by Elle Lincoln
I snap my mouth closed, but my eyes are wide and I’m truly taken aback. She stands no taller than five feet. Probably not even that. Her curvy body dares to pop the buttons on her light blue dress and strain against her white apron. Her tiny little feet wear the cutest petite dancing slippers, but I’m sure that isn’t at all what they are. Her cherub face and rosy cheeks give the appearance of a matronly woman in her prime.
Until she smiles, that is.
“I-I apologize.” I stumble over my words. “I’ve never met a brownie, in fact I didn’t think they existed.”
“Oh well, welcome to reality, child.” I can’t tell if I should be offended or not as she turns to Gramps with a smile and a blush. “Bruce, how are you today?”
I glance at Gramps who’s blushing just as fiercely. “Fine, fine Ms. Maryann. Now that Mae is here.”
I step around them as they go on about everyday chatter. I have no idea what twilight zone I’ve entered but hey, at least it comes with pastries. I can hardly contain my excitement as I reach for something with a cheesy filling.
Until that little creature snaps my knuckles with a freaking ruler. “Wash yer hands! I smell blood on ye!”
I back away, realizing that perhaps brownies aren’t as matronly as I thought. As I walk to the sink to wash my hands, I run through fairy tales in my head. Brownies, they are supposed to be spirits. Aren’t they? I glance over my shoulder at the tiny woman laughing like a school girl at Gramps. I thought human and fae relations were frowned upon?
Drying my hands, I look at Maryann for approval. The dimples in her cheeks are pure arrogance, as is that smile tilting her lips. Gramps doesn’t see it, but I do. Either way, I’m officially starving, and I’ve had my damn hands swatted. I grab a pastry and dart toward one of the small tables lining the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I breathe a sigh of relief, only to hear a plate clatter to the table. I look up, but Maryann and Gramps are still chatting away.
“What the hell?” I whisper to myself, while eyeing up the pastry like it might grow legs and walk away. I’m not sure how much weirder this day can get.
Rocco stumbles through the door as I finally get a bite of pastry. Maryann’s eyes light up at the djinn. Then the fucker holds his hands up like jazz hands and marches right to the sink to wash them. Either he’s a brown noser—ironic—or he’s already had his hands smacked. He also grabs a plate and piles it full of pastries, meats, and breads.
His dark hair flops in disarray around his face, his beard getting too long and bleeding into his hair line. I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. He slips into the seat in front of me with an amused grin.
“What’s so funny?” I ask around a mouthful.
“She got ya, didn’t she?” He begins to shovel food into his mouth at an unsettling rate.
“Smacked my hands, I still don’t know where this plate came from,” I whisper to him, while eyeing up the little woman, making sure I don’t catch her attention.
Rocco laughs at me. “She’ll have you thinking she’s the only brownie, but her whole family is here.” He waves a hand around his head while making a whooshing noise. “I swear they live in the walls.”
My lips curl as I eye the walls in question. Aren’t there horror stories that start off that way? I can’t think about it, except my need to stay at my home increases.
“Looks like you got over your squeamishness.”
“You don’t see that every day.” He rubs at his lips. “Can we not talk about that?”
“Where’s Argos?” I hope he’s okay and not beating himself up too much over her death.
“With Marrok. Odd couple.”
I cock my head to the side. “Isn’t Argos technically a mortal, and Marrok an immortal?” I’m having a hard time understanding these relationship lines.
“Had that talk, did ya?” Rocco chews thoughtfully. “Witches are mortal magic, yes, born of Earth not the Realm. But they are still immortal-like, long-lived, and Marrok isn’t a born wolf.”
“They both lean toward the mortal side, making their relationship okay?” Who the hell is policing this anyway, or is it just one of those things that goes unsaid but is frowned upon?
“Yeah, why not?”
I don’t think he’s getting this at all. “Can you date a human?” I inquire.
Rocco snorts. “I’d never put myself in that position. Too much of a hassle. Their lives are too fragile.”
“What about a changeling?” I ask, going back to that elusive creature. I’d like to meet one if I’m being honest with myself.
“They are different, of all realms or worlds. They are off.” Rocco shifts in his seat as though I’m making him uncomfortable with this conversation. Good.
“Off how? You’ve met one?”
“Only once.” His eyes glaze as memories flash through his mind. “Big doe eyes, I could sense her lifeforce. Human, but not. Immortal, but not. Her mind was broken, like a child that never lost that mentality.”
“So, the fae stole human babies to raise as their own because they couldn’t procreate anymore, correct?”
“Yeah. Sounds about right. The fae locked everyone but their own from the Realm for a long fucking time.” He takes a sip of what looks like orange juice. Only he didn’t walk over here with orange juice and I don’t have one. I see where the favoritism lies. “Why do you ask about changelings?”
“Just working on a theory.” I pinch my lips, debating on getting up for more food, but unsure if I must wash my hands again or not.
“Wash them.” He jerks his chin toward the sink.
Caught by Rocco, I’ll take the advice from a favorite. My goal is to become one of her favorites. If that’s even possible.
Yet, before I can get up, another pastry appears on my plate, leaving me to fall back to my chair in confusion as Rocco’s laughter echoes through the hall.
“Looks like one of ‘em likes you after all.”
I frown because I didn’t even see anything move. How is it even possible something so small can move that quick? I can’t even wrap my head around it.
“What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”
Rocco’s eyes darken and the mood between us changes enough to be palpable. I’d apologize, but it doesn’t change the fact that two people have died, probably by the same person. I’m no forensic scientist or even a medical examiner, but I can put two and two together—and someone is stealing my ghosts.
“I’m not sure. We’re kind of in a state of limbo here.” Rocco drops his pastry onto the plate, wrinkling his nose, probably remembering the smell of a corpse. “We don’t know why they were killed, or why someone would have stolen their essence. I have no idea what to do.”
I pick at the buttery crust, only mildly wondering where the butter came from. “I hate not doing anything, but I don’t know what to do either,” I admit, sharing my sense of defeat. “Part of me hates the way the world is now—decrepit, with death at every corner since everything and anything can kill you. And a part of me loves it. No technology to distract the brightest of minds. Thought becomes more of a way of life. Yet, there is no communication because we are struggling to make electricity work again. There is no hospital, prison, or system in place to keep people in line. Mortal and immortal alike. And the rules keep changing.”
By the end of my rant, I’ve ripped my pastry into shreds, just realizing my concerns are now something deeper as new challenges present themselves.
“Ya know, things happen for a reason. You can only push against the stream for so long until you realize you can get where you want to faster by learning to swim with it.” My eyes flicker up to Rocco, his gaze downcast as his fingers trace lines in the tabletop. “You can to learn to adjust, Mae. If you don’t, you will only destroy yourself.”
“You think I should give in and be the person everyone wants me to be?” How quickly this conversation devolved into the argument I’ve been avoiding with myself.
“I
think you are capable of far more than you give yourself credit for. It isn’t about doing what anyone else wants for you, but learning about the person you are now, who that is, and where she’s going.” He smiles that rogue smile at me. One I’m sure melts panties, but to me it’s just genuine friendship. I cherish little moments like these. “Also, you can kick some ass along the way, as long as you call me next time for one of your hunting excursions.”
A blush blooms my face. “Okay, I’ll take you as backup.”
He snorts. “Yeah, backup.”
The door slams against the wall and Flynn strolls in, his fists clenched and his eyes flashing with rage. Rocco and I both stand while Gramps and Maryann step away from the angry god.
“What is it?” My heart pounds as fear slides up my back at the thought of another death.
“The sisters have made a discovery,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw.
“Sisters?”
“The panthers, the ones you saved.” Flynn’s snark reminds me I’ve neglected not only him, but this entire operation. Embarrassment flushes my already red face. He eyes my blush for a moment before dismissing it. “Come on.”
He turns on a heel and marches out of the kitchen, his back stiff.
“After you, milady.” Rocco bows with an amused grin. I swear, sometimes he just enjoys ruffling all of Flynn’s feathers.
I follow Flynn from the kitchen as the air crackles with energy. When we round the bend into the foyer, I see two panthers pacing, their tails flicking back and forth in irritation. Their heads snap toward me in unison. Any other day of the week, and in any other circumstance, their attention would worry me, instead, I feel nothing but respect rolling off them.
“I sent them out with a shard of Delores’s clothing, hoping to discover something.” Flynn looks over his shoulder, his eyes locking with mine. His hand grazes the top of one of the panthers as though petting her. A spike of adrenaline floods my chest at what I can only describe as jealousy. Is he doing that on purpose?
Flynn, I don’t like your fae games.
I square my shoulders, steeling myself for any action he makes, knowing this is just for show. Why? I haven’t a fucking clue.
“What did you find?” I address one of the panthers. Her head cocks toward the door. Ignoring Flynn, I push it open into the quickly approaching evening.
“They found an apartment, Mae.” Flynn is angry about something, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what I could have done in the hour we were apart.
“Just spit it out, Flynn, I don’t have time for your bullshit games.” My words and anger spark silence between all of us. I try to remind myself there is no way this could possibly be about me.
“Tell me now, Mae, if there is anything you want me to know.”
What the hell is this about? “I don’t know, Flynn, I’m not the one keeping secrets.”
“My mother, Mae.”
Oh yeah, except for that secret.
Chapter 8
Mae
The stairs creak beneath my feet as I take each step with complete caution. Behind me, the door slams shut, echoing in the narrow corridor. Mailboxes line the wall, some with keys dangling out of their locks, forgotten with chipping metal. Light barely filters in through double doors below as I ascend the staircase. Just ahead, one of the sisters sits on a landing, waiting for my arrival. Flynn and the other sister make their way up behind me.
Slow and steady, we ascend the steps, the air thick and charged with questions and reasoning beyond my control. The staircase thickens with darkness as Rocco speeds his way past us up to the third floor. Bikes rest along the hall with their tires flat from lack of care and use, their metal anchored to a lock drilled into the wall.
My eyes can’t help but scan everything as I drag my feet up the stairs. Flynn hasn’t spoken a single word to me since he dropped that bomb. The turbulence between us is creating a tension I can hardly stand. One I fear will come to an explosion. Again.
Rhia has kept herself just out of range, but I can feel her hovering just beyond the veil of reality. I can’t decide if Flynn is aware of her presence or if something else is going on just beyond my understanding. I know she’s dead, since she flickers in an out like a ghost, and yet...
What will I find just up ahead?
As my foot clears the last step, Rocco swings the door open, the whites of his eyes prominent, and his skin pale as though he’s seen a ghost. If the lady in question, Rhia, could just pop on through and tell me what the hell this is about, that would be great, but she is unusually silent.
Gram has kept just out of range as well, both of them watching as everything unfolds before the living.
I step through the door, the floor groaning as a cat bounds up to me, weaving between my legs. The scent of piss burns my nose. My arm comes up to save myself from the headache of an ammonia filled room. Another cat speeds past my legs and down the stairs, not even hissing at the panthers that prowl the steps.
I push past Rocco and move down a hallway muted with filtered light. A bathroom sits with the door ajar, the floor covered in crystalized cat urine. I can’t help but wonder how many of these homes reflect the same fate. A living room sits ahead, where the decomposing body of the original owner lies upon a couch. His flesh is partially eaten by the cats he once loved and cherished.
The scene, while macabre, is probably the same one I’d find all over the city. When humans were struck with the equivalent of a magical plague, some died on the spot. Others rushed to the hospital only to die shortly after. Body after body was burned in their incinerators. Their effort was based on science spouted by experts. Yet their hard lesson would be that magic isn’t a science they knew, and their hope to stop a plague they couldn’t control was futile. I only hope that somewhere out there a scientist survived, someday revealing the logistics behind magic and the elements to the world.
I step past the body and push through a partially closed door.
“They almost missed it.” Flynn’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, abrasive in the stretch of silence. “Hidden under the piss and shit was a scent almost overlooked. They scoured home after home. Until they found this.”
I swallow back the bile rising in my throat and blink against the burn of the scents assaulting my eyes and nostrils. The room beyond is nothing short of a shrine, toward one person, or rather fae.
“What the hell is this?” Along the wall was an old desk. One leg was broken and in its place were stacks of history books that kept it upright. The windows, once covered with newspapers filtering out the light, are now torn down, allowing the dimming sun to highlight the shrine.
“I ripped the newspaper down when I found this.” His fingers lightly graze an old photograph of his mother, a sword held high above her head lit with flame. Though the photo is centuries old and only in sepia tones, the story is no less revealing... and damning.
“How long ago did your mother die, Flynn?” I gaze at the numerous pictures of Rhia, of a map of the city with little pins stuck in it threaded together by twine.
“Decades?” He doesn’t sound so sure. “She tried to kill me.”
Rocco snorts while rifling through a stack of newspapers. “That’s one way to word it.”
I look between the two. I know Rhia—now, at least. Death may have changed her, but I’m not sure. Does one see life different upon death’s door? Does the perspective change? Does personality? I didn’t know any of the ghosts I’ve met until they were dead. “Why?” I try to hold back my curiosity, but it’s damn near impossible. I can almost see the wheels turning in Flynn’s head over that one question.
“Fae remember,” Rocco mocks, as though that explains everything. With a groan, he opens a window, sticking his head out for fresh air.
“What Rocco is trying to say is my mother was old. One of the very first generation of fae born of the gods.”
I fear asking how old that is.
Flynn continues while opening th
e rest of the windows and airing out the cramped space. “Or second generation. It’s confusing. Is the first generation of fae those second born of the gods? Or the children of them? Either way, her grandparents were a god and a human.”
“A forbidden tryst,” I muse, looking past the melted candles for something that would connect this shrine to our dead man. Something of Delores is hidden in here, I just need to find it.
“Now, yes.” He pauses, looking at the map. “The gods were rather tired of inbreeding.”
I stop short. “I’m sorry, what?”
“They all came from a few different original gods, there aren’t many of them.” He raises a brow, but I don’t challenge his statement. I truly have no desire to. “Anyway, she was old. She fought to keep her head clear. Battle was the only way she could escape the curse for so long. But in the end, there were no battles to fight as most became complacent.”
“But they weren’t complacent.”
“For the fae they were. Their numbers were dying as they fought over land and small skirmishes. They would rest for a few centuries, have a child, then move on to fight another battle.” Sadness laces his words.
“There has to be another way.” A way that would cure their diseased minds of madness.
“There’s been talk of a coven down south coming up with a cure.” He turns to face me, his eyes flickering with his flames. “She lost her mind, choosing to fight me, but she saw me as an enemy and my father took her head off with leprechaun steel, searing the wound so it would never heal again. She is well and truly gone. So, tell me, why does this exist?” His hands spread out to encompass the room.
I don’t have an answer for him. I’m just as baffled by everything I’m looking at as he is.
“What’s leprechaun steel?” I ask instead.
“Only the finest steel ever made by the best swordsmiths to ever exist.” Rocco pops his head back in from the crisp air outside. “It’s going to snow again.”