Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  The moment Thistle firmly closed the door and flipped the deadbolt, he gave in to temptation and gathered her into his arms. His fingers dug into her back with desperation as he claimed her mouth with his own.

  She readily melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck and keeping him close.

  Electric tingles coursed through his blood. Behind his closed eyes, sparkling purple lights burst into fireworks. He wanted nothing more than to continue kissing her, exploring her mouth, her cheek, her ear, and her nape with his tongue.

  The tingle of gossamer wings across her back sent new vibrancy through him.

  Gravity fell away. They drifted in a haze of light, warmth, comfort, and a merging of souls.

  In the background he thought he heard the chiming of a dozen Pixies laughing and applauding them.

  She pulled away from him abruptly.

  Reality dropped him back to the ground like a plunge into ice water.

  “What is that all about, Dick? This morning you rejected me because you were afraid of losing me.” She hung her head, letting the magnificent mass of hair fall forward, obscuring her face, robbing him of contact with her expressive eyes.

  “Thistle, I…” He had to gulp back the emotions that choked him. “Thistle, I love you. You know that. Today I had to help untangle a massive accident on the freeway. I saw a lot of pain. Lives cut short, others altered irrevocably; all in a horrible moment of speed and loss of control. I realized the same thing could happen to me, or you, or Dusty, or anyone I care about without warning.”

  “Life for humans is transitory. That’s why everything you do, or don’t do, is important. Because you have so little time, you have to live every moment to the fullest before you die.” She paused and looked up at him. The sharp angles of her face filled out a bit, the uptilt of her eyes faded to round, and the points at the tops of her ears smoothed. Any trace of her wing energy dissolved.

  In that moment her humanity showed through more than ever.

  “Pixies are reduced to games and pranks because we have nothing else to fill near eternity.”

  A half-heard conversation at the accident scene flashed across Dick’s memory. He pushed it aside. The time was not right. He had to get something else off his chest first.

  “Thistle, will you marry me?”

  “Dick, are you sure? What if… what if…?”

  “I know I will hurt for a very long time if your curse is lifted and you choose to go back to Pixie. But I would gladly trade a few years, or weeks, or even days, with you as my wife than to never have you beside me at all. Please, Thistle, will you make my world complete for as long as we are granted? Marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  Dusty watched Chase sleep. He’d drifted off in his recliner in mid-sentence. His even breathing fell into a comforting counterpoint to her heartbeat. Strain and worry lines on his face smoothed out. An endearing bit of thick blond hair flopped across his forehead. The ends fluttered ever so slightly with each breath.

  She wanted to smooth it back away from his face, but was afraid she’d wake him. He needed rest.

  There was something incredibly intimate about watching a man sleep; watching a beloved sleep. In some ways she imagined it was more intimate than sex. She’d wait until after the wedding to find out for certain. Did she have to? She loved Chase more than she thought possible when she’d had a teenage crush on him. More than she imagined when he kissed her the first time.

  That first kiss had been fueled by anger and desperation on his part, fear and self-doubt on hers. He’d left her right after, both of them bewildered and needing more, but the time wasn’t right. When the time was right, she’d taken the bold leap to kiss him. In public. In front of all their friends and many acquaintances at the Old Mill Bar and Grill.

  Her love grew with every passing day until she wondered why she needed months to prepare her mind for their wedding night. She felt ready now.

  She chuckled. She was ready, but he was sound asleep.

  Chase shifted and grumbled something in his sleep. The worry lines came back for a moment. He gripped his crossed arms fiercely, as if cold. She found an old quilt at the foot of his bed and brought it over to wrap around him. He clutched the binding and settled again, easier in his dreams now.

  “There’s one more thing I need to do before I go home,” she whispered, almost wishing she still had something in the kitchen she could scrub first. Chase had not invested in a lot of furniture, and lived rather casually, but he wasn’t a slob. Thank goodness. He even cooked after a fashion. Dick, on the other hand, had a lot of improving to do before he settled down.

  A few minutes on the Internet produced a phone number with a local exchange. Dusty dialed it using Chase’s landline, an unlisted number that showed anonymous on any caller ID. Part of being a cop, protecting his privacy and possibly his life when out of uniform.

  “McEwen,” a man said in a distracted voice.

  “Is this Ian McEwen, Mabel Gardiner’s nephew?” Dusty asked politely.

  “Yes.” Hesitant now.

  “This is Dusty Carrick, a friend of Mabel Gardiner. I’m sorry to inform you that your aunt, Mabel Gardiner has been admitted to Mercy General Hospital, the cardiac unit.” Dusty tried to keep her voice neutral, and dispassionate. Considering the terms of Mabel’s will, she didn’t want Mr. McEwen to think she had deliberately delayed informing him of Mabel’s condition.

  “Who are you?” McEwen demanded.

  “I’m a friend of your aunt’s. I just inquired about her condition and the nurses wouldn’t tell me anything because I’m not next of kin. I’ve been trying to track you down most of the day.” A lie. She hated blurring the truth. What would he think of her when he found out the truth?

  Stop that! she yelled at herself. She had to stop expecting other people to judge her. The opinion of strangers shouldn’t impact her life.

  But this man wouldn’t be a stranger for long.

  “The police department where she works did not have you listed in her emergency contact information,” she continued. That, at least, was the truth. “I had to get your name from her lawyer.” That, too, was sort of the truth. His name was on the papers Mabel’s lawyer had drawn up.

  “What did you say your name was?” She heard a snap, like a seat belt releasing and the snick of a car door opening. His home phone must forward to his cell. “How bad is she?”

  Then came the soft murmur of a feminine voice in the background. He wasn’t alone. Dusty realized she didn’t know if he was married or anything about him. What if he had children who needed to learn about Pixies by playing in their Great Aunt Mabel’s garden?

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about Mabel’s condition. The hospital won’t tell me anything.” Dusty avoided giving her name again. He’d find out soon enough and be blisteringly angry. “I was with her this morning when she had a cardiac episode. At least that’s what the EMTs called it. I know she’ll want to see you.”

  “I’m on my way to Mercy now. If she asks, who should I tell her called me?”

  Dusty hung up.

  Ten

  THISTLE MELTED INTO DICK’S ARMS AGAIN, eager to explore this new and special relationship.

  “This is it for me, Thistle,” Dick whispered while nibbling at her ear. “True Pixie love.”

  “Um.” Thistle surrendered to his next kiss rather than correct him.

  Pixies were fluid in their partnerships until a mating flight. That one experience of absolute trust signaled the beginning of a forever love. Of course Pixies lived in the moment, for the moment, rarely thinking ahead to consequences. Unlike Elves and Faeries who schemed and manipulated in endless games to ease the boredom of eternal life. For the past few months Faeries had manipulated Pixies to give up The Ten Acre Wood—protected and cherished by humans—because the Faery hill was threatened by new construction. Those manipulations, led by Haywood Wheatland and his fascination with Fire, had become dangerous to humans and Pixies. They
couldn’t be allowed to continue.

  She wished the Faeries would turn their attention to important things like mating flights. Unlikely. They’d never been interested in partners beyond a few moments of pleasure. Creating mayhem was more fun for them.

  After a while, when Pixies grew bored with their mates, they could choose to end the relationship and find someone new and more exciting. Sort of like human marriages. Unless the mating flight consummated a treaty with another tribe.

  She’d have no mating flight with Dick in these big wingless bodies.

  Perhaps they could invent their own ritual of glorious gliding from a great height together; totally dependent upon each other for completion.

  Maybe a wedding, like the one Dusty and her mother planned was the equivalent ritual.

  Dick’s mobile mouth sent shivers of delight and expectation all through her in ways no Pixie had ever enticed her. She wouldn’t get bored with Dick, or need to seek a more exciting mate for a very, very long time.

  “When?” Dick asked as he trailed kisses along her neck, pushing aside her sloppy sweatshirt to reveal her shoulder and part of her breast. “When can we get married?” His hands reached beneath her sweatshirt to cup her breasts.

  “Um. Soon.”

  “How soon? Like tonight?” His wonderfully sensitive hands made it hard for her to think.

  She was human now. She had to think; had to look beyond this moment of pleasure. A moment of ecstasy.

  What was it the actress had said in the movie she’d watched last night with Juliet? The one about a king from times long ago pursuing a woman named Anne while still married to another woman, Katherine. Something about keeping a man dangling; increasing his expectations. Anne would never become queen if she allowed Henry—that was the king’s name—into her bed too soon.

  “We’ll have a proper wedding first,” she said, suppressing a giggle of delight. She pointedly took a step away from him, though she felt instantly chilled.

  Dick raised his eyebrows. She’d come to recognize the expression as one of disbelief, as well as a question. “I thought Pixies didn’t indulge in large rituals for anyone but kings and queens?”

  “Some Pixies hold out for a formal mating flight.” She knew that Rosie had. Good thing, too, as Hay turned out to have mixed loyalties as well as bloodlines. “I’m human now. My only role model is your sister. Her wedding is her mating flight. If she waits for sex with Chase until the wedding, I wait until our wedding.”

  “Okay.” He drew out the word into many parts. “How soon can we get married?”

  “How long does it take?”

  “If you want a big ceremony in a church with lots of guests and a big party afterward…”

  “Like Dusty is planning.”

  “Like our mother is planning for Dusty. Then it takes months to get the proper dress and wedding cake and stuff. If you don’t care about such things, it will take two weeks in Oregon, three days in Washington, or we can drive to Idaho and have no wait at all.”

  “Let’s go for the two weeks. I’d like a special dress, but not the big party. It’s not like I know a lot of people.”

  “Two weeks,” he said sadly. “I guess I can wait that long. But no longer. I had a bad scare today. I don’t want to waste any of the short life I’ve been given.”

  “Tell me about it.” Thistle kicked the door shut, well aware of the audience in the yard beyond, though after dark all the Pixies should be curled up in their nests fast asleep. Then she looped her arm through Dick’s and led him into Mabel’s parlor. A tiny room compared to the one in Juliet’s home. But it was tidy, with comfortable furniture, built-in bookcases on either side of the hearth, and polished bare wood floors. A few colorful braided rugs offered a little protection from chill drafts to bare feet. She hadn’t wanted to disturb the cozy neatness of the room with the decorations she’d dragged out of the attic this afternoon.

  She liked the welcome feel of this home. Juliet’s house could be sterile at times, especially since she came home from England. Funny, Thistle didn’t remember the house feeling that way when Dick and Dusty were children. But since they’d grown up… Juliet didn’t like that much at all and her house reflected her mood.

  “The strangest thing about today was the testimony I overheard after the accident,” Dick said, taking a seat on the sofa and pulling Thistle down so close to him she might as well sit in his lap.

  Hmmm, not a bad idea. But that could lead to deeper intimacies. She settled for stroking his face and hand with a comforting touch.

  “What about the testimony?” She tried out the new word, testing each syllable until it sounded right on her tongue.

  “Three separate people claimed an enraged Pixie flew right at their windshield, causing them to swerve to avoid hitting him.”

  Thistle’s breath caught in her throat. “What color was it?” she choked out. Her blood felt as if it froze in her veins.

  “Yellow with crimson splotches.”

  “The same Pixie I saw fighting with Chicory this morning. He’s carrying the war over to humans. Did you hear that?” Thistle asked, suddenly alert to anything out of place.

  “It’s just the wind coming up.”

  “I thought I heard the back door open.”

  “I didn’t hear anything like that.” He took her face in both his hands and kissed her again. The world fell away and she knew only his touch.

  Chicory smashed into the glass of the basement window. His shoulder cracked and his wing crumpled. The glass remained unmoved, opaque in its disdain of his puny efforts.

  The sun had set. Chill crept out of the cement walls engulfing him in strength-robbing lethargy.

  He had to get out. Quickly, before underground robbed him of life as well as strength.

  Pixies died underground.

  Desperate, he bounced around looking for something, anything that would give him an escape. He investigated stacks of boxes, covered racks of old clothes. Hmmm, he could curl up in that moth-eaten fur coat for warmth if he had to. The bicycle with the flat tire had too much iron to be useful. So did the broken washing machine. Mabel had a new one now, up on the enclosed back porch, with a matching dryer. But Mabel never threw anything away that might be useful someday. Maybe he could use the set of wooden barbeque skewers to dig his way out.

  Nope. Dirt was part of underground. No dirt visible anyway. Just this horrible cement providing a scant barrier between him and the all-consuming Earth.

  What had the nephew said last time he left a message on Mabel’s telephone? Something about cracks in the foundation.

  “Foundation,” he muttered. “I’m a Pixie. How am I supposed to know what a foundation is?” Foundation. Fountain. He knew what a fountain was. He often played in the sparkling spray pouring out of Memorial Fountain downtown, at the center of traffic. Cars coming from six different directions (or was it seven? He couldn’t remember) had to go around it. He’d had great fun splashing water into open windows or on windshields.

  Alder had thrown Thistle into Memorial Fountain last summer when he cursed her with human proportions and robbed her of her wings and clothes.

  Maybe if he looked for water where water shouldn’t be, he’d find a crack.

  If he had the strength. If he could see.

  “Can’t anyone turn on a light down here?”

  Light? Mabel turned on lights when she came down here. Where was the switch? Not down here. Up there, ’cause she needed to see the stairs.

  He flew to the staircase, ten rickety wooden steps destined to trip Mabel one of these days. He landed on his knees on the newel post at the bottom. His wings drooped in fatigue. His back ached from landing on the cement floor when Snapdragon dropped him through the open window. He had to cling to the wood for too many long heartbeats. At last he stood on shaking legs and gathered enough air to fly up three steps.

  Which window? One of them had to be open for him to get dropped through. Chicory looked around at the shadows within shad
ows. He just barely picked out the outline of seven rectangular panes placed evenly around the basement. Each one was only inches from ground level.

  “Oh, yeah. That brain-rattling thud I heard when I landed was Snapdragon slamming the window shut. How long was I asleep after that?” Hours and hours, judging by the darkness inside and out.

  He gritted his teeth and crawled up to the next step. The air seemed a bit lighter up here, easier to breathe. Slowly he heaved himself up another step and then another before his wings recovered enough strength to take him to the topmost one.

  Definitely easier to breathe now. He was probably above ground level, but still trapped by dirt and cement.

  A quick scan of the closed door and its surroundings showed him nothing but shadows. He felt around the wood. Blank.

  Gradually the soft murmur of voices penetrated his panic.

  Someone was in the house. Had Mabel come home from the hospital? Maybe the stray child Mabel and Chase were looking for had found the spare key inside a fake rock.

  Nope. A male voice. And an adult female. But not Mabel. Who?

  The voices came closer, grew louder. Ah, Thistle. Thistle had come to take care of the house until Mabel got better.

  “Thistle, open the door!” he yelled through the keyhole as loudly as he could. Not very loud. Underground continued to leach strength from him. Or maybe the big bruise between his wings drained him.

  He dropped down to the top step. Maybe if he yelled into the tiny gap between door and floor, they’d hear him.

  “Thistle, help me!”

  The voices stopped, replace by moans and slurpy kissing sounds.