Special Deceptions (The Coursodon Dimension Book 5)

by M. L. Ryan

  Hours later, I returned. After my customary pre-shift-back colon cleanse in an out-of-the way spot, I flew to the balcony to transform into my human form. Sometimes, it took a few minutes to recover and because I’d be naked, I intentionally left the French doors open so that I could quickly slip into my room. The process of changing from bird to woman was, like my earlier transition, a piece of cake, which is exactly what I craved the second I had a mouth instead of a beak. The post-form-bend munchies were always an inconvenient after effect, and I was so hell bent on bending, I’d completely forgotten to leave a snack available.

  Thinking there might be food in the fridge—hopefully, something baked in layers with frosting—I threw open the door from the bedroom, but I didn’t make it to the refrigerator. So focused on finding food, I neglected to notice I wasn’t alone.

  Pixie took one look at my naked body, gasped, and covered his eyes.

  “Geez,” I blurted, darting back the way I came to find my robe. “Isn’t there some protocol against sneaking up on someone in their own room? First Myrjix, now you.”

  “I didn’t know you were here. Where have you been? The King’s Guards have been out searching for you.”

  I called out from the bathroom, “I’m sorry. I needed to form-bend, and I didn’t consider it might seem as if I’d disappeared.” I wondered if Pixie’s displeasure stemmed more from his own inconvenience, rather than concern over my well-being. Still, I hoped I sounded contrite, because I truly felt bad about worrying him.

  “It’s safe to gaze upon me,” I joked when I returned to the parlor. “I’m fully dressed.”

  Pixie peeked through spread fingers before removing his hands from his face. Satisfied he wouldn’t turn to stone, or whatever his problem was with seeing me in the buff, he reverted to full protocol aid mode.

  “Firstly, you left your engagement ring unattended on your nightstand. How many times must I tell you, if it is not on your person, it must be transferred to a responsible party?”

  “I thought that was just an Alenquai thing,” I argued feebly.

  “Of course not,” he sputtered. “There are suitable Wiqyrd dirthyxa in any palace. One simply needs to request one.”

  “Hey, at least I took it off before I transformed. I could have left it on only to have it fall off my boney little bird fingers.” Now that I thought about it, it made more sense for the ring to fall off my wing, but I didn’t think Pixie was in the mood for a debate on the phylogenic outcome of fine jewelry after a form-bend. I chose not to mention I’d actually removed the sparkler before my shower; shampooing while wearing the colossus was a major scalp injury just waiting to happen.

  “And secondly,” he barked, ignoring my expostulation on his initial gripe. “A considerable amount of time and effort was wasted trying to ascertain your whereabouts. We were searching for you in your human form; you cannot shift without disclosing your intent through the proper channels.”

  Proper channels? There was a better chance of the Chicago Cubs winning a World Series than me asking permission to form-bend. “What if I leave a note? Is that enough of a heads up?”

  “Had you done so this morning, we would have known you were in no danger,” he said, letting his arms hang limply at his sides. Pixie’s bluster had faded, replaced by something closer to relief.

  Aww. The little dude was worried about me. I stepped closer and gave his shoulder a cursory pat. “I’m fine, and everything’s okay. I promise I’ll let someone know the next time I plan to get feathery. Besides, what’s going to happen to me in the palace?”

  He straightened his back, and the familiar haughty expression returned. “Under normal circumstances, your absence would not elicit undo concern. However, a palace staff member reported hearing unusual moans coming from the courtyard adjacent to your rooms late last night. When a guard went to investigate, the area was deserted, but one cannot be too careful.”

  A veneer of polite indifference covered my amusement. “Really? I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Good, I am pleased the noise didn’t provoke any discomfort.”

  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

  9

  Pixie frowned, but he didn’t ask for clarification. “You have no official engagements today, but I left a schedule with the remainder of the week’s appointments and events.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be a vacation from schedules and duties?” I complained, perusing the detailed list.

  “It is, but there are so many people wanting to meet you, I had to accept some of the invitations. Otherwise, you would appear rude.”

  We wouldn’t want that. I pointed to various entries on my calendar. “Who the hell is Fyralitn Wertanialovk, and what is the Grybletin Network?”

  Pixie rolled his eyes. “Fyralitn is the premier, society journalist in Jjestri and the network is a group of well-connected, wealthy bluebloods.”

  “Look, there’s no way in hell I’m giving interviews or sucking up to a bunch of rich, ancient biddies.”

  “Their age is irrelevant,” he countered. “They are scions of polite society. You’d be wise to lunch with them. Their good opinion can be of benefit down the road.”

  I waved my hand over the list. “Even if I wanted to go to all these meetings, which I do not, they would cut into my form-bending. I need to set aside ample time for that.” Obviously, going too long between bends wasn’t good for my health, if the crappy way I felt when I woke up this morning was any indication.

  “These engagements will still allow for transformation,” he argued. “I can’t imagine you require daily metamorphosis.”

  “I don’t know how I can say this any clearer,” I seethed, tearing the list in half. “I am not meeting, talking, lunching, or in any way spending time with any of those people. I’m here to get away from the public scrutiny in Alenquai for a few days, not drum up more of the same here.”

  “But, but,” he sputtered. “You’ve already accepted the invitations. It would be most improper to renege.”

  I wagged my index finger in his face. “No, no, no. This is your problem. You accepted, not me. Find a way to gracefully decline, and without making me look like a jerk.”

  Pixie’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might continue to argue. Instead, he took a deep breath, and his pique dissolved into something more insidious.

  “Fine, I will do as you ask, no matter what the consequences to me,” he muttered.

  Uh-uh. There was no way I was falling for his feeble attempt at a guilt trip. The master at engendering remorse over even the most trivial matters had raised me. Compared to her manipulative skills, Pixie was an amateur.

  “That’s great,” I offered. “I knew you’d come through.”

  *****

  Moral victory aside, by late morning I was, again, hopelessly bored. Tannis had plans with some friends, and she’d invited me along, but I opted to stay behind. She didn’t need to spend every waking moment with me. I’d taken an hour or so to explore the palace, but checking out the seemingly endless array of extravagantly furnished rooms got old fast. As I departed the fifth drawing room on my self-guided tour—how many places did one need to entertain visitors?—Myrjix was waiting for me in the hallway.

  “Did my PA send you to keep an eye on me?”

  “He may have mentioned something along those lines,” she answered, grinning. “But, that’s not why I’m here. There was a miscommunication with the kitchen; they thought you were accompanying the princess and did not prepare luncheon for you. They are quite in an uproar, and they wish to be advised how you would like to proceed.”

  “It’s no big deal; I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself. Frankly, I’d much rather eat at one of the cafes in the village than stay cooped up here.”

  Myrjix nodded her head. “Very well, I shall inform them of your plans.”

  “Uh, you could go with me,” I suggested. “My Courso still needs work, so I’ll need an interpreter.” My King’s Gua
rd posse might be able to translate back and forth, but it would be tough for them to remain unobtrusive if I interacted with them. I’d also wager Myrjix was a better conversationalist; most of the sentries seemed like the strong, monosyllabic type.

  She considered my offer. “I would be honored to accompany you,” she said finally.

  “Great, I’ll grab a sweater. Can you ask around for a lunch recommendation?”

  “Of course. Is there any type of cuisine you prefer?”

  “Anything will be fine, except I’d rather not go back to the place Tannis and I went to yesterday.”

  She inclined her head and asked, “Did you not care for the bistro?”

  I described the waitress-turned-attendant interaction of the night before. “I don’t want to encourage her by showing up at her restaurant, even if it isn’t at the prescribed time.”

  “Very wise,” Myrjix agreed, then excused herself to make inquiries.

  A half-hour later, Myrjix and I, followed at a discreet distance by three King’s Guards, made the short walk into the business district of the town. We could have used a marqizobaz, but the weather was perfect for a stroll—seventy degrees, a sunny, cloudless sky, with a whisper of a breeze. Unfortunately, as they had the day before, the guard’s well-known uniforms attracted attention to us. How I wished for a plainclothes detail. Eventually, Myrjix and I learned to ignore the rubbernecking and tried to act normal. I suspect that was easier for her than me.

  “The protocol aid was quite concerned when he realized you weren’t in your rooms this morning,” she remarked.

  “Yeah, he mentioned something about that.” At the top of his tiny lungs. “I needed to form-bend, and didn’t consider that my absence might be alarming.”

  Myrjix nodded as we continued walking down the sidewalk.

  “My mother is Yterixa. She shifts into a horse.”

  “That’s cool. I only know one other Yterixa, and he changes into a beaver.” I supposed Ulut, my friend from the third dimension, counted as well, but his ability to transform into a dog was not public knowledge, and he could only do so in Dekankara.

  My ability to change form wasn’t a secret per se, just the part where under the right—or wrong, depending on one’s perspective—circumstances, I turned into a dragon-bird-monster-thing was.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, if you don’t mind,” she confessed. “I’ve never heard of a Yterixa who was a Courso-Human hybrid. I didn’t think they had enough magic.”

  “My father was extremely powerful.”

  I hated lying, but half-truths were the nature of the beast, so to speak, when it came to all things Hailey. Sure, everyone here knew I was from the human dimension, but we said I had a Courso father and a human mother. The number of people aware of my alter-Yterixa-ego was limited to a small number of close friends and confidents. And, the entire parliamentary arm of the Alenquai government, the Glyzimutitch Zolmere, but who was counting?

  I decided diverting the topic away from my parentage was in order. “Anyway, I woke up not feeling well, and it must have been because I hadn’t bent in a while. I felt much better afterward.”

  “My mother gets anxious if she doesn’t shift regularly, but she can go months without thywipiz.”

  “Thywipiz?”

  “Oh, that’s the word for the nasty side effects from not form-bending often enough. It’s different for everyone, both the symptoms and the length of time it takes to produce them.”

  Like PMS, I grumbled to myself.

  “You know,” she continued. “Transformation heals what ails you. You might not have been suffering from thywipiz; perhaps you were ill, and shifting back and forth restored you to good health.”

  “I forgot about that possibility,” I confessed.

  “Are you kidding? That’s one of the best parts about being Yterixa. Say you cut yourself,” she explained. “You shift, and when you emerge in your animal form, the wound would be healed. The same processes that allow physical alterations mends any damage as well.”

  I remembered being told about this before. As long as I was capable of shifting, I could heal almost anything. It also meant I’d live way longer than normal, because each time I form-bent, anything wearing out would come back good as new. I’d never experienced the phenomenon personally, but now that Myrjix had reminded me of reparative aspects of form-bending, I had an urgent need to check on something.

  I turned to face our macho caretakers, motioning Myrjix to sidle up behind me.

  “Is there some problem?” she inquired, glancing about cautiously.

  Making certain no members of the gawking public were around, I yanked my cardigan and shirt up, while pulling the waistband of my trousers down to expose my left butt cheek. “What do you see?”

  Turning my head so I could see her face, the crease forming between her brows seemed to indicate she thought this was a trick question. Despite obvious confusion, she responded with a drawn out, “Your rear end?”

  I strained my neck to get a better view. As a hawk, I could rotate my head almost a hundred and eighty degrees. No such amazing flexibility now, however. “Is there a tattoo of a feather?” I asked impatiently.

  “Not that I can see.” She stooped a little closer. “No, just plain skin.” The guards continued to keep their distance, making no indication whatsoever that there was anything odd about Myrjix examining my ass.

  Damn. I liked that tat. I’d even considered getting another, but it was pointless when anything inked on my body would disappear once I got feathery.

  After I smoothed my clothes into their regular position, we continued on. Myrjix glanced at me occasionally, likely still trying to determine why I’d semi-dropped trou on the sidewalk, and I stewed over the loss of my first—and, apparently, last—tattoo.

  Suddenly, a wave of giddy rebellion crashed over me as I realized I’d been looking at this all wrong. “How do you feel about postponing lunch for a bit?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever you like; I’m here to serve.”

  Oy. “I’m not telling, I’m asking,” I said, adding a small eye roll to emphasize my exasperation.

  “I can wait to eat.”

  “Excellent. We need to find the closest tattoo parlor.”

  *****

  It turned out to be more difficult than it had been in Alenquai. For some reason, the Jjestri weren’t as enamored with the art of body modification, and Myrjix had to ask five or six pedestrians before we found one who knew of a place. The shop wasn’t within walking distance, or near a marqizobaz, so the guards contacted the palace, requesting alternative transportation. Two magically powered autos arrived within a few minutes. Myrjix and I climbed into the back of a limo—one of our babysitters rode shotgun in the front with the driver—while the other guards crammed into a smaller sedan that followed us.

  The experience was not unlike that with Smoking Guns: consult, design, fine-tuning, inking, and healing. The main difference was the tattooist’s wary glance at the kilted muscle waiting outside. Also, I decided to go big or go home, as it were. I still got a feather, but no discreet tat inked on a portion of my anatomy few would ever see. This time, my left arm, bicep to elbow, was the canvas for a large, beautiful, and stylized version.

  “Isn’t your PA going to object to such a prominent display?” Myrjix asked as I paid the bill.

  “Maybe,” I replied, shrugging my cardigan over my blouse. “It’s not like this is permanent.”

  In truth, I was counting on Pixie blowing his stack. I had a sneaking suspicion my PA might try to limit my transformations. Oh, he’d cite scheduling conflicts or some other BS, but the more likely explanation was it annoyed him when I did anything he hadn’t some part in planning. Given the abundance of arm-baring attire he’d packed, I was sure to get another chance to form-bend while in Jjestri.

  When we finally sat down to eat, so much time had elapsed since my last meal, I ordered way too much food. Just like going grocery shopping when hungry
, I supposed. You end up with a cart full of crap you’d never buy otherwise. That was how I rationalized my odd selection of menu items, but in reality, the garlic fried potatoes, fruit salad, and crispy bacon tasted mighty fine when eaten together. Still not completely sated, I agreed to the dessert du jour without asking what it was. Under normal circumstances, the mere thought of congealed oxyntberry pie made me gag, but this time, I managed to swallow a few bites. Myrjix happily finished what I could not. There’s something for everyone, I realized, watching her devour the gelatinous goo with the same enthusiasm I reserved for fine, dark chocolate. How else does one explain the popularity of cheese whiz?

  Myrjix needed to use the bathroom before the ride back to the palace, and I lingered at the table until she returned. I closed my eyes and pretended I was just hanging out, all by my lonesome, with no security detail lurking about. The illusion of normalcy didn’t last long, however.

  The sound of nearby movement yanked me from my daydreams. Two of the guards, who moments ago had been standing off to the side, were now forming a barrier between someone and me. I couldn’t see he-who-dared-to-approach—their beefy frames prevented me from getting a good look—but I hoped they weren’t roughing up some poor, unsuspecting restaurant patron just trying to get to the salad bar.

  In broken Courso, I implored them to chill out. They lost some of the tension in their stances, enough so I could finally glimpse the object of their ire. It was my dance partner from the night before.

  Rather than being ticked off at the blockade, Fred seemed to take it all in stride.

  “Well, well. We meet again,” he said, smiling brightly.

  I assured the guards the potential assailant was no stranger, and they allowed him to continue to the table.

  “Have a seat,” I offered, pulling out the chair next to mine.