The expression he returned somehow said both, I ain’t goin’ into the lion’s den, and still time to let the girls breathe…
Much as I might want to entertain that latter notion, I shook my head and followed the Chisel around the corner and through a pair of glass doors. His office, too, was exactly as I expected. Everything, from the silver pens on his desk to the heavy bookshelves filled with binders and books, had a place. Each angle felt precise and exacting, a little too sharp for my taste. The only aspect that softened the room - besides the gorgeous view out the window - was a long black couch that begged to be used. Heat flooded my lower belly again, but I shoved the sensation to the back of my brain. There were much more important things at work here than the amount of time that had passed since I had last joined a man on a couch.
“So you’re a photographer?” the Chisel asked as he took his seat behind the glass desk. When I stared at him blankly, he explained, “You lamented your missing camera, so I assumed.”
I willed more blood to flow to my brain. It didn’t work. “Um, by training. I’m just a file clerk by profession.”
“And what business does a filing photographer have with me? Forgive me, but I don’t remember meeting you. I meet many people in the course of my work.” That upper-crust English accent made me want to forgive him anything.
He gestured to the chrome-and-leather chair across the desk from him, so I took it. It was a lot harder than it looked, no doubt designed to get people out of his office as fast as possible. “We didn’t exactly meet. I work for…” I hesitated. What if he didn’t remember? How much of a whackanoodle would I seem if I started spouting things that never happened? What if he looked at me like… Screw it. My mom was sick. I needed to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible so I could do whatever had to be done. Even if it meant a sexy man would never look at me the same way again. “For Maysie Browning Fife.”
“Fairytale Endings, yes. If she sent you to bargain on her behalf—”
“She didn’t.” Relief flooded me, and with it flowed the words I didn’t want to think about. All of them, tumbling out like a natural spring from a deep well of desperation. “She’s actually disappeared. The company now belongs to some scary woman named Zent with a hunchback for a sidekick and all the workers are gone. The few that are left don’t remember anything about it, except for me. And this woman - this bright, bubbly woman with more cheer than I’ve ever had in my whole life put together - showed up to tell me I’m a freaking fairy godmother. I was tricked into signing a contract and now my mom and half of Trapperstown are sleeping, and I’m pretty sure it’s a spell but I haven’t the faintest idea what to do because apparently Maysie was the only one who was supposed to help me, and she’s just gone. Poof.” I babbled for a good minute more before I realized those sexy blue eyes were staring at me, unwavering. I reined it in and finished lamely with, “So I’m here because…because I don’t know what else to do.”
He waited another beat before lacing his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair, and staring at the ceiling. The split second of emotion in that movement hit me like a brick, all rough and hard and out of nowhere. It knocked the wind from me (or maybe that was catching a glimpse of suspenders peeking out from beneath his vest, which made me yearn to unbutton this severely buttoned-up man), so I bowed my head and waited for my punishment.
It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. With both hands, he pulled his vest into perfect place as he sat up, then did the same to his jacket. He folded his hands and leaned his forearms on the edge of his desk. Those eyes pinned me with unexpected intensity. Not with wait-here-while-I-call-the-proper-authorities calm, but the sort of expression I was used to seeing in the most important moments in my life. Like when the bank rejected my small business loan application. Or when my lawyer informed me of just how much debt became mine once I signed the divorce papers.
“I’m only going to say this once, Miss Hargitay, because I am not in the habit of offering charity to anyone. This predicament, while unfortunate, is your own responsibility. You signed the paper; if you didn’t read it, that’s on your own head. For the rest, hostile takeovers are rarely fair to the acquisition. But that’s business. I suggest you find a new line of work if you don’t appreciate your employer’s methods or personality.”
My heart thudded at high velocity in my chest as I listened to the rest of his dressing-down. It was more a lecture in personal responsibility and the nature of the business world than anything I - or anyone else - would consider charity. About halfway through, my hands began to shake. At the three-quarter mark, I was ready to throw up in a pool of my own tears. And still he kept going.
“The Coisreacan Group doesn’t mingle in the affairs of anyone not under our contract. Even if I wanted to be of assistance,” which he clearly did not, “my hands would be legally tied. You understand?” He was actually looking down his nose at me now. He waited for my answer, but when all I did was stare at the purse in my lap, he added, “We would go out of business if we helped the competition.”
Competition? In what world could I possibly be considered competition? How ridiculous did he think I… And then it hit me. “You’re a…a fairy godfather?” How I managed to get those words out was anybody’s guess. The lump in my throat tightened my airways and my voice box almost to breaking.
He flinched as if I’d slapped him. “No. I am Senior VP of Acquisitions for the Western Region. There is only one Godfather, and he doesn’t appreciate others usurping his title.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t just my hands shaking anymore. My knees barely supported me as I rose from the uncomfortable chair. I mumbled something that sounded halfway between an apology and a thank you, and jerked my way to the door like a rusty tinman. He had no such trouble, meeting me there in a blink to hold the door open. The Chisel smelled like a forest after a soft rain; presumably a forest full of wolves ready to gobble up unsuspecting young women just trying to help the ones they loved.
As I passed within brushing distance - but studiously avoided doing so - he said quietly, “Every Cinderella has a demanding step-mother, an unfilled shoe, and a better life within reach. A good godmother must find the best way to bridge the pieces.”
I swallowed hard, struggling to dispel the lump and find my voice. “How?”
What I thought might have been the slight softening of his features proved to be a momentary lapse as the cold, marble-like wall of professionalism slammed back into place. He lifted his chin and said, “The same way anyone does anything, Miss Hargitay. Hard work and perseverance. I trust you can see yourself out?”
The door closed behind me with a soft and echoing click.
Ten minutes later, Mueller held out a half-empty box of tissues that looked as if it had bounced around the back of his SUV for years. I didn’t even care that the tissues were all dusty and grey; they were better than sobbing uncontrollably into my mom’s suit.
“I told you,” he muttered from time to time. And, “What a…” followed by a new expletive that I agreed with whole-heartedly every time. Eventually, he started the car.
“Where are we going?” I asked through the cascade of my miserable frustration. With my nose swollen and full of sticky angst, it sounded more like “Wheh we dohg?” but he understood.
“To the best place to dump sorrows.” He pulled out onto the one-way street, landing us on Speer just in time to join the small crowd of summer school kids leaving campus for the day.
“Nuh mo’ driggihg,” I objected.
“Booze isn’t strong enough for this. And ‘Chisel’ isn’t strong enough for that douche.” He proceeded to fill our commute with a long litany of more apt nicknames, some of which even managed to make me smile. Well, they made my lips twitch like they wanted to smile. Which was almost the same thing, given the circumstances.
After about forty minutes - most of which was spent fighting with daytime traffic on one-way streets - he pulled into a side street that looked li
ke the kind of shady alley where illicit dealings were conducted. He crept along at five miles an hour until we pulled into a tiny parking lot tucked between dirty buildings that might have been industrial complexes in the sixties and might have been drug dens in the eighties…or both. I blew my nose as he got out of the car and came around to open my door. I was about to accuse him of being a gentleman when he barked, “Nobody here cares what you look like. Get your ass inside.” This time, he stood guard at the car door until I actually got out. No more lingering in shady doorways this time.
“It’s barely after lunch,” I protested as I stepped out onto hot asphalt that looked like it hadn’t been repaved in a decade. Thankfully, my crying fit had subsided enough to sound like I only had a slight cold when I talked. “I’m not going to hang out at a bar and cry. That’s just sad.” When I noticed the dingy sign over the door, I added, “Or a whorehouse. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Hey, you’re the one who turned down a perfectly good liplock with your date. If you’d taken my advice, you could be having a good orgasm right about now.”
I stared at him, my feet refusing to move another inch. Following him into O’Toole’s had been one thing. But my mom hadn’t been unconscious without hope of waking up then. I hadn’t been lectured and discarded by a heartless asshole less than an hour before. For the first time, I felt my own vulnerability in Mueller’s presence and it left me feeling naked and lost in LoDo.
“So there’s our uncrossable guy-girl line. Good to know.” He didn’t try to touch me this time, just held the building’s door open to me. It was a sturdy metal thing that kind of resembled the fire doors at the factory. “Inside. You’ll like it, I swear.”
How I could like anything called The Master Dungeon, I didn’t know. But I was too tired, too spent to put up much of a fight. It occurred to me as I stepped inside that such a state was probably the least appropriate time to be letting Mueller take my anywhere. And then guilt layered on top of my sorrow and grief; I should make him take me immediately back to the hospital to sit with Mom. She was all alone. Well, she had Bob, but he wasn’t going to be much help. I thought about calling Danny, but I wanted to give Gigi time to make the call. He couldn’t throw money or computers at the problem, so it wasn’t like telling him sooner would do anyone any good. Might as well give them a chance to mend the fence if they could find it.
Speaking of throwing computers at the problem…
The Master Dungeon was not the prostitution emporium I expected. Nor was it a bar. Well, it had a bar, but instead of the usual football game blasting from the overhead monitors, the scrawny dudes sipping beer at it were cheering on a pair of Mortal Kombat fighters. The dings and zips and electronic music piping out of every screen in the place had a familiar, comforting ring. When a sudden swell of music transported me instantly to the fields of Hyrule, I couldn’t help but grin.
Mueller had brought me to geek heaven. Video games, computers, a Tron-themed bar; it was like an arcade for a new millenium. One corner even held half a dozen old pinball machines for the hipster tribe.
As the smell of fresh pretzels and cherry slushes reached my nose, I threw my arms around Mueller’s neck.
“We’re okay, then?” he mumbled into my head.
“Definitely,” I said, wiping away a tear.
“Good. Now go kill stuff, then grab a table. I’ll find us some food. And drinks. For me.”
I let him go without comment. Just because I objected to drinking before dark didn’t mean I would impose such strictures on my knight in oily flannel. I made a mental note to find a good way to thank him that didn’t involve nakedness and set off to explore.
Chapter 19
After a few rounds of blowing away zombies on a giant screen, I moved on with a lightness in my step. Or at least not so much weight on my shoulders. I chose a table far enough from the games that we wouldn’t be hounded by nonstop music loops but with a good view of the big screen over the bar, and settled in. When a Zelda-esque server asked me if she could get me anything, I almost flinched at the point on her ears. Just in time, I realized they were glued on.
“You look like you could use a bobby-omb,” she said as I let out an apologetic giggle.
“Actually, my friend went to find us provisions,” I said, figuring I might as well let my nerd flag fly.
“The guy with the Wolverine mutton chops, right? I can check your order. I’ll be right back.” She left too quickly for me to correct her, that I was with the guy whose beard should be on Walking Dead. She even walked like Zelda. Weird…especially since I didn’t remember ever seeing Zelda walk. Heck, she spent the second game asleep on a temple altar.
I took a deep breath and buried my face in my arms. Mueller was right—I did love this place. It was like being twelve all over again, dreaming of a grown-up world that was fun instead of boring. Except now I was wishing for a life that made sense. A life without the magic I had yearned for as a kid.
What happened to us that you don’t want magic? my internal kid-Tessa demanded.
I felt more than a little ungrateful. But then, when I’d imagined saving the world as a kid it hadn’t involved my mom being in a coma. Heroes usually got a mentor to introduce them to the magical world, too. Mentors who didn’t dupe them into crossing the world-barrier and then disappear without a trace. I thought of the wand still hiding under Mueller’s passenger seat. So, not exactly without a trace…
“Mundanes can be so strange,” a light, mature voice said from my right.
I froze. Could godmothers read minds? I couldn’t do it yet, but that didn’t mean with practice and years of experience it would be impossible. I had literally no idea what magic could do.
Peeking out from my arms proved my fears were at least a little well-founded. Sabine Shinewell sat in the next hard plastic chair over, her pink skirt clashing horribly with the ‘80s burnt orange of the table. She looked like a socialite at a blue collar dance in the ‘30s.
“I mean, look at this fellow. Just who does he think he is?” She waved her graceful fingers at a server dressed like Link.
“He’s a sort of woodland fairy. From a video game,” I added, when her face contorted with offense.
She tossed her head like she was shaking her hair over her shoulders, except it didn’t move even a little from its perfect beehive. “Is that really what they imagine fairies to look like? Attach some points to their ears and away we go? He looks more like one of those…oh, what are they called? Hephaestians.”
I blinked at her, my mind whirring. “Hephaestians?”
“You know, the ones with the logic and the odd hand gestures. They’re very popular among these sorts of mundanes.”
It clicked. “Vulcans? From Star Trek?”
“Yes! Those. They have pointy ears as well, yes?”
“They’re not exactly the same thing…”
She clicked her tongue and waved an imperious hand. “Exactly my point. Generic, all of them. Interchangeable. And magical beings are hardly that. Rather insulting, really.” She surreptitiously watched the approach of my Zelda server and gave her a pursed-lip smile when the girl set a pizza on the table.
The smell of hot pineapple and cheese made my mouth water. Had I eaten breakfast that morning? I thought I had, but my stomach disagreed.
“Chunky Hula Kong, as ordered,” the server chirped. “Your friend is getting the drinks. Can I get you something, ma’am?” The smile she volleyed back at Sabine would have sugared violets.
“No, thank you. I’m not staying.”
“Are you sure? We have a Grey Goose martini I think you’d really like.”
Sabine’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a little early for alcohol, dear.”
Zelda shrugged. “Suit yourself.” To me, she said, “Let me know if you need anything else.”
I snagged one of the plates she left behind and scooped a slice of the pineapple-black-olive pizza onto it. The first bite proved it was too hot to eat, but it made m
e look for Mueller. I didn’t remember telling him my preferred pizza toppings, but I must’ve. Where was he? Oh. Hitting on a pair of geek girls getting their Silent Hill on. Figured.
I did a double-take. His beard had separated into Wolverine-like mutton chops. Was the factory spell growing stronger?
Sabine let out a little huff. “I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Hargitay, and let you return to…whatever this is.”
“Actually,” I said, whistling a little as a tried to cool off my mouth between words, “I have a lot of questions. This sleeping sickness, it’s a spell, right? One somebody needs to break? I tried to call you, but your receptionist said he’s not allowed to help someone in free agent territory. So, who’s the free agent I should see?”
Her laugh, all twinkly and condescending, got under my skin and wiggled around like a worm in bad tequila. “Oh, my dear. You are.” She waved her hand again. “But that isn’t why I’m here. Clarence was correct—I’m not strictly supposed to assist a free agent. The sleeping spell is in your territory, and were I to infringe…well, I would be inviting a lawsuit, frankly. I don’t like lawsuits. Our legal system is much more inviolable than the mundanes’, you see. You’ve heard of Rumpelstiltskin, perhaps? One of our best lawyers. Dreadful little imp. One would think a salary that high would enable him to take better care of his teeth.” She shuddered and patted the back of her hair.
My hands fisted over my steaming pizza. “Somebody has to be able to tell me how the hell to do my job. If it’s not you and it’s not the…” I refrained from using the words I wanted; this was a family establishment, after all. “…the unpleasant Mr. Windchase, then who do I talk to?”
Her sculpted golden brows arched gently. “You asked the Chisel?” She appraised me all over again. “That must have come as a surprise to him. No one ever asks the Family such impertinent questions.” Those big blue eyes softened. “Oh, my dear. Is that why you’ve been crying? He can be such a brute. Impeccable fashion sense, but a brute.” She handed me a napkin as if I were crying right then and there. “Still, I might have paid to watch you ask for his assistance. In gold. I bet he got all hot under the collar, didn’t he?” The way she ran a finger down her neck made my stomach gremlin growl.
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