Buzz began grabbing certificates by the handful.
“You’ll never get enough that way. Do you think we can lift one of the cabinets?”
They couldn’t. Halloran had bolted them to the wall. They tried stuffing certificates into their pockets and inside their coats, but that ran the danger of wrinkling or ripping them. In the end Janet went upstairs and, with an attitude that dared Halloran to stop her, dragged the rug down to the cellar. Then she sorted the certificates into piles according to the largest face value, mostly the high-flying Nasdaq names, and rolled up as many of those as she could in the rug.
With each of them carrying an end, she and Buzz struggled up the ladder. On their first and second attempts the rug split open and everything fell out on the floor. Janet was forced to do another sort before they were finally able to carry the load up to the den without spilling any of it. And the hardest part was still to come, lugging the carpet through the sewer.
“Think you have enough?” Halloran asked.
Janet blew a loose lock of hair away from her face. “If I could get a truck down here, I would. Don’t think we aren’t coming back.”
“It only works once. You’ll never find this place again.”
“I can follow you after work.”
“I won’t be showing up for work.”
“That reminds me: thanks for firing me. Now I don’t have to bother to resign. Not with this nest egg.” She patted the rug.
Buzz was gloating, too.
“How much do you think we got?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Thirty, forty million.”
“I believe you have about forty-seven million there.” Halloran eyed the girth of the rug. “That is, assuming you only took the highest priced shares. I know you have no qualms stealing from me, but would it bother you to know that a leprechaun’s gold is a metaphor for his country’s capital base? That’s why Ireland was always so poor—people kept stealing our gold. The same thing will happen here.”
“What do I care about other people? You think I’m a liberal or something? I’m a trader. Besides, forty-seven million isn’t even an ink stain on the capital base of this country.”
“I said the relationship was metaphorical, not nominal. The last time someone stole my securities was 1929.”
Janet patted the rug. “As long as I’ve got mine, what do I care?”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t, either.”
“That goes without saying. I’m a leprechaun. Watching humans screw up is my favorite pastime.”
“Well, I’m not screwing up. Not unless these are forgeries.”
“I assure you, they are the real thing. You are a wealthy woman.”
“That’s all I need to hear. Come on, Buzz. Let’s get these to a brokerage.”
They had some trouble getting their loot out through the sewer tunnels. The lights that had led them in had gone out, and Buzz had to hold the sconce with one hand to show the way. The last they saw of Halloran, he was watching them from his doorway, puffing at his pipe. For someone who’d just lost forty-seven million dollars, he looked remarkably cheerful. Then Janet lost sight of him as a corner of the rug flipped opened and a couple thousand Microsoft and Apple shares fell out before she could grab them. She nearly dropped her end of the rug trying to keep the certificates out of the sewer, but remembered not to be too greedy just in time.
The sun was well up by the time they made it outside, late enough for the markets to be open. Maiden Lane churned with people on their way to work. It being New York, few people cast a second glance at them as they lugged the rug down the street. Suddenly a man buying a cup of coffee from a street vendor shouted, “Look out!” and pointed above their heads. Janet had no time to react. The rug was jerked violently down out of her hands. There was a loud thud, like a bundle of newspapers being tossed out on a curb, and stock certificates burst up into the air out of the carpet and fluttered around her.
She looked down. A man lay motionless on the ground, the rug squashed beneath him. Blood oozed from his face.
She looked up. A man and a woman leaned from a window nine or ten stories above. The woman held her face in her hands.
A crowd gathered. Even Wall Street stopped for sudden, violent death.
“He must have lost a fortune.”
“To be sure, the market’s taking it on the chin again this morning. It’s just like October 1929 all over again.”
Janet hadn’t thought she’d hear that voice again. Halloran stood at the front of the crowd, looking like any other man in a dark suit and not something out of a fairytale.
His eyes twinkled.
“Let’s just hope the Depression that follows isn’t as bad as the one we had back then.”
On her hands and knees, Janet scrabbled at her shares.
FIXED
Jean Marie Ward
There were lots of advantages to being a part-time cat. Being chased by a Rottweiler named Bitsy through Holcomb Creek Park wasn’t one of them.
Heart pounding, chest heaving, Jack Tibbert raced down the bike path, insensible to the late November cold, the people on the path, or anything except escape. Bitsy’s heavy grunts grew louder as she closed the gap between them. His imagination added the heat of the dog’s breath on his neck as her massive jaws closed in for the kill. He had to take cover—high where her crushing teeth couldn’t reach. But where? To his right the ground dropped sharply to the creek. The leafless saplings masking the fall were barely up to Jack’s feline weight. They’d never survive the dog. The only trees worth climbing grew on the left side of the path. To reach them he’d have to cross a field of dead grass set with exercise equipment too low to fend off a Chihuahua. It was gonna be close.
He feinted right. With a triumphant woof and the crackle of dead weeds, his pursuer plunged into the brush. Jack veered left, gaze locked on the outdoor balance beam. If he could run the dog into the log …
“Look out!” a female voice screamed.
He turned just in time to see a bicycle twice his height tearing up the center of the path. Instinctively, he jumped. The wheel clipped his shoulder. He tumbled across the pavement and kept rolling until one of the saplings knocked all the wind out of him.
It took him a minute to put the world back together. Had to get up. Dog. Too close. Yelping? He shook his head.
“Are you all right?”
The light girlish voice seemed to come from heaven, which had dropped to a few feet overhead. The angel kneeling beside him had a perfect oval face, almond-shaped eyes, and windblown black hair streaked with rusty brown. She looked about sixteen, maybe a year younger than him—the kind of girl you see in all those dumb TV shows set in high school but you never meet in real life.
Small teeth raked her plump lower lip. “Don’t scratch me, okay? I need to touch you to see where you’re hurt.”
Sugar, you can touch me wherever you want.
Somewhere in the background, Bitsy started to whine. Her owner wailed, “But it’s the cat’s fault!”
“Not if Bitsy was off her leash and chasing him,” Jack’s vision shouted over her shoulder. Foxy chick was a cat person, too. He purred, arching his back into the hand she trailed along his fur.
“Spine and hips, good,” she muttered to herself. She found his tail. He flicked the tip playfully. “All right. Anything else we can fix.”
She flinched at another blast from the Rottweiler’s owner. “Just keep her calm, Mrs. Saar. It’ll be okay. I’ve got my phone.
“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” she added under her breath.
She couldn’t keep her hands off him. Swearing at the hit-and-run cyclist, dialing her phone—the whole time, one of her hands was stroking him or scratching the sweet spots behind his ears and between his shoulders. He rewarded her by turning the baby blues on high. They worked their usual magic. Her bright brown eyes and pretty pink mouth got all soft. She forgot the phone pressed to her left
ear. When the call connected, she bounced in surprise. Ev-er-y-thing bounced.
With a grin as wicked as feline lips allowed, Jack rolled his shoulders and hauled himself to his feet. Joints popped. A dozen different muscles and tendons hummed with pain. He tottered a couple steps, wincing at his scraped fore pads, and collapsed dramatically across her jeans. He wasn’t hurt much—nothing broken, anyway. Roughed up, yeah. Sore, definitely, and he’d be stiff tomorrow. But he had hopes for tonight.
“Oh. Oh, hi, Wes,” she gasped. “Um, it’s Rika.”
High hopes.
“No, it’s not that. I’m coming in, but we’ve got a situation here in the park. You need to send somebody to help Mrs. Saar.”
“If I ever find the idiot who approved that adoption, I’m going to strangle them with a choke collar and throw the body to the ferrets!” Wes bawled loud enough for Jack to hear.
Rika jerked the phone away from her ear and giggled. “Relax. We got off easy this time: no police dogs. But there is a cat.”
She scooped him up one-handed and cuddled him between her jacket and the nubbly sweater underneath. Jack was in heaven, and he hadn’t even died.
“Has the vet been there yet?”
Vet! The only place nearby she’d find help with a dog and a vet was the Madeleine Humphrey Animal Shelter. Jack’s hind paws shoved against her thigh, but his front end went nowhere. His left arm was caught between her fingers, and her thumb pressed behind his right shoulder. Time for claws or teeth, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“Great. I think he’s okay, but he needs to be checked out. I’m bringing him in now.”
It could be worse, he told himself, as Rika hurried toward the cinderblock building at the intersection between the bike path and the overpass. Madeleine Humphrey had the longest “hold time” in the area—one of the reasons he picked Holcomb to rough it. They wouldn’t try anything right away, and it’d be nice to have a warm bunk for a change. There’d be food in the break rooms, aspirin, showers with real soap. He might even get online. With a pathetic mew, he rubbed his head against a sweet-smelling breast. She laughed a little breathlessly. He could play along for a couple of days; beyond that, well, they hadn’t invented the cage that could hold Jack Tibbert, with or without thumbs.
Wes was the biggest vet tech Jack had ever seen—as in defensive lineman big. He escorted them to a gray room lined with a row of elevated steel cages he called the “Isolation Ward.” As far as Jack was concerned, it wasn’t isolated enough. The cage next to his held a pair of motor-mouthed kittens with enormous ears and even bigger egos. The other cats moped over their paws like they hadn’t napped in hours. To add insult to injury, his nose told him the little monsters were the only ones who rated canned food, and he was hungry enough to eat a squirrel. He stared reproachfully at Rika while Wes secured the door to his cell.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she pleaded. “It’s not that bad.”
It wasn’t. Jack had inherited his human mother’s immunity to iron, and the cage was large enough to hold his human form—if he positioned himself right. He didn’t think he’d need to shapeshift, though. The lock was a simple drop-handled latch. Not that he planned to let her off the hook. The guiltier she felt, the more petting he’d get.
“It’s only for a couple days, until we’re sure you’re okay, then we’ll move you into the big room. The cages are seven feet tall, and you can climb all the way to the top.”
Wes shook a finger the size of a sausage in front of her nose. “Don’t you fall for that pitiful act. He’s just softening you up so you’ll be easier to train once you get him home.”
Rika crouched next to the cage, stroking the bars. Jack inched toward her.
“Uh huh,” Wes said knowingly.
She shook her head and straightened. “My parents’ll never let me have a cat. Besides, he’s somebody’s pet: he wasn’t wary at all. And his fur’s so soft, like a bunny. Somebody out there is going crazy looking for this little guy.”
Not that little, Jack bristled.
Wes snorted. “You’d think, especially considering he looks like a purebred Snowshoe. Do you know what they cost?”
“Wes!”
Wes raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, I’ll check him for microchips and post his picture in all the usual places. That’ll give you ten days to wear your folks down.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is. Tell them we’ll give you a good deal on fixing him, too. He should get it done soon. He’ll be healthier, happier, have fewer behavioral problems. He’ll never miss it.”
Like hell! Spitting, ears flat, hair spiked, Jack leapt back, kicking his water bowl and splashing the kittens. They shrieked. Cats all down the line hissed and snarled. The humans gaped. Then Wes sputtered, “Hee. Hee. Hee,” like an asthmatic bird. Rika, the traitor, doubled over and howled until her face turned red.
“That must’ve been some joke.”
High heels clicked against the cement floor as the newcomer stalked into the room. Tall and slender, with the face of an aging supermodel, the woman wore a fur hat and belted wool coat even Jack could tell were expensive.
Wes gulped, “Dr. Kellas!”
“It was more of a visual,” Rika burbled, “We were talking about …”
“Not now, dear. Where is everyone?”
Without waiting for an answer or removing her gloves, the doctor grabbed a clipboard from the rack next to the door and began a slow circuit of the cages, comparing notes to cats. She moved like a model, too. But something smelled off. Jack couldn’t say what, only that it didn’t jibe with the normal stew of people, animals, disinfectant, and soap.
“We’ve got three volunteer dog walkers working the kennel—soon to be four.” Wes waggled his eyebrows at Rika. His big hands made little shooing motions where the vet couldn’t see them. Rika smiled and stayed put. “Enid’s car broke down while she was at her sister’s, so she won’t be in this weekend. Flo and Bobby Ray ought to be along soon. They’re in the park with Mrs. Saar. Bitsy slipped her leash again and managed to get herself tangled in the only briar patch between here and Library Bridge.”
“You’d think she’d learn from the vet bills,” Dr. Kellas said softly. “Obviously, she needs more.”
It should’ve been an observation, but it sounded like a threat. The atmosphere in the room changed, like a wind shift in the savannah carrying the scent of lion to a herd of unsuspecting gazelle. Suddenly Jack was very aware of the songbirds tweeting in the cages at the front of the building and the dogs complaining in the other wing. Even the kittens shut up, pressing their bodies to the wet plastic floor of their cage.
A chill brushed his spine, lifting fur that had just begun to relax. Jack’s ability to sense magic was no better than human. The difference was he knew it existed and taught himself to read the warning signs in other animals. This one was lit up in neon. He hunkered down and tried to think cat thoughts; the last thing he wanted was to attract any kind of magical attention.
“Amen, sister—I mean, doctor,” Wes corrected himself. “I told the adoption counselors Bitsy was too much dog for a little woman like that, but did they listen?”
Dr. Kellas didn’t answer. Black wool replaced Rika’s jeans in Jack’s field of view. Paper snapped beneath leather-gloved fingers. Not good. “Where are the notes on this one?”
“Oh, he just arrived. That’s the boy Bitsy got herself all worked up about. I’ve asked Rika to write him up.” His hands clapped Rika’s shoulders. “It was love at first sight. I think our little volunteer’s about to become a mother.”
Rika started to object but Dr. Kellas cut her off. “Did the dog bite it? Is it injured?”
“We don’t know that he is,” Wes said. “We’ll run the usual tests, but he seems fine. Well, he scraped his paws, but a little ointment’ll take care of that.”
“No,” Dr. Kellas growled. This close, her odor was inescapable. Beneath layers of perfu
me, peppermint, and coffee, her breath stank of blood and spoiled meat.
Cat instinct screamed at him to hide. He didn’t need magic to know he was chum in a shark cage, and she was a Great White Something That Wasn’t Human. Shockwaves of magical energy pounded his senses, stretching his nerves until he thought he was going to shake apart.
“Just as I thought,” she said. “Prepare this animal for surgery. I need to operate immediately.”
His head shot upward. Backed against the steel bars, he couldn’t help seeing past her glamour. The lines scoring her forehead and bracketing the corners of her wide, lipsticked mouth floated like a painted veil over a pale, ageless face as perfect as a marble Madonna. Black eyebrows and lashes set off eyes the color of green apples. Cat eyes as hard as jade, with oval slits peeping through round human pupils. She was a true cat sidhe, one of the Celtic fae who could work magic as well as shapeshift. And every feature of her terrible, beautiful face twisted in loathing.
“Mrow!” No! He turned somersaults in his cage. There wasn’t anything wrong with him! He was fine! Perfect!
Rika’s gaze darted from the cage to the vet. Her shoulders pulled back as if she was trying to distance herself. He yowled in frustration.
Wes pressed a hand to his cheek. “With all due respect, Dr. Kellas, I don’t think you can. Flo wants you to look at Oscar’s abscess first thing. Then there’s the K-9 clinic. How about this: I’ll see he gets into X-ray as soon as Bobby Ray gets back. If things are as bad as you say, I’m sure Flo’ll find a way to work him in.”
“We can’t wait that long. He’s already showing signs of extreme agitation. If you don’t take care of concussions and spinal injuries immediately, there could be permanent damage. You wouldn’t want that,” she crooned, lasering the humans with her gaze. “It could lead to intracranial hemorrhage, convulsions, ischemia.”
The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity Page 19
