Must Love Magic

by Erica Ridley

Mama thumped him on the chest. “She did everything they asked, sweetie. There’s no harm done in waiting until morning.”

  “I guess.” With a last doubtful look at Daisy, he looped his arm around Mama’s shoulders. “After all, all she had to do was drop off the teeth and erase his memory.”

  With a strangled, sucking sound, Daisy jerked backward, a thousand daggers slicing into her heart. The ForgetMe orb. How could she have forgotten the stupid ForgetMe orb? And no way could she report in to the Elders without fully completing the mission. Not when she’d forgotten to make Trevor forget. What if they made her testify under the influence of a truth spell? She couldn’t take that risk.

  She struggled to keep her growing horror from showing on her face.

  If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, she wouldn’t have to go back tonight and finish it once and for all. Well, she’d be smarter this time. No sticking around for tree sex and a broken heart. Hello, forget me, goodbye. Easy. Her throat convulsed.

  He’d never know what hit him. Literally.

  Trevor tore through his briefcase in growing disbelief. Although Daisy had painstakingly translated 12th century documents from Scots Gaelic to modern English, he was no closer to definitive proof after all. The text turned out to be some boring shipping inventory, not a convenient mini-biography conclusively tying Angus to Trevor’s dig.

  If only Daisy were still here to bounce ideas off of. The best magic she performed took place right between her ears. Him, on the other hand… He was great digging up ancient history in the field and unearthing clues in his lab, but embarrassingly inept when it came to dealing with real live people.

  He’d tried calling the Museum of Tokyo. Daisy was right; the archivists did speak English as fluently as Japanese. Nonetheless, they’d already divulged everything they knew. So he’d tried the Costa Rican museums, and then the banks and businesses local to Nuevo Arenal, where bits and pieces of artifacts graced glass-covered lobby shelves. He’d muddled through with his toddler-level Spanish before giving up and heading to Starbucks for caffeinated comfort.

  Facility with languages. Now, there was a real skill. Something practical. Something to be proud of. Wings, on the other hand…

  Wings were like eyebrow piercings. Something interesting to look at, but otherwise useless. And as lovely as she was to look at—with or without wings—her true worth was a lot more than that. He already missed her more than he would have ever dreamed.

  But he was a big boy. He’d get over her. Any minute now.

  Chapter 19

  With a final ratio of 4:5 (four successful non-pumpkin spells to every five failures), Daisy took a break from wand manufacturing and decided to deal with her troubles.

  She wasn’t procrastinating a re-visit with Trevor. Not at all. She was simply honoring the Elders’ rule regarding tooth fairy teleportation without cover of night. A quarter ’til ten in the middle of the morning hardly counted as night. Technically, the injunction only applied to on-duty travel, but hey. Better safe than sorry. Besides, she had a bone to pick with Vivian Valdemeer.

  Bicuspid, to be exact.

  Daisy was tired of playing the naïve, trusting ingénue—or rather, being played as such by her glamorous mentor. Was the Angus age discrepancy nothing more than a typo? Maybe. Was the Himalayan Lust Charm really the result of mixed-up charm bags? Maybe. How about sending a novice apprentice out to fetch a cold dead tooth from a live, adult anthropologist? Maybe, as in, maybe Vivian wasn’t as benevolent as she pretended.

  Maybe she was out to get her.

  Okay, maybe Daisy was edging toward paranoid, but Vivian certainly wasn’t offering the caliber of conscientious support one might expect from the highest ranking tooth fairy in Nether-Netherland.

  Daisy brought Bubbles from her shoulder to her lips. “My office.”

  They materialized inside the dark and deserted Tooth Fairy Regional Headquarters, a few feet from the swirling reflective surface of the Mortal Locator.

  “Location Request Logs,” she commanded the swirling surface. And then, “View Request History.”

  A list of Costa Rican addresses scrolled down the screen, many sans street addresses in true campo style: 2 km east of the gymnasio central, 1 km north of the post office, 100 meters west of the bank. But wait—what was that one? She doubted Nuevo Arenal had a 555 Briarwood Ct. According to the logs, that particular address had been viewed twice. Once during the infamous debacle when she’d set off the alarm on the Tooth Fairy Transporter. And another view request… yesterday.

  At that time, Daisy had been with Trevor—er, with-with Trevor, as a matter of fact—so there was no way she could be responsible for the location request. And only one other person worked in this particular regional office: Vivian. Had her mentor been spying while she and Trevor were…

  Ew. Creepy.

  “Bubbles,” Daisy said, her anger rising. “Let’s go see Vivian.”

  “Yikes,” her mentor choked out when they materialized in front of her magical workbench. “Your hair looks terrible.”

  “How kind of you to point it out. Unfortunately, I didn’t come here to discuss my issues with humidity.”

  “No?” Vivian slid a mystery pouch into her pocket and then used both hands to stir her cauldron. “Maybe you should’ve. I assume you’re ready to go back to work?”

  Daisy’s nostrils flared. “I wouldn’t assume anything. I’ve got some questions first.”

  “Oh?” Vivian arched a perfectly-tweezed eyebrow. “Does that mean you no longer wish to pursue earning your wings?”

  “Of course not. You know as well as I do that I—” Daisy swallowed, the full impact of the subtle threat catching her off-guard.

  The only person facilitating her one shot at making tooth fairy was the over-tweezed, big-haired diva who might or might not be sabotaging her protégé.

  If she spouted off a litany of unproven accusations, Daisy would never, ever see the day when beautiful gossamer wings graced her back. Even if she managed to determine Vivian absolutely had it out for her, so what? Nobody but Daisy would even care. And there weren’t any other apprenticeship opportunities on the horizon.

  On the other hand, if she allowed herself to be thrown off-track, she wouldn’t earn her wings anyway. Or keep her self-respect.

  “What about ‘little Angus’?” she made herself ask. “He’s dead.”

  Bored, Vivian turned back to the cauldron. “Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not!” Daisy stumbled backward as sudden steam fogged up her glasses. “He was dead when I got there.”

  “Well, thank Osiris for that. A tooth fairy’s liability on that sort of workplace accident is horrendous.”

  Daisy’s fingers clenched. “He died nine hundred odd years ago. As an adult.”

  Vivian licked the edge of the big wooden ladle. “And?”

  “And, the dossier you gave me clearly said ‘Age 8’. Not twenty-eight or thirty-eight or forty-eight. Just plain old eight. Or rather, plain young eight.”

  “Well, there you have it. I must’ve missed one of the keys when typing it in.” Vivian looked Daisy straight in the eye, one eyebrow still arched and both corners of her lips bent slightly upward.

  If Daisy didn’t know better, she’d suspect that not only was Vivian lying, but also that Vivian knew Daisy knew Vivian was lying and that Vivian further knew that Daisy couldn’t do a single thing about it.

  Not if she wanted her wings.

  Stuck at his desk while eighty students bubbled in answers on Scantron sheets, Trevor clicked through his dig photos for quite possibly the millionth time. So far, the only thing linking the partial skeleton to the legendary explorer was the word of the most unreliable source in the history of paleo-anthropological research papers: a half-magic, no-longer-on-this-planet, pixie-powered dentition spectrometer.

  What did he plan on publishing, an article called, “The Tooth Fairy Told Me So?”

  Damn it. There had to be a way. If one assumed that t
he captain in question was Angus the Explorer who did in fact sail off for parts unknown, never to be heard from again, then the scanned documents suggested he didn’t sail off empty-handed.

  He searched his briefcase for the translated vendor shipping list. Three entire pages of stoneware for barter.

  Stoneware. Pottery.

  Beautiful pieces, the seller’s document claimed, gorgeous designs, hand-fired with the company crest, exquisite to behold, perfect for every household. Inherent beauty, stunning glazes, and utter perfection were examples of obsequious marketing claptrap, but company crest… company crest was visible. Tangible. Factual.

  Proof.

  If even one of the shards his team unearthed contained a matching pattern after all these years… A shiver raced up his spine. Holy shit—it could be true! But how could he get ahold of an antique Scottish company crest?

  As soon as class was over, he pushed back from his desk and made his way to Dr. Papadopoulos’s office. It would be foolish to make promises he wasn’t yet sure would pan out, but it would be equally foolish to let her think he wasn’t working as hard as possible to keep his position at the university.

  Luckily, she was at her desk and motioned him in. “Good afternoon, Dr. Masterson. I’m glad you stopped by.”

  His excitement ebbed at the ominous tone in her voice. “Always happy to be of service. What’s up?”

  She handed him a stack of papers. “I have begun to receive the usual barrage of letters requesting your return as head coach for the interdepartmental summer baseball league. The math department apparently started a petition, and got the entire College of Arts & Sciences to sign.”

  Flipping through the pile, Trevor grinned as he recognized the names of some of his favorite players. “I would love to continue coaching. I hope my upcoming paper on the results of the recent dig will be received as favorably.”

  He also hoped he’d be able to come up with enough material to actually write it.

  “I certainly hope so. Joshua Berrymellow has presented me with several recent articles on subjects he researches. Will you be presenting us with tear sheets before the end of the semester?”

  He fake-coughed into the back of his hand. “Maybe not a tear sheet per se, but if all goes well I will have something to submit. My current project is very worthy, and very exciting.”

  “Something to submit,” Dr. Papadopoulos repeated. “Here’s the problem, Professor. This university does not award tenure to individuals with… strange flights of fancy. We reward brains and progress.”

  Somehow, he managed to keep from throwing himself upon a sword. “I like to think of myself as a very rational individual, and certainly understand your position. For that reason, I would not wish to rush inconclusive research to publication. Facts must trump fancy. And I do believe I have a significant find at my fingertips. I think you will be very pleased.”

  Before Dr. Papadopoulos could respond, the ringing of her desk phone shattered the silence. She glanced at the Caller ID, gave an apologetic moue, and lifted the receiver.

  Trevor slipped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Now that he’d all but promised results, he absolutely had to deliver. He headed straight to his laboratory. With the grad students off studying for their own final exams, Trevor found himself alone in the lab. Good. He needed to concentrate. He needed to find proof of greatness.

  He focused on the pieces of pottery. He hadn’t reexamined more than a dozen shards of stoneware before a staccato knock rang out against the metal doorjamb and the lab door flung inward. He sighed. At last, his chance to brain Berrymellow with a femur had arrived.

  “I’m busy.”

  Berrymellow’s red head peeked into the lab. “Busy what? Turning people into frogs?”

  “Hilarious.” Trevor gestured around the empty room. “Do you see any frogs in here? Or people? Then get lost.”

  Berrymellow straightened his bolo tie. “I’m a person.”

  “And I would turn you into a frog if I could. Are we done here?”

  “Not quite.” Berrymellow plucked a wrinkled manila file folder from his briefcase and slapped it onto the counter, displacing a cloud of pottery dust.

  Trevor’s stomach sank. “What’s that?”

  His only response was Berrymellow’s high-pitched titter before the ridiculous prat pirouetted on the ball of one foot and dashed out the door.

  Dreading what he might find, Trevor forced himself to open the envelope and pull out the sheaf of papers sequestered within. Another periodical clipping. Of course.

  This treatise was entitled, “Destructive Behaviors Caused by Career Envy in the Workplace: Paleo-Anthropologists in Search of Self.”

  “Goddammit, Berrymellow.”

  He chucked the papers across the room. They floated down like oversized ashes from a burning building. The embers of his career.

  The subtle aroma of vanilla musk wafted into the room, accompanied by a soft, familiar voice. “Am I interrupting?”

  He whirled to face her. “Daisy! I thought you’d left me.”

  Suave, Masterson. He shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t run across the room and hug her to his chest. If he allowed himself to hold her for even a second, he might never let go. It had been hard enough the first time. Besides, he needed to focus on his career, not his love life. And he was never going to be able to do that if he let himself be distracted by how good she smelled, or how much he wished things might have been different.

  A faint blush tinged the apples of her cheeks. She looked even more gorgeous than usual. “I thought you didn’t want me here.”

  “I have never stopped wanting you. But even so, you can’t pop in and out at the drop of a hat.” He stepped closer, wishing she hadn’t caught him hurling printouts into the air. “I’m already walking that fine line between professor and panhandler. My competition just published again, this time with a thinly disguised treatise discussing my many faults, and my boss is afraid I suffer ‘strange flights of fancy.’” He took a deep breath of Daisy-scented air and hoped she couldn’t tell how much her appearance affected him. Or that he wished there was some way she could stay. “None of that has anything to do with you, of course. Between Vivian and the Pearly States, you’ve got plenty of trouble of your own.”

  “I know. The problem is you remembering that.”

  “What do you—oh.” His stomachache returned full force. “You forgot to make me forget you.”

  “I remember now.” She opened her handbag.

  “Great.”

  It wasn’t great. It was much less than great. He’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to remember, and he was no longer sure he wanted to forget. No, he knew he didn’t want to forget. If he couldn’t have her, at least she could leave him with his memories.

  In seconds, he would no longer remember the warmth of her skin, the taste of her kisses, the scent of her hair. He would no longer remember their trip to the tooth fountain, the simple joy of sharing morning coffee, the way she breathed when she fell asleep on his chest. He would no longer remember his new appreciation for the trees behind his house, the way she nibbled her pen while translating documents, or how empty his house seemed without her.

  “You’ll move on as if I never existed. And when my mother performs the same spell on me, so will I.”

  He so did not want her moving on. A deadly mix of anger and jealousy combusted in his veins, rocketing Trevor from his stance lounging against the counter to a position a mere millimeter from her face, his feet on either side of hers and his hands buried in her hair.

  “You can’t forget me,” said a hoarse, desperate voice that sounded suspiciously like his own. “I won’t let you.”

  And then his mouth was on hers and the world disappeared. The only things that existed were him and Daisy, Daisy and him. Her lips, his tongue. His hands, her hair. His pulse. Her scent. Her taste. His ragged breath. Her soft whimper.

  “What if it wasn’t illegal?” he found himsel
f asking her between kisses. “What if there was some way we could be together without you getting into any trouble? Would you come back?”

  He crushed her to him for another kiss, but she pushed him away with a simple broken, “No.” The word was almost too soft to hear, and yet drained his heart of blood and his brain of sanity.

  “Why?” he asked, hating how his voice cracked like a teenager’s. “If your Elders said you could, couldn’t you give up fairying just for a little while, and stay here with me? We’ve got—” He broke off before he said something stupid. What did they have? Something “special”? A “connection”? Luuuv? “—chemistry,” he finished, grimacing at how lame he sounded.

  “True,” she said, her voice low and her eyes downcast as if she could no longer bear to see him. “But chemistry won’t earn wings.”

  “Who cares about wings?”

  “I care. They mean success. They mean acceptance. They mean respect.” Her eyes flew open. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I understand the importance of respect. I’m killing myself here, trying to earn tenure.”

  “Exactly. And it’s exactly why this can’t work. A paleo-anthropologist, trying to earn tenure. An apprentice tooth fairy, trying to earn wings. Two different worlds.” She gazed up at him, her eyes sad. “If the Elders said you could, would you give up all this and move to Nether-Netherland? Just for a little while?”

  He tried to stifle his instinctive hell, no expression, but it was too late.

  “So you do understand.” She tugged her hand from the pouch. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”

  “No.” He reached for her again, but she already had a round black mass of god-knew-what shoved in front of his face.

  She hadn’t given him a chance to respond. To defend himself. To fight for her. She didn’t want him to have a chance. For anything.

  “Forget,” she intoned, the words a low, seductive chant. “Forget, forget, forget. Forget Nether-Netherland. And forget… me. Forget everything about me.” Her voice broke. “Please.”