Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  “YOUR INVOICE?” he thundered. “You have the guts to ask me to pay for this disaster? I SHOULD SEND YOU AN INVOICE! I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR THIS!” he continued, walking towards me in a threatening way. “This does not end here! You’ll hear from me soon, I’ll make you regret coming in here…”

  “Charles, how can you be so ungrateful? She saved our life!”

  “Bullshit! She destroyed my collection!”

  “Lord Basilton, please control yourself! We did everything we could,” William started, trying to be diplomatic. “And we saved yours and your wife’s life.”

  “Exactly. This is just unfair,” I replied, holding my ground, staring at him defiantly. “I risked my life to save yours. No one got hurt, in spite of the danger, just a few things got destroyed…”

  “Things?” Lord Basilton growled. “You dare to call ‘things’ pieces well worth a museum? OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE NOW!” he shouted, pulling a rope dangling from the ceiling which made a distant bell ring. A second later, an impassable butler materialised in front of the door. He nodded at his master, then at me and at Will, as if having a ghost in the drawing room was his favourite hobby.

  “Charles, please, be reasonable!” his wife pleaded, completely ignored by her husband.

  “Show Miss Wise and His Grace the way out,” Lord Basilton ordered him.

  “I do not think there is anything else that we can do, child,” Will said in my head, as we sheepishly followed down the main corridor, wrecked by the leprechaun’s passage.

  “YOU’VE DISMISSED THE GIRL WHO RISKED HER LIFE TO SAVE ME, YOU BASTARD!” Lady Basilton’s high-pitched voice thundered in the background. “ALL YOU CARE ABOUT ARE YOUR FUCKING THINGS!”

  “Language, Martha!”

  “LANGUAGE? FUCK YOU! I SWEAR TO GOD, I WANT A DIVORCE!”

  “I am sorry that things didn’t work out with Lord Basilton, child,” William tried to console me, as I went down the few steps leading out of the lord’s mansion and into the main street.

  “Don’t worry, Will. Just having survived a Leprechaun’s poltergeist was an achievement, after all, especially considering that I’m very new to this job.”

  “Well, that is not completely true: As you told Lord Basilton, you’ve been dealing with the supernatural since you can remember,” he replied, as we crossed the elegant park in Berkley Square. It was ten p.m. already, the place was silent and spooky, in spite of the many street lamps illuminating it. Number 50’s dark aura made the place creepy, even to the average, unaware London citizen.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t doing it professionally,” I replied. “And not with other people involved, risking their lives as well. Again, I barely made it this time. But, I’m lucky that I didn’t have to deal with that one,” I continued, nodding at the most haunted house in London, less than fifty yards away from where we stood. “That place is totally out of my league and…what’s that?”

  Under one single street light, on the pavement in front of the haunted house, was a very standard London rubbish bin. Only, this one had some yellow, very fluorescent stuff on it.

  “More slime?” I squinted, as we approached. “Do you think there are more poltergeists coming out of that house?”

  “I do not think so, child,” William replied, nodding at the bin with a smile. The yellow stuff was nothing supernatural. It was “fight the power” graffiti, painted with fluorescent paint and covering half of the bin. I smiled, relieved, as we walked past, silently approving of it. Considering how Lord Basilton had treated me, it sounded more like advice than a statement.

  2

  A Sex Bomb In The Library

  In spite of the leprechaun/poltergeist, and having risked death (just for a change) while fighting in the most haunted area of London, I fell asleep the moment my head touched my pillow. Yep, to this day I believe there’s no better sleeping pill than an adrenaline overdose, mixed with terror, random acrobatics and total exhaustion.

  As if to compensate for my misadventure, I had a wonderful dream where I was flying above a forest, enjoying the breeze while deeply inhaling the amazing scent brought by it to my grateful nostrils. Heavy, exotic scents. That was no European forest, it was a rain forest, probably the Amazon, it being crossed by a big, twisted river. The dream felt very real and exhilarating. I woke up happy and refreshed. My first instinct before opening my eyes was to stretch my arm and search for John on the other side of the bed. For a short, blissful moment, I believed I was still in Cambridge, living with my boyfriend and studying for my Ph.D. I stretched my arm even more and found no one. I painfully realised that he wasn’t there. Not anymore. For a second, my brain had a glimpse of those four years when my abilities had mysteriously gone and I deluded myself into thinking that I was ‘cured’ and could enjoy a normal life. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I opened my eyes and sighted. I was in my room, in London. From my bed, very comfy but far too big for a single person, I could see my scruffy, cream-white dog Martino peacefully snoring on his bed adjacent to mine. A little further, were a few shelves with books and all sorts of childish knick-knacks, like a Kermit The Frog muppet, a Spider Man action figure and, covering an entire shelf, the biggest one, my wonderful Smurfs village, hosting nearly a hundred Smurfs!

  “A few more, and my collection of vintage Smurfs will be completed!” I thought, with pride. After all, I was cool, I deserved a new Smurf. I had just defeated the poltergeist of a leprechaun, for God’s sake! To the left of the Smurfs, I spotted my tiny and perpetually untidy desk, right beneath the only window in the room, a big piece of substantial glass which overlooked our garden. Our disaster of a garden.

  My uncle Terry, whose home I Iive in, is half German and half British. I only have a quarter British blood in my veins, being also German, French and Italian, so, you wouldn’t expect a classical, beautiful English garden. But at least a decent one. Well, our gardenisn’t decent at all. It was and still is a disappointing wreck, especially to British standards, and we’re in London, so we really should adhere to those standards and maintain a pretty garden instead of a dystopian landscape filled with weeds in the back of our house.

  “Maybe today I could find the time to plant a few roses,” I told myself, “after all, it is spring”. “Martino isn’t a digging dog, roses are the answer, the garden will immediately look prettier and…”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Hey niece, you’re awake? Decent?”

  It was Uncle Terry. I checked the clock. It was half past eight. Not particularly late, but time for me to get up nevertheless. A few minutes, and Martino would wake and need walking, plus, I was very likely to be forced to deal with a pissed-off peer of England who blamed me for the wreckage of his precious antique collection. So, no point in pretending to still be asleep.

  “Yes, I’m up! Wearing my pyjama…”

  “Well, get changed and come downstairs, please. There’s a client waiting for you in the library.”

  “A client? At this time of the day?”

  “Yep. Hurry-up, it seems urgent. He looks very distressed.”

  Extremely perplexed, I quickly changed into a shirt and jeans and brushed my mahogany hair back into a ponytail. Thank God I’d had a long shower a few hours earlier, as there was really no time to wash. I was simply dressed, and wearing no make-up still, I was presentable. Plus, I didn’t know whom I was going to meet, but whoever he was, he should understand that it was early morning and I was receiving him nevertheless, although he didn’t have an appointment and…

  “He’s unbelievably handsome, child! The most handsome client you’ve ever had!”

  Will greeted me, floating all excited in front of my library’s door.

  I ignored him, my hand on the door’s knob. A few months before I had broken-up with my long-term boyfriend, dropped out of my Ph.D. in Cambridge and moved back to London. As I said, after a four-year gap, my mysterious abilities had come back to haunt me and there was no way I could even dream of having a norma
l life. Still, Will was desperate to set me up with someone, ANYONE, becoming very excited whenever a man got around me for any reason. He wouldn’t accept my objections, that I was a supernatural freak with inexplicable powers. That I was leading a life far too dangerous to date a regular human. He insisted that I shouldn’t worry about “such trivialities” and that I’d find a solution once the right person “showed up”. So, whenever I was around a male representative of the human species, my ghost would start pushing me to “be charming” and go seduce Mr X who was, it goes without saying, “the most gorgeous man in the world”. Everyone was. Even the postman, who was in his fifties and bald. Or the guy working at the grocery shop, nineteen and with a pimple-ridden face.

  That’s why that morning, when he greeted me all excited in front of my library, I didn’t pay attention to him. At all. And I was wrong. Because he was right, that one time. I opened the door, stepped into the room and instantly regretted my simple clothes and my lack of make-up, since the potential client sitting in the library while Terry poured his tea was…well, he was, how shall I put it delicately? HE WAS SEXY AS HELL! I mean, super, SUPER GORGEOUS!

  Tall and muscular, wearing a tight, dark green shirt that showed-off his stunning six-pack. His perfect face was framed by a cascade of black curls, underlining his magnificent cheekbones and magnetic grey eyes. He even had a sexy, mellow voice, using it then and there as he spoke animatedly with Terry, as if it was just any voice.

  He stood when I entered the room and walked towards me, with his hand already extended.

  “Robyn Wise?”

  “In person.”

  “My name is Daniel Kostopoulos, how do you do?”

  “How do you do, Mr Kostopoulos,” the name somehow rang a bell, but I couldn’t really remember why. “Please, sit, and tell me how I can help you.”

  Uncle Terry offered our guest a choice of biscuits from a silver plate and then made his exit “I…I leave you with my niece, Mr Kostopoulos.”

  “My girlfriend is missing and I wonder if you can help me find her,” Mr. Kostopoulos started. “Last week I asked her to marry me, and the following morning, she was gone, without leaving a message, without telling anybody where she was going…I am very worried. She didn’t answer me, she said she needed time to think about my proposal. We’ve been dating for only six months, you see. At first, I thought I had just scared her off, but then, when I realised she wasn’t coming back, nor phoning…”

  “I must interrupt you here, Mr. Kostopoulos,” I said, swallowing a sip of tea. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’m the one to help you. You see, I’m not a private investigator, I am…”

  “A paranormal consultant, I know,” he cut me off. “I am in the right place, Miss Wise. My girlfriend isn’t any girl. She’s missing and she’s a fairy.”

  “His girlfriend is missing child! That’s perfect, this is the perfect setting for a romance!” William’s voice shouted in my head. Unfortunately, this telepathic bond we share allows him to tell me stuff only I can hear, especially when he’s not supposed to, and should just shut up…

  “William, please. This is serious. We’re talking a missing person…” I chided him in my head, then turned to my potential client. “Now, one thing at a time, Mr. Kostopoulos…”

  “Please, call me Daniel.”

  “Daniel. There are a number of things to be taken into account before we…start working together. Let’s start with your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Megan. But it’s not her real name: telling me her real name would give me power over her.”

  He said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  His girlfriend was a fairy. Yes, sure. Fairies are the most secluded magical population on Earth. For a start, they don’t speak English or any other language spoken on Earth. They only speak the Fairy Language. Period. And, as far as I knew, I was the only non-fairy being who speaks said language on our ENTIRE planet. Therefore, I seriously doubted that a) this Megan girl was a fairy, and b) she was a fairy who was not only able to communicate to humans, but also willing to date one.

  So, either she was crazy/lying or he was crazy/lying. Or maybe he was on drugs or something. I had already dealt with people believing they could see paranormal stuff, while in fact they were only having drug-related hallucinations. Mr. Kostopoulos didn’t look like a junkie at all, he actually looked super fit and healthy. Still, maybe he was exposed to some toxin at work, something that affected his brain. It was worth checking it out.

  “All right, maybe he’s crazy, child, but he’s still gorgeous. Think about it…” William suggested in my head.

  “Mr Kostopoulos …” I said out loud, ignoring my evil, manipulative ghost.

  “Daniel.”

  “OK, Daniel. You understand that, before I can consider accepting your case, I' need to know a little more about you. What do you do for a living?”

  “I own a Greek restaurant in Soho. It’s called ‘Sagapò’. You might have heard of it, it’s pretty successful.”

  “I…I have,” I swallowed.

  ‘Sagapò’ means ‘I love you’ in Greek. The name was well chosen as it turned out everyone loved the place. It was one of the five most renewed restaurants in London. It served traditional Greek food made with only the finest quality, organic ingredients. It had a world-wide famous, five-star chef and was usually booked six months in advance.

  That’s why the name Daniel Kostopoulos rang a bell.

  He was the son of a Greek shipping magnate and some 80’s supermodel. He was among the most eligible bachelors in London, maybe in the UK, because of his wealth and good looks. No girl in her right mind would turn down a proposal from him. Hmmm.

  “Daniel, I must ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind. They’re rather unpleasant, I’m afraid. You must understand I do not wish to offend you in any way, this is just my standard protocol.”

  “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

  “Are you, or have you ever been on drugs?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about alcohol? Are you a drinker?”

  “I only drink socially and never more than a couple. I know that many people see me as a sort of dissolute playboy who only owns a restaurant to show the world he has something respectable to do. I assure you that I’m nothing like that. I worked very hard to create my business. And I continue to work very hard. I even manage the restaurant myself. I finish pretty much every day at 4. a.m. Trust me, when you have to deal with that kind of workload every single day, you must keep fit. And remain sober.”

  “I understand,” I nod. “What about any mental…”

  “I’m not crazy,” he cuts me off. “Nor is anyone in my family. Megan isn’t crazy either. She showed me her magic, showed me what she could do. She wanted me to know who she really was.”

  Things were getting weirder and weirder. And, more and more intriguing.

  “Megan gave me something to give you,” he continued, extracting his wallet from his back pocket.

  “Something for me?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Not directly, though. A pigeon delivered it to my house this morning,” he continued, giving me a folded piece of paper.

  The moment I held it in my hand, I could feel it wasn’t any ordinary paper, but something very refined, thick and rough. Possibly taken from an ancient book. Now, fairies can talk to animals and ask them to perform tasks on their behalf, so the pigeon story would sound crazy to any regular person, but was perfectly acceptable to me.

  “As you can see, your address and profession are written on the paper. And, Megan’s signature. I’d recognise it among a thousand others. Last week, she mentioned you for the first time, and she told me to come to you, if something bad happened to her. She wrote something in her language, a message for you, under your address. She assured me you could read it. Can you?”

  I unfolded the paper and glanced at it: below my name and address, there wasn’t just a simple message, but a short letter penned in
flourished longhand. To write it, Megan used what looked like a golden liquid, but was in fact fairy blood. I knew for sure it was fairy blood, because I had witnessed fairies bleeding in the past. Plus, the letter was written in the Fairy Language. There was no doubt a fairy had been involved.

  Surprised and impressed at the same time, I squinted as I approached with reverence the letter on the sheet of paper I was holding. I took a deep breath and started reading it, but not aloud, since I could see my potential client was already agitated enough:

  “Dear Robyn,

  You don’t know me, but I know who you are. I’m a fairy from South America. I came to London searching for a stolen talisman belonging to our people, it’s called “The Eye of Xipe”. Those who stole it captured me. I don’t know where I am, but I’m being held captive underground, somewhere cold and damp. There are no windows, only a small windowsill looking onto an empty pavement. I can hear water flowing, but it’s dirty water. There are other prisoners with me. She…”

  And here the handwriting got confused and the letter stopped. My wild guess was that Megan was running out of time and she needed to give the letter to the pigeon. I looked closer to the message, searching for any tiny clue that could tell me where it had been written. The paper smelled of mold. Was the blood completely dry? Maybe the message was still recent. Almost with reverence, I brushed my fingers over the golden letters. The moment I did, I was no longer in the library. I had been transported somewhere else.

  I now found myself in an elegant private garden, dotted with tables and elegant lanterns. It was clearly a restaurant. I had barely the time to wonder what was happening, when I saw her. The fairy. She was wearing human clothes, a green dress and sandals, but she couldn’t fool me, I could see clearly that she was a young fairy.

  Being there with her was like having a vision, but a weird one, since I could somehow “hear” her thoughts too, as if I could read her mind or something.

  I followed the fairy as she entered the restaurant’s back garden and took a deep breath.