Dragon Hoard and Other Tales of Faerie

Faerie Travel

  Amy sat on the curb and scowled at her once-pink sneakers. They were grubby—just like the rest of her. She could barely keep her eyes open, but there was no safe place to rest. No one she could trust to watch her back so she could sleep. And she’d never been this hungry in her life.

  “Hey!”

  It took a moment to realize the man was talking to her. Amy raised her head and brushed her brunette hair out of her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Some gal gave me a box of donuts. You can have one if you like.” The thirty-ish man held out a white box with a cellophane window. He was none too clean, but neither was she.

  Watching him closely, wary of tricks, Amy edged closer and pulled out a powdered sugar donut. She’d never cared for them before, but now they were beyond praise. She had to force herself to chew and not just swallow each bite whole.

  “Here, you can finish them,” the man said. There was one left in the box.

  Amy ate everything, including the crumbs and powdered sugar at the bottom. Now that her stomach wasn’t demanding all her attention, she took stock of her surroundings. They weren’t promising.

  Dirty high-rise buildings, billboards, people in suits walking across the littered ground. None of them spared a glance at the unfortunates who sat with downcast expressions and the odd cardboard sign. Only yesterday morning Amy had belonged to people with suits. Now she was someone else. The kind of person other people looked away from.

  She met the man’s eyes; they were blue under the shock of greasy hair. “Uh, is there a…church, or maybe a place that gives out food?” she asked.

  He cast her an assessing glance. “You eighteen?”

  Amy raised her chin. “Yes.”

  He grinned. “Liar. Any of those places get a hold of you, and it’s back to your parents.”

  Amy shuddered. Anything but that. There was no way she could go back home.

  “Is there anyplace I could get work?” she asked, without any real hope. You needed an address, a phone, a social security number that didn’t belong to a runaway. She didn’t have any of those things. She’d bolted straight out the front door. There hadn’t even been time to get her purse.

  “I got a job for you, if you’re not too proud to take it,” the guy said.

  She cast him a disgusted glance and got to her feet. It seemed like everyone wanted her for the same thing.

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking,” he said, and Amy gave him a longer look. Grimy fingernails, dirty clothes, a hole in one shoe—he didn’t look like he had any cash to spare. A Budweiser can in his left hand showed what he’d spent his last windfall on.

  “Then what is it?” she asked, steeling herself. She couldn’t afford to pass up even the chance of work.

  “Let’s take a walk in the park, and I’ll show you,” he said, getting to his feet. He had to steady himself against the lamp post, although he could be faking that. Still, he wasn’t much bigger than she was, and one of his shoes flapped when he took an uncertain step. If nothing else, she could outrun him.

  Amy walked on the man’s right, a little behind where she could keep an eye on him. But he made no threatening moves. A duck landed on the pond as they arrived, quacking about something which apparently interested the other ducks not at all. A mother with two children tossed pieces of bread on the pond. Amy wished she could ask for a slice, but the grimy figure in front of her pushed on.

  He stopped by a row of bushes on the far side of the pond. Amy looked around, but there didn’t seem to be anything else.

  The man finished off his beer and regarded it with a wistful expression before dropping the can to the ground. Amy bent to pick it up, but he said, “Don’t. It’s a marker.”

  She straightened and met his eyes. “What’s it for?”

  “To help us find this spot. It’s an easy thing to focus on.”

  Amy stared at the guy in disbelief, and he sighed. “Look. Just because there’s something you haven’t heard of doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Well, okay, you have heard of it, but you’ve heard it all wrong. And I don’t know if I can even show you anymore, but I’m pretty sober right now, so there’s a decent chance. But only if you’re the type of person who can see—which you probably aren’t.”

  Great. The guy was not only a drunk, he was crazy, too. “What are you talking about?” Amy demanded.

  “Faerie.” His expression managed to be both defiant and weary at the same time.

  Amy put her hands on her hips. “As in purple unicorns and Tinkerbell?” Wow. She sure could pick them.

  “No purple unicorns. And not Tinkerbell, at least not how you think of her. That’s what I meant by you’ve heard it all wrong. Look, not many people can travel to Faerie, okay? But some of those who can, talk. And things get changed in the telling. If you can take us there, I’ll tell you some more. If not, I’m just another crazy guy you met on the street.” He belched. “So, do you want to try? There’s food there.”

  Amy had just shifted her weight to one foot, to turn away, but the possibility of food had her attention. “What’s your name?”

  He blinked. “Quentin will do.”

  Okay, so Quentin was probably crazy. But even if he saw a Salvation Army as fairyland, he was probably right about the food. Even crazy people needed to eat. And Amy was still hungry enough that it hurt. But she wasn’t desperate enough to take the only other job that had been offered so far.

  “What do I need to do?” Please let it be something she could bear.

  Quentin smiled. “First, listen. Faerie travel allows you to move in space, both in our world and in Faerie. Adepts can move up to twenty miles, but you and I? Figure a mile radius from where we are now. That’s why we need the marker, to come back to this spot.”

  “How do we leave, and how do we come back?”

  “You open your mind and fan out the possibilities in front of you. I always think of it as laying out cards, the kind that have scenery printed on them, like from a national park, instead of jacks and queens. Anyway, you choose one of the possibilities, focus on it, and take us there. I’ll help.”

  Amy searched Quentin’s face. He looked like he believed what he was saying. “How will you help?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I can show you what Faerie looks like. It helps to be in a park because the land hasn’t been changed as much. The shape of Faerie is just like here, but people change that. They fill it in and dig it out to build things. Parks are closer.”

  “So Faerie looks just like this? Then what’s the point of going there?”

  He made a disgusted sound. “No, of course not. I said the shape is the same. Picture the grass in front of us, only see it as perfectly green. Nobody mows it, so it’s longer. The trees…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “The trees have small white flowers, and you can smell them, like perfume.”

  His voice droned on, and Amy tried to picture what he said. Unbidden, more details came to her. Daisies in the grass. A bird, something like a robin but with blue on its breast, fluttering down from a tree and pecking at something by the pond. The pond had swans instead of ducks. More clouds in the sky. And the air smelled wonderful…

  “Take a step forward,” Quentin said.

  Amy’s foot moved, and when it came down, it was on grass studded with daisies. She threw out her arms and spun around. “It’s real!”

  Quentin grinned. “Think I’m crazy now?”

  Amy smiled back. “Of course not. This is wonderful!”

  “Ah, a new mortal.”

  Amy looked for the speaker and froze in disbelief. He was maybe two feet tall, and he swept her a full bow. “Greetings, from one trickster to another.” He was wearing old-fashioned breeches and jacket, all in brown, but the cap he doffed was green.

  Amy bowed back, awkwardly. “I don’t think I’m a trickster.”

  Quentin said, “That’s a name for someone who can do what we do. Travel from our world to Faerie and back.” He grinned. “Besides, it usually fits,
sooner or later.”

  Amy shook her head. “You mean you use this to…oh, pull chairs out from under people and stuff?”

  Their new companion shook his head. “Nothing like that. The hallmark of a good trickster is not being noticed. Or if we’re seen at all, only out of the corner of someone’s eye as we disappear.” He gave her a long look and then turned to Quentin. “When are you planning to return?”

  Quentin shrugged. “It’ll be easier to come back if she’s eaten something here first.”

  Amy shifted her gaze back and forth between the two. “Then where do we find some food?” This place was so much better. It smelled wonderful, although the absence of cars was enough to do that on its own. And the colors—the grass was so vivid, and surely the pond wasn’t that bright a blue back at the park. Maybe she could build a hut or something. “Do they have jobs here? Could I get one?”

  The small man shook his head. “No lord will want the services of those such as we. Besides, it is summer. Why work for what the land offers in abundance?”

  They spent the next hour gathering mushrooms and berries. Amy had never grown anything before, but the scent of the earth, when she pulled out each mushroom, made her dig her fingers into it with longing. It was rich, full of the promise of growing things.

  They ate their small meal sitting together, talking of inconsequential things. Their short companion declined to give his name, even when Amy told him hers, and she could see why he called himself a trickster. He made fun of everything—the birds in the trees, Amy’s expression when she bit into a sour berry, the way Quentin rubbed his hands together.

  When they finished, he stood and bowed. “You were a pleasant companion, Amy. Be wary.”

  “Why?” she asked. It was the first time she’d let her guard down since she’d left home.

  He smiled, but it was thin. “Merely a common well-wishing among tricksters. One such as we will be dead if we’re not careful.” He stood and shot Quentin an urgent look. “Someone’s coming.”

  The little man beckoned to Amy, and they huddled inside some thick bushes that grew near the path. The most beautiful person Amy had ever seen rode past. His silvery blond hair hung past his shoulders, held back by a gold circlet. His robes were a deep green and gleamed like satin. Several others followed, a hunting party perhaps, for they all carried bows.

  The leader stopped his fine white horse and sniffed. “Mortals,” he said in a voice filled with disdain.

  “Perhaps ones new to Faerie,” the companion behind him said. “Shall we show them the things the tales left out?” All the group laughed.

  “Better sport by far than a fox,” said the leader with a smile. He dug his heels into the side of his horse, and they cantered off.

  Amy was glad to see them go. They’d been so cold. Beautiful, too, but she was glad they didn’t have dogs. “They…they would hunt us?”

  “We have only to step into the mortal world to escape,” the little man said at her side.

  Quentin scrambled out of the bushes and brushed leaves out of his hair. “That’s why they hate us—we can get away. Faerie lords don’t like that.”

  Amy stepped out, trembling, and Quentin took one look at her and laughed. “It’s not that much different from how men treat each other. The strong prey on the weak. But we can move faster than any deer. After you get used to it, you’ll grow to like the feeling.”

  “You will show her how to travel back,” the little man said to Quentin, fixing him with a stern look.

  He nodded. “Of course. Nobody should have to put up with their crap.”

  The little man nodded sharply, took a step forward, and was no longer there.

  “He disappeared!” Amy cried.

  Quentin shook his head. “So did we when we left the park. He just took a quick step into our world and reappeared somewhere else in Faerie. I’ve seen him before. Twenty miles is nothing to him.”

  “What would they do to us if they catch us?” Amy asked.

  “Nothing good. So make sure you don’t get caught.”

  Amy suppressed a sigh. Be wary, indeed. She used to listen to other kids in school, whose biggest problem seemed to be that they couldn’t take their parents’ car since they totaled the last one. She wanted to be able to relax enough to do things wrong, to even gripe about the consequences. She could barely remember feeling safe, back when she was younger. It seemed like forever.

  Quentin’s smile crooked. “You want something better than mushrooms and berries?”

  “Is there anything more?” The small meal hadn’t exactly been filling.

  Quentin stretched out his arms. “If you know where to look. Food even tastes better in Faerie. And the wine…” He got a dreamy expression on his face.

  “The last thing I need is wine.” Amy was having enough trouble staying awake as it was.

  “Then how do you feel about pie?”

  Amy’s mouth watered. “Where can we get one? The little guy said nobody would give us any work.” She wasn’t about to ask for a job from anyone in that hunting party.

  “Well…I wasn’t thinking of buying one.”

  Amy stood. “Oh, no. I’m not stealing anything.”

  “Fine. Go home on your own, then.” Quentin stood next to her and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

  Amy blinked. “Isn’t it the same as coming?”

  “So try.”

  Amy pictured the park, including the beer can. She left the ducks on the pond, the litter blowing across the grass, with brown clippings scattered across the top. She held her breath and took a step.

  Nothing.

  She looked up into Quentin’s grinning face.

  “Not so easy, is it?” he said. “This is a valuable education I’m giving you. Getting home will cost you a pie.”

  Amy shot him a look of loathing and stomped away several paces. But if she couldn’t go back, those hunters might catch her. She should’ve asked the little guy more questions.

  There was a scuffle of leaves behind her, and Amy whirled around. “Where are you going?”

  Quentin shrugged. “Home. It’s time for another beer.”

  “No—wait. I’ll do it.” Amy rubbed her hands on her jeans. What else could she do? She had no idea if the little guy would ever come back. Quentin was all she had.

  “That’s more like it. I knew you’d see things my way.”

  Quentin led her up a small rise not too far from a grand stone house and pointed to a room around the side. “That’s the larder. I used to come and snag the odd meal here before.”

  “What if someone sees me?” Amy said. “Will you please show me how to get back? Just in case I’m caught?”

  Quentin laughed. “I’m a drunk, not an idiot. Don’t be seen, and there’ll be no problems.”

  Amy threw him a disbelieving look, but she bent over and crept through the bushes. She had to take her time and be careful of leaves and twigs. Her feet still caught a few, and she stopped, her heart racing, each time to listen. When nobody came to check, she edged forward again. One step at a time. No one could hear her heartbeat, even if it was thundering in her ears.

  When the bushes ended, a ten yard run separated her from the door. It was painted green, set into a stone lintel. Amy hoped with every fiber of her being that it didn’t squeak.

  A quick dash across the grassy space, and she edged the door open, oh-so-carefully, but it didn’t make a sound. She slipped inside but left the door ajar.

  The room was a pantry filled with food-laden shelves. Amy grabbed a pie just as a woman’s voice came from the room next door. “Now, which of you has…”

  Amy bolted for the bushes, her heart in her throat. It was even harder creeping back. Move the pie, crawl up next to it. Move the pie again. A screech from the direction of the house made her want to leave the pie and run, but she had to get the thing back to Quentin. The thought that he might have given up and left was enough to make her whimper with fear. She had to get out of here. She w
as the kind of person those men were hoping to catch.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally caught sight of Quentin, thumbs still hooked into his grimy pants and a smug smile on his face.

  “See, you’re back safe and sound,” he said.

  Amy handed him the pie. “Here. Now tell me how to get home.”

  Quentin laid a hand on her arm. “Sure. Do like you did before.”

  Amy pictured it carefully, took a step forward, and they were back at the park, right next to the beer can. “Why did it work this time?”

  Quentin grinned. “No way you could picture where you wanted to go as easily as I could focus on what was all around us. I thought about Faerie harder than you did about the park.” He threw her a wink. “Thanks for the pie.”

  Amy bit down on despair as Quentin shuffled off. She scrubbed away tears, angry at herself for crying. There was nobody who would care. Faerie was real, and she was too afraid to go back.

  What she really needed was a job. There had to be someone who wouldn’t turn her in. A church steeple beckoned in the distance. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started off.

  Pixies’ Revenge

  The underground facility was stark and utilitarian—and the hallways were usually empty. The quiet hum of refrigeration units and climate control provided the only sounds. Not even muzak played in the hallways. Why would it? There was no one to hear.

  Tonight, however, furtive steps echoed in the passage. The metallic clink of pliers dropped on the polished concrete floor resulted in an even louder round of shushing. Then a voice said, “Screw it. If they can’t hear that, they’re deaf as well as daft.”

  The speaker, Horace, would surprise any onlooker. Ten inches tall, he wore coveralls and carried an open wooden toolbox. None of his four companions were any taller, although they were cleaner. Horace flaunted his dirt in this place like a badge of honor. He was good at defiance, and the tools he bore were not for show.

  “What do we do now?” Stanley asked in a puzzled voice.

  Horace sighed. “You just stand right here, nice and still.”

  Stanley’s face brightened. “That’s right—I remember now.”

  “That’s a good lad,” Will said, as he climbed up to stand on Stanley’s shoulders. “Pity he was wrong about the wings. They’d come in handy now.”

  Horace gave Will a sharp rap on his ankle and Will howled, causing another round of shushing.

  “Don’t you ever say that again!” Horace snapped. He clambered onto the shoulders of Maisie and Emma, and then hoisted himself up on Will’s shoulders to fiddle with the lock.

  A satisfying snick, and all the pixies were back at ground level, pushing on the white-painted door. It didn’t put up much of a fight.

  “Are you sure this is the right room?” Maisie asked, her eyes wide under a cap of brunette curls.

  Emma shimmied up a table leg to read the screen that glowed softly in the corner. “It is.” Her voice was filled with grim determination that belied her delicate features and blonde hair. Of all of them, she had the most personal reasons for being there.

  Will immediately strode to the large metal casket in the center of the room, which was bristling with electronic safeguards. It looked large enough to contain a body, and in fact, did.

  “It’s not going to be a simple as unplugging the thing,” he said, after a close look at the readouts. “This thing is set up with redundancies on its back-ups.”

  “So we figure a way around them,” Horace grated. He laid out his tools, and Maisie began chalking a circle around the central casket. Horace harrumphed and got back to work on the readouts. He’d rather do this without magic entirely, but the last thing they needed was an alarm.

  When Maisie finished sprinkling her herbs around her chalked circle, she gave Will a nod, and he and Horace began the delicate task of untangling wires.

  “What should I do, Emma?” Stanley’s face radiated eagerness, and she spared him a quick smile.

  “You stand watch at the door, all right? Make sure nobody interrupts us.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you think we’re doing something wrong, Emma? I don’t want to kill anybody.”

  Her eyes hardened. “He’s already dead, Stanley. We’re just making sure he stays that way.”

  Stanley nodded, still uncertain, but craned his head out the door anyway. Emma gave his shoulder a comforting pat before joining Horace and Will on top of the casket.

  “Have you disconnected the temperature controls yet?” she asked.

  Horace shook his head. “These are tricky. You’d think technology this old would be simple enough.”

  “They’ve likely upgraded it since,” she replied in her most soothing voice. The last thing they needed was Horace ranting from frustration.

  “And it’s the mix between the two that’s making it so difficult,” Will added, teasing out a wire and giving it a careful look. “Half of these are probably dead.”

  “Oh, I can help with that,” Maisie said. She shimmied up the rope that Horace had tied off and laid a hand on the wire. “Current is close enough to life force that I can sense it. This one’s dead.”

  Will marked the wire and pulled it to the side.

  Engrossed in their task, no one remembered Stanley until he stage-whispered, “Someone’s coming!”

  Muttered obscenities greeted this news.

  “What are they doing, Stanley?” asked Will.

  “It’s some guy with a mop,” he answered, looking around the group.

  “So we need a distraction.” Emma met Maisie’s eyes in supplication. She’d rant like Horace if they had to leave with their task undone.

  Maisie rummaged in her bag. “I can animate the golem. But it won’t work if it gets too far out of range.” She pulled a little wooden figure out.

  “We’ve got to try something,” said Horace. “If he comes in here, the whole thing’s over.” Getting in hadn’t been easy, and Maisie had complained this was wiping out her herb supply. They might not get another chance.

  Maisie joined Stanley by the door. “I can cloak this in a glamour as long as I can see it,” she whispered. “It’s small enough. But I’ll have to run after it to keep it in sight.” She winced at the chance of being seen as she cast a glance down the hallway. There wasn’t much they could use as a distraction. “You grab his mop and take it as far as you can.”

  Stanley smiled. “That’s smart. He can’t clean the floors without it.”

  “Wait until I say go,” Maisie warned as Stanley stepped forward.

  Stanley bobbed his head, and Maisie crept past him. Her face scrunched up in concentration as she set the wooden puppet onto the polished concrete floor.

  The janitor had just wrung his mop again when the golem rammed into the bucket.

  “What the…” The man dropped the mop and trailed after the sound of the golem banging into door after door.

  “Go!” whispered Maisie, as the janitor’s head swung around at the next hollow thump. He dove to catch the puppet, but the glamour held. He obviously couldn’t see the golem scamper away.

  Stanley rushed to the mop and dragged it doggedly behind him. He might not be great at planning, but he could do strong.

  “Circle around,” Maisie said before darting down the left side of the T-intersection at the end of the hall.

  Stanley trudged on, turning to the right when he neared the end, even though Maisie and the man were nowhere in sight. He had no idea what he could do if he ran into them. But he trusted Maisie.

  Maisie wouldn’t have been able to voice the same confidence in her judgment. She dogged the man’s steps and hissed in alarm as he took a step back and nearly crushed her. This caused the man to whirl around, and she just barely ducked out of sight behind his legs again.

  “What the hell’s going on?” the man said, scratching his graying head. The golem bumped into another door further down the hall, and he jumped. “That’s it. I knew there had t
o be ghosts in a place like this. The floors are clean enough for tonight.”

  He headed back the way he came, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

  Maisie kept on his heels and bit her lip. What would the man do when he saw his mop was gone? She should’ve told Stanley to wait with the others.

  Maisie followed the mop trail, reflecting the fluorescent light, although the janitor was apparently too rattled to notice just yet, since he headed back down the hallway to his rolling bucket. She raced down and skidded around the corner.

  Stanley was hauling the heavy mop backward now, his face puckered in concentration as he struggled to maintain his snail’s pace.

  “Just drop it!” she said, then winced at the sound of her voice. The mop handle fell with a clatter, and Stanley started to roll his shoulders in relief, but Maisie grabbed his hand.

  “Run!” She tugged him further down the hall. They mustn’t be seen. Not when they were so close. And she could hear the rumble as the man approached, pulling his rolling bucket behind him.

  They were just rounding the corner when they heard a startled, “Hey!”

  Maisie wished fear actually gave wings to her feet, but it washed over her in a wave of nausea instead. Stanley pulled her down the long hallway. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to run. She scooped up the golem again as they passed, its magic spent. Maybe if they left no physical trace, the man would still believe it was ghosts.

  The sound of the mop bucket grew fainter as they ran. They skidded around the final corner, and the other three were in the hall again. Horace stood on Emma’s shoulders, fiddling with the lock, to put it all back as it was before.

  “Is it done?” Maisie asked, panting for breath.

  “That it is.” Horace hopped down and nodded in satisfaction. “He’ll trouble us no more.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Maisie reminded them. If the broken machine was found out too soon, perhaps they could hook him back up again.

  Horace picked up his toolbox, but Emma turned to face the door a final time. “A token of esteem from Tinkerbell, Mr. Disney.”

  She pushed back a blonde curl and followed Maisie down the hall.

  Phoenix

  Personally, I blame the phoenix. It’s supposed to rise from the ashes to signal the beginning of a new age, and now I’m wondering if that's ever going to happen. We need a new era. Somebody should do something.

  The last year of the old millennium, 1999, didn’t get off to an auspicious start. On January first, UCLA went down in the Rose Bowl. And to who? The Wisconsin Badgers.

  And the year went downhill from there. We had the President of the United States plastered over every media known to man, attempting to lawyer his way out of Monica Lewinsky. The world’s population passed the six billion mark, and we couldn’t feed everybody even before that happened. A bunch of school kids got shot by their classmates in Colorado. And you couldn’t turn around without hearing about Y2K. My neighbor sank his life’s savings into an emergency food stash. He’s going to be disappointed if everyone’s okay when January rolls around again.

  I was too intelligent to waste my money on beans and rice—I booked a flight from LAX to Paris. I was going to spend Christmas at Notre Dame, and the New Year partying on the Champs-Elysees. French women and wine, right? I even bought a French-English dictionary.

  And then, right after Christmas, Cyclone Lothar hit Paris. I made it back to my hotel just before the electricity died.

  The storm raged all night, although it was impossible to tell the extent of the damage in the dark. But I could hear the trees being ripped apart outside, a massive tearing sound, followed by the thud as they struck buildings and cars. I spent the evening huddled under my blankets because the electric heat was out along with the lights. The French Army mobilized its soldiers, but what could they do? Storms aren’t impressed by tanks and guns.

  I poked my head outside on the morning of the twenty-seventh, and that’s when Cyclone Martin struck. This storm added heavy rain to the devastating winds; the combination of the two made it impossible to see outside. I left the lobby and climbed the stairs back to the fourth floor. I was glad there was a fifth floor; at least if our roof blew off there’d be something between me and the rain. 

  I spent the rest of the day in my room, except for periodic forays for food. The kitchen served only sandwiches, but everybody seemed relieved to see them. Except for my fellow countryman, the beer-belly geezer down the hall who fought here on D-day and apparently thinks the storm is the entire French nation showing their lack of gratitude.

  The next morning, the rain had finally ceased, but the reckoning of the damage had barely begun. The view from my window showed people picking their way around the rubble in the street. Some of them stumbled, and some merely stared, as if they couldn't believe their eyes. The hotel across from mine had a construction crane thrown smack down the middle of it. It now showed a cross-section of Parisian decor, augmented by wreckage.

  Down in the lobby, the beer-belly guy was complaining to the manager again. The manager's jaw clenched, then he turned and said something in rapid-fire French to a lady and two girls huddled in the corner on a couch. She stared at him a moment in disbelief, but she stood and began to shepherd her children toward the door. The youngest was crying and clutching a doll.

  “Why are you leaving?” It was none of my business, but that street was no place for children.

  The lady shot my countryman a look of pure loathing. “The American says we should not be here. So the manager has said we must find shelter at the school, even though I told him the roof had blown off.” She was still trying to get her daughters to the door, but the youngest was dragging her feet, and I didn’t blame her. This was wrong. Somebody should do something.

  As she reached the door, I said, “Wait.” This was something I could fix. “Monsieur, please allow this woman to have my room. I assume you can find me a corner to sleep where I won’t offend the other guests." 

  When no one objected, I gestured to the woman to precede me down the hallway. All three of them put some hustle into it, the older girl pulling on her mother’s arm. That was smart; I gave the complaining geezer maybe sixty seconds before he recovered from the shock and found something wrong with this, too. I'd get them settled in, and then I’d go out and lend a hand to clear some of the wreckage.

  In my heart, the phoenix spread its wings.

  Teenage Driver

  Alana closed the passenger side door and told the knot in her stomach to go away. Her mother had insisted that she eat, and now the food sat like a hard lump in her stomach. Just what she didn’t need. That bitch Sierra was just waiting to spread it all over the school that Alana had failed her driving test. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She was going to text Sierra a photo of the form with the word passed on it. Ha. Let her chew on that.

  “Are you ready? We can always come back another day.” Her dad’s brown eyes were concerned as they met hers.

  No way was she going to wimp out. But she made one last attempt to better her odds. “Dad, can’t we go to a different DMV? Please? The traffic is awful downtown.”

  He shook his head firmly. “I scouted them out, and everyone’s white at the one by our house. I want you to get tested by a brother.”

  Alana rolled her eyes. She hardly thought the color of her skin was enough for a pass or fail, not when it was someone’s job. And people drove like maniacs around here. If you got in an accident, even if it wasn’t your fault, it was an automatic fail. Not to mention her mother would pitch a fit for weeks if Alana got a scratch on her precious Honda. But Dad’s truck was a stick shift.

  And Dad had brought her downtown and helped her practice, over and over. And he’d taken the day off work so they could do this in the morning before lunch, when the traffic was as mild as it got. Alanna clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ground together. There was no way she could back out.

  Sierra was going to ea
t her words, every last one.

  Alana took a deep breath and followed her father into the DMV. They took a number and waited on the hard plastic chairs, along with everyone else who didn’t want to be here. Whiny kids, linoleum floors, cross people waiting in line with their registration forms─this was not a place to instill confidence. Alana pulled the little newsprint book of driving rules from her purse to think about instead. Her dad smiled and opened his iPad.

  Alana whispered the words as she read, trying to get them to stick into her brain. Whoever wrote these things had apparently never read a bestseller. She was halfway through the second pass when her number was called.

  “Here.” Her dad held out the keys with a smile, and for a fleeting moment, Alana wished she was still young enough to hug him in public. But she took the keys and forced herself to stroll calmly to meet her examiner.

  He wasn’t black. But he seemed nice enough, Latino-Asian with a welcoming flash of white teeth. “Are you ready?” He gestured with his clipboard to the glass doors. “Just pretend you’re driving with your instructor.”

  “That would be Dad,” Alana confided as she snuck a quick glance at his name tag. “Mr. Gonzales.”

  He smiled. “More fathers than mothers seem to step forward when it comes to teaching their kids how to drive. I’ve never figured out why.”

  Alana’s jaw clenched at being called a kid, but she unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat as if she didn’t care. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and added a little lip gloss for luck. Maybe her dad would snap a photo with her and the examiner by the car to go with the one of the form. The one that said pass.

  “Make a right as you exit the parking lot,” Mr. Gonzales said, getting a pen from the pocket of his polo shirt. Alana backed out carefully, smiling at the neat arc the car made. Dad had even taken her down here to practice backing out of the parking spaces after hours.

  She remembered her blinker and looked both ways, exaggerating the movement so the examiner couldn’t miss it. There was no way she was getting dinged before she even made it out of the parking lot.

  They drove east, toward the freeway. Right hand turns, left hand turns—they all went flawlessly, except the one with the guy who swerved and almost hit them. But that was clearly his fault.

  Alana snuck a glance at the passenger seat and her heart sunk. Mr. Gonzalez was pale, and he seemed to be panting. Great. Now her test guy was sick. Did they fail you for that?

  “Do you need me to take you to the doctor, Mr. Gonzalez?”

  “I’m fine.” But his voice sounded strained, and it was huskier than when he started.

  Alana pressed the accelerator when the light turned green as if nothing had happened. Maybe if she just ignored it, he’d get better.

  But he started making gurgling sounds after another block, and she hadn’t even done anything remotely wrong. She coasted to a stop and peeked again. Shit! Now he looked blue. And his skin was…shiny.

  She took a right and stomped on the gas. There was a hospital this way. Dad had made some not-funny jokes about needing to take her evaluator here after the test. Or to the bar a block further down.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital,” Alana said, trying to keep her voice calm.

  But the only response was a growl from the other seat.

  Alana turned in shock and screamed. His hair had turned to a row of spikes. His face was all scaly, and his teeth were pointed like a bear’s. The blue polo shirt only made it worse.

  Someone honked and she yanked her attention back to the road, barely swerving in time to avoid the oncoming car. She fumbled in her purse for her phone, but that…thing grabbed her hand, and she screamed again as she pulled it back.

  Alana yanked the wheel from side to side, hoping if she drove like she was crazy or drunk, a cop would see. That thing grabbed her hand again, and this time she felt the scrape of claws before she was able to wrench it back. Why hadn’t Dad shown her where the police station was? Her softball bat was in the trunk, but it might as well be on the moon.

  Alana pumped the brakes, making their heads rock back and forth, but that was a mistake. As the car slowed, he growled, “Now,” and clutched her shoulder. She lashed out with her elbow and connected with a sickening thunk.

  An enraged, bloodcurdling yell filled the car, and Alana hit the gas again, swerving for all she was worth. The car went over the curb and she jerked it back, just missing a fire hydrant. The monster grabbed her hand, and now she couldn’t elbow him again. She tried punching him, and he just barked a horrible raspy laugh as he held her hand tight.

  A man in a business suit flipped her off just before she heaved on the wheel, and the car spun out, to the sound of brakes screeching all around her. The world went round and round, and she had no control at all as the wheels skidded over the asphalt. Nausea nearly made her lose her breakfast.

  Alana gritted her teeth as the car skidded to a halt—she was ready to jump out and run. Nobody would believe her, but she couldn’t stay in this car one more minute. Forget the driving test─she just wanted to live.

  She grabbed at her purse just as a calm voice said, “Well done. Good reactions in an emergency situation.”

  Alana turned to the test guy in dread, but the polite twenty-something was back, thick hair looking as though it had never even moved, let alone turned into spikes.

  He made a notation on his clipboard and added, “I think it’s safe to say you’re ready for the driving public. It’s unlikely you’ll face anything more stressful in your everyday commute.”

  Alana took her foot off the brake and got the car pointed back to the DMV, taking deep breaths to get the shaking to stop. Should she tell someone? Nobody should have to go through that to get their license.

  But who would believe her? And even if they did, she’d have to take the test all over again. They pulled into the lot, and she snuck a look at the form. He’d written pass in bold block letters, just the sort that would show up beautifully in a photo.

  She turned off the car. Screw it. She needed that pass too badly. And the look on Sierra’s face tomorrow was going to be priceless.

  But she wouldn’t ask for a picture with the test guy.

  Seymour and the Head

  Seymour thumped the scarred oak table, hard enough to make the grimoire bounce. To become a journeyman wizard, he must have a special spell, greater than the animated puppets or illusions he’d spun thus far. He needed to pass this test—he didn’t have enough coin to last the winter. He had to come up with something good. Something new.

  He flipped through the book for the umpteenth time. Spells to make crops crow, to make a woman speak the truth, to animate objects, to bring—wait. That could work. He had a fine touch with the puppets.

  He scratched out a spell, looking for a way to combine the last two. It took several drafts, but he finally stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. Then he fetched down a brass sculpture of an old woman’s head from a top shelf, currently doing duty as a bookend.

  A brush with his sleeve and the thing was shiny again. Seymour took a deep breath and began his spell. Each sonorous syllable rolled off his tongue perfectly. And when he finished, the brass head blinked and looked around.

  “So you’re supposed to be a wizard, are you?” it said in a tone of withering scorn. It sounded just like a crotchety old aunt.

  Seymour had no intention of letting this continue. “Tell me when the first storm will come, that the farmers may get their crops in on time.” That would be worth a pretty penny.

  “How am I supposed to know?” the statue said. “I’m inside a room. And it’s none to clean, I can tell you. It must be at least two months since you took a duster to the place.”

  Actually, it was closer to three, but Seymour wasn’t about to admit that. “Well, what can you tell me?”

  “I can tell you a couple of those spiders are poisonous, and you’d better flatten them before they take a bite out of you. And those mouse droppings
everywhere are dreadful. What kind of a wizard are you that you don’t have a cat?”

  “That’s witches, madam,” he said in what was meant to be a dignified voice. It would have helped if hadn’t cracked at the end.

  “And your voice is still changing. Well, get a move on. If I’ve got to be alive, I’m not going to dwell in squalor. Or do you fancy dying because a spider got peckish?”

  Bit by bit, Seymour found himself doing her bidding. He didn’t want to die, certainly not from something as undignified as a spider bite. He’d rather go in a splendid mage’s battle if he had to go at all.

  “No, don’t shake the dust rag in the house—you’ll undo all your hard work. You shake the dust outside.” It would help if she didn’t talk to him like he was an idiot.

  When he was done, Seymour said, “Fine, I cleaned the cottage, just like you wanted. Now will you tell the master wizards something important tomorrow? I doubt they want to hear about mouse droppings.” He shook his head in disbelief. He was bargaining with a brass head.

  “I’ll give them as much truth as they can stand—don’t you worry.”

  Seymour had to be content with that. Just getting the thing to talk should be worth something. Although getting it to shut up might be worth even more.

  He waited impatiently as the other four apprentices presented their journeyman projects. None were as impressive as his, although they were all quieter. Master Blaise gave an approving nod to the lad who’d crafted a divining rod that even a child could use.

  Seymour set his brass head on the table. This had to work. “Uh, please tell the masters something useful.”

  “I’ll tell them something useful, all right. You in front, who drew that sigil on your robe? And why did you bother if you were going to let it get smeared with grease? The thing’s a disgrace. It’ll never work like that.”

  Seymour gasped and wished the ground would open up and swallow him. But the head kept going.

  “And you with the mangy beard. A little hygiene would keep you from scratching all the time.” The head went on to upbraid them all impartially as Seymour’s face got redder and redder.

  Master Blaise cleared his throat. “I think, under the circumstances, that another project would be more appropriate─”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” the head cut in. “Seymour demonstrated journeyman ability. He made an object that functions independently of any magic user.”

  “Too independently, I’m afraid,” the master replied. “Still, there’s no denying it. Seymour is now a journeyman.”

  Seymour sidled to the table and collected the head. He would’ve felt better about the whole thing if he could get his face to return to a more normal color.

  He went to bed early. How could he set up shop on his own with a head that drove all the customers away? Perhaps he could lock the thing up somewhere.

  “Psst! I said wake up!”

  Seymour rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Even when the thing whispered, it was insistent. “What─”

  “Quiet. There’s a man outside, and he’s not here to buy a spell. He’ll rob you and murder you in your bed if you’re not careful.”

  Seymour stood, all thoughts of sleep gone. “What should I do?”

  “That’s a good lad—just listen to me.” The whispered voice was kind as the head talked him through picking up the poker and standing behind the door. Seymour clenched his knees together to keep them from knocking. Then a scratching sound came. Someone was picking the lock.

  The door inched open, and Seymour slammed the poker down on the back of the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The man dropped like a stone, and Seymour tied him. “Now what?”

  “We wait for a more civilized hour to fetch the constable. What else?” The bossy elder aunt was back.

  Seymour didn’t care. “Thank you.”

  The head smiled. “I knew you had potential. Now go comb your hair.”

  Gargoyle

  The gargoyle wished he could recall his name. He listened intently as people walked by, hoping they might speak it so he would remember. It gave him something to do besides guard the church.

  A young girl caught the gargoyle’s gaze. She was supposed to be standing in line with the others, but there had been any number of hold-ups, and the children waiting for their first communion were getting edgy.

  Her appearance was otherwise unremarkable—olive skin, dark hair, brown eyes. But she was dancing in excitement, spinning on her toes to make her lacy dress swirl, throwing her arms out wide.

  “Hey!” the boy next to her cried, as he bent to pick up the glasses she had knocked from his face.

  “Sorry, Steven,” she said to the blond boy. “Look, I’ll make it up to you—I’ll show you something. See that gargoyle up there? He’s the best one.”

  The gargoyle would have blinked if he could. She was pointing at him.

  The boy wiped his glasses and then squinted upward. “Why that one, Michelle? The one next to him is scarier.”

  “I like him,” the girl replied. “His pointy ears and pointy wings go together, and I like the way his nose turns up. Like mine.”

  “Huh,” said the boy, clearly unimpressed. “I wouldn’t go around telling people your nose was like an ugly old gargoyle’s if I were you.”

  Michelle raised the nose in question into the air, with all the superior disdain a seven-year-old could muster. It did indeed have the same tilt. And she didn’t mind at all. Curious.

  The gargoyle watched for her after that. Every Sunday, the girl gave him a cheery wave, and a “Hello, gargoyle.” It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know his name. But he longed to hear her speak it.