Fantasy Short Stories: Five Fantastic Tales

by Quincy J. Allen

  “Lumpy, huh?” I managed over the cotton-swathed tongue wallowing in my mouth. I glanced at my cuckoo clock: six in the morning. I didn’t care what Lumpy needed, getting me up at six would settle accounts … like it or not.

  I was still dressed in a thoroughly wrinkled brown suit, so I was ready to go. My head spun from the previous night’s bender. I’d been with three gruff but amiable elves who thought they could outdrink me. They were wrong, of course, but it took everything I’d had to be the last—and only—man standing. Hell, I was the only human in this godforsaken hellhole of cheery smiles, carefree dancing, and happy endings.

  Well, mostly happy.

  While I cursed daily the misbegotten deity of mischief that sent me here, I gave equal thanks that the place had a dark enough underbelly to keep me working, otherwise I would have blown my brains out a week after waking up in Fairyland.

  It’s a long story, and that was five years ago.

  Anyway, the two little constables tugged at my arms, dragging me headlong out of my low-rent apartment. I was barely conscious, but I figured I’d wake up on the way to … wherever. They both kept idiot grins on their faces as they pulled me along. In Fairyland, nearly everyone walks around with sickeningly bright smiles all the time. At least in daylight. Except me, of course. I’m a curmudgeon. I generally do my best to avoid daylight—hence the drinking at night with gruff but amiable elves.

  The constables poured me into a filigreed blue carriage pulled by four pink ponies that literally pranced the entire way. We bounced from the poor side of town through a few posh neighborhoods and out into the countryside. An hour later, the dwarves dumped me in front of a tall flight of stone steps that led to two massive oaken doors carved with a menagerie of mythical creatures. The doors were set into a bastion of white marble walls stretching high and wide. As the carriage pulled away, ponies prancing gleefully, one of the diminutive officers poked his head out the window, waved, and, I swear, winked at me.

  I stood in the bright morning sunshine, a million colors reflecting off every surface. Dewdrops shimmered beneath the pregnant bellies of delicate petals. Bees trundled hither and yon. A troop of pixies in flowing gowns of yellow and green darted out from behind the castle. Their fluttering gossamer wings of gold carried them over a crystal blue moat full of dazzling koi and into the Whispering Wind Forest beyond.

  What a load of crap, I thought, wishing my head would just come apart and get it over with.

  I turned and stared up at the castle. It was right out of some fairy tale—no surprise—with pointy towers and broad turrets poking up into a cobalt blue sky. They made a hodgepodge skyline, suggesting the architect preferred form considerably more than function. Pinions of blue, pink, and white fluttered from each tower apex on a breeze that somehow didn’t reach the ground.

  A door opened, revealing a plump dwarf in a crimson suit. His purple boots seemed far too narrow to support his considerable girth as he trundled down the steps. He eyed me like I was a beloved dog that had just left a small carcass on his doorstep. I never moved. I figured this was his show. When he reached the bottom, he stared up at me with the SOP idiot grin, but it looked forced.

  I stared down through fiercely bloodshot eyes. “So why the hell am I here, Lumpy?”

  His smile straightened, albeit slightly, and he raised one bushy, brown eyebrow. “It’s Detective Lumpy, Vincent,” he said in a voice that reminded me of sucking on helium balloons.

  “Right, right,” I mumbled. “Detective.” I tried to rub some of the hangover out of my eyes and failed. Never underestimate the insidious power of faewine. I made the mental note with the absolute certainty I’d lose said wisdom by lunchtime.

  He looked at me expectantly with the understanding patience reserved for buddies suffering self-inflicted wounds. I’d given him the same look a few times over the years. I remember this troll he’d become enamored with—big girl, green, ugly as the south end of a warthog—but she floated his boat. She turned out to be a pro. I’d warned him, but he wouldn’t listen until after she’d taken him for a quarter of his life’s savings.

  He kept waiting, that patient, forced smile as unwavering as a pixie’s virginity. Through the haze of my hangover, I got what he was after.

  “So, Detective Lumpy,” I said slowly, my voice pressing into my skull, “why the hell am I here?”

  “It’s inside,” he replied, his smile turning grim. He trundled up the stone steps and opened one of the massive double doors, stepping inside. In the distance, coming from some faraway room of the palatial interior, I heard a dwarf shouting, presumably into a phone. I heard another dwarf—smaller and female—wailing in another part of the house, sounding as if the sky had just fallen.

  Ignoring the voices, Lumpy marched up the stairs that rose before us. I managed to keep up without stumbling, and we came to an open set of double doors. Beyond lay a bedroom the likes of which only the very wealthy ever see—unless a crime brings cops and private detectives like me bumbling about to put things aright.

  There, on one side of the bed, covering most of what was certainly a downy pillow, was something I never thought I’d see.

  I sighed and did my best to keep from emptying my stomach on the plush beige carpet. Five years since I’d crossed over into this insane asylum and you’d think I’d be accustomed to seeing unicorns.

  Granted, this was only part of one, but still.

  I glanced at Lumpy. I’d never seen him so angry. He couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen in Fairyland.

  “I take it you want me to find out whoever put that purple unicorn head where it doesn’t belong?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I stepped up to the bed and leaned over, examining the pale purple head and the deep purple mane that flowed over the edge of the pillow. Something caught my eye. I moved a few strands of mane aside and exposed several glittery flecks on the satin beneath. I licked the tip of my finger and pressed it against one of the sparkles. Drawing my finger back, I peered closely and watched the fleck disappear in a tiny flash of light.

  Interesting.

  “And the voice downstairs,” I said, glancing at Lumpy. “The male one. He owns this place?”

  Another nod.

  I turned and walked past him, stepping through the double doors. Pausing, I said over my shoulder, “This makes us even, right?”

  A final nod.

  Without another word, I headed downstairs.

  At the bottom, I turned away from the male voice, now speaking quietly enough that I couldn’t make anything out, and headed towards the female voice. It’s been my experience—in both worlds, mind you—that females, no matter the species, are more inclined to open up than males when something terrible has happened. Hell, most of my solved cases can be traced straight back to a lady who only wanted someone to put things right.

  I turned down a hallway and spotted an office to the right. I figured I’d do a bit of snooping before tracking down the feminine voice. Stepping in like I owned the place, I headed over to a broad oaken desk, ignoring the books and bric-a-brac that filled the room.

  I scanned the surface, skipping over an assortment of paperweights, and spotted a notepad next to what passed for a telephone in Fairyland. No wires, gem-encrusted, works on magic—but don’t ask me to tell you how. There were faint impressions in the notepad, but I couldn’t make them out.

  On a hunch, I held my breath, carefully picked up the phone, and covered the receiver.

  “ … I’ll pay you when Ulion freezes over!” the dwarf’s voice hissed, and then the receiver slammed down. Ulion is the dwarven notion of hell, by the way.

  I kept listening in case the person on the other end had some parting words. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “Stupid, Hammerhand,” a squeaking, gravelly voice said, and then there was a click as another receiver went down.

  Hammerhand? The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it.

 
; The second voice had been a fairy—an old female by the sound of it, perhaps with a smoking habit. I replaced the receiver and looked over the desk one more time. A quick glance in the wastebasket revealed a pile of discarded pages and one crumpled sheet from the notepad. Someone had been upset with whatever was on it.

  I picked it out and un-crumpled it carefully. It had a single line of dwarven script. Fortunately for me, I could read dwarven.

  Exacta—Jujubean Dream, Yellow Rose of the Whispering Wind

  A satisfied smile crossed my lips. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  “Nobody is supposed to come into my father’s office,” a feminine dwarf’s voice said from the doorway. Her voice was soft, almost meek, and I picked up a trace of fear, as if being in the office was harmful to one’s health. Also interesting.

  She was short, dimpled, and around forty—roughly her mid-teens in human years. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks still showing traces of tears. She wore a purple dress with little golden hammers embroidered at neck, cuff, and hem. A dainty milkmaid’s hat held back a good portion of thick red curls.

  “Hmm?” I asked innocently. “Oh! Sorry. I was looking for a pen.” I reached down and picked one off the desk. I glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall and scribbled the time on my palm. “There, see?” I held up my palm for her.

  “What’s that for?” she asked, confused.

  “I’m on the clock now.”

  “For what?” Her head canted sideways.

  “I’m working with the constables to help solve the—”

  Her face paled, and it looked like she was going to start wailing. She’d clearly been close to the dismembered Equus unicornis whose head decorated the boudoir. I figured it was best to tap dance around the grisly particulars.

  “—Errr . . . problem your family is dealing with.” I stepped around the desk and held out my hand. “I’m Vincent Capaldi.”

  “Capaldi?” The imminent wailing retreated, replaced by a perplexed look. “That’s a funny sort of name. I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

  I smiled and shook her hand. “The name is Italian. So am I.”

  “What’s an Italian?”

  “It’s a long story.” I stepped out of the office and into the hallway. “Look, I don’t want to upset you, but is there someplace we can talk? I really do want to help.”

  Her eyes started to tear up, but she sniffled once and put a brave face on things. “Yes,” she said quietly. “The patio.”

  She stepped past me, and I followed her down the hall to a wide living room with a series of tall glass doors that opened up onto a lavish patio surrounded by flowers in every color of the rainbow. We stepped through an already open door, and I tried not to show my disgust with the multicolored vegetation. She sat at a low, wrought iron table surrounded by dwarf-sized chairs that would never hold my weight—or my butt for that matter.

  She realized the problem and looked embarrassed. I smiled, despite all those colors pouring into my throbbing skull, and sat on the flagstones across from her.

  “Don’t worry,” I said easily. “I’m used to it.” I chuckled, which got a glimmer of smile out of her. “So, what’s your name?”

  “Darian.”

  “Hello, Darian,” I said. “What can you tell me about last night? Was there anything that woke you up?”

  “No.” She frowned, and I could see her struggling to hold back tears. “I woke up this morning when Daddy started shouting. I ran to his bedroom to see what was wrong, and that’s when I saw—” Tears flowed down her rosy cheeks, but she seemed determined to go on. “That’s when I saw what they’d done to Dancer!” She sniffed once and covered her mouth. She was a tough kid, no doubt about it.

  “I’m sorry, Darian.”

  “Father looked terrified,” she continued, “and then he looked furious. At first, I thought he was mad because of what they did to my unicorn, but father always hated Dancer. And Dancer hated him back. My mother gave me Dancer for my thirty-fifth birthday.”

  Thirty-five is sort of a “sweet sixteen” for dwarves. But something seemed odd about the way she’d referred to the matron of the family.

  “Where was your mother?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t live here,” she replied. No guilt or anger, just the matter-of-fact acceptance of how things are. I did pick up a twinge of regret, as if Darian preferred her mother’s company to her father’s.

  “I see.” Something didn’t add up. The estate didn’t match up with a guy who couldn’t pay a gambling debt. Yes, gambling debt, but I’ll get to that later. On a hunch, I said, “So, this is quite a place your father has.”

  “Oh, it’s not his, not really,” she said. “It belongs to my mother. She’s the rich one. Daddy is just the governor, and that doesn’t pay much.”

  Bingo! I smiled. I was going to have this little caper solved in no time. Hell, Lumpy was going to owe me.

  “Can I help you?” It was the voice of the dwarf on the phone. His question had been gruff but not angry, like I was just some party crasher. I could tell that years of politicking had taught him to “maintain low tones” even when he finds a stranger on his patio the same morning someone puts a severed unicorn head in his bed.

  I turned to see a middle-aged dwarf with slicked back red hair and what passed for an expensive suit in Fairyland: green silk, gold buttons, high collar, and black leather shoes with the toes curling up to a point.

  “Good morning, Governor Hammerhand,” I said. I rose to my feet, fighting off some spins and more pounding behind my eyes, and held out my hand. “I’m Vincent Capaldi. Detective Lumpy—I mean Detective Ironsoul—brought me in as a specialist on your case.”

  “Are you a specialist in dead horses?” he asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. There clearly wasn’t any love lost between him and the unicorn.

  “Not at all, sir,” I replied easily. “I deal mostly with the more unsavory sorts who exist outside the boundaries of civil society.” I locked eyes with him. “And I suspect you have some idea of the sort of people I’m talking about. Would you agree, sir?” I gave him my best I-know-what-you’ve-been-up-to smiles. “Detective Ironsoul also brought me in because I’m exceedingly discreet.”

  He hesitated and licked his lips. I watched him calculate risks and benefits, practically reading them fly across his face.

  “Darian,” he finally said, “would you go in and fix Daddy some breakfast?” His eyes never left mine. He treats her like hired help, I thought.

  “Yes, Father,” she replied and slipped past me with another sniffle. I suspected it was habit that made her close the door behind her, even though it had been open when I came in. I also suspected she recognized his tone: the one grown-ups use when they’re going to talk business that doesn’t concern children.

  “Let me explain.” He took a deep breath, like he was about to give a speech.

  “Don’t bother, Governor,” I broke in. “I know just about everything I need.”

  “You couldn’t possibly—”

  “I’m very good at my job,” I interrupted. I wanted to keep him off balance, mostly because it would be easier to get at anything he might try to hide, but also because I’d developed a mild disliking for him. What can I say? I’m ornery in the morning. “Would you like me to prove it to you?” I asked. I did my best to sound smug.

  His face scrunched up dubiously. “I’m all ears.”

  I looked him up and down, as if sizing him up. “You like the ponies—not unicorns, you don’t give a damn about them. You like the kind that go fast. The kind people bet on even when gambling is illegal for Fairyland’s civil servants.” His eyes grew wide, and I wondered if he was going to deny it. I pressed on like a freight train. “In fact, you bet on an exacta recently, and you bet heavy.” I smiled as his denial turned to fright. On a hunch I added, “I’m guessing someone sold you an inside tip. Said it was a sure thing.” I figured a guy like him—one who habitually spoke in low tones—wouldn’t bet h
eavy on anything but a sure thing. “But the exacta didn’t come in—and now you’re on the hook for a cartload of gold, which is tough to come by on civil servant wages. Even a governor’s.” I’d destroyed him, but I felt like adding a little icing to the cake. “Does Mrs. Hammerhand mind you betting her money on ponies?”

  He looked like he was going to pass out, and I was the one with the hangover. I stepped back and pulled out one of the little chairs for him. He moved forward, unsteady on his feet, and plopped down.

  “How could you—?”

  “Like I said,” I interrupted again, “I’m very good at what I do.” I sat down cross-legged on the flagstones in front of him and started in again. “I know you told the people responsible that you won’t pay them, which means you won’t ask your wife for the money, which also means you’re more afraid of her than you are of them.” I peered at him expectantly. “Why is that, Governor?”

  “Because I won’t divorce her,” he said flatly.

  It suddenly all made sense. “I see,” I said. “If she files for divorce without due cause, you get half of everything.” Let’s just say I work on a lot of snoop cases that end in divorce. “But if you ask her to pay a gambling debt, she’ll have your cojones over a fire—”

  “My what?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Umm . . . I mean that she’ll have the leverage she needs to take everything and put you out of a job. A scandal like this ends careers. I take it you and the Mrs. aren’t on good terms?”

  “Orcs and elves get along better than we do.” The disgusted look on his face was priceless. Rocks and hard places didn’t hold a candle to where this poor sod found himself.

  “Right,” I said with an almost compassionate tone. “So now you get to choose between death at the hands of fairy mobsters or divorce, disgrace, and poverty.” I managed to hold back the smile struggling to split my face. This guy had gotten himself into a real mess. “That’s a tough call.”

  He just nodded.

  “Where can I find the fairy?” I asked.

  “Where else?” he replied. “At the track.”

  “She got a name?”