The Fairest Kind of Love

by Crystal Cestari

  “Maybe. But it will cost you.”

  Mom is not in the mood to play games. She whispers some inaudible Latin, and red sparks leap from her fingers. It’s nothing more than a parlor trick—something fun to do on the Fourth of July—but Nico doesn’t know that. He stumbles back, pulling his cape up higher as a shield.

  “Tell me,” Mom demands.

  “Yes, okay, yes!” he whimpers. “He was here but not for long.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Did he find what he was looking for?”

  “No, there wasn’t time.” Nico presses himself up against his closet.

  “What does that mean? Why not?”

  We hear a scraping noise from behind him, and though it’s hard to see, it’s clear he’s trying to make an escape. Mom and Bob flank him. Nico drops to his knees as she shoots off more sparks. Nico emits a strange, strangled cry. For a troll who must see bad guys on the regular, this dude is not very brave, but it works to our advantage since he starts spilling the beans.

  “A minute after he walked in here, I knew he was a fairy. I mean, it’s pretty obvious when those guys are around. Do you have any idea what a fairy would go for in this market? Even just a pinch of dust would let me retire early. So I tried to catch him, but he flew away. I can’t even believe he came in here in the first place, asking for a silly invigoration tonic.” Nico shakes his head. “Reckless.”

  It’s an element of danger I didn’t even think of but should have. His parents warned us about this, how fairies have to be careful everywhere they go, always watching the wings on their backs. I knew places like this were bad and dealt in dangerous products, but I didn’t realize they would buy and sell actual living creatures. Now not only do we have to worry about what Peter is doing to himself but also what others could potentially be doing to him.

  Mom gives Nico her best “You should be ashamed of yourself” stare-down, though considering where we are, I don’t think her disapproval will have the same soul-crushing effect as it does on me. She nods at us to head out, and as we do, she magically extinguishes all the candles while simultaneously sending another round of red flames into the air. A badass exit, if there ever was one.

  “Holy crap. What are we going to do?” I yell once we’re back in the echo chambers of Lower Wacker.

  “We need to do a locator spell. Now.” Mom’s face pinches in worry.

  “Here? In this tunnel?” Bob asks, hoping for a no. The walkway is too tiny for us to set up supplies, plus the rush of cars would make it impossible for the Fates to hear us, let alone grant our request for help.

  Mom curses under her breath. “Let’s head back to the shop, but quickly.”

  “Do you think Peter could have been kidnapped?”

  “It’s possible,” she sighs. “From what you described, it doesn’t sound like he was acting with a clear mind. He may have stepped into a trap.”

  Only we have our own trap to worry about, because when we get back to Windy City Magic, the parents Wisteria are waiting for us.

  CREDIT WHERE CREDIT’S DUE: Mr. and Mrs. Wisteria have completely mastered the withering stare. It’s a look I know all too well, one that I save for my worst enemies and people who stand too close to me in checkout lines. Neither of Peter’s parents clear five feet tall, but their faces are so stony and menacing, I want to melt off the sidewalk into Lake Michigan. Bob, who is triple their size, takes one look at them and walks in the other direction. Kim stands in the back with a “So sorry” grimace. All in all, it’s a wonderful welcome home.

  “We demand to see our son,” Papa Wisteria booms, skipping over all introductions and pleasantries. But Mom is the queen of manners, so she extends a hand, even if they refuse to touch her.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wisteria, I’m Lucille Sand, Amber’s mom. Amber told me all about your beautiful farm.” I try to make eye contact with Mom, but she seems to be tracking an invisible butterfly, looking every which way but mine. Did she call the Wisterias? I get why, as I’m sure adults have some kind of unspoken parent code, but dammit, I really wish she hadn’t. The Wisterias will not enjoy learning that their sweet baby boy is a manic mess, in love with a siren and possibly being sold on the black market. And since they’re allergic to magic, I don’t see how they’d contribute to a rescue mission in any significant way, except for making it a billion times more stressful.

  Mom continues. “I know you’re worried; I would be too. I don’t want to frighten you further, but we don’t know where Peter is at the moment.”

  “WHAT?!” they collectively scream, so loud that a woman passing by drops her snow cone.

  “Please, let’s go inside, where we can talk in private,” Mom insists, ushering them into the shop. The Wisterias are practically performing backbends to avoid contact with her, as if they’re worried they might contract cooties. As soon as we’re inside, Mom does a sweep for any lingering customers (there are none), then pulls down our silver security gate, effectively closing up shop. Papa shakes his head, icy-blue hair flopping back and forth, while Mama whispers some kind of prayer to herself over and over. Both of them drop the shawls they were wearing, wings fluttering to full attention, almost doubling their height. “We’re safe in here,” Mom says.

  “What have you done to Peter?” Mama cries. “You said on the phone he’s been dabbling in magic?” She says “magic” like it’s murder.

  But Mom stays calm against the accusations. “It’s true. Peter came to us injured, and we offered him help. We had no way of knowing what would happ—”

  “But we knew!” Papa yells, wings snapping forcefully behind him. “We told you what fairies have been through! We told you what we believed! And still, you gave him access to the one thing that’s destroyed us!”

  “He was already destroyed,” I jump in. “He was hurt. We did what we could to help.”

  “You should’ve sent him home,” Mama sobs.

  “You’re the ones who sent him away!” I throw my hands up.

  “Stop!” Mom sends a yellow flare into the air, effectively silencing all the yelling. “I called you here because Peter’s in trouble, not to incite a war. We’re not going to help him by screaming at each other.”

  I retract my claws, even though I know I’m in the right. Papa makes an actual harrumph sound, which I didn’t think existed outside of cartoons.

  “We were just about to perform a locator spell,” Mom continues. “You are more than welcome to participate.

  Mama clucks her tongue. “We most certainly will not.”

  “Be reasonable!” I groan. I really don’t like these people, and I know the feeling is mutual. “Peter may be in danger. This will help us find him faster.”

  But Mama Wisteria shakes her head, resolute. I’m not really sure what wonderful plan they have to find their son—flying around the city with flashlights, calling his name?

  “It doesn’t matter. We can do it without their help.” Mom turns to me. “Amber, Bob—please get the supplies.” We scurry around the shop gathering the necessary components: a sage stick to purify the air, candles for guiding light, a crystal ball for visions. Outside of matchmaking, locator spells are our most popular service. Mom usually performs them behind her red curtain. There are two kinds of locator spells, actually. The first involves the crystal ball, bringing the missing person’s location into focus; the second conjures tiny, firefly-like lights that lead you directly where you need to go. Most go with the crystal ball, since you never know if the fireflies will lead you to a strange scenario. Peter’s situation seems destined for danger, so I’m relieved when Mom places the ball in the center of the room. Mama and Papa stare at it like she just set a naked statue out for display.

  Mom takes several deep breaths, clearing her aura, then sits cross-legged, and rests her hands palms up on her knees. I light the candles, and she begins her spell.

  “We call upon you, all-knowing Fates, to guide us toward a friend who’s lost his way. Where we are blind, share your sight. We are humble befo
re your omniscient greatness.” (Ugh, seriously, the Fates are such narcissistic turds. Who makes someone praise them before agreeing to offer help? The worst.) Mom continues her controlled breaths, keeping her soul open to otherworldy messages, as the clear orb begins to cloud, its watercolors swirling into focus. At first, they are an inky blue-black, making me think Peter must be somewhere nefarious, but then they brighten, like sun-piercing rainclouds, revealing a neon light in the shape of a goat. But before anyone can jump to conclusions about animal sacrifices, I blurt out, “The Girl and the Goat!”

  “Excuse me?” Papa frowns, thoroughly unimpressed by the scene he just witnessed. “A girl and a goat have captured our son?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I say. “It’s an über-bougie restaurant. Crazy-weird entrees like escargot ravioli, but it’s amazing. Charlie took me there once.”

  “Why would Peter be at a five-star restaurant?” Kim asks. I think she’s been too afraid to speak up until now, but she’s not wrong: it wouldn’t make any sense for him to be there. The last time we saw him he clearly had zero cash, and you can’t get an artisan roll at that place for less than twenty bucks.

  Wait a minute. A twinge of fear worms its way into my heart, curling tighter as a few puzzle pieces begin to snap into place. The Girl and the Goat is in the West Loop, and while I’m not super familiar with that neighborhood as a whole, I do know one resident who is highly interested in magical creatures. . . . Oh no. OH NO.

  “Can the crystal ball zoom out?” I ask, prompting a strange stare from Mom. “Like to get a better view of the surroundings?”

  “Amber, you know it doesn’t work like that.” She frowns. “But why do you ask?”

  Well, there’s no real way around this one. I can’t suggest that Peter is probably trapped at Roscoe’s Runes without revealing how I know about his shop in the first place, and my involvement with a dark warlock is not going to endear me to anyone in this audience. Still, I can’t keep this secret when he could very well be in a glass box wedged between a vat of stomach acid and a case of werewolf fangs at this very moment.

  “Funny story . . .” I nervously chuckle and launch into a high-level overview of my fancy little contract and Roscoe’s wheelings and dealings. By the time I’m done, Mama and Papa are sharpening their pitchforks, and Mom is not too far behind.

  She steps closer to me, not immediately exploding since we’re in the presence of strangers, but breath hot with fury as she says, “We will talk about this later.” Gulp. But luckily for me, there’s a fairy to save, so my punishment is temporarily put on hold.

  Despite the methods used to find Peter, the Parents Wisteria are gung ho about moving forward, tucking their wings into their shawls and getting ready to head out the door. I feel compelled to loop Ivy into this mess. If the tables were turned and Charlie were missing, I’d appreciate the heads-up.

  Peter’s in danger, but we think we know where he is, I text her. A reply buzzes almost instantly.

  Omg, I’ve been trying to get ahold of him for hours.

  Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.

  A second later, she adds: I’m so worried.

  I am too.

  IT’S DECIDED THAT SINCE I’m currently in a magical business arrangement with Roscoe that I should take lead here. It won’t seem like a reconnaissance mission if I stop by to check on how my matchmaking remedy is going, especially since Kasia has been MIA, and once I determine if Peter’s there and how he’s doing, the more powerful people—Mom and the fairies—can save the day. Even though I know I will pay for this later, this quest does allow me to find out what—if anything—has progressed with my contract, since I’ve waited long enough for answers. Summer is almost over, and I am more than ready to have all of this over with.

  Ivy meets us on the sidewalk outside of Roscoe’s Runes, ready to kick ass and take names in a leather jacket and low-cut tank top. As she stomps up the street to meet us, blond curls flying behind her in a fury, Peter’s parents turn to me with looks of horror.

  “What is she doing here?” Papa asks as Mama grips his arm.

  “She’s Peter’s girlfriend, remember? I figure she has the right to be here too.”

  “But a siren?” he continues, cheeks reddening. “They are even worse than witches. All they do is abuse magic.” Mom stares off into the street, crossing her arms in disdain. He didn’t even have the courtesy to throw in a “No offense.” (Although I’ve always loved how people toss “No offense” over clearly objectionable comments as if that makes it acceptable.) “How could a fairy be matched with a siren?”

  I lean my head back, sighing at the stars. We don’t have time for this right now. “I don’t know, okay? But you’d better get used to it, seeing as how she could be your daughter-in-law someday.” This makes Mama blubber into her husband’s shirt, but I ignore them, filling Ivy in on our plan.

  “Great, let’s go,” she says, cracking her knuckles and not giving a single crap about the massive amount of shade she’s being thrown. It’s pretty awesome.

  Charlie demanded to come along once I looped him in. He reaches for my hand, squeezing my silver ring into my palm. “Hey, um, I know you’re a strong, ferocious woman and can handle yourself in any and all situations, but be careful with this guy, okay? Any person who steals dragon eggs away from a dragon mama is not a good dude.”

  I smile, leaning in for a quick kiss. “You are very right. And I promise to stay safe.”

  The door to Roscoe’s Runes now has a lock and intercom system, a new addition since the last time I was here. I guess they don’t like people barging in without an appointment (ha!) or maybe since acquiring special items such as fairy dust, the shop now requires an extra level of protection. Either way, we need to get inside without busting down the door, which Ivy looks inclined to do. I don’t think she can siren anyone via intercom, but stranger things have happened. As a glossy thumbnail presses the buzzer, a camera lens I didn’t even notice lights up, zooming in on her face. She strikes a menacing pose, ready to rumble with whoever is on the receiving end of the transmission.

  “Name?” asks a disembodied female voice. I recognize Kasia’s purr and picture her licking her paws on the other side of the screen.

  “Ivy Chamberlain,” the siren states, stealing my thunder.

  “Reason for visit?”

  Without flinching, she boldly replies, “Let me in now.”

  There’s a pause as the camera surveys the ragtag posse behind her. “You can’t bring that many people up at one time. Choose one from your party.” Ivy immediately grabs my wrist, holding up my arm like a trophy. Kasia must recognize me and buzzes us through, but just before the door slams behind us, my mom calls out, “Amber, don’t be a hero! Get the info you need and leave!”

  Pshh, as if I’ve ever concerned myself with being a hero. I am like one notch above “total wuss,” and most of the dangerous situations I’ve found myself in were definitely not my idea. I’m not looking to save the day, but I do think I deserve some answers.

  As we start ascending the metal staircase to Roscoe’s shop, I’m treated to a clear view of Ivy’s behind, tightly wrapped in black leather.

  “So this Roscoe guy,” she says, “you’ve dealt with him before?”

  “Yeah, well, not in like a hand-to-hand combat kind of way. He’s supposed to be helping me fix my matchmaking magic.”

  “And he’s not?”

  “Unconfirmed. He’s definitely taking his sweet-ass time.”

  Ivy shakes her head. “Typical man. They are mostly useless.”

  “Aww, but what about Peter?”

  “I mean, he’s good. I care about him a lot—obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. But dang, being in a relationship is a lot harder than I thought it would be. It takes so much . . . effort. Especially when you have to put other people’s needs first. Yuck.” She climbs a few more steps before asking, “Do you ever feel that way about Charlie?”

  “We’ve had our challenges,
sure.” My relationship with Charlie is pretty unique. We aren’t perfect, but our problems have been skewed toward the supernatural side. How many couples argue about seeing another person in the other’s eyes? Not a common argument, I’m guessing. It is a lot of effort, but after everything we’ve been through, we’ve come out on the other side so much stronger. I hope Ivy will see that everything she’s doing is worth it someday. “What’s important is that you’re happy.”

  “I’ll be a lot happier when all this magical crap is over,” she huffs once we’ve reached the top of the stairs.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Even though I’ve been here multiple times, it doesn’t make the disjointed combination of creeptastic items in an urban-chic setting any less strange. Ivy’s blue eyes grow wide as she takes it all in, nose turned up at an artfully arranged crate of cat skulls.

  “What is this place?” she whispers under her breath, and I give her a knowing “Yup, it’s the worst” nod just as Roscoe enters the room, grinning like a used-car salesman.

  “Amber!” he cheers, holding his arms out for an embrace I choose not to engage in. “Kasia just told me you’re here! Did we have an appointment?”

  “No, no,” I say, backing away from a python curling around a driftwood display table. “I was in the neighborhood, just thought I’d stop by and see how it’s going. . . . It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”

  Eyebrows pinching under his fedora, he frowns. “Your case is very challenging, young matchmaker. We need to be patient.”

  Patient? I need to be patient?! “I’m not really sure how much more patient I can be, Roscoe. I gave you fairy dust, and what have you even done? Anything?”

  “I can assure you—”

  “So assure me, already!” I yelp, my frustration pushing Peter’s plight aside for a bit. “What have you accomplished, what progress have you made? Every day my magic fades more and more. I cannot keep waiting!”

  “Amber,” Ivy interrupts my meltdown. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome friend?” Upon hearing a compliment come out of a pretty girl’s mouth, Roscoe perks up, and I remember our mission.