Time Rip

 Time Rip

Never piss off a pixie. They have vicious tempers and an arsenal of spells at the tips of their tiny fingers. Like the diabolical Cat-In-The-Hat spell, which turns its victim into a character from Dr. Seuss--
shudder
--unless the victim already happens to be of the feline persuasion. In which case, the pixified person will morph into another character.
Any
character from stage, screen, or literature, and there's no way of predicting what fictional persona might emerge. It's a real wild card, that spell.

Speaking of which--cards, I mean--that's how this mess started. My mate Hunter and I were playing stud poker with Toby Buttercup, the pixie in question, and Hunter decided Toby was cheating. Well, Toby
was
cheating--pixies often do--but only an idiot or someone with balls the size of Hunter's would dare accuse them of it.

I did warn him.

::Let the wookie win,::
I told Hunter telepathically.
Star Wars
code for "You're treading on thin ice, lover." Or
Starr Wars
? That's my surname--Starr--and dealing with Hunter is always a war. My first name is Sylver, but never mind that now.

Did he listen?

Does he ever?

Hell, Hunter's a cat-shifter, and like all members of his breed, suffers from an inflated ego and the feeling of invincibility that comes with such a malady. Though "suffer" is the wrong word, I suppose. He enjoys every minute of it. All cats do. No wonder they have nine lives. They need them.

In Hunter's case, however, he carries the concept of Superiority Complex to brash new extremes. Not without reason, unfortunately. And not without encouragement from a multitude of fans--very few of whom know the real Hunter Steele. Very few people, period, know there's a secret subculture of magical creatures who live hidden in their midst. And the magical creatures want to keep it that way.

Thus, those of us who can pass for normal humans, do so--depending on your definition of normal. Mine is quite broad and utterly unrepentant. For instance, tonight I'm clad as Lillie Langtry. Why? Because my Cleopatra costume is at the cleaners. The point being, I'm a silver-blond, devilish cute drag queen, and proud to flaunt it, but I draw the line at proclaiming I'm a werewolf, too.

Likewise, in public, Hunter plays the business tycoon, adored by the masses for his looks and largesse--a dark haired Adonis who funds charities the world over. "The Billionaire with a Heart," the media calls him.

If they only knew.

In private, the corporate king is
Catman
, the bad-ass founder and chief of Earth Guardians, Inc., a clandestine task force sworn to protect our planet by fair means or foul. Picture the illicit love-child of James Bond and Attila the Hun, and that's Hunter for you. His heart may be big, but so is his head. When he yells "Jump," you're supposed to answer "How high?" Me, I'm more inclined to say, "You want fries with that order, pussycat?" God knows someone's gotta try to keep him humble.

Although right now I'm just trying to keep him out of the line of fairy fire.

"Duck!" I shove him sideways out of his chair as Toby Buttercup hurls a glowing hex-ball across the card table.

"Hold still, blast ye!" Toby squeaks, and takes to the air on yellow moth wings.

I whip out the fly swatter I hid under my Victorian style skirts before the poker game began. When playing with feys, be prepared for anything, is my motto. The only way to pacify an irate pixie is to stun him, then cork him in a bottle until he cools off.

Slap!

Damn, I missed him.

And he's winding up for another pitch.

"You're a big help," Hunter bitches, and springs to his feet. "Give me that!" He grabs for the fly swatter.

I grab for him.

Splat!

The second hex-ball hits him square in the forehead.

"Bullseye! 'Tis a pity I'll not be around to see what ye turn into," Toby chortles, and disappears.

Or, rather, we do--
poof
--a split second of blind nothing, then the world reforms. I blink fairy dust out of my eyes and gaze about.

Shit.

"Toto," I mutter, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

Not that we were in Kansas before; we were in our house in Massachusetts. And Hunter isn't Toto, at least. He now looks a lot like Basil Rathbone, in fact. And the old-world décor of the foyer we're standing in matches my Victorian gown.

I hate pixies.

It's too bad, really, Hunter isn't Toto. Canines, I understand, after all. Besides which, I wouldn't mind dressing as Dorothy. But, oh no, it's just my luck he's been hexed into someone as enigmatic as his real self. Another crime fighter with a superiority complex, wouldn't you know. Even his initials, H. S., are the same, albeit inverted.

If we ever see home again, I'm gonna flatten Toby Buttercup.

The character beside me stands as tall as Hunter, but leaner in build and swaying slightly. Spell-shocked. A dazed look clouds his eyes. Gray eyes, I notice. Cool gray, where before they were hot amber. Other than that he really hasn't changed much, just a bit thinner and paler. But still handsome, still smart, obviously powerful and predatory. Still a hunter if not exactly Hunter himself.

And, yep, he's still sexy as sin.

And still mine!

Wolves mate for life, damn it. Pixie magic may be potent and perverse, but no magic is stronger than love. There's got to be a way to reverse the hex. I just have to find it. I can do that.

I hope.

Hey, I wonder what would happen if I laid a lip-lock on him. Other spells have been broken by a kiss. Worth a try, right? What have I got to lose?

"Your teeth," he says, snapping alert.

And answering an unspoken thought?

"Don't forget I'm an expert at fisticuffs," he adds by way of warning.

My heart skips a beat.

"You're an expert at telepathy, too," I tell him. At least his former self was. All shifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter was better at it than most. If he's retained that ability, maybe he's not too far gone yet. Maybe I can reel him back with words, reason. "You just read my mind, didn't you?"

I peer into his eyes, looking for the man I married, searching the gray for a glint of amber--and getting a black stare in return.

"Nonsense," he scoffs. "I read your posture, the gleam in your gaze, that's all. To the keen observer, small details reveal much. I can deduce your thoughts from your demeanor. A kiss, indeed. Hah. Don't let that disguise go to your head, old friend. It's but a ruse. Bait. There's no need to practice your planned act on
me.
Save it for the quarry."

Who is?

He must think he's working on a case. Figures. His current persona wouldn't be complete without a mystery to solve. All business, he pulls a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, then kneels to examine the Persian carpet under our feet.

Dare I ask why?

Oh hell, I've made it this far. In for a penny, in for a pound...

I lean over him. "Mind telling me what you expect to find?"

"Clues."

Duh.

"Yeah, I figured that much, ace. Clues to
what
?"

"I'll know when I find them, of course."

Of course. Silly me.

I lean lower. "So, um, let me get this straight. You're investigating a crime, but you don't know what the crime is?"

"Specifically, no, but logic dictates it's a foul one."

"If you say so."

"I know so. There's obviously dirty work afoot, or we wouldn't be here, would we?"

Is there a psychiatrist in the house? How about an exorcist?

Sigh.

Actually, I understand his point, though I doubt he does. Having been transformed into a fictional character, he
has
to have a story to act out. He can't function without one. So he's making it up as he goes along, but doesn't realize he is. It's part of the enchantment. He's just following his bewitched nose. And I have no choice at the moment but to follow his lead.

At least he's assigned me a role in his improvised drama. He's even invented a reason for my costume--wrong, but one that works for him in his present state. He's fishing for trouble, and I'm his bait, apparently. God help us all when he decides who we're trying to catch.

"I hope you remembered to bring your service revolver," he says, crawling around on hands and knees, studying carpet lint.

I study the way his ass wiggles.

Groan.

"It's hidden under my skirts," I adlib.

Well, something's hidden there, and it's always loaded and ready for action where he's concerned. Whoever, whatever he is, I can't help loving him, even though normally we fight like cats and dogs. Big surprise. It's not easy for either of us being married to our polar opposite, but there's no escaping it. Werewolves believe that for everyone there is a predestined life-mate. By some curious quirk of fate, he's mine.

"Good man." He rises to his feet and turns to face me. "I trust you also have your notebook. One never knows, this could be my greatest case yet. You'll want to keep a careful account, I'm sure, so you can write it up later."

Lucky me.

I tap my head with a forefinger. "I'm taking notes up here."

"Excellent. I can always count on you, can't I?"

"Always." And that at least is no lie.

Y'know, I wasn't certain before who, precisely, he thinks I am, but there's no doubt now, is there? The role he's assigned me is a prominent one. How touching.

A quick grin warms the cool gray of his gaze--warms me. I hate to admit it, but he's kind of fun this way, sharp as a razor but without the sharp temper of his former self. Hunter and I seldom saw eye to eye--canines and felines rarely do--we bickered as a matter of course. By comparison, his new character seems less abrasive, more civil, don't you think? If he were gay, I might possibly consider keeping him. But I'm pretty sure our relationship now, though close, is purely platonic. What a waste.

I follow his eyes as he scans our surroundings. The elegant entrance chamber of what appears to be a large, rich townhouse--in Victorian England, I assume. London probably. A logical deduction, right? All carved wood paneling and heavy drapes lit by oil lamps on marble-topped tables. His gaze pauses on a stairway at the far end of the foyer, then returns to mine.

"I've determined this is a house of ill repute," he announces. "A den of iniquity for men of high standing and low morals."

Marvy. I sniff the air and have to agree. Can't say I'm surprised either. I know a bit about history. More than a bit, but don't spread it around. It would ruin my image if word leaked out I'm a closet bookworm with a longtime love of nineteenth-century literature and the culture that produced it.

The Victorians were a stuffy, staid bunch, but only on the surface. Behind closed doors, they did a lot. There's a lot doing here. A sinister stink permeates the place. My werewolf nose, keen as a bloodhound's, separates the individual scents. Fancy booze and tobacco... the pungent smell of sex... and a sickly sweet odor I can't quite identify, but it makes my scalp tingle, sets off warning bells within me.

A drug?

My companion sucks in a deep breath, then coughs, scowls. "Opium smoke. How crass. I prefer cocaine myself, a seven-percent solution."