Changeling: An Appalachian Magic Novel Book 2 (Appalachian Magic Series)

by Debbie Herbert

  Dad?

  Kheelan’s heart constricted and his breathing became harsh and labored. A light was on in the living room and he saw a man sitting in a recliner, watching a large flat-screened television mounted over an elaborate stone fireplace. It was hard to make out details since his chair was in the shadows.

  A woman joined him, placing a tray of food and drinks on the coffee table in front of the man. She sat in the chair beside him, more in the open. Kheelan could make out her brown eyes, same as his. She passed a tired hand over those eyes and yawned, stretching out like a cat.

  What would they do if he went up, rang the doorbell, and identified himself? They couldn’t help but see his resemblance to the child they thought of as their own. Maybe they would think Kyle had undergone a miraculous healing, his autism gone into an instantaneous remission. How cruel it would be if they believed that, only to find it untrue at Kyle’s next home visit.

  Most likely they would think he was some kind of nut. Even if they did believe his story, it would pain them as much as it did him, the truth would be a searing sword of loss that pierced with a stabbing bitterness. In every way but a biological one, Kyle was their son, the one they had raised and supported and agonized over while dealing with his developmental disability.

  The best thing he could do for his parents would be to leave. To never see them again. Kheelan had never felt so alone in his life. With a sudden violence that made even the nearest goblin pull back in surprise, he put up the kickstand, turned on the switch and peeled out of the street with a deafening roar. He raced through the subdivision as if he were on an interstate freeway, needing to put as much distance as he could, as fast as he could, between himself and the human parents he never knew.

  No answer. Skye’s lips upturned slightly. All the inner angst over whether or not to call Kheelan and when she did, he didn’t answer. Fine, she could do more digging on her own, starting with going back down to the basement. If any fairies were still trapped, she would try to communicate with them.

  Filled with resolution, she strode out of the office, pausing only to pick up an amazonite crystal for extra courage. She opened the door, flipped on the lights, and hesitated at the landing, gripping the amazonite. Calmness radiated through her body like a sedative.

  Head held high, she clomped down the pine board steps, the sound echoing against the concrete walls. “If anyone is down here, I came to help.” Nothing.

  “I promise I won’t hurt you. If you’re trapped, I can get you to safety.”

  Again, the floor was littered with the brown casings of dead fairies and unexpected nausea rolled in her stomach. She bent down and tenderly touched one. Some monster had been hurting these innocent creatures right under her nose. All those voices she’d heard before – she had to assume they were all dead.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  A sudden whoosh of air brushed across her face, followed by a metallic thud at her feet. Skye jerked back, falling on her butt. She scrambled backwards with her arms and legs like a demented crab.

  A silver key glistened on the floor in the fluorescent light, as if it had fallen out of thin air.

  “O-kay. I see someone’s around after all.” She looked up at the ceiling and then did a quick scan of the entire room, but nothing else was different. Skye tentatively picked up the key and examined it, her mind racing with questions before reaching a logical conclusion.

  It had to be the key to the locked room in the back, the only one missing from her Green Fairy key rings; the one Kheelan took from her last night. Or another key just like it.

  Her mouth watered as she pictured the glass bottles filled with absinthe. The sudden craving returned, stronger than before. She’d never tasted it, but she envisioned the green potion enveloping her mouth with the bitterness of wormwood tempered by the sweetness of burnt sugar.

  She wanted it. No, she had to have it. She might never have another opportunity.

  Skye scrambled to her feet. When she reached the door and inserted the key, it fit at once, giving a tiny clink as she turned the lock. She opened the door and pulled the switch for the overhead bulb. She blinked against the sudden illumination, then saw everything appeared the same, except a half-empty bottle of absinthe next to the crystal carafe. It beckoned her forward, its teal contents as placid and enticing as a pool of Gulf ocean water.

  No one would know if she had a taste. She pulled out the cork and the scent of licorice and menthol teased her nose. With a quick glance behind to make sure she was still alone, Skye poured about a quarter of a cup into a crystal glass. She laid the silver slotted spoon over its mouth, unwrapped a sugar cube and placed it over the spoon. Striking a long match from a nearby book, she lit the sugar and watched it flame. As the flame died back, the caramelized drops of browned sugar plopped into the waiting absinthe.

  The ritual was mesmerizing, comforting even. Once the sugar melted, she unscrewed the cap off a bottled water to pour into the absinthe. Odd, everything she needed was laid out on the counter.

  Almost as if it had been waiting for her.

  The absinthe bubbled and fizzed as the water collided with the 150-proof herbed alcohol. The liquid turned a cloudy phosphorescent and danced with murky, undefined images. Bubbles of lights exploded and as the mixture settled, Skye removed the spoon and lifted the glass to her lips. She licked them in anticipation of fulfilling the craving that had intensified into a severe abdominal cramp.

  The first, tentative sip scalded her tongue and Skye spit it out without swallowing.

  Disgusting. How could anyone drink that nasty stuff? But no sooner had the thought materialized, when the burn in her mouth subsided leaving behind a cotton-candy explosion of sweetness. Ah, that’s why. She would feel even better if she actually swallowed it this time.

  She greedily raised the glass again but before it reached her mouth, a buzzing noise radiated on the counter in front of her. It sounded like a fire alarm in the basement stillness. It took her several moments to realize exactly where the sound originated.

  A palm-sized obsidian stone rattled on the rusted metal counter surface, like a demented Mexican jumping bean. Skye picked it up curiously and the tumbled stone vibrated in her hand. On its smooth, flat surface, smoky colors swirled then pixilated into an image, as if she were watching a miniature video on an iPhone. Her hand tightened in excitement. She’d tried divinations hundreds of times with no luck, but her power and connections to crystals were strengthening daily, even if her witch spells were a bust.

  Fascinated, she watched the scene unfold. It was set in this very room, the carafe filled with absinthe. Dozens of pixies flew above and around the drink, their wings flapping in excitement and orange-yellow auras alit. They were so very delicate and beautiful, Skye smiled in wonder.

  A black, heavily gloved pair of hands entered the picture, ruthlessly scooping the tiny fairies into the carafe and trapping them by placing a small iron tray over the carafe’s mouth. Horrified, Skye watched the pixies as they tried to escape the watery prison. Some died flinging themselves violently against the glass, others began to lose their strength as they hovered between the iron lid and the absinthe below. Skye realized they were afraid to touch the iron. A couple of fairies that did accidently brush against it had their wings singed. The noise made a hissing and crackling sound. They clung to the side of the glass, then at last slid in a long, slow descent to the waiting liquid below.

  Fairy murder by drowning.

  She watched, helpless, as the few remaining pixies, hovering mid-flight, finally collapsed from exhaustion and fell to join their dead companions.

  The gloved hands returned in the picture. They strained the wet carcasses out of the absinthe and poured the drink into a glass. Heavy gurgling sounded as the murderer drank the tainted liquid.

  Gross.

  The stone’s image vanished as suddenly as it had come. The colors faded and swirled into an eddy, like a plug pulled from a bathtub drain.

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nbsp; Her hand holding the obsidian trembled so violently she almost dropped the stone. Skye gripped it tighter. If she was able to see images, maybe she could conjure more later. Because she was more determined to do everything in her power to stop this evil. She looked at her glass of absinthe, practically untouched, lying in wait.

  No way. Not after that vision. Filled with a sudden urge to get out at once, Skye tucked the stone in her pocket and pulled the light bulb chain, plunging the room into morgue-like darkness.

  12

  Elf Shot

  Kheelan’s eyes fixed on the microfiche screen which showed the old engagement announcement of Miss Ivy Hollow to Samuel Jeffries. But he knew the minute Skye entered the room. The air around him swirled with fresh energy and a faint scent of citrus and pear cut through the musty odor of old books.

  Skye walked past rows of book stacks and tables strewn with academic periodicals, her long red hair and shamrock green eyes especially vivid in the somber hues of the eighth floor university library. Before even reaching his table, she waved a hot pink file in the air.

  “I’ve got us a lead.” She slammed the file down in front of him, looking ready to burst.

  His own mood lightened as he took in her sparkling eyes and air of breathless expectancy. “Lay it on me.”

  “I brought the printouts of all the employees at the store like you asked.” She nodded at the folder. “But, more important, I found out The Green Fairy isn’t just owned by Claribel and Mama D.” She paused dramatically.

  “Go on,” he urged, leaning forward. This sounded promising.

  “It has a silent partner.”

  Kheelan leaned back, hands behind his head while he considered. “Interesting, but I still want to find out who at the shop is involved. Someone working there knows about that absinthe hidden away.”

  Skye frowned. “Not necessarily. It could be this silent partner who is tampering with evil. The partner’s initial investment was nearly sixty percent of the capitol start-up cost.”

  She pulled out a piece of paper from the file and shoved it toward him. “The partner’s name is L. Wagner. I couldn’t find out anything more, not even if Wagner is male or female.”

  He tapped the paper with impatient fingers. “What’s your point?”

  “Since this investor has managing control, he could have a key allowing him free access to come and go as he wants.”

  “I notice you say ‘he.’ Could be another woman.”

  She hesitated. “It’s a flimsy reason, but for the past few nights, I’ve seen a gentleman in a dark suit come in the shop near closing time. He goes into Claribel’s office and she shuts the door and puts out the ‘do not disturb’ sign she uses when she’s reading the tarot for customers. I noticed him because he doesn’t fit the usual customer profile—young, female, and casually dressed. He could be our mystery person.”

  “Maybe. If it it’s true he’s the partner, then Claribel’s in it up to her sparkly purple eyelids.”

  Skye was shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “I don’t believe it. I have good instincts about people and I’ve never sensed anything mean or deceitful in her.”

  Kheelan raised a hand. “Hear me out. The first thing I noticed about your boss, besides her dorky behavior, is that she wears gloves most of the time.”

  “Big deal.” Skye raised her voice enough that it echoed in the near-empty library. She leaned closer to him, whispering, “She’s got arthritis really bad and the gloves help her. I think she’s a little self-conscious, too, about the way her hands look. You know, a little twisted.”

  “There’s another reason she might wear gloves.” Time to start filling her in. The more she knew, the better their chances of nailing the murderer. “Fairies are super-sensitive to most metals, especially iron. It can cause severe burns.” Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak. He laid a finger on her lips. “Hold on a minute. The day I was in the shop I watched her limping and hobbling like her feet hurt.”

  “I told you, she has arthritis.”

  “So she says. But when fae shapeshift to human form, it leaves their feet disfigured. Finvorra, my Guardian, has trouble walking because his toes are so twisted and malformed.”

  Skye didn’t look impressed with his logic. “I haven’t even told you the most exciting part yet. I got in that locked storage room in the basement and found this.”

  She plunked a shiny black rock on the table in front of him. Kheelan picked it up and examined it for unusual markings or sensations. Shrugging, he shoved the stone back to Skye.

  “I watched the stone and it showed me how the fairies are being killed, it has a memory trapped inside it. When the absinthe is poured, the fairies fly to it. When they do, someone takes a metal sheet—iron! —and traps them.”

  Kheelan picked it back up again with renewed interest. He palmed the stone and then gripped it with clenched fists. So, that was it. Someone figured a way to lure the fairies down in the basement by leaving out absinthe. The herbs in the drink possessed a fatal attraction to pixies. Once down there, the fairies were trapped. The only exit in the basement, the high, narrow window, was covered in iron bars, instant death for pixies. Their choice was death by absinthe drowning, or to be burned alive by iron.

  Foolish Skye, she didn’t know what she was playing with. With her half-fae nature, no telling what would happen if she were to drink the absinthe. Fear for her safety overrode the amazing revelations. “Did you drink any absinthe?”

  “No.” She blushed, averting her gaze.

  She was lying.

  “How did you get in that storage room? I kept your spare key.”

  She met his eyes again, face animated. “That was the other strange thing. I was in the storage room when the key literally dropped at my feet. I figured I had to check it out since a fairy provided the way. I mean, I think it was a fairy. How else did it materialize?”

  Kheelan reached in his pocket and pulled out the storage room key. “They didn’t get my key. But the question is whether it’s a good or bad fairy.”

  “Had to be good, the bad fairies wouldn’t want me to find this stone and possibly get information on their operations.”

  “True,” Kheelan agreed, “but I was thinking of the key, not the stone. Maybe the intent was to trick you into drinking that absinthe. I saw how tempting it was to you.”

  Confusion clouded Skye’s eyes and she slowly shook her head from side to side. “I don’t understand why I craved it. But I’ll never want it again after what happened this time.”

  Kheelan steepled his fingers and regarded her with curiosity. She had to be drawn to it by her half-fae metabolism. Why couldn’t she realize her true nature? It seemed wrong to tell her. Surely, it was something she must discover on her own. There were only four days left now until Samhain. Could he have been wrong about her? He would have to get his hands on the fairy legend book again, even if Finvorra caught him. He must be missing something. Things weren’t adding up. He stood abruptly, scraping the plastic and metal library chair against the concrete floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Sorry, Skye. I’ve got some investigating to do. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

  She stood, looking vulnerable and uncertain. Kheelan felt like he had just kicked a kitten.

  “Guess you need to check out that list of names I gave you.” She cocked her head toward the file.

  “Right. I’ll walk you home.”

  She pulled on her coat with jerky, abrupt movements, then flung her purse over a shoulder. “Don’t bother, seeing as how you’re so busy.”

  “I insist.” Kheelan followed her stiff back out of the nearly deserted library. He’d pissed her off. Great, just what he needed.

  At the exit door, he reached a hand out and touched her shoulder. She shot him an impatient glare. He dug out an iron medallion from his coat pocket. “For you.” He laid it in her hand and her forehead creased.

  “What’s this for?” />
  “An iron amulet, for protection against the Dark Fae.”

  Her eyes softened, grew contrite. “I don’t think I’ll need it, but thanks.” She let him clasp it behind her neck and then inhaled sharply.

  “Problem?”

  “It stings a little. What did you do—put some voodoo mojo on it?”

  Kheelan hesitated. The iron was to repel the bad fae, but it burned the Seelie Fae as well. “If it’s too much against your skin, carry it in your pocket.” He started to undo the necklace clasp.

  “No, it’s bearable. I’ll admit to being freaked out by the bad Fae. How long does that fairy ointment work anyway? I thought it would have worn off by now.”

  He shrugged and watched Skye detour into one of the stacks and run her fingers over book spines on a shelf.

  “I love libraries. Everything’s so neatly arranged, that no matter where you are in the country, you can rely on the Dewey Decimal System and find exactly what you want.”

  He assumed a poker face. “Unless the library uses the Library of Congress classification system, like this one.”

  “Smart aleck. You know what I mean.”

  “I know, Miss OCD poster child.” Skye would be a perfect fairy librarian. He could see her wasting several human lifetimes categorizing the Fae’s mountain of minutia. He had no idea why they did so, although he guessed it was their way of imitating and studying humans. For all their vanity and ego, Kheelan suspected that fairies secretly regarded humans as mysterious and unfathomable creatures. Perhaps collecting all this meticulous information was their way of studying human behavior, trying to find patterns.

  As soon as they walked out the door of the ordered safety of the library, they were immediately surrounded.

  The screeching assaulted her brain, so high-pitched and careening, it terrified her even more than the frightening apparitions. Skye staggered, then clasped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. She reeled and gathered into herself, a tight ball of tensed flesh. Kheelan drew her against his chest.