The Fairyland Murders (6 page)

A
bout an hour later, with only a few minor glitches—namely a run-in with a Zen-spouting troll on the sidewalk begging for change and a brief altercation with an overcompensating unicorn—Izzy and I arrived at my apartment building. It was a shabby and nondescript brownstone on the wrong side of the tracks known as Greenwitch Village.

My neighbors were an eclectic mix of down-on-their-luck princes, fairy-dust addicts, and other assorted commoners commonly referred to as riffraff.

I fit right in.

Up until two years ago the neighborhood had catered to Old Mother Hubbard types. Then, of course, I moved in, and after a rash of destructive lightning strikes, the mothers moved out and the degenerates replaced them.

I personally blamed the New Never Knick Knack Paddy Whacks. They'd been on a steady losing streak since the season started, which burned me up. Every couple of days it was the same old story, Whacks down by five with two seconds to go, and me with the power to toss bolts of electricity across a city block.

You do the math.

Thankfully, the season had ended last week.

Without bloodshed.

Or any major fires.

Isabella licked her lips, as if uncertain about the wisdom of sharing quarters with a lightning rod.

“You're safe. I promise.” I motioned her forward, careful not to touch her as we climbed four flights of rickety stairs. Yellow peeling paint covered the walls, at odds with the beautiful pink-winged woman in front of me.

I tried to ignore the sway of her hips as she climbed the steps, but the temptation was too much to resist. The torn black habit molded to her thighs, showing off every toned inch of her backside.

When I couldn't take the exquisite torture anymore, I said, “Clayton and Peyton don't know where I live so no one will find you here.”

On my rental application for my office space, I'd listed my residence as the Electric Company. Those two winged freaks never raised an eyebrow. “You'll be safe,” I added inanely.

Her stance remained rigid, but she no longer looked like she'd bolt at any moment. When we reached my front door I yanked my key from my pocket and slipped it into the lock.

Once it opened with a small groan, I checked my security system, which consisted of two rows of Peter Piper Pickle cans strung across the threshold and a single blue hair strategically placed on the handle of the door.

I walked inside, careful to wipe my feet on the electrostatic mat covering the threshold. It crackled with static, illuminating the room like the Fourth of July. Every single light in my apartment, as well as a good portion of the apartments below, exploded with light.

“Wipe your feet.” I motioned for Izzy to enter. She did but with some hesitancy, her face pale in the bright light. She stood on the electrostatic mat for a few seconds, all but naked underneath my leather jacket. Don't think about it, I ordered my brain. But I did anyway. A lot.

Her gaze explored every inch of my apartment, from my lopsided, stained sofa to my milk-crate bookcase filled with electrician manuals and worn physics books. A white curtain hung across the exposed bedroom and dirty clothes lay scattered over the couch, coffee table, and single chair.

I shrugged. “Maid's on vacation.”

“I can see that.”

While I'd expected disgust to appear on her beautiful face, when her eyes finally met mine, she looked relaxed, at peace. My suspicion immediately rose. What was going on? Why the sudden mood swings? Was Izzy one of those split-fairy personalities? “Before we bunk down,” I said, “promise I won't wake up being roasted over a spit or in a bathtub with only one kidney.”

A frown marred her forehead, but before she could answer a knock sounded at my door. I glanced through the peephole and rolled my eyes. Gizelle, my nosy next-door neighbor, gave me a small finger wave from the other side. With a sigh, I opened the door. “Hi, G. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Gizelle held up a pair of Levi's much too small to fit me and a sweatshirt. Odd, since in my six months of living next door to her, I'd never seen her wear anything but a gauzy white dress that made her look like Glinda the Good Witch after a drunken night in Munchkinland.

“I've brought you some clothes.” She pushed past me and stopped in front of Izzy. She held up the clothes, as if measuring them against the fairy. “I think they'll fit.”

“How'd you—” Izzy frowned, her gaze bouncing between Gizelle and me. The look she shot me suggested I'd ratted her location out.

I quickly stepped in front of the older woman before my suspicious fairy overreacted. “Gizelle's my neighbor.” I paused, hoping to avoid further explanation. I knew I'd failed when Izzy folded her arms across her chest. Wincing, I added, “And one hell of a soothsayer.”

“I prefer psychic.” Gizelle motioned to the red bindi dot on her forehead, where her invisible third eye rested. It looked much as if a kindergartener had drawn it on with a crayon. “I had a vision.”

Blah. I had visions too. Usually they ended with me naked in a vat of Jell-O with a group of maids a milking, but I'm sure neither Izzy nor Gizelle wanted to hear about those.

Isabella grabbed the clothes from Gizelle's hand and pushed the psychic toward the door. “Thanks. Nice meeting you.”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by Izzy's sudden rudeness.

Gizelle froze, as if entering a trance, when Izzy's fingers touched her. The older woman began whispering in some exotic tongue that sounded a hell of a lot like a yowling cat. Her vague, screechy chants impressed no one. I'd seen her shtick before—lots of mysterious incantations and a fortune cookie–like message from beyond. Like that was going to do me any good. If the dead were so eager to speak, why not send a text like the rest of the world?

“I see lies.” Gizelle rubbed her forehead, smearing her dot.

I glanced at Izzy.

But Gizelle wasn't done. “And wings.”

My eyebrow arched.

“And . . .” Gizelle frowned.

“Well,” Izzy pressed her middle finger into Gizelle's third eye and shoved her through the open door, “this has been fun. Have a good night.”

“But . . . I—”

Izzy slammed the door on Gizelle's words and whirled to confront me. “I'm starving. Got anything to eat?”

“Want to explain what that was about?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“But I'd really like to know.”

Her sigh would've felled a lesser man. Good thing I was made of tougher stuff. She smiled at me, her teeth bared. I winced, but she didn't bite. Instead, her grin widened. “I don't want to know my future and I think it's damn rude when someone else thinks I should.”

“So you tossing her out had nothing to do with lies or wings?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you believe the future is set?” She rubbed her hands together. “That a prophecy of some kind rules our every action?”

Not really, but I wanted to know where she planned to go with this. “Sure. Why not?”

“Idiot,” she whispered under her breath loud enough for my highly trained investigative ears to pick up. “I'm guessing you believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too?”

“As a matter of fact I'm the president of their fan clubs. We're accepting new members.” I grinned. “Of course the application process is a bitch.”

“Everything's a joke to you, huh?”

Not everything, but I wasn't about to share my darkest secrets with a fairy I'd met less than five hours earlier. “Forget the fate talk and I'll make us something to eat. Do you like fish sticks?”

“As long as it's not that fish.” Izzy motioned to the fish tank on the center of my coffee table. My pet goldfish, Felix, who I'd won at a kingdom faire when I was eight, lay upside down in the tank, his tiny fish fins unmoving.

Again.

“Damn.” I threw off my gloves, crossed the room, and stabbed my finger into the cold water. The water in the tank crackled with electricity. Felix flew into the air, reanimated for the sixty-seventh time since our relationship began.

He landed facedown on the crusty carpet, his fins swimming furiously against the plush fabric. Unable to do anything to save him with my gloves off, I watched my poor fish try to stroke his way back home.

Izzy ran over, scooped Felix into her hand, and dropped him into a half-empty cup resting on my couch. Felix kicked once, then twice before sinking to the bottom of the glass. “What's wrong with him?” She frowned at the drowning fish.

“That's not water.” I picked up the glass and carefully dumped Felix into his tank. “It's vodka.”

“Oh.”

Felix perked up a bit, swimming a few drunken laps around his tank. “Great,” I said. “I now have the only goldfish in town that needs AA.”

“Sorry.”

“Tell that to Felix in the morning, when his bug eyes are red and his mouth tastes like sushi.”

“Speaking of morning,” she said, “what is the plan?”

“Plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't play dumb. The sooner we figure out who tried to kill me tonight the sooner I can go back to having a real life. I'm guessing the twins are a good place to start. So, I repeat, what's the plan?”

While she had a point, dragging her to the twins' place sounded like a bad idea. If they were behind the assassination attempt tonight, showing up with Izzy at my side would be like serving her up as a main course at the Mad Hatter's tea party.

She tapped her finger to her lip. “I think we should hit Clayton and Peyton bright and earlier, before they get a chance to dust off.”

Every fairy, the Tooth Fairy included, spent a good portion of their morning hours shaking fairy dust from their crevices. Pounds of the stuff accumulated on them during the REM cycle of sleep, making it impossible to do much of anything until they dusted off. I had to give it to Her soon-to-be Toothiness. Early morning would be the perfect time to strike, catching Clayton and Peyton unaware. “Not a bad idea.” I rubbed my blue goatee. “But I have a better one.”

She smiled encouragingly.

“You stick to the girlie stuff like baking cookies and leave the investigating to me.” Her eyes blazed, turning almost violet in color. But I continued on. “I'm good at what I do. Trust me, in a few days the bad fairies will be smitten and you'll be back to doing whatever it is soon-to-be Tooth Fairies do on their nights off.” I shot her a wicked grin. “I'm guessing it involves dental floss and a safe word.”

M
y security system woke me at seven in the morning. “Damn it,” I muttered, reaching for my really big gun, which lay tucked under my pillow. The cold metal offered some comfort after too little sleep and a wealth of surreal dreams, all featuring a certain redheaded fairy with bulletproof wings.

I pushed open the shower curtain that hung across my bedroom doorway, aiming the gun in the general direction of the front door. Nobody was there. However, Peter Piper Pickle cans were scattered across the floor, some oozing year-old pickle juice into the burn holes in my carpet.

“Sorry about that,” Izzy said, poking her head out of my kitchen. “I went out to grab a coffee and knocked the cans over when I came back in.”

I raised an eyebrow, not sure if I believed her. “Coffee?” I glanced at the coffee table with a surprising amount of hope. Hope turned to annoyance when the only thing I saw on the table was a fish tank with a green-gilled goldfish inside. “Listen,” I began, “you don't leave this place without me. Got it?”

“Fine.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and a few seconds later my sink gurgled. Buttoning my jeans, I followed her into the kitchen. She stood at the sink, pouring the last dregs of an extra-large coffee with the name BLUE emblazoned on the side down the drain. When she finished pouring she snatched another, smaller cup of coffee from the countertop and took a sip.

My stomach growled with caffeinated desire.

“Yum.” She licked her plump lips. “Decaf. You might wanna try it sometime. Then you won't be so cranky in the morning.”

Closing my eyes, I counted to ten before addressing this fairy pain in the ass. “I'm not cranky,” I wailed like a four-year-old. “I'm trying to keep you alive.”

“And I appreciate it.” She fluttered her long auburn lashes at me. “Really. I do.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And now that you're up . . .” Her face warmed, whether from excitement or the coffee I didn't know. “I'll get changed and we can stop off at the rectory to get my things and then pay the twins a visit.”

“You can't come with me.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“It's too dangerous.”

Her other flame-colored brow rose, matching the first.

We stood like that in silence for a few minutes. Neither speaking nor moving an inch. I would never give in. I was Blue Reynolds, damn it. She would do what I said, when I said, and like it.

Two minutes later, when a cramp started in my left calf, I snatched the coffee from her hand and drank it in one gulp. “Fine. You'll do exactly as I say.”

“Of course.”

Yeah, right. “And you'll keep quiet.”

“Anything else?” Her eyes grew a darker shade of sapphire. “Shall I walk ten paces behind you? Spit shine your boots? Maybe toss rose petals at your big, dumb feet? Whatever your wish, I am here only to serve.”

I glanced down at my bare feet. “Glad we're on the same page.”

 

About an hour later, after we picked up Izzy's suitcase from the church, I knocked on the door to the twins' apartment. “Clayton? Peyton?” I called out. No answer. Izzy stood behind me. Her warm, innately minty breath tickled the back of my neck. It was both erotic and distracting; neither helped our plight.

I knocked again, this time with more force.

Still no answer.

Those two winged pests were inside; I could feel it. Feel their devilish glee. I kicked the door for good measure. “Damn fairies,” I said.

“Hey—”

I grinned. “No offense.”

“A lot taken.” She closed her eyes and then slowly opened them, as if trying to hold her temper. “So what now? Do we sit here and wait for them to come home? Or leave a note?”

I chuckled. “A note? What's it going to say? ‘Please call at your earliest convenience as Blue plans to break your tiny kneecaps'?”

She laughed. “Probably not the best approach. So what's your idea?”

“It's a good one.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Is it now?”

I glanced up and down the empty hallway before lifting my foot high enough to kick the flimsy lock on the twins' door. My boot struck wood with a loud bang. The door crashed inward, exploding from its hinges and landing on the floor.

Ever the gentleman, after I quickly scanned the room for danger, I bent at the waist, motioning her inside. “After you.”

She smiled, stepping inside the apartment. I followed behind, my forehead scraping along the five-foot-high ceiling, removing a few layers of skin.

I surveyed the tiny apartment. The single room was trashed. Furniture lay broken and scattered across the living area. Bits of glass and tiny ceramic fairy figurines crunched underfoot.

“Clayton?” I searched the room, seeing nothing but violence and destruction. Either the twins hated housecleaning or the bad guys had worked overtime this morning. One never knew with them. “Peyton?”

Isabella inhaled sharply. “Oh my God.”

I spun to face whatever had drawn her attention and swallowed my own girlish cry. A piece of green wing, the same shade as the twins' wings, poked out from the refrigerator door. I pulled my really big gun and slowly maneuvered my way toward the fridge.

“Don't open it,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Go stand by the front door,” I ordered, and without checking to see if she complied, I jerked the refrigerator door open. A piece of what looked to be a strap-on pair of glittery wings, the same kind I'd seen at Barry's shop, fluttered to the floor, along with a cascade of bruised vegetables and a nearly empty bottle of ketchup that oozed a river of red.

“Is that blood?” she whispered from across the room, her gaze locked on the red puddle growing at my feet.

“No. Ketchup,” I said, lifting the fake wing up to show her. “What do you make of this?”

Slowly she came forward, her eyes narrowing on the green bit of glittery wing. “I don't understand. Why would the twins have fake wings?”

I scratched my chin, my gaze focused on her face, then dropping to the broken wing. “Why don't you tell me?”

“What?”

I spun the torn wing around, tearing a tag from the back. A tag that read B
ARRY'S
C
OSTUME
S
HOP.
The same shop where Izzy had purchased her nun's habit. Too much of a coincidence for my peace of mind. “It's time to come clean. What's going on here, Isabella?”

Her lips pinched into a frown, which oddly did nothing to detract from her beauty. “You think I'm somehow involved in this . . . whatever this is? Are you crazy? I've been hiding from the twins and the rest of the Fairy Council for weeks. Why would I do that if I was in on whatever this is?” She gestured about the battered apartment.

Not sure if I could trust her let alone believe a word coming from her glossy lips, I shoved the fake bit of wing into my pocket. Then I began a systematic search, sifting through every cupboard, drawer, and cookie jar, looking for some clue as to the twins' whereabouts or what those two winged devils were up to. Something didn't smell right and, surprisingly, it wasn't the twins' cabbagey aroma.

I did find a suspicious splatter of blood in the bathroom shower but no other sign of foul play. Maybe one of the boys cut himself while shaving. Izzy stood behind me, staring at the bloody tile. “Do you think they're . . .”

“Dead?” I gave a small laugh without much humor. “Probably.”

“But why?”

“I'm not sure, but I have a theory.”

“I'm all atwitter.”

I grinned at her sarcastic tone. “You've met the two of them, right?”