I slammed the car door in protest, but followed him inside, my arms crossed protectively over my chest. That was when I finally got to read the back of his shirt. The leg sweep is a powerful move. —Kim’s Karate
I rolled my eyes, but was too pissed off to touch him, so I couldn’t hit him.
The small establishment smelled of sugar, like too many girlie drinks found their way to the floor. I flashed on the idea of a stripper covered in sugar, glistening in the light refracting off a disco ball as she bared herself for a group of sweaty truckers and farmhands. Why oh why did I cross that threshold?
“Mueller!” a sprightly voice called over the gentle throb of the music. “Come in and be welcome.”
“You’re here a lot, then,” I said, then spun on my rubber soles and tried to escape. Mueller’s vice-like grip on my elbow stopped me.
“This is O’Toole,” he told me. “He owns the place. This is Tessa. She’s having a bad day.” He maneuvered me around in front of him so I came face to face with O’Toole.
O’Toole wasn’t just Irish; O’Toole was…well, the points of his ears peeked out of a head of red-blond curls, and he barely reached my shoulder in height. He might have been dressed in a button-up shirt and jeans like a normal person, a normal human, but he gave off a faint green light. “Any friend of Mueller’s is welcome beneath our eaves.” Before I could react, he grabbed one of my hands kissed it. The second his lips made contact, his eyebrows lifted and the green of his eyes glittered gold as he glanced up at me, like a shower of gold coins raining across his soul. “Tessa, was it? Come in and be welcome, miss. Safe and sound among the flowers, you will feel at home. O’Toole’s promise.” He winked at me.
To Mueller, he said, “Take a seat, friend, and we’ll get the girl something special to wash away the darkness of the day.” He practically did a jig as he walked away.
I took a seat at the table Mueller chose, not quite dead center to the stage that divided the room into two identical halves. Identical, save for the two men on the left and three people hidden in the shadows in the far corner on the right. “Did you just order me a lap dance?” I asked, my stomach gremlin feeling sick.
“Better.” But that was all he would say.
A few minutes later, a perky waitress in a French maid outfit set a beer in front of Mueller and a frothy purple drink in a big martini glass in front of me. Crusted in sugar, garnished with blackberries and a sprig of rosemary, it was almost too pretty to drink.
“What’s this?” I asked, glancing at Mueller.
He cocked a grin. “Looks like a sex in the dark.”
The waitress swatted playfully at his shoulder. “No, silly.” While he was distracted by her…charms, she added what looked like a lemon drop to my drink. To me, she murmured, “It’s a fairy godmother.”
I caught my breath, partially because of what she said and partially because my drink began to sparkle from its depths. Not like glitter shining through, but an honest-to-goodness sparkle, as if she’d dropped a couple fairies into my drink.
“O’Toole always knows exactly what a customer wants. Enjoy,” she twittered, smiling at me and winking at Mueller.
After a minute of watching me be frozen in place, Mueller asked, “Aren’t you going to taste it?”
I wasn’t. Nope. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a million years.
A fairy godmother? Could O’Toole tell? Did I give off some godmother vibe or something? Or… I glanced at the short barkeep going about his work. Did I glow? Was there some special sense the magic people had? Like that way I knew that O’Toole was a… “Leprechaun,” I whispered as O’Toole tossed a bottle, Cocktail-style. Which could only mean that I was a magic person now. Which meant…
“Here we go,” Mueller said as the lights dimmed and the music changed to something quieter, more primal. “It’s better with booze.”
There was no announcement. No narration. The dancers simply began. At first, all I could see was the woman. Barely covered by her costume, she was made of soft lines and soft movements. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders and gleamed in the filtered spotlight as she glided across the stage that may as well have been made of air. As if flying. Because she was flying. The veins in her translucent wings pulsed in time with the music as they fluttered just enough to keep her airborne. I found myself transfixed, both by the wings and the way she moved.
“Seriously. It gets even better,” Mueller’s shadowy voice murmured in my ear as he pressed my fingers around my glass. I reflexively took a sip.
I almost spit out the perfect blend of sharp and sweet as I caught sight of the second dancer. The silk of his suit gleamed in the spotlight, catching on his muscles and the sweep of his body as he moved. The ice blue of his tie lay tired and rumpled on the partially unbuttoned shirt beneath. For a second, just a second as my eyes traveled up his frame, I thought it was the man from Friday, the one Mueller had called the Chisel. That second seemed to stretch into eternity as our eyes met across the darkened room. An eternity without air. Without thought. The whole of my being had become a sizzle of electricity, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
“See?” Mueller asked with a laugh, breaking the spell.
The male dancer looked nothing like the Chisel. He did look a little like a muscular, less lean Fred Astaire, but that might have been the way he moved, as if he owned the stage. And his partner. They danced together as if they belonged nowhere but in each other’s arms, and they didn’t care who saw it. I took another sip of the drink, then another, hoping the illusion would return. Not because I wanted to watch the Chisel’s hands slide over the soft lines of his partner, but because that moment had felt so insanely delicious. So perfect. So right. So…unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
The fairy godmother was almost gone before I realized the illusion wasn’t coming back. I was, however, well on my way to sloppy drunk. I’d skipped lunch, after all, having been too distressed and afraid to leave my file room.
Sometime in the middle of the spectacle, O’Toole whispered in my ear. “Always pleased to meet a new godmother, Miss Tessa. I hope you’ll return when you will. O’Toole’s provides a clarity you won’t find anywhere else under the sky or over the green.”
And then I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was dreaming. Of the Chisel. Not in any sexy sort of way, and not directly. As an observer. He was standing in Miss Maysie’s office, the way it was before today, before the world went crazy.
“The Family believes the old ways are best, and I couldn’t change them even if I had the mind,” he said in that firm, arrogant English accent. “This is the way it must be.”
“He must see what’s coming by now,” Maysie pressed, wringing her slender hands together. “Everything we know is changing. It’s…” She crossed the distance between them in a blink, taking his hands. “Listen to me. I’ve been watching the streams. Noting the chimes. The mundanes need us more than ever before, and we are turning our backs on them. Their world is changing so fast and we’re not keeping up. These new lines, the soda pop and the party favors, they can reach a whole generation with only a single mother at the helm. What I do here, it barely saps anything from me. With your investment, I could expand. Build more factories in America that rely solely on my gifts. And then we enfranchise, and with only two or three others we could reach half the globe.”
Gently but firmly, he removed himself from her grasp and retrieved his briefcase from beside her desk. “The Family is committed to quality service. We will not be swayed on that point. Watering down our gifts, even the gifts of a free agent, goes against everything we stand for.”
She stood there, framed by the noon light streaming in the high, circular window, glowing ever so faintly as she bowed her head and took a deep breath. “And when we cease to exist because they outgrow us?”
“Not possible. We are as much a part of them as they are of us. That balance has never wavered, even if our population ratio has shifted.”
&
nbsp; For a long moment, she stared at the flower pattern the window cast on the carpet. The Chisel adjusted his tie and buttoned his suit jacket, preparing to leave. Finally, she murmured, “And what if something - someone - were to upset that balance? To sabotage it like a loosened bolt on one of my machines?”
“Thankfully for us, the Folk are not so easily undone.” He extended his hand to her. “This is just business, Miss Maysie, no matter how it feels.”
Her head snapped up so fast, she almost dislodged the sticks holding her grey hair in its matronly bun. Behind her spectacles, her eyes flashed with anger. “I have been in this business since you were nothing more than a twinkle in your father’s avaricious eye.” She reached out and ensnared his hand in a tight grip. “Contrary to what you seem to have been told, my lad, feelings are no purview of the weak or wicked. If you’ve forgotten that, your family is further gone than I feared.”
He cleared his throat. “I will be certain to pass your message along to my great-grandfather.”
She released him to take her place behind the desk, bracing her graceful hands against its polished surface. “By all means,” she said, every bit the cunning witch she was with no old woman pretense remaining. “But also tell him that I haven’t forgotten our bargain, and I expect him to pay out in full when the time is right.”
He straightened. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to a more agreeable end.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” she snapped. With all the arrogance of what she was, she primly perched on her chair and waved him off. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Windchase. I trust you remember your…” She paused to glance at him over the rim of her cat eye spectacles. “No, your way is clearly not something you remember. Please see my assistant for an escort out of the building.”
His voice as cold as ice, he said simply, “Good day to you, Godmother.”
After closing the door behind him in a civil manner, he paused to take a breath.
It was true what he’d always believed, what he’d always been taught.
“There’s no trusting a fairy godmother.”
Chapter 16
When I awoke, I was at home, in my own bed, in my own sleepwear, with no recollection of how I got there. My phone told me it was a little after three the following morning. The world around me lay dark and silent, allowing me to drift on the sizzle of electricity rushing through my body in the wake of the dream. The Chisel—was his last name really Windchase? That sounded awfully whimsical for such a total tight-ass. In fact, he had seemed every bit the uptight mobster he appeared at first sight. But then, it was just a dream. His real name was probably something like Richard Smith, as boring as a property assessor must be, with no hard edge beyond being said tight-ass with no social skills.
Still, I was more than a little unnerved by the realness of the dream, of each little piece of old-lady brick-a-brack scattered around Maysie’s office. Had my subconscious retained that much from my brief visit, or was it just filling in gaps? Or was it something more…magical?
Rubbing the chill of the dream off my arms, I climbed out of bed in search of a distraction. Three in the morning wasn’t exactly great for distractions. I should know; I spent many a wee-morning-hour trying to drown out Kyle’s guy’s-night movies with dreams of a more exciting life. In all those imaginings, the ridiculous impossibility of becoming a fairy godmother had never entered the picture. Go figure.
Since no part of me felt like sleeping, I turned on my new ‘work’ computer and booted my brother’s game.
I had just slain my first dragon - the most beautifully-rendered dragon I had ever seen in a game - as the first rays of sunshine glowed against my island-inspired window slats. The final effects of yesterday’s drinks must have worn off because I was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea so strong I barely made it to the bathroom in time. Apparently, I had forgotten about eating something orange. I tried to convince myself that it was good I had eaten, but not remembering doing so worried me. What else had I done that I didn’t remember?
Wispywoo, you there? We’re heading to Summerglen.
Sorry, I typed when I got back to the keys. My group had disappeared. Only the elf archer, Princess Fireflower, with her six-foot bow remained. Porcelain throne called. Must remember to stay away from O’Toole’s. In fact, stay away from any bar in the middle of Colorado nowhere.
The elf did a little dance. You live around Denver?
I hesitated. Having been part of the internet before it was cool, back when predators lurked around every corner like big bad wolves to my red riding hood, I had a strict policy about divulging personal information. My slip was a measure of how badly my head throbbed. Then again, I wasn’t a kid anymore; did I need to worry so much? Hell, I was apparently a fairy godmother. I had a magic wand; let the wolves try to get me now!
Maaaaybe, I typed.
OMG! I’ve been to that bar! My boyfriend took me. How weird is it that we ended up in a group with someone who’s had a drink at the same weird little bar?
He’s a tester, too? My brother probably skewed the alpha test toward his home state, that’s all. No reason to read more into it. Coincidence.
Waldric the Wizard. He’s really nice.
It takes a nice guy to play a healer, I said, wishing I had a way to just zap us to Summerglen without the lengthy travel - and conversation - time. I still felt swampy; not quite sick, but pretty gross.
Wish we had real-life healers. This sleeping sickness is really freaking me out.
Sleeping sickness?
You haven’t heard? There are cases of people falling into a coma all over Denver. Six hospitals, last I heard. They just go to sleep and don’t wake up.
That must have been the weirdness at the hospital the other day, why there was no rush when they wheeled in the gurneys. Why the nurses were so curious. That’s pretty freaky.
Right? I’m so tired, I almost died fighting Drago Stormbreath because I thought Plixxie was casting electropod instead of firepool. Stupid. But I can’t sleep, ‘cause what if I never wake up? You know what I mean?
I didn’t, having passed out after one drink. And if I had insomnia now, it was only because I was clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Or maybe this godmother thing was my special brand of post-breakdown psychosis. The wand was probably just a stick I found in the street, and if I tried to use it I’d look like a complete loon. A tremble of fear ran through me.
Hey, I have to go, I typed quickly. Need a shower. Thanks for letting me join your party.
Sure thing, Princess Fireflower said. I have to sew a patch on my jeans before work, so I should go, too. Byyyyye! The character waved.
I made my character wave back, then logged off in a state of near-panic. How could I have forgotten?
I threw myself out of my chair and crawled across the graciously soft carpet to dig through my pants pockets. No box. No wand, either real or fake. I hadn’t even had the stupid thing for fifteen hours, and I’d already lost it. Maybe it was just a stick, but if it wasn’t…
Tamping down my desire to run around like a chicken without a head, I grabbed clean clothes and showered off the ick. Part of my hangover went with it, but not enough to make me feel like the world was a nice, good place to be. I headed upstairs to make myself some scrambled eggs with hot sauce and a heap of garlic when I was done—the only thing that had ever made a dent in my hangovers in college. Not that there had been a lot of them. After my dad…well, I was always careful not to make a habit of drinking. Anymore, I only had a small glass socially, and the only social functions I’d been to recently were children’s birthday parties. I was pretty sure at least two of them had spiked punch for the parents but I’d been working. Working for paltry handouts from ex-friends who sided against me in this new, non-married life of mine…
Screw ‘em, I thought as I forced myself to down the eggs. Who needed catty women when I had a pervy dude who’d take me out and get me drunk when I had a really bad day? That wasn’t exactly what
I wanted from my after-divorce life, but it was better than being surrounded by judgy eyes and gossip.
I found a note from my mom on the front table, telling me she’d gone to breakfast with Bob. She had also bought me a new purse to replace the one I drenched in lavender lemonade on my half-date and transferred my stuff into it. The post-script at the bottom of the note said she enjoyed meeting my “new friends,” and how “lovely” they were to bring me home safe and sound. The parental disapproval in that PS was enough to send me scurrying from the house all hunched and guilty. The keys to Mom’s car were on the hook and the car was in the driveway. A split second of shame washed over me as I unlocked it. What if I’d driven home? Not remembering that would be worse than eating strange mystery food. But then I got in and discovered the seat had been moved up for a much shorter person. Whew!
It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking lot at the factory that I remembered the boss’s decree that I wear makeup. I wasn’t sure that was strictly legal, but I wasn’t going to argue, either. It was just makeup, after all. I popped the clasp on my new little clutch and dug around inside. Yellow glitter eyeshadow? Mom must have added a few extras for me and my new “clubbing lifestyle” (her words). I could already hear the forthcoming passive-aggressive lecture that referenced my advanced age at least four times in conjunction with that phrase.
I had the lecture half-scripted in my head before I realized that none of the purse’s contents were familiar. When I pulled out the little wallet and flipped it open, my mom’s driver’s license smiled up at me. I must have grabbed her purse by mistake. Or rather, she must have grabbed mine when she left for breakfast. Which meant they were the same purse. Because my life wasn’t pathetic enough without matching my mom.
Thankfully, Mom and I had the same coloring. Her makeup worked just as well as mine would have, so I tried not to be annoyed with her and focus on the moment. I dabbed on some foundation and powder over my queasy complexion and lined and lashed my bloodshot eyes. The yellow glitter eyeshadow I slipped back inside the purple clutch, refusing to let myself wonder why it was part of Mom’s collection. Whatever she and Bob got up to in their spare time…I knew way too much about that as it was.
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