Something Magic This Way Comes

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  “Those girls in England did.”

  “That was a hoax. I read about that.”

  The fairy smirked again.

  “So it was. And they almost got away with it, too. Incidentally, Mack’s only nice to you so you’ll do his work for him.”

  Sharon was beginning to get used to the fairy’s sudden conversation shifts.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Then why do you put up with it? Just so he doesn’t insult you the way Joe does?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s nice to have at least one person who doesn’t call me names. Unlike you,” she added, and then blushed.

  The fairy sat back.

  “Well. A bit of backbone. Not much, but maybe, just maybe, this might not be so hard after all.”

  “What might not be so hard?” Sharon’s curiosity made her ask.

  “This is what I recommend,” the fairy said, ignoring her question. “Tomorrow, you march in that store and demand a raise. And then, after you get it, you tell Mack to do his own damn work. And then buy a new bra.”

  “A new bra?”

  Sudden shifts in conversations were one thing, but this was from way out of left field. “Yeah, a new bra. A nice one, not white. Red, or pink or something.

  Lacy.”

  The fairy’s voice was sleepy, and she fluttered her wings once before rising in the air and flying over to Sharon’s African Violet plant and settling down on one of the velvety leaves. “Goodnight, Sharon,” she said unnecessarily, as she was nearly asleep before she landed.

  “Goodnight,” Sharon said obediently, then asked suddenly, “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Ginger,” she barely heard.

  “Is that your name? Ginger?”

  “No. But it’s a nice, spicy name, and I like it.”

  * * *

  Ginger nestled on Sharon’s collar the next morning.

  “What do I tell people about you?” Sharon asked.

  “Nothing. They won’t see me. I’m your fairy, not theirs.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know it worked that way.”

  “Until yesterday, you didn’t believe I even existed.”

  “True enough.”

  Sharon felt incredibly energetic as she walked the four blocks to work. Full of life, centered. Empowered.

  As if she could do anything.

  She stopped.

  “What have you done to me?” she asked suspiciously.

  Ginger sighed. “My job. I’m your fairy, remember?”

  “What does that mean, ‘my fairy’?”

  A middle-aged couple passing by stared at Sharon, then quickly looked away. The man muttered something under his breath as they passed her, and Sharon remembered that no one else could see Ginger. She turned her head and tried to speak without moving her lips, whispering. “What does it mean?”

  “It means,” Ginger said, her wings tickling Sharon’s neck, “that I’m here to help you. And yes, to answer your question from last night, I can read your mind, but only yours, and only because I’m your fairy.”

  Sharon pondered that, then asked, “Help me with what?”

  “With whatever. Getting you a raise. Finding you a boyfriend. Underwear decisions. You know, the important stuff.”

  “A boyfriend?” Sharon thought she might just faint.

  She could, in a distant and far off way, imagine herself asking Joe for a raise or even, embarrassing as it might be, buying lingerie. But a boyfriend? Someone who she’d have to speak to all the time, hold hands with, even kiss? And never mind what happened after kissing.

  Sharon couldn’t even get her imagination to reach the hand holding stage.

  “Chill, girl, take it easy. I didn’t say definitely, though from your reaction I’d say it’s way overdue. Let’s work on the raise first. We’ll worry about the rest another time.”

  * * *

  “Joe, I want a raise. I deserve a raise.” Sharon muttered the words under her breath as she finished restocking the baby carrots.

  “Demand,” Ginger whispered through her hair.

  “And now’s the time. Joe just went into the backroom, and Mack’s having a nicotine break. Go, girl. You can do it,” Ginger prodded her.

  Sharon felt her stomach twist into knots as she followed Joe into the back.

  “Joe,” Sharon began.

  “Carrots done?”

  “Almost. I wanted to ask you . . .”

  “Well, get them finished. And after that bring in that gourd order from the back dock and set them up in the front in a big display.”

  Sharon’s carefully memorized speech went elsewhere.

  “By the door? But I just finished the make-your-own-candy-apples display!”

  “So take it down, and do this one. Add some fake leaves and stuff, make it look good. You know what to do.”

  He turned away, and Sharon took a deep breath and tried to center herself.

  “Yes, I know what to do. My displays are always pretty good, aren’t they, Joe?”

  Joe turned back with a scowl.

  “I suppose,” he said. “What do you want, a gold star? Get back to work. Your break’s not for another hour.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Sharon said, but Joe interrupted, his normally loud voice getting even louder.

  “It’s what I meant, potato head. Get moving, or I’ll dock your pay.”

  “But I . . .”

  Joe’s face began to turn thunderous, and Sharon swallowed her words and hurried to the back dock to get the gourds.

  “Well, that went well,” Ginger said scornfully as Sharon piled the crates onto a u-boat. Sharon blinked back tears and whispered harshly, “Be quiet. It’s your fault.”

  “My fault?” Ginger nearly squealed in indignation.

  “My fault? You’re the one who caved.”

  “I did not cave,” Sharon wiped angry tears away.

  “He walked all over me, just like he always does. And you were supposed to make me brave or something. Nice job you did with that.” Sharon heard the bitterness in her own voice with something like surprise.

  “Oh, sure, you can talk back to me, who’s only trying to help, but not to Neanderthal-man in there, huh? That’s just perfect. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “I don’t either. I didn’t ask for a fairy. I was doing okay just the way I was.”

  “You were pathetic, that’s what you were,” Ginger retorted.

  “If that’s what you think, then just go back to the cabbages and leave me alone,” Sharon shouted, and Ginger flew up off her shoulder in a huff.

  “Fine,” the fairy snapped, and in an instant she was gone.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” Joe stormed out onto the back dock. “Who are you shouting at?”

  “None of your damn business,” Sharon snapped without thinking, and she grabbed the handle of the u-boat and shoved past him.

  Her anger at Ginger sustained her until nearly all the gourds were set up. Then suddenly, as if she hadn’t really noticed until just then, the look on Joe’s face when she’d yelled at him filled her vision, and she felt a huge shout of laughter welling up inside. She choked it back down before it could escape, and set the last gourd into place with a flourish. She, Sharon Madsen, had actually said the word “damn”. With another burst of delight, she realized she was proud of having used bad language.

  “What a lovely display.”

  Sharon looked up to see Mrs. Wingard, one of the store’s regular customers, and one of Sharon’s old high school teachers.

  “Thank you,” she said in surprise at the unexpected compliment.

  “You always do such a wonderful job, Sharon. I hope cranky old Joseph knows what a treasure he has in you, dear.”

  To hear Joe called cranky tickled Sharon’s funny bone, and it must have shown on her face, for Mrs.

  Wingard smiled conspiratorially. “He was an old grump even when I had him my class, little Sharon.”

  She leaned closer
and whispered, “Most of the boys were. I always thought it was because of jock straps.”

  “What?” Sharon let this shout of laughter escape, and Mrs. Wingard winked at her and headed for the juice aisle.

  Sharon was still giggling when Mack wandered over from where he was sorting the grapes.

  “Hey, Sharon baby, how ’bout finishing these grapes for me? I’m starved, and I wanna go grab a quick bite.”

  Sharon’s stomach growled at the thought of her own break, now overdue. The silly smile still on her face, she shook her head.

  “Not right now, Mack. My break’s before yours.”

  Her eyes wandered down his skinny form. Mack’s not grouchy, so maybe he doesn’t wear one, she thought, then as she realized where she was staring, she giggled again and raised her eyes. Mack, to her utter amazement, was blushing.

  That wonderful feeling of energy she’d had on the way into work returned, and she grabbed the nowempty u-boat and started to walk away.

  “And do your own damn work for a change,” she added over her shoulder.

  She wasn’t sure, as she didn’t look back, but she thought she heard Mack choke.

  Joe watched her as she pushed the u-boat into an empty corner. His face was still as angry as it ever was, but Sharon, as if with new eyes, thought she saw a bit of wariness as well. She decided she’d done enough empowering of herself for one day and determined to just take her lunch break and leave it at that, but as she walked past the tiny desk where he worked, Joe stood.

  What he’d planned to do or say Sharon never knew, because the only thought that she could manage as her boss confronted her was the fact that his jock strap must be too tight.

  She knew she was blushing, but she also knew a huge, smirky kind of smile was crossing her face, and Joe, who’d opened his mouth to speak, abruptly closed it. Sharon smiled even wider and opened her locker.

  “I want a raise,” she said as she took her lunch bag out. Joe stared.

  “Did you hear me? I want a raise, Joe.”

  “I . . . heard you,” Joe said.

  Sharon looked at the paper bag in her hand. A baloney sandwich and a yogurt. She tossed it in the trash can next to Joe’s desk.

  “And I need to take a little bit longer for lunch today. I have an errand I need to run.”

  “An errand?” Joe shook his head as if he was dizzy.

  “Yes.” Sharon started through the swinging doors.

  “I need a new bra.”

  “I knew you could do it,” Ginger whispered as Sharon left the store and headed downtown. The fairy was perched on Sharon’s shoulder as if she’d never left.

  “You did, didn’t you?” Sharon said in a normal voice, ignoring the odd look a boy on a bike gave her.

  “So where were you just now, when I finally stood up for myself?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Ginger said. “I was with you the whole time. Who do you think gave Mrs. Wingard the idea to go shopping today? Jock straps,” she giggled.

  “I couldn’t have done it better myself.” The fairy cleared her throat. “Now, about that boyfriend issue . . .”

  RAINING THE WILD HUNT

  Kate Paulk

  POUNDING music from her headphones drove the forest sounds from Megan’s awareness, and as she ran, the deserted backwoods trail became simply another obstacle, another challenge. She ran to forget, her feet pounding in time to the music, the shaded, oak-lined trail just a quiet place where she was unlikely to have to deal with people.

  Until she’d started divorce proceedings against Frank, Megan had never known what a blessing an iPod and a deserted forest trail could be.

  Not that she was stupid. Frank had promised to “get” her for breaking from his control. Rather than hide, Megan took precautions. Precautions like the concealed carry license and the loaded .40 Beretta PX4 with two spare magazines she always carried. Like the regular sessions at the local police firing range with her cousin Jen, imagining Frank standing in front of the target with his genitals dangling over the center circle. Jen had recommended the Beretta and got her licensed for it.

  The self-defense courses, the sessions at the gym where she worked until she trembled with exhaustion, all were ways to make sure no one could ever control her again. Never control her, never hit her, and never, never send her to hospital to miscarry the baby she had so desperately wanted.

  Her iPod changed tunes, moving to “It’s Raining Men.” Megan focused on the words, letting her feet carry her through the forest. Air cooled her face, drying sweat before it could drip. The comforting weight of her fanny pack and the loaded pistol inside it snugged against her waist bounced with each step, enough to reassure without being uncomfortable.

  The air in front of her shimmered, and a man dropped onto the trail in front of her.

  Megan’s body reacted before she fully realized what she saw. She pushed hard with her left leg, leaned forward as she stretched out with her right leg so her foot came down on the leaf-littered trail and not the sprawled body that had not been there a second before.

  She stumbled forward awkwardly, arms windmilling for balance, and stuttered to a halt in time for the Weather Girls to sing “find the perfect guy.”

  Megan fumbled for the iPod and turned it off.

  She turned around slowly, not sure whether she wanted the man to be there or not. She didn’t want anything to do with men. Not after Frank.

  The impossible man was still there, unmoving. He looked like a refugee from the Renfaire, wearing all deep green, the colors shading slightly from the silk shirt, the velvet vest, soft leather pants and boots.

  Long golden-brown hair curled around his shoulders and over his face. If not for the very male bulge in his pants—a bulge that indicated nature had been more than merely generous there—Megan might have wondered if he was really male.

  He was still anything but “the perfect guy,” whoever he was and however he’d got here.

  Megan reminded herself that she’d married what she thought was the perfect man, and that had got her nothing but bruises.

  A bird chirped somewhere nearby, answered by one from further away.

  The man still hadn’t moved, although the movement of his chest suggested he was breathing. Megan belatedly moved toward him. “Hello?”

  He didn’t respond.

  She bent, trying to remember her first aid classes.

  Response, Airway, Breathing, Circulation. With her left hand, she gently touched his arm. “Hello?”

  The man shuddered, pulling away from her in what had to be an instinctive reaction. His eyes opened wide, eyes the impossibly bright green of new leaves.

  Megan swallowed, backed away. Nothing human was that beautiful. Even with stray locks of hair falling over his face, with his clothes torn and bloody scratches marking creamy-pale skin, he was a work of art given life.

  “Art thou . . . mortal?” The twist of disgust he gave the last word had Megan’s right hand twitching for the zip on her fanny pack, for the smooth chill of her pistol.

  “I’m mortal, asshole. And leaving. If you’ve broken anything, there might be someone else along in the next day or so to help you.” She turned, wanting nothing more to do with impossible, beautiful men who seemed to think being human was a mortal sin.

  “Please, wait.” He sounded panicked.

  Megan kept walking. She unzipped her fanny pack and slipped her right hand in, closed her hand around the grip of the pistol.

  “Please . . . the Hunt . . . they will follow . . .”

  The terror in his voice dragged her to a stop, pulled her back to face him. “What have you brought here?”

  He pulled himself to his feet, clinging to one of the oaks by the trail. “Only myself, my Lady. The Hunt . . . thou hast legends of them, surely?”

  The Wild Hunt, the Hunters . . . There were legends all right. “Sure. Which one would you like?” This was ridiculous. If she had not felt the soft, finely woven silk, not heard his liquid chocolate voice,
Megan might have dismissed the whole thing as an insane delusion.

  Something inside her refused to allow that.

  The man winced. “ ’Tis best not to deride them, my Lady.” He shuddered. “I have confused them by making a portal to this realm, but once they realize how I escaped them, they surely will follow. They mislike losing prey.”

  “That’s just perfect.” Megan released her grip on the Beretta. This man wasn’t going to attack her. He seemed to be having difficulty staying upright.

  She folded her arms and glared at him. “So you’ve unleashed this hunt of yours here. Thank you so much.”

  He leaned against the tree and closed his eyes, looking pale and thoroughly vulnerable. “I wished to live, even if only for a short time longer.” A shudder ran through his body. “Better I should have ended my own life.”

  “Whoa there!” Part of Megan wanted to curse him for a manipulative bastard. Instead, she found herself asking, “What happens if they catch you?” She stepped closer.

  He flinched. “If I am fortunate, I die quickly.” His voice was little more than a whisper as he turned haunted eyes to her. “They feed on suffering, my Lady. The terror of the prey, the pain as it dies . . . And if they can enslave it to make its pain last the longer, they will do so.”

  Megan’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “I know the type.” The fingers of her left hand drummed her right arm. A cool breeze ruffled her dusty blond hair and rustled the leaves. “All right. How many of them are there?”

  He blinked. “Perhaps fifty ride the Hunt, my Lady. But . . .”

  “Your kind don’t like steel, do they?” At his blank look, Megan added, “Steel. Refined iron.”

  He winced. “It is deadly to us, my Lady. It blocks our senses, eats our very souls.” Another shudder.

  “The least of wounds given with iron can kill even High Fey.”

  “Good.” Megan frowned. “So, what do I call you? I’m not shouting ‘Hey, you’ whenever I need your attention.” Her mind raced ahead, to defenses, to hunters who tortured their prey. Fifty-odd creatures with souls like Frank. She wouldn’t leave anyone to that.

  “I am named Delorias, my Lady.”