Another Dreadful Fairy Book

by Jon Etter

  “Oh, no, no, no! Of course not. That is why we have the sign, you see.”

  “Of course. But if someone were . . . maybe . . . interested in imports or exports that weren’t completely legitimate and legal, you wouldn’t happen to know who she could talk to, would you?” Shade gave him a wink.

  The lutin’s eyes narrowed and he nodded in a knowing manner. “Well . . . I might, perhaps, know of someone who might be able to help such a person,” he replied, tapping the side of his nose with his finger, “if, say, you know of such a person who might be interested in such things.”

  “Oh, I believe I just might know of such a person.” Shade winked again.

  “What’s-a the matter? You gotta something in you eye?” Ginch asked.

  “Shush!” Shade hissed at him.

  “If you know such a person, then I believe I know someone who could help.” The hairy fairy again tapped the side of his nose.

  “’Ey, you keep a-tappin’ you nose. You gotta the cold?” Ginch asked. The Professor offered a filthy handkerchief to Monsieur Légal.

  “Put that disgusting thing away.” Shade slugged the Professor in the arm. “I’m sorry about these two.”

  The shopkeeper dismissed her apology with a wave. “Do not worry about it. The muscle—they never seem to understand the fine points of the business, no?”

  Ginch laughed. “’Ey, partner—he thinks we’re-a the tough guys!”

  The Professor nodded and struck a series of bodybuilder poses.

  “You might want to replace those two,” Monsieur Légal said to Shade.

  “You have no idea.”

  “So, what sort of less than legal items might someone you know be looking for?”

  Shade shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about that. Now if, let’s say, this shop were a front for a secret criminal empire—”

  “Which it is not. The sign and all . . . ”

  “Which, of course, it is not,” Shade agreed. “But if it were, then I believe I could tell the boss of that criminal organization herself. Or themselves. As the case may be.”

  The hairy fairy squinted at Shade, sizing her up. “If this place were such a place and I were to introduce you to such a person, I would need some sort of guarantee that you could be trusted enough to meet with such a person.”

  “Oh, that’s-a easy,” Ginch said with a shrug. “We’re-a the good, good friends of Ronnie the Bowser.”

  Monsieur Légal’s eyes widened and Shade whirled around. “What the dingle-dangle are you doing?” she growled.

  “You are the friends of Ronnie Bowser?” the lutin asked, sounding more than a little surprised.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ginch said breezily, looked down at his fingernails. “We have the weekly poker game. In fact, she owe me and my partner three—” The Professor shook his head and held up six fingers. “I mean, she owe us the six gold coins from our last game.”

  “Hang on,” Monsieur Légal said, taking a stocking cap with a feather attached to each side out of his pocket. He put the hat on and immediately vanished.

  “I said to let me do the talking,” Shade growled through gritted teeth.

  “And you talk and you talk and you talk, but you and beardsy no do the nothing. I talk and we get things a-movin’.”

  Shade put her hands on her hips. “And are things ‘a-movin’? Because at the moment, we are exactly where we were before except the person who may have been able to help us has just disappeared because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

  Suddenly, one of the cases of trinkets lining the walls swung out and from behind it strode a spriggan, fully inflated, his head almost touching the ceiling, his brown leather jerkin studded with pebbles and stones. Next to him walked a hulking, leather armor-clad human, almost as tall as the spriggan, with a squashed nose and close-cropped blond hair. On every finger, he wore a large ring shaped like a skull.

  “So you lot’re friends of Ronnette Bowser, then?” the spriggan asked.

  “She’s like the sister to us!” Ginch declared before Shade could stop him. The Professor pointed at Ginch and nodded in agreement.

  “Roight, then,” the spriggan said, giving them a grin that showed off his jagged teeth. “Come wiv us.”

  The human bowed slightly and gestured toward the hidden doorway they had just come through. “If yez please,” he said.

  “See?” Ginch hooked his thumbs in his vest and started walking. “Like I say—I get things a-movin’!”

  In which things get a-movin’ . . .

  On the other side of the hidden doorway, Shade and company found a vast open brick warehouse filled with fairies—mostly goblins and hobgoblins, but also gnomes, dwarves, trow, pechs, spriggans, wulvers, kobolds, pixies, and even a troll—hauling boxes and rolling barrels right and left. The spriggan pointed to a metal door in the far wall. “That way to the bosses’ office,” he said, leading them across the room.

  On their way, a little man with flaming red hair and green overalls stumbled up to them, a tall glass of amber liquid in hand. “Evening, lads,” he slurred, holding out the glass to them. “Fancy a tipple with me and me boys, Mr. Yaxley? Mr. Ront?”

  “Can’t,” the human replied. “No bevvies when we’s on the clock, la.”

  “This batch still taste loike paint thinner, Seamus?” the spriggan asked.

  “Aye, Mr. Ront, but in a good way.” The clurichaun drained the glass in one mighty gulp, then stumbled off.

  “Make sure yez don’t drink the whole batch, la!” Yaxley called after him. “We got to keep an eye on him, Ront. He’s gettin’ to be a proper deadbeat.”

  A badger-headed goblin rushed over holding up a footstool whose legs waggled of their own power. “Mr. Yaxley, what am I supposed to do with these bloody dokkaebis? They’re runnin’ all aboot the bloody warehouse sayin’ the rudest things to everyboody.”

  “Be careful wiv ’em, Buck. Them posh Seelie Court swells think talkin’, movin’ furniture’s dead fashionable right now and are willin’ to pay for it.”

  “Hey, you big, ugly human git! Is that your head or did your neck just throw up?” the footstool squeaked. “Gah! I’ve seen better-looking heads on boils! Why, I bet your mother—”

  Yaxley yanked the footstool away from the goblin, clamped it in his armpit, and grabbed one of the legs. “Don’t,” he said and then snapped off one leg. “Talk.” Snap! “Aboot.” Snap! “Me ma.” Snap!

  “You miserable brute! You horrid savage! You filthy, nasty—”

  The footstool’s insults were cut short when Yaxley snapped the now legless piece of furniture in half on his knee.

  “Here.” Yaxley shoved the broken remnants into Buck’s arms. “Any moor o’ this furniture gives ya lip, la, you joost show them that and say there’s moore where it coom from.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Yaxley!” The goblin sauntered away, whistling happily.

  “Is that always how you handle problems?” Shade asked, more than a little disturbed by the casual violence she had witnessed.

  “Nah. Sometimes ’e ain’t so gentle, roight, Yax?” Ront laughed as Yaxley cracked his knuckles.

  “I hope you’re paying attention to all this, Mr. Get Things A-Movin’,” Shade whispered to Ginch, who gulped and tugged at his collar.

  “’Ang on,” Ront said when they reached the metal door. He rapped rhythmically—Shade could tell it was some kind of code—then opened the door. Yaxley bowed and motioned for them to enter. “After you, lady and gents.”

  A chill ran down Shade’s spine. She had a very bad feeling but didn’t see any other alternative. That feeling was completely justified by the rat-, frog-, and gull-headed goblins hiding on either side of the doorway who grabbed them as soon as they entered. The three friends struggled and thrashed and swore, but it was no use—they were outnumbered and overpowered. The goblins forced the three onto wooden chairs and tied them up.

  “Let us go, you thistlepr
icks!” Shade shouted.

  “Hang on.” Yaxley stooped to pick up the eye patch the Professor had lost during the scuffle. “Why Ront, I do believe these soft lads is duplicitous.”

  Ront gave him a quizzical look. “Do-what now?”

  “Duplicitous. You know, they was tryin’ to poot one over on oos.”

  “I ’spect yer roight there, Yax. But they made one crucial mistake, they did.”

  “They shoor did, Ront.” Yaxley grinned at them. “Yez let slip that yez is friends with Ronnie Bowser.”

  “And Ronnie, seein’ as she don’t loike people on general principle, the only friends she’s willin’ to ’ave is the two of us—”

  “Which yez ain’t.”

  “Thornburgh—”

  “Which yez ain’t.”

  “And ’er sister, Ginnie.”

  “Which yez ain’t.” Yaxley cracked his knuckles menacingly. “I believe yez is coppers’ narcs lookin’ to infiltrate oos. Or maybe spies for anoother gang lookin’ to muscle in on our operation.”

  “Wait!” Shade shouted. “Okay, we don’t really know Ronnie Bowser. That’s just something that turnip-head made up. But we’re not spies or informants or anything. We have urgent, secret business with the Bowsers and they would really, really want to see us if they knew about it.”

  “That’s-a true,” Ginch agreed. “Not the turnip-head part, but everything else.”

  Yaxley studied Shade. “Know what, Ront? I believe the li’l sprite.”

  Ront cocked an eyebrow as Shade let out the breath she had been holding, relieved. “You do, Yax?”

  “I do. He’s a turnip-head if ever I saw one.”

  Shade groaned.

  “Roight ya are, Yax. Nick, go fetch us Tickler, then,” Ront told a rat-headed goblin who scurried off. “Now the rest of you sods need to bugger off. What’s gonna ’appen in ’ere ain’t gonna be pretty. Not pretty at all.”

  The goblins turned pale and rushed out, elbowing each other to get out of the room. As soon as they had cleared out, Nick dashed in, handed Ront what appeared to be a long sword sheathed in a well-oiled leather scabbard, its bronze handle polished and gleaming in the light, and dashed out.

  “A work of art, Tickler is. Ain’t she, Ront?” Yaxley shook his head in admiration.

  “Absolutely roight, Yax,” he agreed, offering him Tickler handle first. “How ’bout you do the honors, mate?”

  “Ta. Don’t mind if’n I do, la.” The human took the handle and grinned malevolently at Shade, Ginch, and the Professor. “Now then, which one of yez wants to tell oos who yez workin’ for?”

  “I told you, saphead, we’re not working for anyone!” Shade protested.

  Ront sighed. “Aw, Yax. I do believe we’s gonna ’ave to do this the ’ard way.”

  Yax tried to look sad but couldn’t manage it and chuckled. “Good. Let’s see what Tickler can tickle oot ’o these muppets.”

  In which we see what Yax can

  tickle out of our trio . . .

  “Wait!” Shade shouted. “We’re not working for anyone! You can’t do this!”

  Yaxley, who had been about to unsheathe Tickler, stopped. “Hang on. The li’l sprite’s got a point there, Ront.”

  “She do?”

  “Yeah. We can’t do this. Not with their shoes still on we can’t. Geddem off, will yez?”

  Ront laughed. “Roight you is, Yax.”

  When the spriggan reached for Shade’s leg, she tried to kick him in the head but missed by inches. He grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her boot off. “Got a bit o’ spirit this ’un, Yax.”

  “That she do, Ront. Now, who should I start on?”

  Shade looked at Ginch and the Professor. “Leave them alone,” Shade said. “They don’t know anything. I’m the one you want.”

  “’Ey, that’s-a no true!” Ginch objected. “None of us know the nothing, but they know more of the nothing than I do, so you let-a them go and do whatta you want to me.”

  The Professor whistled, shook his head “no,” then waggled his eyebrows and blew a raspberry at the goons. Yax nodded at him. “I believe yez is the winner, la. Boot don’t worry—these other two will get a front-row seat for what I do to yez.”

  “Leave him alone, snotbucket!” Shade shouted as she struggled to free herself from the chair.

  “And why would I do that? This here’s me favorite part of the job,” Yax said, grinning.

  “And ’e’s an artist at this, ’e is,” Ront added.

  “That I am, mate,” Yax agreed. “See, Ront here—he’s a good bloke but hasn’t got no finesse when it cooms to this.”

  Ront chuckled. “’E’s roight, ’e is. Oi always go roight to the belly. No style, no art to it.”

  “He gets too eager, he does,” Yax said. “See, once yez is at the belly, yez doon. No place to go from there. Me? I start with the toes. Good place to start, the toes. Most fairies break by the time I get to the li’l piggy, and if they don’t, well . . . plenty of places to go froom there, la. Boot enoof talk—time for the Tickler.”

  Shade gasped as Yax grabbed the scabbard in one hand and pulled the handle out with the other. And then she was confused. “What’s that?”

  Yax gave her a toothy, menacing smile. “It’s Tickler.”

  “I thought it’d be a sword,” Shade said, nodding at the long ostrich feathers attached to the sword hilt. “Ginch?”

  “Yeah, I woulda bet the big, big money it was-a the sword,” he agreed.

  Ront and Yax looked at each other in bewilderment and annoyance. “It’s called ‘Tickler,’ yez beuts,” Yax said.

  “Yeah. What, you fink we’re gonna tickle you wiv a sword?” Ront scoffed. “’Ow’d that work, then?”

  “Right yez is, Ront. I mean, if this were named ‘Slashy’ or ‘Stabby McStabberton’ or soomthin’, then, yeah, ’course it’s a sword.”

  “Well, naturally Stabby McStabberton’s a sword. Wouldn’t make sense otherwise.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’.”

  “And you’re . . . going to tickle us with that?” Shade asked, smirking.

  “That ’e is. That ’e is.” Ront pointed at Yaxley and laughed evilly. “And ’e won’t stop until ya tell us ’oo yer workin’ for or ’e drives ya insane.”

  “Maybe both.” Yaxley threw his head back and laughed.

  “’Ang on, mate,” Ront said and then whispered to him, “Don’t say that you’ll keep ticklin’ ’til they’s crazy, Yax. If they fink you’ll keep on ticklin’ after they spill their guts, they moight not talk. You gotta make ’em fink they’ll be done if they tell us what we need, roight?”

  “That makes a lot o’ sense. Ta, Ront,” he whispered back. “As I was sayin’, we’ll tickle yez until yez talk or yez go crazy. But not both. Startin’ with the pixie.”

  The spriggan yanked the shoes and socks from the Professor’s feet, and Yaxley began vigorously tickling the Professor’s toes with his ostrich feathers. Now, I know that having one’s toes tickled doesn’t sound like that bad of a fate, but take a moment to consider the time your cousin Nefertiti tickled you so badly that you nearly wet yourself after you had threatened to tell Neville St. Claire that Nefertiti had been writing his name surrounded by hearts in her school notebook. As bad as that was, Nefertiti was an amateur tickle-torturer and not a pro like the one Shade and company faced. Yaxley tickled and tickled and tickled the Professor’s toes with ever increasing speed and savagery, but the Professor, as I’m sure you would expect, made no noise, though his eyes watered and he squirmed like a worm headed for the fishhook.

  “That’s-a no gonna get the word outta him,” Ginch said after about fifteen minutes of solid tickling.

  The human stopped and shook out his arm, while the Professor caught his breath. “Is right, la. Guess it’s time to take it oop a notch.”

  “Ginch?” Shade said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop he
lping.”

  “Get ’is ears, mate,” Ront suggested.

  Yaxley did just that, tickling the Professor behind each ear. When the pixie still remained silent, the spriggan untied the Professor’s hands from the chair and held them over his head while Yax attacked the pixie’s armpits with much alacrity. Soon the human was panting with exhaustion, yet the Professor made no noise.

  “Right . . . yez bloody pixie . . . I’m through playin’ ’round . . . ”

  Ront frowned. “That mean it’s toime for—”

  Yaxley nodded. “It is, mate. Lift oop his shirt.”

  Ront did, exposing the Professor’s pale belly. With a growl Yaxley furiously tickled it, putting all his previous efforts to shame. It was a tickling unparalleled in the history of ticklings and no doubt would merit its own chapter in Lady Giggleton de Teehee’s book on that very subject, if she ever puts out a new edition. But it was all for naught—the Professor remained silent.

  Eventually, Yaxley dropped Tickler. Its bronze handle clunked on the ground as he wiped sweat from his very distraught face. “I can’t . . . He’s not . . . ”

  Ront gave an appreciative whistle. “We’ve finally met a nut ya can’t crack, Yax. Oi never would’ve—”

  The door to the office swung open before Ront could finish and there, in the doorway, stood . . . nobody. And then there was a squelchy sound, as if someone were walking in old, waterlogged sneakers.

  “What’s that sound?” Shade asked. Ront’s and Yaxley’s eyes got big, and the human held his finger to his lips to tell her to shush.

  “What sound?” Ront asked, making a face at Shade as if to say, “Shut up!”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Yaxley said.

  “You don’t hear that?” Shade asked. “That squishy sound? Like someone’s walking around in—”

  “Oh, coom bloody on!” a voice roared. Suddenly in the middle of the room there appeared a lean fairy standing a little over four feet tall, her long, jet black hair swept straight back from her severe blue face. Given what a well-read and knowledgeable Reader you are, I’m sure I don’t have to note she was a skriker, one of the most fearsome fairies to stalk bogs, moors, and swamps. She wore a well-tailored, form-fitting, knee-length coat with fuzzy collar and cuffs made of what looked like black dog hair and a pair of expensive-looking black leather boots. “Yez could hear me?”