Rick or Treat: A Fae Killers Novel (The Fae Killers Book 3)

by Jaxon Reed

  Rick or Treat

  A Fae Killers Novel

  Jaxon Reed

  Rick or Treat

  A Fae Killers Novel

  Copyright © 2018 by Jaxon Reed

  Formatting and editing provided by edbok.com

  Cover art by Jacqueline Sweet

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Historical figures are used in fictional settings and dialogues, within a fictitious alternate universe. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Nancy Chance pulled a long lock of dark hair off her cheek and tucked it behind an ear. She looked at the holographic monitor, then at Toya bent over the keyboard.

  Nancy said, “How’s that reboot coming?”

  For her part, Toya did not look up. A stunningly attractive African-American woman who died on her alternate in the late 1980s, Toya had easily adapted to the advanced technology at Headquarters. She was the most technically astute person left, and for all intents and purposes she was the resident tech guru.

  “This thing is incredibly complex,” Toya said. “She doesn’t exist in just one place. The reboot is not just starting up a hard drive somewhere and loading code, it’s actually recreating Cait from the molecular level on up. On multiple realities. Simultaneously.”

  “Well? How long is that going to take?”

  “That’s the freaky part. If we were doing this in real time, like out on an alternate somewhere, just one alternate, it would take about a year. But Cait’s main core resides in a timeless space, like Headquarters here, with portions on different realities in different universes. So, at the moment she is mostly up and active. Her processing power is doing pretty good on several thousand worlds right now. Since the process is split up among so many different areas, we’ll get her back sooner. She’s basically leveraging multiple timelines to expedite the reboot.

  “But her human interface, that part we’re used to talking and interacting with, that’s going to take a while longer. How much longer I can’t say. Should be far less than a year, though. Hopefully just a few days, in our timeline. But in different universes it may vary on whether she can fully communicate on any given world. This has never happened before, so we won’t really know how long everything will take until the process is complete.”

  Nancy bit her lip. She said, “Is there any way to communicate with our people? Can we use her processing power on the alternates they’ve been flung to? Can we tap into her power to open a door and bring them home?”

  Toya shook her head. “I don’t think so, not yet. I’d say no to all those questions, for right now. But soon, I hope.”

  “Can Cait contact them somehow?”

  Toya said, “Don’t know that either. When we get her human interface back and more of her processing power has ‘rebooted’ here at Headquarters, we’ll able to ask her directly. Until then, just hang tight. I’m sure Tiff and the boys are doing fine.”

  Nancy reached out and swiped the screen. It shifted to the chronologistics app. A flashing blue light blinked beside the name “Rick Strickland.” Next to it, location data: “Alternate 4102a, 88 percent variability from O-Earth.”

  The final line filled her heart with dread: “Heavy fae influence.”

  1

  Rick glanced at the array of cockpit instruments and tried to remember what went where.

  “Let’s see. Altimeter. Airspeed. We need to start slowing down as we descend. But not too slow. Gotta keep the nose up.”

  He rattled off some readings to himself and continued the plane’s descent, lining up with the airfield lights.

  He caught himself and glanced over at the stewardess sitting in the copilot’s chair. He flashed a confident smile at her. She looked about 40. Tall and skinny. Blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was attractive, but older and wiser than the other women in the flight crew. It only made sense she was in charge, he thought.

  Rick said, “I got this. No problem.”

  She smiled, but a hint of trepidation came through as well.

  He nodded and said, “You’re right.”

  Her eyebrows creased. In a crisp British accent she said, “About what?”

  “I should talk to the passengers. Let them know everything is okay.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “No, but I bet you were thinking it.”

  “Truthfully, I was hoping we aren’t all going to die!”

  He chuckled as if she were joking. She kept staring at him, with a look on her face indicating she clearly was serious.

  He picked the mic up off its hook and flipped a switch so his voice would be transmitted to the passenger cabin instead of over the air.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your, uh, temporary captain speaking. My name is Rick Strickland, and I just want you to know that I have, uh, considerable experience flying aircraft very similar to this one. Now, I will admit that it’s been a few years since I’ve flown this particular model . . .”

  Actually it’s been since 1947, he thought. And when did I die? 1980 something. Plus the three centuries or so I’ve been in heaven . . . Has it been 350 years? Almost. Gosh . . .

  “But not to worry, folks, it’s all coming back to me.” He chuckled, confidently.

  “Now, we’re going to be making an emergency landing in a few minutes, and it’s very important that you all stay buckled in and prepare for a rough one. I’m not saying it will be rough, mind you, but you should prepare for it just in case.

  “If you’ll all just settle back (maybe say a prayer for me, I’d appreciate it), we’ll have you down and on the ground in no time.”

  Rick flicked the switch and hung up the mic, then looked at the stewardess again.

  He said, “I’d like to think I still have it. Took some time to develop the old ‘calming Captain’s voice.’ But you never really forget things like that. Am I right or am I right?”

  He flashed her another charming grin. She frowned back at him.

  “This is a brand-new type of plane,” the stewardess said. “It just rolled off the assembly line this summer. They clearly knew you were lying about flying this model years ago.”

  He started to reply, then stopped. How could he explain alternate universes and multiple timelines to her? At least, how could he explain it quickly and in a way she would understand and accept?

  The radio crackled before he could think of a reply.

  “Right-o, Tango! The lads agree your descent looks jolly good. Keep it up, and you might just land our bird safely after all.”

  Rick grabbed the mic again, making sure the switch was on the radio side. He clicked it and said, “Thanks for your vote of confidence, Tower, however forced that was. I hope to see you on the ground in just a few minutes. Hopefully in one piece.”

  He glanced back at the stewardess who looked at him wide-eyed now, with a hint of fear.

  “Just a bit of pilot humor there,” he said. “We’ll make it, I’ve done this hundreds of times before.”

  She sniffed and looked forward again, at the quickly approaching runway starting to fill the windshield.

  She
said, “Liar.”

  He made sure the wheels were down, adjusted the flaps, and slowed the airspeed more as they came steadily down toward the field. The back wheels hit first with a bump, then the nose came down with a smaller bump. He pushed the throttle in and pulled the plane to a stop on a wide-open tarmac.

  A loud cheer went up throughout the passenger cabin. The sounds of distinctly British ambulance sirens grew louder as a small flotilla of emergency vehicles rushed to the plane, red lights dancing across the fuselage.

  Wah-WAH! Wah-WAH! Wah-WAH!

  A mobile staircase motored up and flight attendants hurried to open the door. Medical personnel ran up the steps and rushed to the pilot and copilot. They loaded the men on stretchers and removed them, then first class passengers were allowed to exit.

  Rick stood by the tall flight attendant, smiling and shaking hands as the passengers disembarked. Three men in cowboy hats were all smiles. One of them, a particularly large man with a broad hat said on the way out, “Fine job, mah boy! Mighty fine flying, there!”

  Rick nodded in acknowledgment then turned to the next group disembarking. A Nazi in full dress uniform that Rick noticed earlier left without looking at him or saying anything.

  The nun Rick met when he fell into the world, and into the plane, was the last passenger to leave. Rick recalled she had been seated in the last row.

  She smiled at Rick and said, “I don’t know where you came from, young man, or how you got here, but I thank God for you!”

  Rick smiled and she went out the door and down the steps. When only the crew remained, Rick turned to the lead flight attendant. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Rick, by the way.”

  She shook his hand warmly and smiled back, a genuine smile this time without any trace of fear. She said, “Elizabeth.”

  “That’s right,” Rick said. “I remember your little conversation with the Tower.”

  They heard a voice outside the plane saying, “Ms. Freely! And, uh, Mr. Strickland is it? I say, come out of there, both of you.”

  Rick said, “Ladies first,” and let the flight attendants grab their bags and exit. When Elizabeth went out the door, he followed her.

  At the foot of the steps, a gaggle of bobbies looked up at him, wearing navy blue coats with copper buttons as big as silver dollars and foot-tall helmet hats with big shiny stars in the middle. Behind them stood several reporters, their fedoras carrying cards with the word “PRESS” sticking out of the hatbands. Many held notepads with pencils at the ready. A handful of flashbulbs went off as photographers in the crowd took Rick’s picture.

  Up front stood a relatively short and heavy-set man, with orange hair and a large bald spot in back. He wore pop-bottle glasses and a tweed jacket, and stood with fists on his hip making him look even wider than his already considerable girth suggested.

  Elizabeth glanced back up at Rick and said, “That’s Mr. Willowby. He’s in charge. You spoke with him on the wireless.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s the one who doesn’t care much for Americans.”

  She gave him a final smile with a playful roll of her eyes, as if insinuating the feeling was quite common. Then she descended the remaining steps and followed the other flight attendants to a waiting vehicle.

  “You’ll be coming with us,” Willowby said, his voice seeming to strain with an effort not to berate Rick in front of all the people present, particularly the reporters who were jostling for position and snapping several more photos.

  Rick smiled and said, “Sure,” as if he had a choice.

  The bobbies positioned themselves in a circle around him, and he followed Willowby through the phalanx of reporters. They hurled questions.

  “Mr. Willowby! Mr. Willowby! What happened to your pilots?”

  “What exactly occurred up there, my good man?”

  “Who’s that chap? Why are you dressed like that, sir?”

  “Are you the one who landed the plane? What’s your name, mate?”

  Willowby snarled at the press corps as the bobbies bulled their way through.

  “Begone, y’ sots!”

  Rick said, “Aw, give them a break, Mr. Willowby. They’re just trying to do their jobs.”

  Several of the reporters stopped and jotted down his words.

  Willowby said, “Phsaw!” and headed toward a black car parked not far away. Rick followed, pressed on all sides by policemen and reporters.

  -+-

  “While I’m grateful to you for getting our bird down safe, you’ve got bigger problems now, Mr. Strickland. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why aren’t you on the passenger manifest? I say, chap, stowing away is a crime, you know.”

  The color in Willowby’s face reddened as he stooped over the table to loom above Rick, who was seated on the other side. They were in a relatively small room with a table and two chairs. Two bobbies stood at the door, stoically staring straight ahead and ostensibly ignoring the conversation. Their presence ensured Rick would not be leaving, although personally he thought the locked door would do the trick without them.

  For his part, Rick scratched his head wondering what to say. He could think of nothing that would satisfy the probing questions. He certainly could not tell Willowby the truth, that he had recently left the Walker’s headquarters, a facility existing outside time and space. That a fae had somehow sneaked into the Wildflower Room, where people passed in and out of various parallel worlds in order to hunt the evil creatures and send them to Judgment. That the fae ripped apart the room’s reality, sucking in as many people as possible in the collapse, sending them to various and sundry unknown alternates. That the same fae took out their advanced computer system, which had a human interface that looked like a woman who went by the name of Cait.

  And he could not tell Willowby that as far as Rick knew, he was stuck on this world until help arrived.

  So he stayed silent and merely smiled back at Willowby, giving the older man his best good old boy grin.

  That did nothing to ameliorate Willowby’s temper.

  “Answer the question, y’ blasted colonial!”

  Rick smiled even wider. He said, “Oh, come now, Mr. Willowby. That’s no way to speak to a guest. To a fellow pilot. Uh, you can fly, right?”

  “Don’t you talk back at me! I’ll have answers, I will! How did you know how to fly a state-of-the-art aeroplane? Our pilots spend untold months in training! Nobody on that flight should have been able to get it down as easily as you did.”

  Rick was saved from addressing this last series of questions by a commotion outside the door. Even the bobbies glanced over their shoulders at the sounds out in the hall.

  The door burst open and a thin man wearing a dark suit with a pained expression on his face poked his head through. Rick recognized him as Willowby’s private secretary.

  The man said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Willowby. I’ve tried to appeal to him, but he insists on coming in.”

  One of the cowboys from the flight barreled his way between a group of bobbies who appeared uncertain as to whether or not they should try and stop him. He stood six-foot-six and still wore his giant white cowboy hat from the plane, making him look an even seven feet tall. The big man wore a huge grin on his face.

  “Thar he is! Thar’s mah boy! This man landed y’all’s bucket of bolts when all hope was lost. And Ah was on that plane! Ah shore do wanna thank you, boy. Mah name is Tucker Crenshaw MacGraw, Ambassador to the You-knighted Kingdom from the Republic of Texas. Howdy!”

  He stuck his hand out and Rick stood to grab it, noting the chunky golden ring on the big man’s finger.

  Rick said, “Oh, you’re an Aggie?”

  “That’s right! Class of ’36!”

  “I’ve known several Aggies. They were all good men. Good soldiers, every one.”

  MacGraw beamed with pride and his back straightened as his chest puffed out. He said, “We put more officers in the Great War than any other school, Ah’ll have you know. On both sides of the Atla
ntic.”

  He looked around at the Brits in the room as if challenging them to deny the assertion. Clearly no one even considered saying something to the contrary. Everyone, from airline executives to policemen, looked quite intimidated at the giant man’s mere presence, much less his words.

  “This is all fine and dandy,” the thin secretary said, working up the nerve to speak. “But we’re dealing with a delicate situation here, Mr. Ambassador. Mr. Willowby is trying to figure out where this man came from, how he happened to be on that plane, and who, exactly, he is. The airline is in quite a moment right now.”

  The ambassador waved him away as if shooing a fly. He said, “Aw, pipe down, Grady. This man is a hero!”

  MacGraw bent down next to Rick and said in a lower voice that still managed to rumble throughout the small room, “Where are you from, son?”

  “Well . . . Uh . . .”

  Honesty is the best policy, Rick thought to himself.

  “I retired in upper New York State.”

  Willowby let out another “Phsaw!”

  Grady said, “A colonial! He’s nothing more than a tenement farmer, I’d say. And he has no papers, Mr. Ambassador. We’ve already checked. No money, and no airplane ticket, either. He’s a stowaway from one of the colonies. He probably sneaked onboard during the stopover in Bermuda. I’ve no doubt the authorities are looking for him back home, too.”

  MacGraw ignored them. He said, “So you’re from New York, huh?”

  “Well,” Rick said, as a thought occurred to him, “I was born in Texas.”

  MacGraw smiled. The entire lower half of his face creased upward by at least an inch. He said, “Where at, boy?”

  “Dallas Baptist Hospital. My dad had a job down there, but we left when I was three to move back to New York.”