As Puck Would Have It

by Paul Ruditis

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your blouse,” he said. “It should be a sufficient fee.”

  Piper’s eyes went wide as she stepped away from the man. She held her hands up in case it became necessary to freeze him. At least his crew had gone home already. She would have been more concerned if his entire team were in the house with him. Although if they had been around, he might not have made his crazy request.

  “You want me to take off my shirt for you?” Piper asked, making sure there wasn’t a misunderstanding.

  “Heavens no.” Goode laughed. “You can go upstairs to change. I’m not asking for a peep show or anything like that. I just think your shirt would be fair compensation for a job well done. If you think it’s too much, I have a spare pair of socks I could give as change. I don’t usually give that kind of discount to first-time clients, but you strike me as an honorable woman.”

  Piper looked down at Wyatt. She slid herself between Mr. Goode and the baby, just in case. This interaction was bizarre on so many levels. The man was literally asking for the shirt off her back. She figured it was pointless to explain that it probably didn’t come close in value to the amount of work his crew had put into cleaning the place. Aside from the fact that it was a ridiculous brand of logic, she was not about to give him her blouse.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Goode, but I’m not comfortable paying you in clothing,” Piper said, holding up her checkbook. “I’m sure we can work out a reasonable price.”

  At this point she was willing to pay any amount just to get the freak out of her house. It wasn’t like Goode’s Cleaning Service had come to her on a recommendation from someone in the magical realm. She wouldn’t have been so surprised about the request if it had come from someone her deceased Grams had recommended. Heck, Piper would have almost expected some odd arrangement to be made, in that case. After all, the fairy tales about giving away a newborn child in exchange for spinning straw into gold had to come from somewhere. But this was totally unexpected—Piper had found Goode’s Cleaning Service listed in the Yellow Pages, not some book from the Underworld.

  “Then we seem to have reached an impasse,” Goode said. The jovial tone had left his voice, and his face had turned from bright and smiling to dark and brooding. Piper could have sworn his light blue eyes had turned darker as well.

  “I think you should leave,” Piper said, trying to put more distance between him and her son. There was no telling what a man like this would do. Her hands tensed at her sides, ready to stop time on a moment’s notice if it became necessary.

  “But I have performed a service for you,” Goode said as if he was asking for the most logical thing in the world. “It is only fair that I be compensated. I have been doing this for many, many years, young lady, and this is the first time I have ever had anyone refuse to pay my fee.”

  “I have offered to pay you for your work,” Piper said, trying to remain calm. She didn’t know where he got off calling her “young lady” since, as far as she could tell, they seemed to be the same age. “I can’t help it if you won’t accept my money.”

  “Do not insult me with your worthless paper,” Goode said. He was now being entirely unreasonable. “If that’s how you want to be, then I shall take back my services.”

  Piper looked around the conservatory. It was sparkling clean. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by “take back my services,” but it sounded ominous.

  Goode walked over to the tallest of the potted plants and touched one of its leaves. “You have one more chance,” he said simply. “Give me the shirt.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Goode gave the plant a good push. Piper watched as the plant fell over, spilling dirt onto the floor. The top of the tree banged into a wicker chair, sending it sliding across the floor and smacking into the wall, knocking a picture off its hook. On the way down, the picture knocked over a vase, which tipped on its side and rolled into the dining room.

  Piper listened from where she stood in the conservatory as the crashing and banging continued from room to room throughout the first floor. She couldn’t even bring herself to look as the damage added up to far more than it would have cost to replace one slightly worn blouse. However, she couldn’t ignore the TV stand as it rolled out of the living room and into the hall, disappearing behind the wall.

  The path of destruction finally ended when Piper heard what she thought sounded like the television crashing into the grandfather clock.

  “What are you, insane?” Piper asked, furious.

  “Next time, I expect you’ll be more willing to pay your debts,” Mr. Goode said as he turned from Piper and walked toward the foyer.

  “Wait just a second,” Piper said as she followed Goode, stepping over the fallen plant.

  The man did not stop. He just kept walking to the door as if she wasn’t there.

  “I said, wait.” Piper threw her hands up, stopping time.

  But Goode kept walking.

  At first Piper thought her powers had malfunctioned. It wouldn’t have been the first time something like that had happened. But she noticed a picture that had been swinging on the edge of its hook had frozen in place. She looked back at the broken grandfather clock and saw that the second hand wasn’t moving either. Though that could have more to do with the minor destruction to the place than magic, she thought.

  Either way, Goode had been unaffected by her magic. He stormed out the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

  When Piper unfroze time, the picture that had been swinging came crashing to the floor—a final punctuation mark on the odd scene.

  Piper considered going after the man—if he was even a man. The fact that he hadn’t stopped when she froze time meant that he was a very powerful being, probably an Upper-Level Demon. But what would an Upper-Level Demon be doing cleaning her house? And why would he want her clothes?

  As she surveyed the devastation on the first floor, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would have a chance to ask him in the near future. A new blouse couldn’t have been all that he was after.

  He would most definitely be back.

  Chapter 2

  “…And finally, I hate to resort to a twenty-first-century cliché, but he’s just not that into you.”

  Phoebe Halliwell checked over her latest advice column for the Bay Mirror. Everything looked fine, so far. Having written this same column three times previously, she didn’t question any of the actual advice. At this point, she had no doubt that she was telling her readers the right thing to do.

  The spelling was fine, and the sentence structure worked for her. She hated ending on an overused cliché, but every now and then the folks in Market Research insisted that she throw in a trendy pop culture reference to “keep it fresh.”

  This bothered Phoebe immensely, but she went along with the decree. Her editor, Elise, had been having a hard time adjusting to the new regime brought in under new head honcho Jason Dean. The recent crop of MFA program graduates had been urging Elise to target the paper to a younger demographic. The problem was that that demographic would much rather get their news online, if they were actually interested in the news at all.

  Since the paper couldn’t do anything to make the news itself “hipper” and “more youth-friendly” (other words that appeared in the “keep it fresh” memo), the advice column, “Ask Phoebe,” was one of the chosen focal points for bringing in the coveted eighteen-to-thirty-four-year-olds. That meant people in several departments were going over every word that she wrote, adding their own comments and questions, and sending the copy back to her. She was getting used to finding copies of her column marked up with purple pen in her in-box, as if these people didn’t know that editorial corrections were traditionally done in red.

  For Elise’s sake, this was one battle Phoebe chose not to fight…for the time being, at least.

  Phoebe maneuvered her mouse to activate the pull-down menu at the top left of her scr
een. She clicked on save. But as soon as she released the left button on her mouse, the screen went black and the computer shut down.

  “AAAAAHHH!” she yelled in frustration, lifting the laptop as if she were about to fling it across the room.

  “You break it, you bought it,” Elise said as she entered Phoebe’s office.

  Phoebe put the computer back down on her desk. She hadn’t really been planning to throw it, but the idea was certainly tempting. It was a small price to pay for venting her frustration.

  “If you want my column in by the deadline, I’m going to have to do it on another computer,” Phoebe said. “Mine has been acting up recently. Any chance you’ll let me borrow yours for a few minutes?”

  “That’s fine,” Elise said, “but technically we’re already past deadline. What has IT said about the problem?”

  “They said someone will be here in an hour,” Phoebe replied.

  “They couldn’t help you over the phone?” Elise asked.

  “No.” Phoebe sighed. “It’s insane. I can send e-mails, balance my checkbook, and even type notes for that book I’m thinking of writing someday. But every time I try to write my column, the computer shuts down. And when I get it back up, the column’s gone. It can’t even be recovered.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t let you borrow my computer,” Elise joked. “It sounds like the problem is your advice, not flawed technology.”

  “Thanks. You’re a great help,” Phoebe said as she looked for a notepad in her desk. This time she was going to write her column out in long-hand before it disappeared into cyberspace. At least then she wouldn’t have to keep racking her brain to remember exactly what she had written.

  “Go use one of the computers in the bullpen,” Elise said. “See if that…hello.”

  That was a non sequitur, Phoebe thought as she continued to riffle through her desk drawer.

  Phoebe looked up and saw a very handsome blond man dressed in chinos, a pink dress shirt, and a light blue tie standing in the doorway. Even from her seat across the room, she could see he had the most intriguingly gray eyes that she had ever seen. She understood why Elise had stopped mid-sentence.

  “Hello, indeed,” Phoebe mumbled.

  “Ms. Halliwell?” the man asked from the doorway.

  “That’d be her,” Elise said as she turned her attention back to Phoebe. “Let me know when your column’s ready or we’re going to have to go with one of those ‘The Best of Phoebe’ reissues I keep around for when another family emergency comes up and you blow a deadline.”

  Phoebe saw that Elise was smiling, but she knew that her editor had gotten her point across.

  She wasn’t surprised to hear that Elise had articles in reserve. Considering the number of demons that interfered with Phoebe’s work schedule, she did miss her deadlines with surprising frequency. But she always managed to get her work in close to on time. Or at least before the paper went to press.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Phoebe said as Elise left her office. She then directed her attention to the man in the doorway. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I think the better question is, can I help you?” the man replied.

  Phoebe’s mind was full of retorts. None of which was appropriate for an office setting. Not that that had ever stopped her in the past—she was currently involved with her boss’s boss…sort of.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  “Robert Fellows,” the man said. “From IT.”

  Phoebe’s interest was definitely piqued. Not only is this guy hot, she thought, but he’s potentially my savior.

  Even with Jason out of the country again, getting her computer fixed trumped flirtation. At least, for the moment.

  “Oh, thank you,” Phoebe said with relief as she got out of her seat to give him clear access to her laptop. “My computer has been acting crazy for days.”

  “Have you considered that it might not be acting?” Robert asked as he moved around her desk to the computer. “Computer insanity is a serious condition.”

  “Maybe I should write a column about it,” Phoebe replied.

  “And take a break from advising the lovelorn?” Robert asked. “That might not be a bad idea.”

  “You read my column?” Phoebe asked, ignoring the implied insult. She just assumed that what he had meant to say had come out wrong.

  It always amazed her that people actually voluntarily read anything she wrote. She kept expecting Elise to come into her office one day and tell her it was all a joke; that they only needed something to fill the space before people turned to the comics, or that they had decided to dump her column so they could run more ads. It was always a pleasant surprise when someone stopped her to tell her they had read it.

  “I’ve been known to peruse it from time to time,” Robert said as he sat and looked at the clipboard he had carried in with him. “According to your ticket, the computer keeps shutting down while you work?”

  “Every time I’m writing my column,” Phoebe confirmed as Robert started tapping on the keys.

  “Maybe your computer doesn’t like the advice you’ve been giving.”

  Phoebe laughed at the joke, but stopped herself mid-giggle. Aside from the fact that he was the second person to make that joke in the past few minutes, she noticed that the playful tone had been missing from Robert’s voice. For a moment, she wondered if he was being serious. He had said something about the computer actually being crazy just a moment ago.

  “Somehow, I don’t think my computer is that sensitive,” she said.

  “I do know that it couldn’t possibly be as sensitive as you think your readership is,” Robert said. “You do kind of coddle them.”

  “I don’t cod—”

  “Like that woman in your last column,” he continued. The tone was back to being lighthearted, but now the subject matter wasn’t matching the mood. “The one with the boyfriend who was bad about returning her calls. You told her to dump him.”

  “It wasn’t just about the phone calls,” Phoebe said. “There were other things too. I suggested that she get out of the relationship before she got hurt.”

  “Exactly!” Robert said as he rebooted the computer.

  “‘Exactly’ what?” Phoebe asked. “I stand by that advice.”

  “But where’s the fun in that?” Robert asked. “Things don’t get interesting until real feelings are involved.” He got up from her chair. “I need you to type in your password.”

  Phoebe paused for a moment, not sure what to do. The man was obviously insulting her, but in the most insane way possible. Like she was actually going to advise people to get hurt. She decided to ignore the debate and instead try to get her computer fixed quickly so the guy would leave.

  Phoebe sat down in front of her computer and typed in her latest password. She changed it a couple times a month. Right now, she was going through lists of demons she had vanquished. She typed in “Kurzon” and waited.

  “I spared the woman from getting hurt,” Phoebe said, somewhat surprised by the fact that she couldn’t let the matter drop. “That’s why she wrote to me for advice in the first place.”

  “Sure, if you want to take the easy way,” Robert said. “But if she’s not properly hurt, how is anyone going to help her seek revenge on the louse? You do know he’s cheating on her with her best friend, right?”

  Phoebe forgot her computer for the moment. “Do you know these people?” she asked. That would explain why he seemed to be taking the advice so personally. Or maybe he was in a similar situation where he was the cheating boyfriend.

  “Let’s just say I know the type,” he replied with a wave as if that part was unimportant. “So now she’s going to dump him. He’ll move on to the best friend full-time, acting like the relationship is new and she was there to pick up the pieces. The girlfriend will blame her best friend for taking his side, but she’ll never really know that he was playing her all along. Then she’ll never feel the need to get back at him. And he’ll never
learn his lesson.”

  “But, again,” Phoebe insisted, “she won’t get hurt.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Robert said. “If she doesn’t get hurt, then he’ll never get hurt. And how is he supposed to get what he deserves?”

  Phoebe was dumbfounded. She wasn’t sure, but she thought her mouth may have been hanging open.

  “Well, if you need anything else”—he placed his business card on the desk beside her computer—“you can call me at this number. It was nice chatting with you.”

  Robert was out the door before she could respond. She didn’t even bother to look at the card. She was still in shock over the fact that he had just suggested she should advise people to let themselves be hurt so they could hurt others. Her Market Research department would just love that. Legal would probably be just as thrilled.

  Phoebe tried to shake off the encounter and get back to work. She was on a deadline, after all.

  Past it, actually, she thought.

  This time, she was pleased to see that the computer had actually managed to save a copy of her column. She clicked on the recovered document and scanned through it to give the piece one last edit and make sure everything had survived the latest crash.

  As soon as she saw the first response, she knew that something was seriously wrong. She continued reading the other responses, growing more concerned that it wasn’t just some bizarre glitch. It would have been impossible for the computer to just arbitrarily do what it had done.

  Every single one of her answers had been changed. No matter what the question, every answer had the same short response:

  Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, I will mend.

  The phrase seemed vaguely familiar to Phoebe. It was something she had stumbled across in the past. But that wasn’t her focus, at the moment. The words themselves weren’t the problem.

  There was only one possible explanation: Robert had gone in and changed everything. But there was no way he could have done it so quickly. Unless he had been the one who had messed up the computer in the first place….