by Jaxon Reed
He glanced at her.
“Does that make sense?”
She shook her head.
He chuckled.
“You’ll understand it better when you get older.”
One of the artificial servants appeared wearing a black bikini, a beautiful brown-skinned woman with straight dark hair reaching almost to her knees.
She carried a tray holding a frosted mug filled with beer. She set it down on a table between the two chairs and smiled at the Walker.
“Thank you. Don’t go far.”
The servant smiled again, and walked off some distance away before entering the lagoon. She played in the shallows near the beach, splashing water.
Tiff followed with her eyes.
“Why is she here? Why didn’t you just make the drink appear on the table yourself?”
He chuckled and sipped the beer.
“What’s the point of creating servants if you never use them, Tiff?”
3
“Tiff? Tiff. Tiff?”
She woke up slowly, gradually aware of Martin’s gentle shaking.
“Hm? What is it, sweetie? I’m up.”
“Cait wants you.”
She nodded, sat up and climbed out of bed.
Her feet hit the floor and she waved a hand from her face to her belly. Her negligee disappeared, replaced by cut-off jeans and a red t-shirt. Flip-flops appeared on her feet.
All sleep slid off her face, and her hair instantly flowed down to the small of her back, perfectly clean, combed and long again.
She walked out of her bedroom, past the living room and kitchen. She held her hand out, and a breakfast burrito popped into existence, filled with beef fajita meat, potatoes, and scrambled eggs. She chewed on it while walking through the courtyard toward the entrance of her suite.
By the time she reached the front office, she had finished the burrito. She held her other hand out, and a steaming mug of coffee appeared, sweetened with two cubes of sugar.
She stopped in front of Cait’s desk, sipping on her cup. Cait’s human representation looked up from the holographic terminal.
“Eb and I are in agreement, Tiff. Fae interference with alternate 5821-A is confirmed. We need you to intercept and stop their agent, and restore order to that reality. While you’re there you can place more sensors for me so I can keep a better eye on it in the future.”
“Another day, another dollar. Okay, let me finish my coffee and I’ll be on my way.”
-+-
A thin line of blue and green light appeared in an empty bedroom. It grew wider, and Tiff pulled herself through, leaving the bluebonnets of the Wildflower Room behind.
“Okay, Cait, I’m here. Where is ‘here,’ and what am I doing?”
“You are on the second floor of a mansion owned by this alternate’s Al Capone. He is throwing a huge soiree tonight. Mingle with the guests and help me identify any fae. My sensors indicate one is present, but I’m not strong enough here to tell which one, yet.”
“Okay. Dress me appropriately.”
Her cutoffs, t-shirt and flip-flops disappeared, replaced by a short, gaudy red dress and matching heels. A white leather purse came down to her waist. Ivory gloves reached up to her elbows, and a matching cloche hat sat on her head, covering her newly bobbed hair like a cloth bell.
“Let’s go have some fun!”
“I recommend you do not drink too much. Remember the time on Alternate 3119-B when you almost started a war between Russia and Japan at a party with—”
“Shut up, Cait.”
She opened the door to the bedroom and the sound of lively jazz music drifted up from the first floor.
“Is that the Charleston?”
“It is known as ‘Runnin’ Wild’ on this alternate, but yes. It is essentially identical.”
Tiff made her way downstairs without seeing anyone, and worked her way through a couple of hallways until she found the ballroom.
A band played on the stage while a dozen couples danced lithely across the floor. Various mobsters and other men, all smartly dressed in three-piece striped suits and spatterdashes, stood in groups drinking and eating and talking. All the women were dressed like Tiff in bright short dresses, gloves and hats.
Servants worked their way through the crowd, carrying champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Tiff grabbed a glass and tried a sip.
“Not bad.”
“I know, right? Brut Imperial, 1912. Rare, and the last batch made before the war. Mr. Capone is sparing no expense tonight, no siree bob!”
She turned around and found herself face to face with a man in his early 30s. He wore thick glasses, making his eyes seem a little larger than normal. He stood about five nine, a couple inches taller than Tiff. In fact, the heels she wore made her an inch higher than him at the moment.
His gray flannel suit seemed old, and she decided it had to almost certainly be out of fashion. At the same time, it looked like he had not worn it much at all.
He had a certain appearance that transcended all the civilized decades across most of the alternates: Nerd.
She took another sip of champagne, glanced down at the callus on his middle finger, and made an educated guess.
“You’re an accountant?”
His eyes grew even wider, giving them an almost comical size and overwhelming other features of his face.
“Why, yes. I’m Mr. Capone’s bookkeeper. How did you know?”
“You look so intelligent, I just assumed you must be one.”
His face turned deep red from the flattery, and Tiff almost burst out laughing. He looked adorable, like a puppy receiving praise.
He recovered quickly and stuck out his hand.
“I’m sorry. We haven’t met. I’m Darius Booker. Mr. Capone calls me ‘Booker the Book.’”
She took his hand and squeezed it through her gloves.
“Tiffany Valor. Pleased to meet you.”
Always use a fake name, the Walker had instructed her before she left on her first solo mission. It can be similar to your real name, but make it different somehow. And change things up. Try not to use the same name on too many alternates. The fae tend to notice patterns.
She wondered, idly, if she had used ‘Tiffany’ too many times. It was her favorite pseudonym, neatly matching Tyfainne.
Well, it’s too late now, she thought.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Ms. Valor.”
And where did that last name come from? Ugh. Well, it’s too late for that, too.
A pretty young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform approached them carrying a tray of food.
“Beluga?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Tiff picked up a small plate of crackers and caviar. Booker declined, and the maid moved on to another group.
Tiff took a dainty bite, wondering how the fish eggs and champagne would settle in her stomach along with the breakfast burrito and coffee.
“That’s the priciest of the hors d’oeuvres tonight. I must say you have expensive tastes, Ms. Valor.”
She swallowed her food and smiled at him.
“You must not go on many dates, Mr. Booker.”
He flushed again, this time out of embarrassment, and she quickly regretted making the comment.
Tiff thought, must he wear his emotions on his sleeves?
She reached out and touched his arm, gently.
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh!”
He recovered, and the blood drained from his face. He chuckled, nervously.
“No, it’s just, I mean . . . you’re right. I don’t get out much.”
“Well, that’s a shame. It’s a fine profession, accounting. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent husband for somebody.”
If he lives long enough, Tiff thought. That’s doubtful for anyone working for the mob.
The song came to an end, and the band smiled as the crowd offered light applause. A short, dark-haired, corpulent man stepped up on the stage, and grabbed a micr
ophone.
“I want to thank youse fer comin’ here tonight.”
“That’s my boss,” Booker whispered.
Tiff nodded. She would have guessed it anyway. The man looked similar to the Al Capones on other alternates.
Following a few more generic words of greeting, Capone said, “Where’s Booker?”
Capone shaded his eyes from the light, looking out at the crowd. Darius shyly lifted a hand.
“There you are! Everybody, this is my bookkeeper. He’s not enjoying himself. Hasn’t had a bite to eat or anything to drink, but he knows exactly much each of youse have consumed, an’ how much it’s cost me so far!”
Light laughter filled the room.
“Give it up fer the man who keeps me in the black!”
Tiff clapped along with everyone else, watching the red creep back up in Booker’s face.
When the applause died down, Capone said, “Now where’s Sleaghan? There he is! Everybody, this is the man who made the Outfit what it is today. You would not believe the opportunities this guy has brought to my attention. Give it up fer Matt Sleaghan!”
A much louder round of applause went round the room. Tiff quickly spotted the man in question. Tall, about six-three, and extraordinarily handsome with light brown hair and eyes, Sleaghan radiated charisma. His warm smile revealed straight, bright white teeth.
Rather then being embarrassed, Sleaghan seemed to revel in the praise. He waved at everybody and basked in the spotlight for a moment.
In her mind, Tiff said, “I think we’ve found our fae, Cait.”
“Indeed. Matt Sleaghan is a clever play on the Gaelic Sleagh Maith, an ancient term for the fae from Original Earth, meaning ‘Good People.’”
“Old, and ironic.”
“Authorities are incoming.”
“What?”
The door to the ballroom burst open and Eliot Ness rushed in, along with several other G-men. They all carried revolvers in one hand and badges raised high in the other.
“Nobody move! Federal agents! This is a raid!”
A woman screamed and dropped her champagne flute. It shattered on the floor. The crowd milled about in confusion while more FBI agents streamed into the room. Up on the stage, Al Capone’s mouth dropped open.
Tiff kept her eyes on Sleaghan. He calmly reached up and pulled his right earlobe. A loud pop! shot across the room, and the lights went out.
She gave a mental command, and instantly her sight turned into night vision. She saw the room in black and white, but clearly. People bumped into the furniture and one another, all trying to head for the door in different directions at once.
“Everybody settle down!” Ness said. “Stay in place until we get some light in here!”
Tiff made her way through the crowd, keeping eyes on Sleaghan and shoving people out of her way. Sleaghan walked forward with purpose toward the nearest FBI agent. The man desperately swiveled his head, trying to get his bearings in the dark.
Sleaghan lifted his hand, palm open with fingers spread wide, and thrust it toward the agent’s chest. He gasped, dropping his gun and badge as he clutched his middle, then collapsed. A woman tripped over his head, falling to the floor. She crawled back to the body, patting on the floor until she found him.
“Are you alright? Somebody help! We need some help over here!”
Sleaghan turned to an agent making his way toward them in the dark, and again thrust his hand at the man’s chest. He collapsed, too. Sleaghan found a third agent, and killed him the same way.
Tiff clawed her way through the crowd, which now stood on the precipice of panic. She shoved people aside who blindly stumbled in her way.
She reached Sleaghan, his back to her as he prepared to kill another agent. She reached into her purse and pulled out a thin, cast-iron dagger, grasping the hilt firmly. She thrust it forward, slipping it into his back near the kidneys.
Sleaghan roared in pain and exploded in light. The force knocked down everybody within twenty feet. He turned and instantly transformed into a ten-foot tall monster with translucent skin the dark-gray shade of a storm cloud. He pulsed with deep, violet-tinged light, his head grotesquely large, with huge black eyes and two snarling slits for a nose.
Men and women screamed, trampling one another to get away.
The hideous apparition glowed with black light. He scanned the crowd, seeking her out. He quickly found her. Tiff was the only person not scrambling away.
He glanced down at the black iron dagger in her hand, and pulled his arm back. He thrust it forward as if cracking a whip, and a bolt of light streaked out.
Tiff jumped to the side, and the bolt exploded harmlessly on the floor.
Eliot Ness recovered his wits quicker than the other agents. He aimed his revolver at the giant fae and squeezed off a couple rounds.
BLAM! BLAM!
Other agents followed his lead and began firing. The bullets passed right through Sleaghan.
“Hold your fire, boys! You might shoot somebody!”
Sleaghan ignored them, and reared his hand back one more time.
Before Tiff could react, somebody jumped in front of her and took the bolt. She looked down in time to see smoke rising from a brown-suited man on the floor at her feet.
Tiff reached and unclasped an iron chain from her neck, made of tiny links and about a foot in length. She twirled it around by one end and it grew longer, the links growing larger and the chain lengthening until it was long enough to twirl over her head. She threw the still rapidly expanding links toward Sleaghan.
Everything seemed to switch to slow motion. The monster’s large eyes grew wide as the iron chain soared through the air toward him. He interrupted his fire bolt and made a twirling motion with his hand instead.
Just before the chain reached him, he disappeared in a puff of smoke. The chain flew through it, landing and sliding to a halt on the floor nearby.
Without Sleaghan’s dim purple light, the room slid into darkness again.
“Anybody got matches or a lighter?” Ness called out.
Tiff bent down and felt Booker’s neck. His eyes fluttered open in the darkness.
She said, “Can you walk?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“Get up and come with me.”
He sat up and slowly gathered his legs under him. She held his arm and guided him toward a doorway off to the side. He tottered a bit, but managed to stay on his feet.
The FBI agents were regaining some sense of order by match light. Tiff heard Ness ask a servant if she knew of any oil lamps lying about.
Finally they reached the door and she led Booker out of the ballroom into a deserted hallway.
“Give us a door, Cait. I’m bringing this one back.”
A thin glowing blue-green line appeared, quickly widening. Booker squinted his eyes at the sudden light, then cocked his head in wonder at the field of bluebonnets on the other side.
“Come on, step through with me.”
She tugged Booker’s arm gently, pulling him in after her to the Wildflower Room. Then the door winked out of existence.
-+-
When Booker opened his eyes, the faces of two women hovered over him. He flexed his arms and legs experimentally, and realized he was on some kind of cushioned table.
“Where am I?”
The attractive blonde, he remembered her name was Tiffany, smiled down at him. The other woman was a brunette and rather plain looking. He did not know her. She did not smile.
Tiffany said, “You took a shot for me back there. You didn’t have to do that, Darius.”
The memories of the past few minutes began to gel. The dark flaming figure. How Tiffany fought it. The bolts of light it threw at her. And his compulsive action, diving between her and another bolt.
He groaned as the shock wore off. Pain in his side bubbled up, placing its demands on his consciousness for the first time.
“Hurts.”
“You’re suffering from fae fire, Mr. Bo
oker. It is going to hurt a while.”
The plain-faced woman seemed very matter-of-fact while addressing him. He shifted his gaze to her.
“I couldn’t let anything happen to Ms. Valor.”
“While your sentiment is admirable, she is immortal. You, on the other hand—”
“That’s enough, Cait. Why don’t you go back to your desk, and I’ll see after Mr. Booker.”
Cait stared at Tiff for a moment, evaluating the request. Finally, she nodded.
“He will need a standard 24 hours of recuperation before my ministrations will have erased the full effects of fae fire from his physiology. And may I remind you of the rules, given your long history of ignoring them.”
Tiff held her hands up in acquiescence.
“I’ll obey the rules! I’ll bring him back as soon as he’s better.”
Cait held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. She turned and walked down the path and over the hill.
Tiff smiled, following Cait with her eyes, then turned back to look down at Darius on the table.
“You’ll be fine. Just stay here for a while and get better. Then I’ll bring you back.”
He nodded and looked around, confused. They seemed to be in a field of wildflowers.
“Where are we?”
She patted his forehead.
“Don’t worry about it. Just go to sleep.”
“That thing was huge,” he mumbled.
“That wasn’t his true form. They’re really much smaller. They just appear large, sometimes, in an effort to intimidate.”
He felt himself drifting off while she continued to gently pat him.
He didn’t notice her taking a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh as he began snoring. Had he been awake, he would have been highly embarrassed when she lifted up his shirt, wincing at the supernatural wound spread across his side and stomach. A black streak, stenciled in yellow, stretched halfway around his middle.
That was from a partial blow. Had Booker taken the full brunt of the bolt, he would not be alive. But the conversation about his wounds would have to wait as he slept and healed.