Fairyville

by Emma Holly

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  * * *

  Fairyville

  By

  Emma Holly

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

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  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  FAIRYVILLE

  Copyright © 2007 by Emma Holly.

  Cover art by Judy York.

  Cover design by George Long.

  Text design by Kristin del Rosario

  BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First edition: September 2007

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-425-21705-4

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  * * *

  To the real-life mediums

  who share their stories.

  Many thanks.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Zoe Clare saw dead people.

  This wouldn't have been bad if dead people were all she saw. In this day and age, a person could make a decent living talking to ghosts. But Zoe's gift had come with an eccentric extra—a tiny, annoying extra that was, even now, tugging at the covers she'd pulled determinedly over her head.

  "I need my sleep," she said, her eyes screwed shut against the bright Arizona morning. "It's important for a medium to recharge her batteries."

  The tugging changed to a weighted prickle on her scalp, between the corkscrew curls of her long black hair. One of the fairies who'd been her constant companions since childhood (much to her parents' dismay) was standing on Zoe's head.

  "Wakey-wakey," it said, like a DJ on helium. "It's a beautiful day in Fairyville, and your batteries are as charged as they're going to get."

  "Your mother was a toadstool," Zoe retorted, her eyes still closed.

  The avoidance was ineffective. Her tormentor shone clearly in her mind's eye, complete with diaphanous gown and dragonfly wings. Like many mediums, Zoe saw the other world better without her physical sight. Although the different fairies' voices sounded the same to her, this one's iridescent purple wings and gaudy yellow tiara proclaimed that she was Rajel, queen of Zoe's personal flock. She flashed her tiny white teeth in a twinkling grin, Zoe's insult having slid right off her.

  Serious fairies, apparently, had little hope of rising through the ranks. Only the most persistently positive could be queen.

  "It's time to rise and shine," Rajel cooed. "You know you hate to be late to work."

  This was usually true, but today was the day after the full moon. Spiritually, this affected her not at all. Personally, it made her stomach sink to her toes.

  The full moon was when her landlord-slash-manager, the painfully scrumptious Magnus Monroe, indulged in his monthly sexual debauch. The day after the full moon was when Zoe had to watch him stroll into their office, all loose-hipped and jovial, and know that—yet again—she wasn't the woman who'd put that smile on his face.

  She wondered who his partner had been this time. Every month was different, and he didn't seem to have a type beyond female and breathing. She suspected the lucky lady was Sheri Yost.

  Sheri was the waitress at Zoe's favorite steak house, where she and Magnus often ate lunch. Magnus flirted the way some men inhaled oxygen, but over the last week, Zoe thought she'd noticed an extra bit of zing in his and Sheri's repartee. If Sheri had been his "chosen one," Zoe's lunch was destined to be as hard to stomach as going in to work. The women who slept with her manager always had a glow afterward, an I've-been-screwed-six-ways-to-Sunday-and-I-loved-it glow.

  Remembering how many times she'd seen that sensual female smirk made Zoe sit up growling in disgust. She shoved her tangle of long black curls away from her face. Now that her physical eyes were open, Rajel was a sparkly purple sphere, no bigger than a penny, hanging in the air in front of her. Most people wouldn't have seen her, but Zoe could see her and more. Rajel's fairy court bobbed behind her, a cloud of at least a dozen snickering rainbow glows.

  It was a larger gathering than usual.

  "Well, well," Zoe said. "The gang's all here. Must have been a slow night for parties."

  The fairies giggled in agreement and whizzed off in different directions.

  "Dibs on helping Zoe with her hair!" cried one.

  "I'm picking her jewelry!" said another.

  "I'll talk to the toaster!" announced a third.

  "No!" Zoe whipped out her hand to grab the last fairy, but the little bugger was too fast. "No talking to the toaster! You guys keep shorting it out."

  The darting rose-pink sparkle paid her no mind. "Stop her," Zoe begged Rajel. "I'm tired of cold cereal."

  "Oh, I couldn't discourage Florabel." Rajel brushed a bit of fairy dust from her gown. "She's only trying to communicate with the machinery. It does have a primitive form of consciousness, you know."

  "Great," Zoe mumbled, throwing off the covers and stumping toward the shower. "I guess until Florabel figures out the toasters' 'primitive consciousness,' I can kiss my morning bagel good-bye."

  Cold cereal aside, if a person had to go to work, Fairyville, Arizona was the place to do it, especially on a cool, bright morning in July. The sky was a deep, saturated blue, and while the temperature might climb toward ungodly as the day went on, for now it was as pleasant as a baby's smile.

  Zoe's fairies swooped off somersaulting into the ethers, chasing bees or showing off. Zoe couldn't begrudge them their high spirits—or their abandonment of her. No matter how many times she'd seen the local red-rock cliffs against that deep blue sky, the sight never failed to catch at her breath.

  You just couldn't forget the power of Mother Na
ture here.

  A definite beneficiary of that power, Fairyville lay north of its more famous sister, Sedona, but shared the same awe-inspiring landscape of buttes and spires—and the same reputation for mystical oddities. Zoe's home had been a virtual ghost town fifty years ago, a copper mine gone bust in the Great Depression. It had been revived by a carefully calculated tourist scheme, devised by the their desperate residents, who decided to tout it as the "Number One Fairy-Spotting Capital in the U.S.A." Today Fairyville was divided into two camps, the "real" Fairyvillers and the "normals." Being a real Fairyviller had nothing to do with how long you'd lived there. You became one by having a psychic gift, by treating those who had psychic gifts with respect, or by being so loony tunes everyone figured you had to be touched by something.

  Normals were the folks who thought the real Fairyvillers were "colorful."

  Zoe grimaced at how much local color she herself represented and parked her classic white VW bug at the end of Canyon Way, well beyond the spots the tourists would be fighting over once they rolled out of their B&Bs. Even at this distance, her walk would be reasonable. Fairyville's carefully restored historic district was, at most, a ten-minute stroll from end to end. Zoe knew every inch of it, from the mix of Old West storefronts to the rock shops to the Spanish adobe restaurants.

  She'd lived in or around Fairyville all her life and considered herself lucky this was the case. Her parents, normals down to their toes, had tolerated her claims of being visited by dead relatives. This was, after all, a mainstream sort of weirdness. When she refused to outgrow her fairies, however, they'd drawn a line. Dead people existed. Fairies were delusions. It was time Zoe admitted she'd made them up.

  Fortunately, the psychologist they'd insisted she see while she was in high school was a real Fairyviller, too. Dr. Sweetwell ended up being—unbeknownst to Zoe's parents—her spiritual mentor. In truth, it would have been hard for Catherine Sweetwell to avoid it, seeing as how she liked to call in angels for consults. She'd guided Zoe to the best teachers to hone her gifts, even covered for her when she went to workshops.

  "Thank you, Doc," Zoe murmured as she forced her reluctant sandals past the Navajo rug store. She felt in need of counting her blessings. The gallery in which she did her readings was only a few doors down, a restored brick two-story building from 1910. From where she stood, she could see the potted prickly pear cactus that guarded the entrance, the last of its lush hot-pink flowers drooping off. Magnus loved that cactus. He called it "Gorgeous" and said hello to it every morning. The first time Zoe had heard him do it, her heart had clenched.

  Magnus was sweet to women no matter what their species.

  You can handle this, she told herself. Every month you see him do the same thing, and every month you survive.

  But the pep talk didn't help. The "Open" sign in her gallery window sent her pulse into a panic. Magnus was already there, probably lazing back in her chair with his long, strong legs propped on the desk she used for paperwork. He looked good in cowboy boots, Magnus did, a man's man with a sensually handsome face. The memory of how his faded Levis cupped his basket made her whole body flush. He always looked mellow the morning after, as if he'd just lie back and let a woman ride.

  Chickening out at the last moment, Zoe ducked into The Fairyville Cafe one door short of her own storefront. Her first client wasn't due for fifteen minutes. She didn't have to torture herself by spending every one of them pining after her well-screwed landlord.

  Metaphysically speaking, that wouldn't do anyone any good.

  The cafe's owner was Teresa Smallfoot. A mix of Native American, Anglo, and six-foot-tall goddess, she'd been a friend of Zoe's from the day she opened, trading free coffee for the occasional free reading. Since Teresa's troubles were of the mild romantic sort and the coffee was hot and strong, Zoe considered the exchange a fair one. Plus, Teresa's departed relatives were well behaved. Not a pesterer in the bunch. Considering some of her clients' connections showed up hours ahead of schedule to jabber inanities, Zoe valued the ones with restraint.

  Teresa was watching her customers from behind the coffee bar today. The decor was Western Victorian, with little round antique tables and sepia photos of long-dead people hanging on the walls. Teresa leaned forward as soon as she saw Zoe.

  "Girlfriend," she said in a low, excited tone. "You should have heard the ruckus from next door last night! There was such a caterwauling coming out of Sheri's bedroom windows, you'd have thought a pair of cougars had been locked inside!"

  Zoe fought a wince. She'd forgotten Sheri Yost was Teresa's next-door neighbor.

  "Great," she said, pouring herself some coffee from the carafe of dark roast on the counter. Teresa used real cups, mismatched china she picked up in junk stores. "Just what I was hoping to hear."

  "I know, honey," Teresa crooned sympathetically. That lasted about two seconds, or until Teresa's love of good gossip had her grinning again. "I'll be surprised if Sheri comes to work today. In fact, I'll be surprised if she can walk. That manager of yours is a luuuvv machine. Every time I thought he must be wrung dry, they started up again. If I didn't know you had a thing for him, I'd throw myself in his path out of sheer curiosity."

  Zoe took such a big swig of coffee, she nearly scalded her throat. "Don't let me stop you," she said through her coughs.

  "Oh, right. Like you wouldn't want to gouge out my eyes if I slept with him. I know the girlfriend rules."

  "At least I could see why he'd go for you. Sheri Yost is a whiny bore."

  Teresa flipped her long black locks behind her shoulders, her expression indicating pleasure at the compliment. "Sheri Yost is a whiny bore who isn't smart enough to make change. You, on the other hand, are beautiful, sweet, and wise. Clearly, Magnus has no sense."

  "Unfortunately, you can't force people to have sense—as I've learned from my many years of giving advice." Zoe turned her cup between her hands. "I just don't understand him. Why would a guy with his looks and charisma restrict himself to having sex once a month? And why does it have to be a new woman every time?"

  "Maybe that's the secret to his stamina. Abstinence plus variety. I mean, he can't be the only man who'd like to be able to perform like that. Without Viagra, I mean."

  With a rueful cluck, Teresa interrupted the conversation to serve another customer.

  "He's a freak," Zoe said when her friend returned, though she should have let it go. "I have no idea why I like him."

  "How about because he's a hunka hunka burning love, and you've got eyes? Plus, he's nice."

  Magnus was more than nice. Magnus was considerate, charming, funny, and had the sunniest disposition of any human being she knew. Nothing got him down—not hundred-degree weather, not dents in his SUV, or the evening news. His only flaw (and, to be fair, it was only a flaw to Zoe) was his refusal to look at her in a sexual way.

  Teresa set her elbows on the counter. "Couldn't you ask your little friends what his story is?"

  Zoe's mouth quirked. Teresa was open minded, but she'd never liked saying the word fairy. "I have asked them. They're keeping mum."

  Weirdly mum, in fact. Zoe's fairies tended to air their opinions about everything.

  "Well, what good are they then?"

  "They aren't my slaves, Ter. They hang with me because they think I'm fun."

  "Fun on every topic but one."

  This tease was a bit too close to the mark. Some days Zoe thought if she didn't get over her crush on Magnus, she'd turn into a lifelong grump.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me," she grumbled into her empty cup. "I never used to like guys that tall."

  Teresa reached out to pat her arm. "Oh, face it, honey. It's not the height you like, it's him."

  It is him, Zoe admitted, though she only pulled a face at her friend.

  She was debating buying a chocolate muffin as consolation when a flicker of gray in her peripheral vision reminded her of the time. The ghost was one she knew: Mrs. Darling's late husband, Leo. Once he'd fin
ished materializing, Leo nodded to her and smiled. He was one of her favorites, as gentle in death as he'd been in life. In spite of her sour mood, it cheered her to know he'd be her first job.

  "Gotta go," she said to Teresa. "My special guests are starting to line up."

  "Brr," Teresa responded, pretending to shiver as she hugged her arms.

  Leo tipped his Stetson to Teresa, but Zoe was the only living being who saw.

  Zoe gave her readings in the front room of the gallery. The furnishings were as homey as she could make them—secondhand chairs and sofas, with nicked tables set between. A beautiful Navaho rug hung on one wall, her biggest decorating splurge. The light from the wide front window filled the space with gold, glinting pleasantly off her assortment of crystals and stones.

  The fairies had insisted she buy them to "cleanse the atmosphere." They were her only mystical bric-a-brac. Most of her clients felt more comfortable without too much woo-woo stuff, though tourists sometimes asked why she didn't use tarot cards. Zoe knew such touchstones worked for others, but she'd never wanted to be dependent on objects. She needed nothing to jump-start her gift except an open heart and a focused mind.

  Even that seemed unnecessary with a contact as clear-spoken as Leo Darling. As usual, Ada Darling's weekly appointment went smoothly. She liked to share her news with her disincarnate spouse and get his advice on the decisions of daily life. Her husband was always patient with her concerns, letting her know which handymen she could trust, reminding her she didn't need his permission for anything.

  Mrs. Darling never seemed to doubt the authenticity of these interactions, but she also never seemed to realize they might inspire deeper thoughts. The soul survived death, and the dead still loved those they left behind. That was Big, as far as Zoe was concerned; that was a message she suspected she'd never tire of delivering. Although Mrs. Darling was a sweet old lady, sometimes Zoe wanted to shake her out of her mundane world.