monster haven 06.5 - transmonstrified

by R. L. Naquin

  Milly frowned. “You think I drugged her?”

  “No, actually,” I said. “I don’t. I think Pauly drugged her.”

  He made a choking sound at the back of his throat. “Why would I drug Goldie?”

  “You wouldn’t. You meant to drug your wife so she wouldn’t catch you trying to steal the money she already stole from your son.”

  He looked like a cornered rat. “I didn’t…that’s the most preposterous…why, I only wanted…” He sputtered half sentences for a minute more before his wife finally cut him off.

  “You tried to drug me so you could steal from me?”

  He held his hands out to her. “Honey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Honest.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

  “Wait a minute,” Junior said. “You stole my money, Mother?”

  “I most certainly did not!” She had the gumption to look offended.

  Pauly scratched his head. “Your story has a flaw in it, Detective.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “By the time I got up here, Goldie was already on the bed, out cold, and Milly was tearing up the place. She can’t be the one who took the money.”

  Goldie swallowed hard and looked up at Junior. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was trying to protect you.”

  I took a step toward her. “You never drank last night, did you?”

  She shook her head. “It smelled funny. I knew Milly didn’t like me, and I knew she and Pauly were both up to something. So, I faked it.”

  “You were faking?” Junior had betrayal written all over his face. “I was so afraid for you.”

  “You were very sweet,” she said. “I pretended to be knocked out while you put me on your bed to sleep it off. After you left, I searched the apartment. I checked everywhere, but in the end, I found it hidden in the last place you’d look—under your own bed. So I moved it. Just in time, too, because your mother came in a minute after I lay back down. Went straight to the bed and checked underneath me. When she didn’t find the money, she started tearing things apart. Then your father came in and they shouted at each other for what seemed like hours.”

  “Oh, my poor angel.” He pulled her out of the chair and put his arms around her.

  “When you finally came in, I felt safe enough to pretend to wake up and escape through the window.”

  “So, where’s the money?” Pauly said.

  “I bet she had it on her when she left,” Milly said. “You’ll never see it again, Junior. That’s what you get when you don’t listen to your mother.”

  “I believe I know exactly where it is,” I said. “May I?” Goldie nodded.

  “Milly wrecked all the dishes, thinking it might be in one of the cereal bowls. I’m guessing that was the original spot Junior hid it in.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Not very original, was it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Then Milly hid it under your own bed, so moving it to another bed would be foolish. But each time, it was hidden in something of yours, Junior. Pauly’s too paranoid. It’s too hard to get into his stuff. And Milly’s things are all too soft. You’d be able to spot the lumps the dough made. But this…”

  I grabbed the chair Goldie had vacated and slammed it against the wall. The chair burst open. Bills large and small exploded into the air and floated to the floor.

  They’d been so busy trying to play each other, the dumb saps had missed the obvious. And they’d underestimated the blonde. Never underestimate a dame, especially a blonde. She’d even suckered me into this mess so she’d have a witness when it all came out. Clever girl.

  “This chair was just right, wasn’t it Miss Locke?”

  She smiled. “Yes it was, Mr. Grimsby. Just right.”

  “Ill-Conceived Magic”

  A Monster Haven Short Story

  This was the first—and so far longest—short story from the Monster Haven world. It picked up shortly after the first book, Monster in My Closet. It was originally published as a single in 2013. My editor insisted we include it partly because it’s where I got the title for this collection.

  As soon as I stepped out of my car, the fairies were on me—and those little buggers move pretty damn fast. They swarmed my driveway, buzzing around my head and grabbing tiny handfuls of my hair. I swatted at them, but my objections were as ineffectual as trying to dart between raindrops in a downpour.

  “Guys, let me at least get my stuff out of the backseat. What the hell is your problem?”

  Their voices were too high-pitched for me to understand anything they were saying, but I was an empath. Words weren’t always necessary for me to get to the creamy center of a situation. I opened up my barriers and let in the emotions coming from the fairy flock.

  Worry. Urgency. Alarm.

  The emotions banged against me like miniature fists. Whatever had the little people’s leafy panties in a bunch needed my immediate attention. I left my purse and bag of groceries behind and slammed the car door.

  “All right,” I said, rubbing my head. “Quit yanking. You’re making my scalp hurt. I’ll follow you.”

  They let go, and several darted ahead faster than my eyes could follow. The rest stayed behind to lead me around to the side of the house, keeping up the sonic chattering.

  I picked my way through the grass, cursing at the wet soil sucking at my high heels. When I rounded the corner, I found the fairies clustered around a small basket of laundry.

  No. Not laundry.

  “Hell, no,” I said.

  I bent over. Two bright eyes the odd blue-green of algae stared up at me. One chubby fist had escaped the swaddling and grabbed at the air.

  The baby’s skin was a soft sage, its hair a dark olive.

  I let loose a heavy sigh and took hold of the basket’s handle. Its inhabitant gurgled at me.

  “Sure. You say that now. Wait till you get inside and find out I have no idea what to do with you.”

  I scanned the yard and the edge of the nearby woods, hoping to spot the owner of the package I carried. No one lurked in the area, not even my skunk-ape bodyguard, Iris. Usually, he stepped out from behind a tree and gave me a wave when I got home each day.

  “Coward.” I was pretty sure he could hear me. Iris might be out of sight, but he was always nearby.

  The fairies, having done their part in the Great Green Baby Unveiling, scattered. It was nice they had so much faith in me. Too bad I had none of my own.

  I circled around to the front yard, grabbed my purse and bag of groceries from the car and trudged up the porch steps, balancing everything with the basket of unidentified child. Muffled music trickled out from the house, so I knew somebody was home. I kicked the door with my foot, hoping my housemate would hear and let me in. After a minute or so, no help was forthcoming. I dropped the groceries on the porch and left them there to free up a hand and let myself inside.

  What greeted me shocked me far worse than finding a green orphan on my lawn.

  Maurice, a tall, gangly closet monster dressed in black and white checkered pants and a green and yellow paisley shirt, occupied the middle of the living room. Phil, his enormous gargoyle brother-in-law, stood next to him in blue sweats and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Both were going through a divorce, and while Maurice was staying indefinitely, Phil was only with us for a few days.

  Though I was a bit peeved that neither of them heard me banging on the door, I was used to seeing Hidden creatures and accustomed to the unique fashion choices they often made, so their appearance was no cause for concern. People can adjust to almost anything.

  Almost.

  The two stood side-by-side, arms across each other’s shoulders, swaying to the music.

  And singing “My Heart Will Go On” into a microphone.

  I rested the basket on the back of the couch with one hand keeping it steady. I cleared my throat, but the songbirds didn’t notice me standing four feet away.

  Maurice’s voice, being higher, carried the loudest.
“Near, far, wherever you are…” His left arm waved around in the air for emphasis, the mic traveling with it.

  Phil’s voice was lower and sounded like chewed-up gravel. Worse, gargoyles—or at least Phil, I wasn’t sure if he was representative of his whole species—didn’t speak in any kind of sentences I could understand. Sure, it was English, but the words and sentences he used to convey his thoughts had nothing to do with any kind of meaning the rest of us had agreed on.

  He moved back and forth with Maurice, pumping his fist into the air. “Yawn, stew, forget my old shoe…”

  I glanced down at the baby and shrugged. “At least it rhymed.”

  The infant blew a rainbow-colored spit bubble at me and burped.

  The music faded away, and the boys patted each other on the back in congratulations—of what, I’m not sure.

  I cleared my throat again. “Guys? Where the hell did the karaoke machine come from?”

  Finally, they noticed me standing there.

  “Zoey’s home!” Maurice said. “Phil, find us a song Zoey can sing with us.”

  Phil grabbed a book that was dwarfed in his big hands. He had difficulty flipping the pages with his thick, granite fingers.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “There’s not enough alcohol in the house for me to even consider it.”

  Maurice’s grin faded. “Not even a ballad?”

  “Not even a Disney song will get me to sing karaoke.”

  Phil held up the book, pointing to a song title. “Naked Sand Castles?”

  I frowned and looked at Maurice for a translation, but no translation came. Maurice’s enormous yellow eyes were wide and fixated on the basket in front of me.

  “Zo?” His hand came up in slow motion, pointing. “What’s that?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” I picked up the basket and shoved it at him. “It’s green.”

  Behind him, Phil laughed. It was a grinding sound, like a handful of rocks rubbing together. A few seconds later, he started the music again. The words to “Defying Gravity” from Wicked skittered across the television screen.

  Maurice snorted and leaned over to give Phil a high five. “Good one, dude.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can you focus, please? Somebody abandoned a baby in our yard, and I don’t even know what flavor it is.”

  The monster from my childhood closet plopped the basket onto my coffee table. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He pushed away the blankets and lifted the baby. It cooed at him, and he pulled it close, rubbing noses and cooing back.

  Phil came over to examine it, too. He poked the infant in the belly with a fat finger, and the baby laughed. “Garden apples are jogging away.”

  Maurice nodded. “I know. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

  “She?” I craned my neck to see what he was doing. He’d unwrapped her down to the makeshift diaper made from a dishtowel and clothespins and was rearranging the material after peeking inside for a gender check.

  Freed of all constraints, her little legs kicked and stretched. They were covered with a fine down of silky green. Maurice brushed her dark hair back from her forehead and found two tiny bumps.

  “Uh oh,” he said.

  “Uh oh? I don’t want to hear uh oh. What’s wrong?”

  He frowned. “I think I know why she’s here instead of with her mama and daddy.”

  Aside from the odd coloring, hairy legs, and nubs on her head, she looked perfectly normal and healthy to me. Not that I knew much about babies, monster or otherwise. “Problem?”

  He re-wrapped her blanket and cradled her against his shoulder. “She’s, um…” He covered her ear with one hand, as if she could understand him, then spoke in a whisper. “She’s a crossbreed.”

  I shrugged. “Why is that a problem? The Hidden don’t strike me as particularly prejudiced. You married a gargoyle.”

  He winced. “That didn’t go over so well with Pansy’s family, but it really wasn’t a big deal. This, though. This is a big deal. From what I can tell, she’s half dryad and half satyr. Dryads and satyrs hate each other. I can’t even imagine how this little one is possible.”

  Nothing was ever simple. “So what do we do?”

  “Check the basket. Is there a note or anything?”

  I sifted through the extra blankets. “Nothing.” The bottom of the basket didn’t reveal any secrets either. “So, what exactly does that make her? A tree goat? A fawn vine? Drytyr? Sataid? Why wouldn’t her parents want to keep her?” I touched the soft hair on the back of her head. “She’s beautiful, in a weird, freaky sort of way.”

  Maurice sat down on the couch and laid the baby across his legs. “It’s complicated. Her daddy must be a satyr. Satyrs are nasty little pervs, always male, and totally obsessed with their dicks. The closest troupe is up on Mount Tam. There’s a clan of maenads on the other side of the mountain. When the wild women want a baby, they get one from the satyrs. Satyrs don’t generally care, as long as they get laid.”

  “Okay. So a goat-man had a good time. What about the mother?”

  “Dryads mate with other dryads in arranged parings. The children stay with the mothers, and the fathers go off somewhere to sleep for a few decades. The females stay active through most of the year, but they don’t ever mate outside their pairing.”

  “Until now. Somebody had a fling and now nobody wants this little one.” I sat in the overstuffed chair across from Maurice and tried to think what to do next.

  Phil shut off the karaoke machine and sat next to Maurice, holding his hands out. “Artichoke is the best way to heat up a casserole,” he said.

  “Sure, Phil.” He passed the baby over.

  I scrubbed at my face and groaned. “My mom was good at dealing with stuff like this. She found you a new home when you were a kid, right? So, how do we do that?”

  “Beats me. I’ll talk to my foster parents and find out how it works.”

  “Good. Yeah.” I frowned, thinking. “How do I find her parents?”

  Both men stared at me and spoke at the same time.

  “How is a mushroom like a fiesta?” Phil asked.

  “Why would you do that?” Maurice asked.

  I stood up. “Because if the Hidden want me to act like a supernatural social worker, I’m going to do the job right. I’m not handing over a baby to strangers until I’m sure the birth parents really don’t want her.”

  They glanced at each other and shifted in their seats. Maurice ran his hand through the sparse hair on his head. “Did I not mention what total pervs the satyrs are? Start with the mom, at least.”

  “Fair enough. I’d rather not deal with horny goat-men if I can help it.”

  Phil lifted the baby from his lap and held her at arm’s length. “There’s never enough lip balm when you need it.”

  Even I could understand what he was saying based on the wet spot on his shirt and the dripping dishtowel drooping from the baby’s butt.

  “Looks like I better go back to the store,” I said. “We’re going to need some supplies. Somebody grab the stuff on the porch while I’m gone?”

  ~*~

  By the time I got back, Maurice was cowering in the kitchen, and Phil was rocking the screaming baby, his eyes wide and distressed.

  “I have a hankering for an alligator and a trampoline,” he said. Of all the bizarre things that had come out of his mouth so far, this made the most sense, in a crazy, desperate way.

  Maurice darted out of the kitchen and grabbed the bags from my arms. A second later, Phil shoved the wailing baby at me.

  I held her with stiff arms, not sure what to do. I was an only child, and since we lived in a more or less isolated area, I hadn’t babysat as a teenager. I liked kids. Molly’s were great. But babies were a mystery.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I shifted her to a better position and the question answered itself all down my arm. I made a face. “Okay. Got it. Dishtowels aren’t nearly as absorbent as diapers.” They’d replaced the towel she’d arrived in
with a fresh one from my linen closet. So much for that towel.

  Maurice rummaged through my purchases and set up a spot on the floor. I pinched off the clothespins and slid the soggy towel away, dangling it in midair. Maurice, always at the ready for any situation, scooped it into a plastic bag and ran from the house with it held aloft, as if it were a hand grenade with the pin removed.

  The baby continued to cry. The sound tore through my head and made it difficult to focus on the task at hand.

  I surveyed the array of products spread on the floor around me. I’d bought everything that looked useful, with only a vague idea of what to do with them—wipes, rash cream, powder, oil, lotion. Logically, I knew if I put them all together, they would make mud. That couldn’t be right.

  I pulled a diaper from the pack and fanned her butt with it in an effort to create a dry surface to work with. Sweat trickled down my neck.

  Next to me, Phil gave a low rumble of laughter. I looked up at him, annoyed. “You think you could do better?”

  He grinned and nudged me over, squatting his bulk on the floor. “Never swallow a burrito whole,” he said. “The mongoose wins by a landslide.”

  The words made no sense in any possible context, but judging by their inflection and the twinkle in his eye, he was making fun of me. Apparently, Phil had kids of his own. I hadn’t thought to ask.

  “Fine. Show me how it’s done, then.”

  He took me through all the steps, and I assisted, since his big, stony fingers couldn’t manage things like opening the container of wipes or pulling the tabs on the diaper. But he managed to get her dry and securely covered up before Maurice returned from his trip to the garbage can. I thought I could probably manage on my own the next time.

  The baby was still fussy and made tiny whimpering noises of distress, but she wasn’t screaming anymore. Phil had saved the day.

  Maurice paused a second on his way through, then flew into the kitchen to scrub his hands. He reappeared a few minutes later with a bottle of formula.

  “Hope this works,” he said.

  I snatched up the bottle and offered it to her. “Why wouldn’t it work? Did I get the wrong stuff?”