CHANGELING ON THE JOB
A Changeling Wars Novella: Book 1.5
Copyright © 2015 by A.G. Stewart
All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder except for brief passages quoted by reviewers or in connection with critical analysis.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Igneous Books
Roseville, CA
www.igneousbooks.com
CHANGELING WARS
Loose Changeling
Changeling on the Job
Spare Changeling
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHANGELING ON THE JOB
by A.G. Stewart
CHAPTER ONE
STREET LAMPS REFLECTED OFF THE DAMP PAVEMENT, making tiny orange moons, and I careened down the sidewalk after my grushound, Anwynn. I was athletic, but I wasn’t a hundred eighty pounds of mostly muscle, and I certainly didn’t have four legs. My breath fogged the air in front of me.
“Hey!” someone called from the other side of the street. “There are laws about letting your dogs run around, asshole!”
This. This was what I got for taking off the damn leash.
I muttered to myself as I ran, in a fair approximation of Anwynn’s gravelly voice. “Let me off the leash, she says. Oh, I’ll be able to track the sprites much more easily, she says. I’ll keep a low profile.”
Low profile—how could I think that was possible with a hound as big as a small pony running through the streets of Portland? I suppose desperation can lead to big ideas, but it can lead to bad ones, too.
I seemed to be falling into the latter category more and more.
I’d been chasing down these sprites for the better part of a month. Okay, so chronically souring milk wasn’t in the category of world-ending problems, but people had started noticing, and my job as the only legal Changeling in the world was to keep people from noticing. I had to get the sprites back through a doorway and into the Fae world soon; otherwise I’d be finding the Arbiter in my living room, and he might have more than just unkind words for me. I couldn’t remember word-for-word the oath he’d made me swear in order to grant me legal status, but it had something to do with keeping the Fae and mortal worlds separate, or my life would be forfeit. Blah, blah, blah, do this or die. You know, the usual.
“Anwynn,” I hissed, and saw her ears prick. I opened my mouth to issue her an order, but she turned her head to the side.
“Trail’s going cold, Nicole,” she huffed back at me. “We slow down, I lose it.”
And my Fae hound was talking in the middle of Portland. I whooshed past someone whose eyebrows had risen so far they looked in danger of becoming part of his hairline. People everywhere knew a few truths: dogs didn’t talk, magic didn’t exist, and there certainly wasn’t another, hidden world pressed against theirs.
“Fine.” I ground my teeth together and found a fresh burst of speed. Tall buildings gave way to shady trees as we passed the Lloyd Center Mall and moved into Irvington. Fewer people walked the streets here at night, which was good, because this wasn’t my subtlest undertaking.
At least I wasn’t fighting a Fae Queen in front of Multnomah County Jail. Life takes some weird turns, sometimes.
I drew even with Anwynn and hoped running with her instead of behind her would mean less accusatory glances. I checked around us for people. “How much farther, do you think?”
“Beats me,” she said. “But sprites are quick.” She slowed to a jog for half a moment, sniffing the air. “We’re closer.”
And then she was off again, and some poor mother on a lawn clutched her child closer as Anwynn passed.
“Some people are afraid of dogs,” she yelled at me as I ran after the grushound.
“Yes, sorry!” Because what else was I going to say? “Your milk keeps going bad because of sprites and I need to catch them”?
Being one of the Sidhe living smack-dab in the mortal world isn’t as fun as it sounds.
We turned onto a quieter street, and then Anwynn really got her legs beneath her. She stretched out like a horse on the track, reminding me of only two short months before when she’d chased me. We weren’t exactly friends now, but I was glad we weren’t enemies.
A row of large trees lay at the end of the street, from behind which I could barely make out a football field. Grant High School.
Damn sprites. Had they tired of going from home to home and decided to hit a bigger target? I’d bet the little critters would get quite a lot of amusement out of watching a bunch of hapless teenagers chug some soured milk in the cafeteria. And the resultant chaos—accusations, parental involvement, health inspections—would give them entertainment for days to come.
But Anwynn didn’t leap into the brush and make for the school on the other side of the field. She halted at the end of the street, her nose held high and still in the air.
I slowed to a jog as I drew closer. “You found them?”
Her furry black nose pointed to my right, just a little ways down the intersecting road.
Six sprites hovered around an old beat-up car, the green paint worn away to rust in spots on the door and hood. Their pearlescent skin shimmered beneath the street lamp, their dragonfly wings flicking through the air. Pale hair floated from beneath their helms, fading into wispy ends like clouds. They were dressed in matching quilted armor, needle swords strapped to their sides.
“Hey,” I called out to them, “back away from the car.”
Six pairs of eyes fixated on me.
“Not the best idea,” Anwynn said.
And then the sprites backed away from the car, in a manner of speaking. I mean, they vacated the area around the car, because they all, as one, swarmed toward me and my hound, their teeth bared.
“Uh, Anwynn…?” I said at the same time her ears flattened against her head and she muttered, “I hate sprites.”
I only had the time to reach in my pocket for my trusty butter knife before they reached us. Fighting a charging small army in front of a county jail was one thing. Fighting (or trying to fight) a small group of tiny, swarming pixies was somehow claustrophobic. Instinctively, I tried to swat one away with my left hand and got a needle in my palm for my efforts.
I sucked a breath in through my teeth. That…stung. A lot. But I had my butter knife in hand, and with a slight bit of concentration, I imagined it as a sword, gathered my desire to protect the city, and used the emotion to push the idea into reality. The butter knife lengthened, the blade sharpening.
Beside me, Anwynn growled, snapping at the air like a dog trying to catch a particularly agile fly.
I lifted my blade, blocking a diving sprite. Another flew in from the side and cut a gash along my ribs, ruining what had been a perfectly decent shirt. I supposed I could add “increased clothing budget” to “increased food budget” in my list of downsides to discovering I was adopted and, oh right, not actually human.
“Watch your eyes,” Anwynn barked out, just as another sprite tried to gouge mine out.
I batted it away with the flat of my sword. “I’m not here to hurt you,” I said to the sprites. “I am Nicole, the Changeling. I’m here to send you back to the Fae world.”
>
“Trying to reason with sprites is like trying to find the bottom of a well by shouting at it,” Anwynn said. One of the sprites sank its sword into her back and she winced. “Just kill them. I’m hungry anyways.”
I tried again. “You’ve done enough mischief.” I didn’t want to kill them. I’d had enough killing in the past couple months to last five lifetimes. They just kept coming, their tiny swords cutting gashes across my skin. I swatted two more away and then turned, closed my eyes, and concentrated.
Opening a doorway to the Fae world felt a little like tearing through gauze, but with my brain instead of my fingers. It was a neat party trick—and I was the only one alive who could do it. Other Fae, both greater and lesser, couldn’t get to the mortal world without a piece of moonstone to draw a doorway with.
One of the sprites took advantage of my momentary distraction. I felt the flutter of wings and tried to block it, but that only meant it sank its blade into my shoulder instead of my neck. Pain blossomed out from that spot, and the little beast wasn’t gentle when he yanked the sword back out again.
Someone jogged by on the sidewalk, giving me and Anwynn a quizzical look and increasing his pace as he passed. Most of the smaller Fae could shroud themselves from mortals, so he probably just saw a woman, her sword, and her giant dog. At least I lived in Portland and not Indianapolis or something.
Another blade scraped against my collarbone. “Fuckity fuck!” I yelped, and swiped for the sprite. It darted away from my grasp easily. I’d have better luck catching a dragonfly between two chopsticks. And I didn’t know how to use chopsticks.
Just as I swatted one sprite away with my sword, another one had the temerity to pull out a handful of my hair. It held up the long, black strands like a trophy as I grabbed at the back of my head, my scalp burning.
I was beginning to agree with Anwynn’s assessment of sprites.
“Take the left,” I said to Anwynn. “I’ll take the right.”
Anwynn wasn’t the most agreeable of minions, but I had to hand it to her: in a fight, she picked up on what I wanted quickly. Her posture changed; she sank a bit lower, her body going rigid.
I waved my sword about, not hitting the sprites, but cutting them off, guiding them. Herding them. The sprites caught on as soon as the first one disappeared through the doorway. The remaining five redoubled their attacks. I swept my sword over them, trying to keep them from flying off. One shot upward, and another went for my face.
Instinctively, I lifted my hands over my eyes. The sprite slashed at my wrists. Behind the flurry of the blade, I just barely saw Anwynn launch into the air, catching the escaping sprite with her teeth. She gulped the little Fae down, as though he were a steak she was afraid someone would take away.
“Dammit, Anwynn!” I yelled at her. I would have said more, but three of the four remaining sprites launched a coordinated attack on my torso, wings buzzing as they flitted through the air—little darting whirlwinds of steel.
They shredded my shirt into something that might have fit in an eighties music video. Except for the blood. Each tiny sword cut through skin, too, and they weren’t just paper cuts.
I focused on the pain, using it to block out all other distractions. Swordplay was one of my Talents, along with transformation. I was letting myself get beaten by a bunch of fairies who were a lot smaller than I was.
As the next one darted toward my face, I lifted my sword, turned it so the flat end faced the sprite, and took a swing. A satisfying smack sounded as the broad side of my blade hit the lesser Fae, and it soared through the air like a misshapen baseball. It hit the doorway I’d created and disappeared.
I’d never been into sports in school, but they say it’s always good to try new things. I rolled onto the balls of my feet and held my sword at the ready. The next sprite to attack got thwacked in the bottom, sailing through the doorway with all the speed of a home run. The last one barely gave me time to get my blade up again, so she got a little punt. Still, she made it through the doorway, and that was what mattered.
Four sprites through and away, one deceased. But there had been six…
I turned to find Anwynn with the last sprite in her mouth. She lifted her head, ready to toss the creature down her throat.
“No!” I said. “Bad! Drop it.”
Anwynn’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s an order.”
She opened her mouth and dropped the sodden beast onto the asphalt. “It’s past time for my dinner,” she said.
“And I don’t know enough about Fae politics to go around killing a bunch of them, left and right. What if they’re just doing this all at the bidding of one of the Sidhe families? I pissed off one Queen and I ended up having to fight her army. I don’t plan on doing that again anytime soon.” I leaned down and picked up the unconscious sprite. His quilted armor was torn and he would probably be bruised, but he would live. His wispy hair hung limp, no longer floating.
I lobbed him back through the doorway. And then, before any more mischief could come through, I closed my eyes, found the black, empty space where the doorway existed, and sealed it shut. I was the only one who could do that, too.
The danger seemed to have passed, so I transformed the sword back into a butter knife and dropped it into my pocket. “Well, there,” I said. “That’s done it.”
“Sprites move quickly,” Anwynn said. “Not that quickly.”
“What are you trying to say? Wait, no. There’s more than one group on the milk-souring warpath?” I wanted to throw the butter knife down in the street, but it was the only weapon I had. I almost cussed out the Arbiter, but he could be in more than one place at once; who knew if he was looking over my shoulder?
Anwynn huffed. “What, did you think this job would be easy?” She licked at her wounds.
“I didn’t think this was easy.” I flexed my hand, my palm aching. I’d have to ask Kailen how he did that healing thing. I was going to need it. The cuts across my ribs and stomach stung as a night breeze passed over them. My gaze fell on the beat-up green car. “Why do you think they were so interested in the car? It’s not like sprites need cars to get around. They have wings.”
I strode over to it, and my grushound followed.
“Do you smell anything?” I asked her.
She sniffed the air around the car. “I smell human. Lots of human.”
I glared at her. “When has that ever been helpful?”
Anwynn sat on her haunches and scratched at one ear—the dog equivalent of “I just don’t care that much, sorry.” She stopped, mid scratch, her hind leg settling slowly at her side. Her nose wrinkled. “There’s a hint of blood.”
Blood? And sprites? I didn’t know much about sprites, but something wasn’t adding up. I tried the car door. Locked. I peered in through the windows. All locked.
“You have magic, you know,” Anwynn said.
“And you have the ability to talk. Doesn’t mean you should go around talking all the time,” I muttered. But I put my hand to the lock, breathed in, and closed my eyes. If I had a delicate enough touch, I could transform the tumblers a little, move them so I could open the door.
I thought of my adoptive sister, my love for her, and breathed out. For a second, the tumblers moved a little, began to recede. And then I let the rest of my breath out, faster than I intended, my emotions riding on top. The lock melted, silver running down the car door in streams. I felt it happening and couldn’t stop it. My magic tended to be more flashy than subtle.
“That’s going to make a real interesting story for whoever owns the car,” Anwynn said.
“Mouth,” I said. “Maybe you don’t need it.”
That shut her up. Grushounds didn’t normally have eyes, but I’d given her a pair back when she’d been chasing me. I didn’t know if I could actually take away her mouth, but I could probably take away her eyes. The thought made me feel a bit ill, but then, Anwynn didn’t need to know that.
I opened the car door and I didn’t
need to be a grushound to smell the difference between the air inside the car and outside of it. It smelled musty, like a room gone to cobwebs and dust. There was a faint scent of vanilla, and I spotted a faded yellow air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. I put my hands on the seat and leaned inside. There were a few receipts on the passenger seat. I shuffled through them—fast food places, mostly, and one for a repair garage. A few paper bags from hamburger joints were balled up in the back seat, grease stains marking the sides. Nothing unusual, though I couldn’t imagine keeping my car this much of a mess. I had to shove down the impulse to clean it all up.
I put a knee on the driver’s seat and pulled at the glove box latch. It stuck, so I pulled again, harder.
It fell open and I had to jerk back to stop from getting cut. A surfeit of knives fell out, clattering to the floor—at least ten of them, all shapes and sizes.
Anwynn had managed to squeeze part of the way in next to me, her shoulder digging into my hip. We both stared at the pile of knives on the carpeted floor. “Okay,” I said slowly, “that’s sort of creepy.”
A muffled thump came from the trunk. I drew back from the glove box, getting back into the fresh night air. “You hear that?”
My grushound gave me a quick, sharp nod.
I put one hand to the pocket where I kept the butter knife, then leaned over and found the switch to pop the trunk. It creaked as it opened slightly, and another thump sounded. “Right,” I said to Anwynn.
She circled around the hood of the car, keeping low to the ground, her ears pricked. I crept toward the trunk from my side. If the sprites had been interested in the car, then who knew what manner of creature lurked in the trunk?
As we reached the back, I eased my fingers around the lid of the trunk and lifted it, a little at a time. The trunk light switched on; the lid lifted the rest of the way.
A balding man lay inside, his thin hands and feet bound with duct tape, his eyes panicked. His khaki pants and polo shirt were both stained with dirt from the floor of the trunk, rumpled as though he’d slept in them. A strip of tape wound around the back of his head and mouth. He kicked out, and his feet hit the side of the trunk, the hollow sound reverberating through the metal.
Changeling on the Job: A Changeling Wars Novella Page 1