High Midnight

by L.D. Blevins

The elf walked in like she was entering a swanky club instead of a private knight's office. She wore a black dress that hugged her hips with white ruffles that hung like curls.

Her hat was cocked slightly to one side and her hair was brushed back from that side. I could make out one pointed ear. A crescent moon earring dangled from it.

She carried a brown briefcase.

"You're Danwell Troweller," she said.

"Dan."

"Haurien Selk. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"That's the only way I see people," I said. I let it linger a moment then added, "Short."

She didn't laugh.

She just took the chair across from my desk. She peeled a tan glove, which matched her hat, off her right hand and used that hand to methodically retrieve a cigarette case from her handbag.

She opened it up, selected a smoke, and put that to her crimson lips. I came around my desk and flipped open my lighter and lit it for her.

She looked at me with level eyes. She didn't have to crane her neck. Sitting down, she was still as tall as I was. The only nerve that showed was when she pulled the smoke from her mouth. Her hand trembled for a second.

I went back around to my chair and sat down. I took the hat off my head and placed it on the corner of my desk.

"My husband left me," she said. "He packed a bag and went. I haven't heard from him in weeks. Yesterday, I got a call. They - whoever they are - told me they have him and if I ever wanted to see him alive again, I'd give them fifty thousand dollars."