the waterman’s—the naiader’s—seat, stared at his strange keyboard, memorized it, nudged his fingers away. She moved to the middle of the poorly constructed line, erased the spell he was trying to write and encoded a spell she’d developed and recorded in her spellbook a while back…with a shorter, elegant twist that came to mind. Now this spell would do what they’d intended better than the one that had been on the screen.

      There was a wet sucking of breath. “Damned djinn,” the guy muttered. “Whole project is fire, electricity, why did it have to be djinn? Fluidity should be the key. Flexibility.” He squatted and bumped her hip with enough force that she had to stand or fall. He took his chair, brows down, staring at the screen. Then his fingers flew to the end of the spell as his mind engaged and he began writing code.

      “I’m plenty flexible, and you’re welcome,” Jenni said.

      He stuck out his lower lip. “Irritating.”

      She studied the rest of the full-blooded Lightfolk in the computer room. They lounged, watching her, like a tableau of the beauty of the Folk.

      There was the water naiader that she’d displaced, a Treefolk dryad with a tinge of green in her skin and her body encased in a black fake-leather catsuit, a dwarf with a heavy scowl and long beard that marked him as one of the older generations—what was he doing here? At the end was a small red fire sprite perched on the ledge of a monitor, wearing a merry grin. He-she winked at Jenni, but remained stationary.

      “Jindesfarne, we did not bring you here for your computing skills,” Aric said coolly from the open doorway.

      At the sight of him, Jenni felt a melting inside. That didn’t stop her hair from lifting in individual shafts as her aggravation transmuted into static electricity.

      “Dampen spell!” The naiader flung his arms wide, scowled at Jenni, his face beading with drops of distress. “That’s why I hate djinn. Should know better than to release static electricity around all these computers.”

      She did, but she wouldn’t apologize. “I’m excellent with computers, and I know a little something about business ergonomics, too.” She looked down at the computer counter. “This is a pitiful working space.”

      The tree dryad perked up.

      Aric’s brows lowered. The dwarfem receptionist, half his height but nearly as broad, joined him, tapping her foot.

      “Everyone should have individual spaces,” Jenni said.

      “Rounds and semiround rooms,” breathed the dryad.

      Jenni cast her a sympathetic look. “Or cubes, and those of like elements grouped together, or those working on congruent inquiries—”

      “Enough.” Aric glanced down at the receptionist. “Please note what Jindesfarne Mistweaver advised.”

      A rock pad and a tiny chisel appeared in the dwarfem’s hands. She scritched on it, glaring at Jenni. “You’re keeping the Air King waiting,” she said, “and I’ll tell him a lot.” She showed red pointed teeth before marching back to her desk.

      “Du-u-ude,” breathed the water naiader, his round eyes getting wider and more orblike, staring at her. He must be a baby…born in the last thirty years or so.

      The palm-sized red fire sprite whizzed to Jenni, buried itself in her hair. “Ver-ry fun plac-s-s-se,” it hissed. “Glad to s-see you, Mis-stweaver energy balanc-ser. You s-smell fine.” It nuzzled her head, nipped her ear, took off to prance along the top of watery guy’s monitor.

      Aric prompted again, “Jindesfarne.”

      “The light is all wrong, too, should be tailored to each element,” Jenni said.

      There was a low murmur from the workers.

      “Come, Jenni,” Aric said, holding out his hand.

      Jenni didn’t want to leave these kindred spirits to talk to the Air King about a mission she didn’t want to do. But that was the price to save her brother. When she recalled Rothly caught in the mist because of the eight kings and queens, anger roiled through her. She tamped down her temper, but couldn’t stop one statement. “Sounds as if Air King Cloudsylph picked up the manner of an Eight fast,” she said. “He ascended to royal fifteen years ago, right?”

      “You have no idea,” murmured the dryad like the whisper of new leaves in spring. “But the changes in the Lightfolk community have been incredible.” She beamed and her pewter eyebrow rings shone in the light.

      Jenni nodded to the workers, waved a jaunty hand and strode to the doorway. When she reached him, Aric stepped away, then touched her elbow to indicate direction. His fingers were warm and steady.

      They strolled by the receptionist dwarf, who was standing on her granite desk, hands on hips, mouth a straight line of disapproval.

      The hallway they took was all glass, showing open offices that appeared to be occupied, obviously a set stage for any human clients. But the rooms wouldn’t fool a mortal for a minute. Jenni shook her head. Maybe the Lightfolk were finally beginning to try to live—work—side by side with humans, but they weren’t doing a very good job yet. They needed to consult the half mortals among them, those who’d lived among humans, integrated into their culture.

      But not her.

      The sooner she rescued her brother and finished her business with these Folk and got on with her own life, the better.

      Aric was wise enough to say nothing as he ushered her into a glassy corner office that was all light and grace.

      The Air King sat behind a large, pale green, art deco glass desk. He might not have learned how