The Fairyland Murders (2 page)

“I
sabella's an ugly duckling, Blue. She doesn't take after our side of the family, that's for sure,” Peyton offered when I asked for a description of his half-toothier niece.

Clayton quickly concurred. “Some call her gangly.” Peyton shot him a look and his twin winced. “Not to her face,” Clayton added. “We wouldn't want to hurt her tender feelings.”

The other twin nodded. “She's kind of sensitive.”

I wasn't quite sure I believed the twins had a relative—at least not one who acknowledged either of them, let alone a kidnapped niece with a fetish for molars.

But if they did, and she
was
kidnapped, the outcome could be very bad. Seven Tooth Fairies had been brutally murdered over the last year by a faceless killer known only as Jack the Tooth Ripper, the last one just over three weeks ago, leaving the Fairies without a dentin collector. Until now. If what the twins said was the truth and their half-fairy niece was next in line to become Her Toothiness, she could be victim number eight. I wondered if they suspected as much. “Who do you think kidnapped her?” I asked.

“That's what we're paying you good money to find out. If you're not up to it . . .” Peyton said, his eyes on the teeny check in my hand. My fingers curled around the paper. “I'll find her.”
Alive or dead
, I added silently. “You can bet on it.”

“Good,” he said with a nod. “Then we'll leave you to it.”

And with that, the twins hefted up their tiny pants and left my office, the stench of cabbage and fairy dust trailing behind them. Tinkles of demonic laughter followed them down the hall and out of the building.

Damn it, the winged devils had duped me.

They sure as hell knew more than they were letting on, and that could only mean one thing. I was in serious trouble. I glared down at my foot with its missing toe.

When would I learn?

 

An hour later I had downed half a bottle of whiskey, for purely medicinal purposes. Who knew what sort of diseases those two carried? And then I picked up the phone, dialing a number I'd sworn never to call again, a number that often haunted my nightmares.

Oddly enough, the first three digits were 666, the mark of the beast, which fit Little Bo Peep to a T. “What?” Bo's overly sweet voice answered.

“Hey, Bo,” I said. “It's Blue.”

“Blue?”

“Blue Reynolds.”

“That name doesn't ring any bells.”

“Bo.” I rubbed my fingers over the bridge of my nose. “I said I was sorry about . . . well, you know.”

“Sorry?” Her voice rose two octaves, nearly blowing out my eardrum. “You electrocuted my entire flock. I hire you to find them and next thing I know, the neighbors are enjoying a nice rack of lamb. From my sheep!”

I grinned. Add enough BBQ sauce and the damn things could've passed for tough chicken.

But Bo wasn't finished listing my multitude of sins. “And then after we . . . you never called.” She blew out a harsh breath, as if deflating under the weight of my failings. “What do you want, Blue?”

“I have some information . . .”

“What makes you think I care?”

I bit my tongue. “Have you heard anything about the Fairies lately?” Little Bo Peep, for all her talk of tending her sheep, spent an abundance of time tending another flock, one filled with rich politicians and gangsters. She knew exactly where the bodies were buried because she'd put them there.

She snorted. “Stay away from those winged bastards. Fairies aren't the forgiving kind. They'll cut your bluish heart out.” As opposed to Bo Peep, who, a year ago, had hired two thugs to kneecap me in a dark alley. Since I walked without a limp, Bo held more than a wee grudge.

I sighed. “Too late.”

“What's going on?” she asked, sounding interested for the first time since our conversation started. “Do you know something about Jack the Tooth Ripper?”

As much as Bo wanted revenge for her fried flock, she wasn't stupid and, more importantly, at heart she was a businesswoman. And any leverage when dealing with the Fairy Council would pay dividends. And the biggest influence would be catching the fairy serial killer.

“I might know a little something about something,” I lied, reeling her in. “But there's a price.”

Her sigh echoed through the line. “I expected no less from you.” She paused for a moment. “Let's get it over with. How much?”

I thought of my cramped office, my even smaller apartment, and the large hole in my sock, not to mention the nearly empty bottle of whiskey in my bottom drawer. It would be so easy just to name a price, to sell what little untarnished piece of my soul still existed. But I needed something else more. Something I'd longed to have for over two decades. Answers. The kind kept locked in dark places. Places a guy like me could never access, not without the right sort of pressure. “You know what I want, Bo.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “You ask too much.”

“I ask for what I'm due.” My fingers gripped the phone tighter. Sparks flew from my fingertips, melting the plastic beneath. “No more. No less.”

“Nothing good will come from it, Blue. Just let it go.”

“I can't.”

“Don't I know it.” She hung up, leaving me holding a half-charred receiver to my ear. I cursed, throwing the phone against the wall. A large phone-shaped chunk of plaster fell to the floor. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm the rush of violence and heat filling my body. I hated the way I'd let her get to me. But she had information I needed. More than needed.

What she knew could possibly save me from my electrified curse, a curse I'd had since birth without any clue how or why it happened.

If only I could find a way to pry the information out of her.

I picked up a broken pencil from my desk and tapped my chin with it, replaying our conversation. Bo Peep kept her cards and her sheep close to her abundant chest, but she had let something slip.

Or rather she
hadn't
let it slip.

Apparently, no one besides the twins either knew or cared about the kidnapping of a half-human, half–Tooth Fairy. That meant one thing: Either the twins were setting me up, a definite possibility knowing those two, or the Tooth Fairy's kidnapping was being kept hush-hush for a bigger reason.

Not that my speculation mattered one way or another. If the Tooth Fairy were still alive, I would bring her back to the tiny arms of her loving family.

Or die trying.

Scratch that.

The twins' check didn't cover funeral expenses.

O
nce my anger receded after my talk with Bo Peep, I pulled out my laptop, dusted it off, and hacked into New Never City's records, searching any files for Isabella Davis, better known in certain winged circles as the Tooth Fairy-to-be.

According to New Never City, Isabella Davis was twenty-six years old, five feet tall, and until a year ago had lived uptown, working at a public relations firm.

No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. Kind of surprising since the fairies I knew had rap sheets longer than their bodies.

No current address on file.

Not for over a year.

It was almost as if Isabella Davis were a ghost, and a lame one at that. I heaved a sigh. The sooner I solved this case the better; then I could go back to not solving my one and only other case. Yep, I was living the dream.

Ignoring the niggling feeling in the back of my brain that something didn't add up, I checked Isabella's credit report. She'd made only one purchase in the last year. An eight-hundred-dollar purchase charged on the first of this month.

For rent, I'd bet my life. I picked up my charred phone, dialed the credit card company, and waded through mechanical voice prompts until a squeaky, high-pitched, real-live human picked up.

“Your business is important to us. How can I help you today?” she asked with an affected sincerity that didn't mask the boredom in her tone.

I cleared my throat. “Yes. Hello . . . I was looking at my bill and noticed a charge for eight hundred dollars. I'm not sure what it's for. Can you look it up?” I paused, infusing my own voice with artificial honesty. “Please?”

Without the tiniest bit of suspicion, which explained the growing rash of identity thefts around the city, she rattled off the name of a corporation.

Never Never Inc.

A quick Google and two phone calls to the corporate Never Never headquarters later, I had an address for a single-room apartment in one of the worst sections of Fairyland rented under the name I. Miller. Not really original, but fairies weren't known for their creativity. Or wit. Or general hygiene.

Except when it came to their teeth.

Those winged guys loved to floss.

Shaking my head, I jotted down the apartment address for I. Miller. It was as good a place to start my search as any. Hell, maybe I'd get lucky and find Her Toothiness inside and hung over after a week-long bender.

Like most of my other clientele.

I grabbed my jacket, locked my office (not that I had anything worth stealing), pulled on a pair of leather gloves—double layered not only for my pleasure but mostly so I didn't accidently shock innocent strangers on the street—and jumped on the Fey Train for a quick trip downtown.

I. Miller was in for some blue-haired company.

 

When I arrived at the address for I. Miller, I double-checked the street number. The only building still standing in the rundown block was a flophouse above a fairy-dust shooting gallery. Graffiti from the local Big Bad Wolves gang filled the brick exterior, warning anyone in the immediate area of the dangers of huffing or puffing other gangs' wares.

This was no place for a half fairy, especially one as ugly, gangly, and dull as Isabella Davis supposedly was. Something was very wrong. What made a seemingly happy half human, half fairy go from uptown public relations to seedy decaying downtown in less than a year? What was she hiding from?

Or more importantly,
who
was she hiding from?

Not my problem, I reminded myself. The twins had hired me to find her. That was all. Once I did, the job was done. I'd move on to another case, if I ever got another one, and one day I'd find what I sought most. Sadly, from the moment I'd entered the flophouse, what I wanted more than anything was a good hot shower.

Holding my breath, I walked up three flights of urine-stained stairs until I reached a flimsy door marked with a small brass plaque labeled 307. The very same room rented to the mysterious I. Miller. I knocked on the door. No answer. Not a great sign when trying to find the person living there.

Taking a set of lock picks from my jacket pocket, I scanned the corridor. The buzz of a television down the hall tuned to a reality show where desperate people do desperate things like date any idiot with a pilot's license for their fifteen minutes of fame filled the corridor.

What was the kingdom coming to?

I pressed the pick into the flimsy lock, and less than thirty seconds later, I was inside Isabella Davis's room. A room surprisingly empty for a Tooth Fairy-to-be.

The bed looked as if it was untouched. No makeup or toiletries lined the bathroom sink. Not even a toothbrush. The one and only tool, besides floss, a Tooth Fairy-in-waiting would never leave home without.

I closed my eyes, then slowly opened them, hoping for a new perspective. The place still appeared unlived in with the exception of the cockroaches crawling along the floorboards.

But the faint burn of fairy dust in my throat told me I was in the right place. Isabella Davis had been here. And recently, by the size of the contact high I was getting off the dust. So where was she now? And more importantly, had she left of her own accord?

I sucked in a deep breath, enjoying the buzz as the fairy dust rushed through my system and went to work. Somewhere in the seemingly unlived-in room was a clue. I just had to find it, which was why I got paid the big bucks. No sticks or stones left unturned and all that shit.

The sun began to set, lengthening the shadows circling the room. I caught a faint movement, but by the time I spun in a half circle, only growing darkness greeted me.

Since I hadn't brought a flashlight, I pulled off my gloves and rubbed my hands together, generating a flicker of blue sparks. The flashes cut the gloom enough to continue my search. Meticulously, I examined the room, pulling out every drawer and checking in every crevice.

I found a small framed photograph of a smiling woman on the nightstand by the bed, her hair tucked under a baseball cap that hung low, covering the top half of her face. This had to be Isabella, or at least what I could make out of her.

I pulled the picture from the frame, studying it closer. Isabella Davis was cute, in that all-American-girl, no-makeup way. Not my style, but some guys went for the girl-next-door type. Her looks aside, one thing was definitely missing from the photograph: a nice pair of wings. Pretty standard equipment for a fairy, especially the Tooth Fairy.

What the hell was going on? Was the woman in the photo not Isabella Davis? Unsure of anything but my growing uneasiness with the twins' “case,” I pocketed the picture and returned to my quest for clues.

Frustration filled me as I finished my inspection without a single clue as to what had happened to Isabella Davis.

I was a PI, damn it.

A fairly good one at times.

Really, how hard could it be to find the Tooth Fairy?

Hell, any kid with a loose tooth had a better track record than me. Just as I was about to give up, a tissue in the trash drew my attention. A glob of still-wet nail polish lay smeared across the Kleenex. My heart beat faster at the sight. This told me two things; first, I needed to get laid, and soon, before chewed gum started to turn me on.

And, more importantly, Isabella had left the flophouse under her own power. No one, at least up until a few hours ago, had had her under their control. Because let's face it: when kidnapping a chick with wings, one didn't wait for her to finish doing her nails. Were the twins wrong about the kidnapping?

Taking a last deep, fairy dust–filled breath, I headed for the door. As I opened it, something tucked between the wall and bed caught my notice. It gleamed like a neon sign flashing the words:
Dumbass, this is a clue.

I picked up the clue, which turned out to be a napkin from Pixie's, a local fairy dive bar a few blocks away. “Got you,” I said as more shadows filled the room.