by Lysa Daley
Except for one notation scribbled in blue pen for yesterday.
Mr. Stroud poked his head in and asked, “Anything?”
“Does 27774 1/4 Vent mean anything to you?” I asked, reading the notion from the calendar. “Then below it says Kelly J.”
Mr. Stroud adjusted his perfectly adjusted tie. “I think that’s an address way out at the end of Ventura Blvd. And a name.”
“A woman’s name.” I said what he didn’t want to say. “Do you think Maybelle is right? Could he have been having an affair?”
“I suppose stranger things are possible.” He frowned.
I typed the address into my phone. “Nothing specific comes up. Looks like it’s some sort of mini-mall or something. There’s a nail salon, a mailbox place, donut shop. Why does it have a fraction in it?”
“Some of those old valley street numbers give the upstairs a 1/2 or 1/4 designation.” Mr. Stroud furrowed his brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“All the seekers are currently on assignment. I’m not sure who I can get to go check it out.”
“I can go. I don’t have class tomorrow morning.”
“No, I’m sure I can find someone else. I’ll just twist a couple arms.”
Now it was my turn to frown. I didn’t like the idea of this getting pushed to the back burner or having some unenthusiastic agent doing a half-hearted search. “It’s okay. I don’t mind going.”
He looked puzzled. “I thought you didn’t want to do fieldwork anymore?”
“I don’t,” I replied. “But this isn’t exactly the same thing. I’m not going after some dangerous high-priced bounty. And I’m worried about Mr. Morty.”
“I’m worried too.” He nodded. “Go check it out. But bring a wand. You might need basic protection.”
“I don’t need a wand, because --”
“Either take a wand with you or you’re not going,” he said firmly. When I didn’t reply, he added, “I’ll send down a loaner, unless you’ve located your lost one?”
I hadn’t. “The one you loaned me last time will be fine.”
He shook his head. “That one’s currently checked out. I’ll find another.”
Chapter Nine
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite grad student. How are you, darling?”
“Hi, Shelly. I’m good,” I said brightly, happy to hear a familiar voice. Shelly was my father’s long time assistant. With strong psychic abilities, she knew it was me calling before she answered. “I see your intuitive abilities are still hard at work.”
She laughed. “Not exactly, my dear. Your cell phone number came up on my screen. Technology is making some of my talents less valuable.”
Ever since my encounter with Winter Queen, I’d been trying to get in touch with my father. I was very worried about him. As usual, he was impossible to track down.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with my dad. His cell phone keeps going straight to voicemail.” That actually wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was the norm when it came to my father. But I wanted to see what Shelly would say.
He spent much of his time living north of the Arctic Circle studying dragons. For years, he’d been determined to learn how to transform into one. If he found a way to shift into a dragon, that would make him the only living Class V animagi on the planet. I was a lowly Class II, but lately I’d been working on my skills.
I’d finally broken down and called his office in London. Shelly, his longtime secretary, a half-witch with strong intuitive powers, couldn’t exactly read minds or predict the future, but she could get pretty close. I had to be careful about what I said to her.
My father said her ability to anticipate what someone was going to do or say made her the best administrative assistant he had ever had. And to show his gratitude, he compensated her extremely well. I’d heard some of the other assistants in his office comment that Shelly was the highest paid secretary in Britain, even better compensated than the queen’s secretary. She’d been with my father for longer than I’d been alive so apparently he thought she was worth every penny.
“Any chance my dad is in the office?”
She hesitated, probably assuming I didn’t know about my father’s situation. Of course, I knew he wasn’t coming into the office. If he showed his face in a public place, he’d be arrested. But I figured she’d be able to get a message to him if necessary.
“He’s not in at the moment,” she said, like it was just another regular working day and my father didn’t have an international arrest warrant out for him from the Magistrate of Magic. “Can I pass on a message?”
“Do you think you’ll be speaking with him soon?”
“I’m sure he’ll check in eventually,” she said, being intentionally vague.
“Yes...” I tried to formulate just the right message so that he would understand. “Tell him that I’m climbing the trees here.”
I could hear her typing through the phone. Shelly knew what my father and I were, and I’m sure she suspected that my message was code.
“Climbing the tree,” she repeated. Instead of asking me to clarify what I meant, she said, “And does he know where you are?”
“My new place,” I replied. I hadn’t given him my new information. But last time I saw him, I let him know that I was moving into the Radagast’s guesthouse. My father was more than capable of figuring out a simply residential address on his own.
“I will pass that along.” Then she boldly added, “And do take care, Lacey. Be careful over there with those Yanks. I want to see you here again soon.”
“I’ve been thinking about making a trip over Spring Break,” I said.
“I am completely in favor of that idea.”
After I hung up, I stepped out into the cool late morning air. February in Southern California lived on the border of winter and spring. Looking around, I could see that everything was about to burst forth with fresh life — new leaves, flowers, plants.
I didn’t need to give my father any time. Either he would get the message right away from Shelly, or he wouldn’t get it at all.
The R’s large piece of property boarded a natural forest owned by the California Park Service known as Fryman Canyon Park. With the exception of some nicely laid out hiking trails, the canyon had been left in its natural state. Lots of oaks and eucalyptus.
I moved to the edge of the vast yard, where I was easily hidden by the surrounding vegetation.
It was clear the Winter Queen had been keeping tabs on me disguised as the homeless woman. I had run into her at least three times — that I knew of. And with supernatural fae powers like hers, she could take any form that she wanted.
I needed to do something that would be difficult for her if she was watching me.
There was only one thing I could think of that might’ve brought my father to me. It was something I’d done as a child, especially when my dad had been away for long stretches at a time.
The first animal I had ever been able to transform into as a young girl was a squirrel. Next to being a bird, squirrels were my favorite creature. They were definitely my favorite mammal with a beautiful amount of freedom running and climbing and leaping between branches. With their sturdy legs and bushy tails, they were swift and easy on their feet. With the exception of a dog, I had never encountered an animal that loved to eat and savored its food more than a squirrel.
Standing in the shadows, I concentrated and transformed into a bushy-tailed gray squirrel.
As always, I had the sensation of falling as my body morphed into the little mammal. Whatever I was wearing or holding transformed with me, returning to its form when I returned to my human form.
Over the past few years, I had grown bored of my natural animagi skills and stopped practicing. But now, over the last few weeks, a little flame had been ignited somewhere inside of me, and I was rediscovering the joy of turning into an animal.
As soon as I had my four feet under me, I leapt for the nearest tree, scrambled up, and s
ailed across the canopy of branches. My tail kept me balanced, while my clawed feet and strong hind legs allowed me to sail with total joyous abandon, from branch to branch.
Five minutes later, I was deep inside the park, safely away from any houses or hikers or other prying eyes. If my father could, I knew he would join me. And together we would bound across the top of the forest. He was a powerful mage, who could easily teleport himself anywhere on the planet he chose.
It wasn’t long before a large golden eagle soared above me to the west. Was that my father? The bird seemed to be eyeing me. Of course, I probably looked an awful lot like lunch to the winged predator too. Just to be safe, I hunkered down under the cover of a leafy branch in order to avoid becoming prey. But not long after the eagle vanished from my sight, a large brown flying squirrel, nearly twice my size, sailed over my head.
Father!
I knew because brown flying squirrels didn’t live in California. They only lived on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. I followed the large squirrel, doing my best to keep up, even though he was stronger and faster. And yes, he could sort of fly by spreading his four legs and allowing the extra skin between his front and back paws to act like the hang glider wings.
My footing was sure beneath my four clawed feet. So even though he could “fly,” I was still winning on the ground in our private race. Of course, I always beat him when we raced as squirrels. For the first time, as a grown adult, it occurred to me that he might’ve been letting me win all these years.
Finally, we ran out of trees at the edge of a canyon that dropped off into a rocky crevasse. I wound my way down to the ground and transferred back into my human form. The flying squirrel gracefully glided down to the ground, showing off a bit by making his transformation mid-air and landing as my father with aplomb on both feet.
“Lysandra, you’ve won again,” my father said.
“I’m so glad to see you, dad,” I said, throwing my arms around him. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Do worry about an old dragon like me,” he said, then changed the subject. “But you? Your animagic is getting so much stronger. The location of your new apartment will suit you well. You could get in quite a bit of practice and perhaps begin working on larger species.”
My father wanted nothing more than for me to progress in my animagi studies. He wanted me to go from a Class II to Class III. It was a point of pride for him. All the McCrays eventually became Class IIIs.
Of course, it was also true that if I did somehow manage to obtain my Class III license, then I would become one of a handful of females alive that had accomplished that feat.
“I just may,” I said agreeably.
He looked at me askance. “Really?”
He was used to me arguing with him, telling him how useless our native abilities had become in the modern world. And that was partially true. But I was just beginning to realize sometimes you did things not because of any innate value in doing them, but rather because you enjoyed it or found a sense of accomplishment in these activities.
In the end, why did any of us do anything, anyway?
He was wise enough to change the subject. “I assume you've found something.”
I quickly explained my morning and my encounter with the not-so-homeless homeless woman.
“So it’s not just faerie gold…” He looked stunned at the news that the gold belonged to the Winter Queen.
“It’s faerie gold straight out of the Winter Queen’s coffers.”
“Are you sure it was really her?”
“Oh, I'm very sure. I nearly froze to death standing in her presence. And she's pissed. That woman wants her gold back.”
He raised an eyebrow and nodded. “I can see why she wants it back. Without it, her sister will become infinitely more powerful. The Summer Queen is twice as bad as two Winter Queens put together.”
“Who would take her gold?”
He scoffed. “Only a fool.”
“Except, this fool has everyone convinced that you're the thief.” I pointed out.
“Perhaps I’m the fool then.” He turned his back and walked a few steps toward the edge of the canyon, looking at the view.
“How do we find the stolen gold?”
“Oh, it's under spell. A very powerful spell. Believe me; I’ve tried to find it. There is no way it could be in this plane of existence unless someone is cloaking it.”
“What do we do? I don't think you have a lot of time left.”
My father looked to the horizon. The day was still clear with a view beyond the canyons and the trees, down into the grid-like flatness that made up the neighborhoods of Los Angeles. “I want you to stay out of this.”
“What? No!” I replied.
“It’s too dangerous, Lacey. I can’t bare the idea of something happening to you.”
“But dad --”
“No,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you,” I replied.
“Then let me handle this on my own.”
Before I could speak, he shifted into a giant golden eagle and blustered into the winter sky.
Chapter Ten
I cautious crept out of my bedroom into the living room with my fingers crossed.
It was 8am and I wanted to see if Fred had done anything during the night.
When I got home from work last night, I’d baked and iced the cinnamon rolls I bought at the grocery store. Then, unsure of his appetite, I’d left him five of the eight rolls on a plate with a nice tall glass of milk. Seemed like too many, but in a situation like this, when you were trying to appease an unhappy house brownie, it was probably better to err on the side of too much rather than not enough.
Even though I felt guilty about eating sugary carbs at 11pm, I ate one of the warm rolls fresh out of the oven and enjoyed every bite. Before I could devour another one, I put five on a plate and the rest in the fridge and went to bed.
In the morning sunlight, the guesthouse looked perfectly neat and tidy. Everything was in its place; my jacket had been neatly hung on the peg next to the front door, and my shoes sat in a line right beneath it. The pillows on the couch had been fluffed, and the throw blanket draped neatly over a side chair. Even the plate and glass from the cinnamon rolls and milk had been washed and were drying in the dish rack.
This was fantastic. I’d figured it out. All I had to do was bake a few cinnamon rolls and Fred would be my free cleaning service. What a great deal for me.
“Thank you, Fred,” I said aloud. Having a house brownie was going to be amazing.
Then I turned around.
I looked at the built-in bookshelves that flanked the small stone fireplace. My previously perfectly organized, small personal library was now color coordinated. All of my fiction, non-fiction, reference and textbooks that had previously been neatly shelved by non-fiction categories or alphabetized by fiction author’s last name were now displayed by the color of the covers.
It wasn’t even darkest to lightest, white to black, instead, it had been arranged by the colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green blue indigo violet with white and black covers bookending the rainbow.
This was a disaster.
It had taken me the better part of an afternoon to decide how to shelve my 200-plus books. I’d organized fiction in the shelves to the left of the fireplace, along with any travel and cookbooks. All school, reference, and non-fiction had gone in the shelf on the right of the fireplace.
“Oh my stars, Fred,” I muttered under my breath. “What have you done?”
I had two choices: laugh or cry. I decided to laugh. Even though the books were in total disarray, I had to admit that my bookshelves were now much prettier.
It was hard to know if Fred thought he was helping me or hurting me.
I ate another cinnamon roll, showered, dressed, and headed out to the address we’d found on Mr. Morty’s calendar.
It was after 10am so the bulk of the morning rush-hour traffic had
passed. Traffic was still moderate, but my little white Honda cruised along at a nice even forty miles an hour, getting me out to the west end of the valley in half an hour.
Ventura Blvd ran right along the freeway. After the exit, I drove another couple blocks until I found 24447 1/4 Ventura Blvd. It wasn’t the upstairs space of a mini-mall, as Mr. Stroud had expected. Instead, the place sat off the beaten path, down a long driveway and slightly behind two other buildings. From what I could see from the street, it was a plain, square brick building with two large rolling garage doors and a sign that read Jackson’s Classics. An auto mechanic’s garage.
I parked across the street where I could sort of watch for a couple minutes. My view was partially obstructed, but I could see into one of the two open garage doors. At least three different men in blue jumpsuits moved around between cars.
Finally, I decided it looked safe enough to walk over. I double-checked my bag to make sure I had the magic wand Mr. Stroud had sent down for me yesterday. It was a heavy redwood instrument with a limp energy. It felt clunky in my hand. The dull thing was probably still better than no wand.
As I approached, a tall man with wiry red hair that seemed to be sprouting out all over met me in the doorway.
“Morning, honey. What can I do for you?” he said in a manner that was a little too friendly. His smile felt predatory and dangerous.
I stopped ten yards away. “I’m looking for Kelly Jackson. Is she in?”
He laughed and smoothed down his beard. Then he took a few steps closer and replied, “Kelly’s not here. But I’m sure I can help with whatever you need.”
Now that I was closer to the building, I could see that this wasn’t a repair shop. It was some sort of body and paint shop. A man in the corner removed the license plates from a new black pickup and put on new ones. There was a sealed paint station on the other side, where another guy was currently turning a white Mercedes into a blue one.
You didn’t have to be an FBI agent to suspect that this was some sort of illegal operation. Probably a chop shop that dealt in stolen cars.