Live and Let Fly

by Karina Fabian

  I'd ask, and he'd get this faraway look and say that it wasn't safe yet. I'd ask him if it'd been weeks or hours—I couldn't tell—and he'd just refill my tea and tell me I'd return in 'good time.'

  I'm really quite upset he didn't bother to tell anyone, either! Oh, but Vern! Heaven was so..." She gave a happy shrug.

  I made myself sound stern. "Well, you don’t get to go back yet! We still have a lot to do here, starting with finding Charlie and Heather."

  Someone yelled, "I see them! Survivors off the port bow!"

  Right on cue. I love it when life follows the script. Grace leaned on me as we hurried to the railing where a patrol boat was pulling a large rubber raft containing Charlie and Heather.

  I nodded at Grace and knelt. Once she was on my back, I gently rose and carried her over to the smaller craft.

  Once we landed, and Grace had slid off my back, careful of her leg, a Warrant Officer with a weathered face and a two-pack-a-day voice said, "They refused to come aboard." He led us to the rail.

  Peering over at them, I could see why.

  Charlie had pulled off his shirt, and Rhoda everything but her swimsuit, and they'd used the clothes and boots along with the backpack to make a long cushion against one side. Charlie reclined on it and Heather had curled herself up against him. They saw us, grinned and waved, then held up glasses of—

  "Champagne? How did you get champagne?" I called out.

  "Found it in the raft!" Charlie called and laughed. "Come on, Vern! Did you really expect anything different?"

  Grace leaned her back against the bulkhead and laughed as I admitted that, absolutely, I should have expected the cliché.

  The happy couple clicked their glasses and raised them to us.

  Heather was wearing her ring.

  Epilogue: Live and Let Fly

  A week later, we were escorting Sister Anita and Agent Calloway through the Los Lagos Police Department. The place was hopping with the usual Monday morning activity: drug busts, thefts and muggings, the occasional prostitute. No magic. No mad science. No evil demigods bent on world domination. My kind of busy.

  It felt good to walk into an area where people knew me, and I didn't have to explain who, or more to the point, what, I was. Some folks stopped to give Grace a hug or make sympathetic comments—more often concerning our timing on visiting Santry than on our recent adventure.

  We'd already been home a couple of days and to the station more than once, so folks had gotten used to our new looks. Amanda stopped us to ask about the progress on Live and Let Fly—and about the upcoming nuptials. And we again got some pats on the back for our great work.

  The papers and press had eaten up the government cover story of a Faerie criminal mind planning to off some of the most important Mundanes in politics and business as part of a larger plot to take over major world enterprises. Even McGrue had been seen pumping her fist in the newsroom. We were lauded as the heroes who uncovered the plot and charged in to hold off the baddies until the cavalry arrived. Guess in this case, when it came to misinformation, our motto was "live and let fly."

  Still, we had one dangerous loose end to clean up.

  "Hey, Vern!" Officer Romero Gutierrez looked up from where he was booking a hooker.

  Knowing humans, I understood how prostitution continued, but on Monday morning? In the Mundane world, that never made sense to me.

  From the way she leaned on his desk and smacked her gum, anyone could tell she'd done this a time or two. She drummed her acid green fingernails on her fishnet-adorned leg impatiently even as she gave Calloway an assessing look.

  Grace looked at the girl and sighed, her voice pained. "Trixie, again?"

  Trixie didn't even bother to shrug, just gave Calloway the come-hither eyes as she blew a bubble. It popped on her nose.

  While Grace spoke quietly to the girl, Gutierrez rolled his eyes at me. "You really want to talk to him? Mayor's on his case about that Gay-tez murder. No one's dared enter the lion's den all day, and detectives who have been summoned have come away missing parts, if you know what I mean."

  Trixie snorted and gave us a graphic and vulgar explanation.

  Grace grabbed Sister Anita by the arm and pulled her past before the little nun could explode into a righteous scolding. We moved on to the second floor where the detectives hung out.

  "Well, what do you know? Look everyone! It's Scarface and her sidekick, Shorty!"

  Detective Oren Vialpando's voice carried over the low din of the squadroom. A few faces looked up from their desks to glare at the detective or look at Grace and me. A few people nodded our way before returning to their work.

  It was the first time Sister Anita or Agent Calloway had heard that particular joke, however. They both tried to push past us to give Oral Oren a piece of their minds. Grace and I stopped them with elbow and wing. I couldn't let him get away with it unaddressed, however.

  "Blow it out your ear—or better yet, let me." I sent a small puff of flame his way.

  He jumped back but more to protect his desk than himself. "Hey! Watch the paperwork!

  Oh, speaking of, I've got something for you."

  He dug in his piles and handed Grace a manila folder. "Blood test results. Got any ideas who doped you?" he asked me.

  I shrugged my wings. I'd given the matter some thought while we were recovering. I and Athena were due for a long talk concerning her latest extra-curricular activity. I looked over Grace's shoulder as she leafed through the lab reports. We were going to need a vet to explain it.

  "You know, Stephen's still mad about you losing your healing powers," Oren said.

  "He's not alone." Oren's brother, the doctor who'd cared for Kitty, had left a dozen messages on our machine while we were gone. He raved about Kitty's recovery. He asked if I'd take part in a study (read: be the test subject). He'd asked me to donate blood on a regular basis for their more critical cases. He called with a plea on behalf of a specific patient. He wondered if it could—

  In 935 AD, dragon's blood had been the miracle cure of the century. We dragons had eaten so many human adventurers by 942 that they decided the cure was worse than the disease.

  Maybe God had done me a favor.

  I looked at the scar marring Grace's cheek. Then again maybe not.

  "So, Grace, when we gonna see the other guy?" Oren asked. That joke had gotten old, too.

  Nonetheless, Grace smiled. "He's all tied up at the moment."

  I couldn't help but grin back. I didn't know what punishment Odin and the Church had planned for Loki, and I didn't want to know.

  At this point, Calloway cleared his throat, and after apologizing to him and Sister Anita, Grace introduced them to Detective Vialpando and asked where Santry was.

  "Office, but you don't want to go in there."

  She shrugged. "We'll take our chances."

  Santry sat at a desk littered with files: statements, evidence photos, lab tests. I couldn't see what was on the computer screen. His held his head in his hands, and his elbows dug dents into the paperwork. He greeted my knock with, "Unless you've got good news, get your scaly red hide outta my building before I shoot you for being a nuisance!"

  "As a matter of fact, we have brought the solution to all your troubles—or help with one, anyway. Santry, I'd like you to meet Sister Anita of the Faerie Inquisition."

  He raised his head just enough to glare at her. "She gonna torture my suspects into a confession?"

  "Michael!" Grace exclaimed. Even I was surprised. Santry had a real blind spot when it came to Faeries and the Faerie Catholic Church, but he'd surpassed even his own low standards.

  Sister Anita raised a hand. "It's all right, Sister. I've read Captain Santry's resume. He worked in the Los Angeles Police Department—they are the ones who beat up the... Blacks?

  That is what they call such people here?"

  Santry leapt to his feet. "That's not fair! What could you possibly know—" He stopped as he realized he'd been caught in his own trap. H
e shook his head. Fatigue and stress showed in the dark circles under his eyes. "My apologies, sisters. I was rude. I... Is there something I can help you with?"

  Sister Anita approached his desk and pulled a photo of Gates out of the pile. "No human can do this—no regular human, at any rate."

  "Yeah, we kind of figured that much out." Santry's voice had all the sweetness of a bushel of lemons, but Sister Anita merely nodded as she studied the photo with a cool eye. She set it down and picked up another one—this of a Russian colleague of Gates who had suffered the same fate.

  "The crucis iugolis is a specific trademark of the Dark One. You will not catch this murderer with Mundane means." She set the photo down. "The Church will not stand by and allow this madman to kill again. But this is not our world."

  Santry glanced from her to Calloway. "Meaning?"

  Sister Anita straightened and looked him squarely in the eyes, one law enforcement official to another. "The Inquisition will provide you all information and support you require in this investigation. The only thing we ask is that when the murderer is apprehended, he is returned to Faerie where we will handle his punishment."

  "This case is bigger than just this city—bigger than our Earth," Calloway added. "If we're going to catch this guy, we need to all work together. I've been authorized to grant full disclosure of evidence, including sensitive materials, to all parties involved. That includes whichever detectives you designate—provided their security checks pan out."

  Santry snorted but nodded once. Then he turned to us and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  I shrugged. "For the moment, we're just bringing people together. If you need us, you know how to dial. In the meantime, Grace and I have to go. We've got an appointment with the contractor about a roof."

  * * * *

  Once upon a time, I was one of the most feared and revered creatures in my world. I carried off horses rather than got ridden like one; humans were a menu item and not a secret identity; and I made my home in a cave and razed warehouses rather than the other way around. I hoarded treasure and commanded homage. Now, I'm content with a Kawaii Kitten thank-you note and a couple of good friends. I'm living la vida Mundania.

  You know what? Right now, I wouldn't have things any other way.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Kick of Evil

  Chapter Three: Gapraker

  Chapter Four: Ace in the Hole

  Chapter Five: Strangers on an Airship

  Chapter Six: Ocrapussy

  Chapter Eight: Toyland Royale

  Chapter Nine: Gonefinger

  Chapter Ten: With Remorse

  Chapter Eleven: Mage Storm Rising

  Chapter Thirteen: For Your Ears Only

  Chapter Fifteen: Body and Soul

  Chapter Sixteen: Gears of the Tiger

  Chapter Nineteen: The Vern Identity

  Chapter Twenty-One: From Helheim With Love

  Chapter Twenty Two: The Vern Supremacy