“You’ll have to get it cleaned before you ask her,” Chicory advised. “She’s got her heart set on a dress in the window of the bride store downtown.”
“She has. She said something about that.” Juliet whirled around. A piece of lace came away in her hand with a gentle ripping sound.
Daisy and her sisters set up a worried chatter. They darted from various parts of the attic to converge near Juliet’s shoulder. They picked at the torn lace and worried over ways to reconnect the delicate threads with spider silk.
“Why didn’t Dusty tell me earlier?” Juliet dropped the fragment of lace. It fluttered to the ground, surrounded by girl Pixies.
Chicory watched it with a feeling of doom. The scrap fell like a Pixie who’d lost his strength in the middle of a mating flight.
“Chicory, why didn’t Dusty tell me when I first started planning her wedding?” Juliet prodded. She sat back in the chair and glared at him.
“Because she’s Dusty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chicory bit his lip, staring at the fallen lace.
“Tell me. That’s part of our bargain. You keep me informed, and I let you use my attic.”
“She’s afraid to speak. Afraid you’ll judge her and find her lacking, just like… like when she was a kid.”
“But… but she’s grown up now. She’s getting married.”
“When was the last time you let her make a decision?” Chicory darted for the vent, not sure he wanted to watch Juliet think that one through.
But one day he’d have to. That was also part of being a king.
And one day he’d have to face Rosie and Snapdragon. That was also part of being king. His tribe wasn’t safe until the war was over once and for all.
Chase sat on the exam table in one of the three tiny rooms in the clinic. He held an ice pack to his head over the hawthorn sword wound. A headache throbbed in the same region across his eyes to the other temple. The ice helped a little. Getting back to work would help more.
He wanted his boots, his hat, and his weapons back.
Damn, it was humiliating to be laid low by a four-inch-tall, worthless dandelion of a Pixie.
The sound of multiple shuffling feet and hushed voices in the hallway gave him hope that his endless wait to be seen by a doctor was almost up. He sat a little straighter and set the ice pack beside him.
The commotion moved deeper into the clinic.
“I’m sure the police have called someone to deal with a swarm of killer bees,” Nurse Hazlitt said firmly.
“They wasn’t bees,” a much younger voice insisted with a hint of a lisp. “Was Pixies. Pixies with swords.”
“More likely a small bird infected with that killer flu virus,” an adult female said.
Chase slid off the table and opened the door a crack. He peered out, straining to hear every word. Seven children ranging from tiny kindergartners to gangly third graders milled about, sporting deep scratches on hands and faces similar to the one he had.
“Nurse, I need to talk to these children,” he insisted, opening the door all the way. He half turned to make sure the kids all saw his own war wound.
All seven clamped their mouths shut and stared up at him with eyes wide in wonder and… and defiance.
Nurse Hazlitt shifted her gaze from Chase to the children and back again. “Oh, dear, this looks serious. I may have to call animal control or the CDC, or someone.” With wide open arms she tried to herd her charges into the largest examining room at the back of the building.
Chase stalked after her in stocking feet. “I need to know where and when,” he said reaching for his pocket-sized spiral notebook and a pencil. “As you can see, I know what attacked us all.” He tapped the eraser end of the pencil next to his wound and wished he hadn’t. The headache deepened.
From the way the littlest girl in the pack winced, Chase guessed she had a headache, too. Probably a reaction to whatever venom Snapdragon had applied to the spikes. A fat tear rolled down her cheek, catching on her upper lip. She sniffed pitifully.
“I just wanted to see the pretty Pixie,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Her chin trembled in prelude to more tears.
“I’m sure you didn’t, sweetheart.” Chase went down on one knee beside her. He figured she’d tell him more than the two oldest boys with chins thrust out defiantly and lips pressed together in a narrow line. The oldest boy squinted his eyes and peered at Chase suspiciously. He remembered that look; had tried it on many times when he was that age.
He’d need the keys to the kingdom to open their mouths.
And Thistle was the only one he knew who knew how to penetrate Pixie, now that Chicory was gone. He wondered if Dick had found her yet.
“Are you going to arrest the Pixies, Mr. Policeman?” the little girl asked. Another tear threatened to spill down her cheek.
“No, sweetheart. I’m going to figure out how to fix the Pixies so they don’t hurt anyone. Now you let Nurse Hazlitt take care of you, and I’ll check up on you later.” He trapped the tear with a finger against her cheek, then he stood up and went back to his exam room for his boots and his coat and his weapons.
“Sergeant Norton, you haven’t seen the doctor yet,” the nurse protested. “This is looking serious. What if the bird that attacked you all was rabid? Hell, I don’t know if birds carry rabies, but they do carry a host of other nasty viruses. We have to stop this now. What if we don’t find the sick bird before Halloween? We’ll have to cancel the festivities to keep our children safe. And that will cost the town a whole lot of money.”
“I’ll come back when you and the doc aren’t quite so busy. I have to find a lost Pixie.”
Twenty-five
“THISTLE!” DICK CALLED, pounding on the back door of Mabel’s house. He listened carefully for any sounds of movement within. Nothing.
“Thistle!” This time he used the spare key hidden inside a fake rock beside the back steps. “Anybody home?”
Empty. Already the house had that faintly moldy smell of vacancy. The place was devoid of life. Not even a Pixie flitted by the window. The showery morning had turned to a steady autumnal downpour. Any self-respecting Pixie would have crawled into winter hibernation.
“Thistle, where have you gone?” he asked the air.
A soft, muffled sob replied. He listened, seeking direction. The sound came again. He tracked it to the dining room. Slowly he pushed open the swinging door to the small room between the kitchen and the front parlor.
He expected to find Thistle curled up in a chair crying over whatever malicious scene Snapdragon had staged downtown, and the lies he whispered into her ear. What lies?
He didn’t know anything. Only that something had frightened Thistle and she’d run away.
Instead of her thick black hair, he saw only a soggy adolescent girl with raggedly cut dishwater-blonde hair. She wore jeans and a T-shirt that had seen brighter and more solid days. Her bare feet were stuffed into tennis shoes a size too small, judging by the way her big toes pushed against the worn canvas.
The girl who’d approached him downtown.
The lost look in her eyes reminded him of Dusty when she needed a buffer between her and reality.
“Who are you, really?” Dick asked, startled by the pathetic sight.
“Huh?” The girl looked up, startled, eyes wide like a deer caught in a car’s headlights, needing to flee but not quite sure where to go or how to escape the monster bearing down on her.
“I won’t hurt you.” Dick held his hands away from his body, palms up, careful to keep his fingers open. What had his psych class in med school said about confronting frightened teenagers? A runaway by the looks of her; scared, alone, cold, and hungry. “Just tell me who you really are and why you are here?”
“Di… did Mabel send you?” she asked, twisting her head right and left, tangled hair flying into her eyes.
“Um… sort of,” Dick replied. He stood stock-still, not wan
ting to frighten her into flight, but still needing to know… to know if she was one of the runaways that Phelma Jo helped with new ID and transportation out of town.
And what she had to do with Sandy Langford.
Shit, was Mabel involved in that, too? She must be.
“Who sent you to Mabel?” Dick asked.
“Kids at the shelter. They told me to check with Mabel at the police station and where to find the spare key to the back door if she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there.” She left a lot out of that tale.
“Mabel is in the hospital with a heart attack. I… my girlfriend and I are house-sitting for her until she’s better.” That stretched the truth a bit, but also explained why Mabel had been so insistent that someone live in the house while she was away.
She needed someone to guide these kids along her underground railway.
Did Thistle know? Had Thistle met this girl already, maybe mentioned Sandy to her as a school friend of Dick’s. More than a friend, actually.
“Oh.” The girl’s chin trembled and a new spate of tears threatened to spill from her frightened eyes.
“Look, I need to find my girlfriend right away. Have you seen her? About this tall.” He held his hand level with his chin. “Black hair, purple eyes.”
The girl shook her head. “The place was empty when I got here.” She sniffed again and bit back more words that wanted to spill out.
If she didn’t lie outright, she didn’t tell the whole truth. He needed the whole truth in order to find Thistle.
“I thought this was someplace safe,” the girl said around her tears.
“Normally it would be.” But today was not normal. He looked closely into each corner as if he’d find Thistle hiding there, or answers, or something.
His phone chirped an alarm. “Damn!” He looked at the time, willing it to be twenty minutes, or an hour earlier. The black LED numerals on the white face ticked off more seconds in the wrong direction.
“Look, I have to get back to work. And I can’t leave you here…”
“Don’t kick me out. Please, I’m begging you. I… I can’t go back out on the street again. I… I just can’t.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
“I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name. And this isn’t my house. I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I won’t steal anything, or break anything, I promise.”
“How about I take you someplace that I promise will be safe and no one will think about looking for you there?”
She puckered her face suspiciously.
“You don’t have a lot of choices here… what is your name?”
“I’m Hope,” she said, firming her chin and looking him square in the eye, defying him to contradict her.
A made-up name, denying her true identity. Dick didn’t care. He just needed to get her out of here so he could go make some money so he and Thistle…
Damn. Thistle was still missing. Still hurting. Unless she’d gone back to Dusty after sulking a while in private.
Dusty. Of course. He’d take this child to Dusty instead of his mom. Dusty had teenagers working for her in the afternoons. Meggie and M’Velle could help her get this waif where she needed to be, whether back home with her parents or into a shelter.
Was Sandy truly her mother?
“Come along, Hope. I’ve got a spare jacket in my trunk you can wear. My sister will get you help.”
“Who’s your sister?” Hope looked like she was digging her heels in.
“My sister presides over the heart and roots of this town, and the whole world winds up on her doorstep at some point.” Even if it was just a fourth-grade history field trip.
“Dusty! I need your help.”
Dusty looked up from her computer screen to find her brother stalled in the doorway and Phelma Jo staring beyond him.
“Now what?” Dusty asked. Her quiet museum and favorite place to hide from the stresses of dealing with people had become Grand Central Station today.
Maybe she should take a cup of tea into her office, lock the door, and leave the tours and ticket sales to M’Velle and Meggie.
The creak of footsteps on the floorboards upstairs reminded her that Meggie was giving the current tour. She worked better in the gift shop and M’Velle gave better tours. Which was why she insisted they swap places, to learn all the skills necessary to running this business and historical treasure.
“Um, ah, Dusty, this is Hope. I found her at Mabel’s. Um, maybe Phelma Jo can help her. Or you could take her to Mom. I don’t know. I’ve got to get back to work.” He turned to flee.
“Dick, why would I take her to Mom?”
“Because, maybe if she had a waif to smother, she’d let up on you and that hideous wedding gown. Oh, and if you see Thistle, hold onto her until I can talk to her. ’Bye.” He dashed out the way he’d come, leaving a miserable looking teenage girl behind.
“Another one,” Phelma Jo said on a heavy sigh.
“Another one what?” Dusty asked.
The girl studied her worn shoes.
“Get her warm and cleaned up, give her something to eat. Whatever she needs. Don’t worry and go all shy on us now, Dusty. She won’t judge you.”
“I’m not…”
“Yes, you are. This doesn’t mean we are now or ever will be friends. If she gives you any trouble, call this guy.” Phelma Jo fished a business card out of her purse and slapped it on the long table.
“Children’s Services…” Dusty read aloud.
“I ain’t going to CSD!” Hope protested, looking Dusty in the eye for the first time. Something clicked in Dusty’s mind, an almost recognition between them.
“What have you got against CSD?” Phelma Jo asked. She stood directly in front of the girl, daring her to lie. Or run away.
“Kids on the street talk,” Hope replied, tracing patterns on the plank floor with her big toe that threatened to burst through her tennis shoes at any moment.
“Runaway?” Phelma Jo asked. Her tone brooked no defiance.
Hope nodded.
“Don’t believe everything you hear on the street, kid. Not all foster parents are evil, and not all caseworkers are so overwhelmed they don’t care anymore. Marcus Wallachek is one of the good guys. He’ll take care of you.”
“Do you want to go home?” Dusty jumped in before Phelma Jo could intimidate the girl into running. Again.
Hope shook her head violently.
“I need to talk to Mabel,” Phelma Jo said, fishing for her keys in her slacks pocket. “Maybe your mom is the best person to take her for now. I’ll be in touch.” She walked deliberately toward the front door.
Dusty and Hope stared at each other. “Want to talk about it?” Dusty finally broke the silence.
“No.”
“I’ve got some instant soup and hot water if you need something to eat.”
The girl’s stomach growled loud enough for the Pixies in The Ten Acre Wood to hear.
“Eat while I organize my girls. Then I’ll take you to my mother.” And she intended to call Chase, too, the moment she got a bit of privacy.
“Sergeant Norton, where do you think you are going?” Police Chief Beaumain stood squarely in the doorway to Chase’s office.
Caught in the act. Chase had only stopped in long enough to check the recording of the 911 call from the school. Now he either had to stay put or run over his boss. Beaumain had earned his place as chief, and the respect of his force, with hard, honest work, and diligence above and beyond the call of duty.
“Sir, I’m needed up…”
“You are needed behind that desk filling out the eighty-five pages of report required for firing a weapon in the line of duty.” Beaumain didn’t budge.
If they were on the football field, Chase could have easily tackled the shorter man. Bulldog Beaumain had earned his own reputation on the gridiron and would have taken Chase down with him.
“Sir, there’s a situation uphill. Swarms of killer
bees or infected birds or something else with wings are attacking children on the school playground.”
“Heard about it. Called the state Ag department. They are on it.”
“But, sir…”
“No buts about it. Nurse Hazlitt called me. Since you refused treatment of your wound, she advised you stay put. I need to collect your weapons and your badge until we sort out this mess.” He held out his hand.
Chase hesitated, reluctant to give up his gun, stick, and Taser to anyone.
“Norton, do I have to lock you up?”
“No, sir.” Reluctantly, Chase unsnapped his holster, withdrew his service pistol, and handed it to the boss grip first.
Beaumain held out his other hand.
Scowling, Chase handed over the nonlethal weapons as well.
“What about the knife in the ankle sheath and the derringer in your boot?”
“Not service issued, sir.”
“I know that. Not authorized either, but sometimes necessary. I have to take them, too.”
Chase growled something impolite. “Leaving me naked.”
“I know, I know. But the sooner you finish the paperwork, the sooner we can put you back on active duty.”
“It will still take two weeks to convene a hearing.”
“Fine time for a honeymoon. After you complete the reports.” Beaumain turned to leave, laden with Chase’s weapons and backups. “Oh, and Nurse Hazlitt is sending down an EMT to wash out that wound with saline and decide if you need stitches or not. It looks unnaturally swollen to me. I’d hate to clear you of overstepping your authority only to have you laid out flat on sick leave.”
Chase flopped into his desk chair and buried his face in his hands. His fingers touched the swelling along the thorn scrape. He winced as pain stabbed the full length of the cut. Beaumain was right. He needed medical attention.
After he made some headway on his report. He should call Dusty. He needed to call her just to hear her voice. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so naked if she held his hand.
Maybe they should just elope and spend the next two weeks on their honeymoon.
“Ms. Carrick had an emergency at home,” M’Velle said when he called the museum.
Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles Page 18