Laura gritted her teeth and squeezed out the opening notes of the chicken dance.
‘‘Look at the cake,’’ Al said.
It was a typical wedding cake. Three layers, frosted in white with lavender flowers and green curlicues. The top layer balanced on clear plastic pillars. A miniature bride and groom stood in the center of a plastic heart decorated with lavender ribbon.
Al whistled, and the tiny groom tumbled backward. His head and shoulders vanished. The cake topper was the gateway.
‘‘But it’s so small,’’ Laura said.
‘‘A gateway needs a frame. And a soul will fit through the eye of a needle, if you yank it hard enough. Keep playing!’’
Laura picked up the tempo. Already a handful of children had run onto the dance floor, flapping their arms and laughing. Others moved to join them, compelled by Laura’s music. A teenager snarled and ran toward them. He made it halfway across the room before he stumbled. His hands began to clap like a beak. An older couple tried to flee, but the chicken dance drew them back.
‘‘Make for the cake,’’ Al said.
Laura walked through the crowd. More and more of the possessed guests tried to reach her, but her music stopped them all. She and Al were an island of safety in a sea of dancing chickens.
The only one unaffected was Michelle. ‘‘She’s absorbed a good deal of your music,’’ Al said. ‘‘It gives her a bit of immunity.’’
Michelle reached out and tore several chunks from the wedding cake, which she stuffed into the bride’s ears. She did the same with the closest bridesmaid, who immediately grabbed a long, ribbon-bedecked cake knife and advanced.
‘‘Don’t stop playing,’’ Al said. He drew his flute and gripped it with both hands.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ Laura asked. ‘‘You can’t—’’
Al swung the flute like a baseball bat, smacking the bridesmaid in the knee. She howled and fell in a cloud of purple satin and chiffon. Al grinned at Laura. ‘‘Never underestimate the power of a dwarven battle flute.’’
A plate shattered on Al’s head. He staggered and shook his head. Bits of broken china fell like snow-flakes.
The bride picked up another plate. Without thinking, Laura worked the final measure of ‘‘Pop Goes the Weasel’’ into her song. The plate exploded in the bride’s hand.
Sweat trickled down Laura’s face as she increased both the tempo and the volume. Already several of the guests had collapsed from exhaustion, but the shadow-spirits still floated above them, flapping their spectral arms to the music. The bride began to tremble, fighting the urge. She reached for another plate, and again Laura destroyed it. The bride turned away and tried to stuff more cake into her ears.
‘‘That might work against him,’’ Laura said, gesturing toward Al. ‘‘The flute you hear with your ears. The accordion you feel in your bones.’’
And then Michelle smiled. ‘‘So much power,’’ she said. ‘‘But haven’t you learned anything from your mistakes?’’
Laura ignored her. Michelle was trying to distract her, to get her to stop playing. Another few steps and she would be at the portal. She could hear the portal now, a chorus of accordions and flutes, woven around a single repeating melody. Over and over it played, a single track on an infinite loop.
Michelle clapped her hands. The injured bridesmaid pulled herself up long enough to throw her knife. Propelled by magic, it flew like an arrow from a bow. The blade sank into the bellows of her accordion. Laura could barely breathe. It was as if the knife had pierced her own lungs.
‘‘All that power you’ve summoned, mine for the taking,’’ Michelle said. ‘‘A wedding feast indeed.’’
‘‘Keep playing,’’ said Al. Blood dripped down his face.
Laura squeezed the accordion, which made a sound like a dying animal. Air wheezed out of the bellows. She could barely get enough air to produce a single note. The wedding guests began to shake off the effects of her magic.
Al hummed. It was an odd melody that danced through several keys, almost at random. Slowly, the music settled into a regular tune, then grew simpler, coming back to a simple C. He hummed it again and again, bringing chaos into order.
The torn material of her bellows tightened and sealed itself around the knife.
‘‘Finish it,’’ Al said, then went back to humming.
Laura played. The guests might have thrown off the chicken dance, but she could do better. Never taking her eyes from Michelle, Laura began to play the ‘‘Macarena.’’
Al kept humming as he walked beneath the table and whacked the legs with his flute. He dove away as the table collapsed.
Michelle barely managed to seize the topper before the cake toppled onto the bride. Michelle extended her other hand, fingers spread. Smoke rose from her palm. ‘‘You’re not strong enough to stop me.’’
Flames leaped out, but Laura only smiled. She could hear the music behind the fire. Her music. It swirled through the room, filling her with giddiness. Even the fire danced to her song, turning and leaping to the addictive beat of the ‘‘Macarena.’’
Laura’s hands blazed across the keys, and she saw fear in Michelle’s eyes. It was time to end this, to reclaim her music and her power. One final song to send these spirits home and seal the portal behind them.
She played a bridge, transitioning to yet another tune. Michelle’s eyes widened.
Music pounded through Laura’s blood. She winked at Al, then stepped around the table, backing Michelle into a corner. ‘‘Let’s polka.’’
Laura sat at one of the few undisturbed tables, watching Al mingle through the crowd. She wondered if anyone else could hear the humming. She knew nobody else could feel the way his music reached out, nudging memories and pushing them to believe his half-assed story about a chemical reaction in the insulation and hallucinatory gases seeping into the room.
Eventually, he made his way back to her. He had picked up a bit of wedding cake . . . not a slice so much as a lump. ‘‘Not bad for a first timer,’’ he said.
Laura ran her fingers over the hole in her accordion. This would likely need more than a patch job. The entire bellows would need to be replaced. She didn’t have the money. Heck, she was more than an hour late for work. She’d be lucky if she still had a job.
‘‘Is this normal for you people?’’ She waved one hand, encompassing the chaos of the ballroom.
‘‘ ‘You people?’ ’’ Al repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Laura flushed. ‘‘Bards, I mean.’’
‘‘I know. Girl, if you don’t know what you are after all this . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Magic or no magic, anyone who can make music with that overgrown mutation of an instrument—’’
‘‘Hey.’’ Laura winced and lowered her voice. ‘‘Look, I’m sorry I helped Michelle conjure up her puppeteers. I’m sorry you got beat up by a bunch of pizza boxes.’’
‘‘And a pizza cutter!’’
‘‘I’m sorry you can’t play the flute again until your hands heal. But if you keep insulting my accordion, I’m going to take that flute and put it somewhere you’ll never play it again.’’
Al chuckled and ate a bite of cake. ‘‘You’re a bard all right. And to answer your question . . . it’s a lot more normal than we’d like.’’
‘‘Fine.’’ Laura stood up. ‘‘Then I need you to hum for me. And I need to borrow this.’’ She plucked the hat from his head.
Al looked surprised, but he did as she asked. Laura smiled as the torn bellows struggled to seal itself.
‘‘Ladies and gentlemen,’’ Laura said. ‘‘In all the commotion, Julie and Roger never got to share their first dance as a married couple.’’
She made a sad face and played a quick, mournful stanza, which drew a few chuckles. ‘‘Fortunately, I have a solution.’’ She set Al’s hat on the table, then played the opening notes of ‘‘It Had to be You.’’
Neither Julie nor Roger looked ready to dance, but Laura put an
extra push into her music. Slowly, Roger took Julie’s hand, leading his cake-covered bride onto the dance floor. The guests began to applaud.
Laura glared at Al, then jerked her head at the hat. ‘‘You owe me for that window.’’
Al shook his head, but he pulled out his wallet and tossed a fifty into the hat. Laura played a quick flourish, and he added another fifty.
‘‘Hey,’’ he said, reaching in to retrieve the second bill.
‘‘Don’t stop humming! Don’t you know what happens when a bard interrupts his magic?’’ She grinned. ‘‘I won’t make anyone else tip me if they don’t want to. But if this stuff is going to keep happening, I need to save a little something for accordion repairs.’’
Al rolled his eyes, but he made no further move to retrieve the money. He wandered on to the dance floor, still humming as he held out one hand and invited a limping bridesmaid to dance.
Lauren smiled and kept on playing.
Narrator: Ah, the power of music. The next time you start humming to an old tune, or find yourself unable to resist moving to dance? Be careful it’s not a misspell taking charge.
JIM C. HINES began writing more than a decade ago, but he tries not to think about that. He is the author of three humorous fantasy novels, Goblin Quest, Goblin Hero, and Goblin War, all from DAW Books. He has also published thirty-plus short stories in various magazines and anthologies. Jim lives in Michigan with his wife and children, all of whom have been amazingly supportive and tolerant of his writing career. He has never been all that fond of writing author bios, so he asked his children to help finish this one. From his six-year-old daughter: ‘‘Daddy likes Snoopy, and I just lost a tooth.’’ From his one-year -old son: ‘‘,po ;l[;=]pl,8yu8 thh bbbbbbbbb V$# v Ecv."
Yours for Only $19.99
Shannan Palma
Narrator: Meet Brandie Myers. She’ll tell you everything that’s wrong with her life. It’s tough being a teenager—the endless decisions and responsibilities, without any power. It’s so not fair. All Brandie wants is a little control over her own destiny. Bad idea, you think? She’s not listening.
The package arrived late Thursday afternoon, the return address blurred where the ink had gotten wet somewhere along the way. I ran down the stairs when I heard the doorbell ring, beating my little brother by only a second.
‘‘Hi,’’ I said, a little breathless as I answered the door. I only had the door open about halfway, and Elliot tried to get past me by ducking under my outstretched arm. I let go of the door to shove his head back and then grabbed it again before it swung wide. The UPS guy snickered. I rolled my eyes. I’d bet good money he was somebody’s little brother.
‘‘I have a package for Brandie Myers,’’ he said, holding out his electronic signature pad.
‘‘That’s me,’’ I said, and gave up the struggle to keep boy and door under control in favor of signing the pad.
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, as I handed the pad back and reached for the package. Elliott grabbed it first and ran back into the house.
The deliveryman shrugged, lips twitching. Boys, I thought, shutting the door in his face to go after the brat.
Fifteen minutes and two dollars in ice-cream truck money later, I shut myself in my bedroom with my prize. The room didn’t look like it belonged to a seventeen-year-old girl, at least not like it belonged to the other seventeen-year-olds I knew. I thought of the differences as my own good taste. There were no posters or knickknacks, just books upon books covering every available surface. The only clear spot in the room was the four-poster double bed, and half of that was piled high with clean laundry I had yet to put away.
I locked the bedroom door and climbed over piles to sit on the bed, ripping at the package as I went.
The box was about a square foot across and three inches deep. Inside there was an envelope, a booklet, and a candle. I couldn’t help grinning as I flipped open the booklet.
Congratulations on your purchase of a New and Improved Fairy Tale Life! Yours for only $19.99, this deluxe package includes this complete instructional booklet, the spell of your dreams, and our patented spell-delivery system capable of making your wildest fantasies come true!
I put down the booklet and picked up the envelope. Inside was a computer-generated bubble form, like the ones we always had to fill out at school. I scanned the questions for a second, then put it down and navigated my way to the window to grab a number two pencil from my book-buried desk. I grabbed a book at random to write against and returned to my seat on the bed.
The first couple of questions were pretty obvious: name and address, shoe and ball-gown sizes; then it was a series of yes or no questions. Is your mother alive? Do you have any stepparents?
WARNING: If you have a living mother or step-parent, please call our Customer Service Department at 1-800-HRAFTER before casting spell.
My mother died when I was ten, Elliott’s current age, come to think of it, and Dad had yet to remarry, so I skipped past the rest of the warnings and went down to the next section.
SELECT the fairy tale you would most like to experience.
I chewed on my pencil, scanning the choices, then filled in the circles next to ‘‘Cinderella’’ and ‘‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’’ I had seen the Disney cartoons of both when I was little and had a vague memory of singing and handsome princes. Plus, both the villains had been stepmothers and I didn’t have any steps, so there was no downside.
I flipped through the booklet to the section on the ‘‘patented spell-delivery system.’’ I read the instructions doubtfully, wondering for the first time if maybe I was being scammed.
Too late now if I was. I’d already paid for it, anyway, so I might as well finish. I was pretty sure there were no refunds on mail-order spells.
I opened the bedroom door carefully, looking from side to side in case Elliott was waiting to ambush me— he liked to hide behind doors and jump out screaming bloody murder—but the coast was clear. He wasn’t back from the ice-cream truck yet. I took the form and the candle with me across the hall into my bathroom, then lit the candle over the sink and held the form over the flame. The paper combusted, but it didn’t smoke. It was gone in a flash.
I waited for a couple of minutes, but that was it.
‘‘That was anticlimactic,’’ I said. I didn’t even feel any different. I put the lid down on the toilet and sat down, hugging my knees to my chest. It had been a stupid idea anyway.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. I leaned over and unlocked it to let Elliott in, then returned to my seat.
‘‘So what was in the package?’’ he asked, smears of chocolate darkening the sides of his mouth.
‘‘Come here,’’ I said, and dampened a wash cloth in the sink to wipe off his face. ‘‘It was a stupid mail-order thing I saw on TV. Just a scam, though. It didn’t work.’’
‘‘You were sure excited about it.’’
‘‘Yeah, well, I’m not anymore.’’
‘‘What was it supposed to do?’’ he asked.
‘‘Don’t laugh,’’ I said.
He sat down on the side of the tub and looked at me with solemn brown eyes. ‘‘I won’t,’’ he said.
He was pretty cool when he wasn’t being a brat, so I told him.
‘‘It was supposed to give me a fairy tale life.’’
‘‘Why’d you want one of those? Do you want dresses or something?’’
‘‘Not really,’’ I said. ‘‘I thought it’d be nice to have the decisions all premade, and happily ever after guaranteed.’’
Elliott nodded, not understanding, but supportive nonetheless. ‘‘Brandie?’’ he said.
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘Why do you think it didn’t work?’’
‘‘Because I’m still not sure which college I want to go to or if I want to say yes and go with Peter to the prom.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ he said.
‘‘Yeah,’’ I said.
‘‘Brandie?�
��’
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘Peter’s a doofus.’’
‘‘I know.’’
We sat in silence.
‘‘Brandie?’’
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘What’s for dinner?’’
So much for fairy tales. I held out my hand, and Elliott pulled me up.
‘‘Let’s go see.’’
I pulled my car in the driveway the next afternoon a full hour before Elliott’s bus was due to arrive. There was a moving van parked in the street in front of our house.
‘‘Aunt Mags?’’ I called, as my dad’s sister strode past carrying a box into the house. She turned her platinum blonde head and glowered at the car.
‘‘About time you got home,’’ Mags said. ‘‘Don’t just sit there, get out of the car and help me.’’
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ I asked, scrambling out of the car and hurrying over to give her a hand.
‘‘What does it look like? We’re moving in.’’
‘‘We?’’
‘‘Us, too.’’ Daphne and Dru, Mags’ daughters, met us in the foyer.
‘‘Mom,’’ said Dru, ‘‘now that Brandie’s here, can we go to the movies?’’
‘‘Sure, dears. Brandie, don’t just stand there, go get a box out of the van and bring it in.’’
‘‘What do you mean you’re moving in?’’ I asked, still stuck on what seemed to be a very important point.
‘‘Your father needs help taking care of Elliott, and with you going off to college soon, he asked the girls and me to move in and lend a hand.’’
‘‘He didn’t say anything to me.’’
‘‘Well, he called me last night,’’ Mags said. ‘‘I’m sure he was planning to tell you eventually.’’
‘‘Last night?’’ I asked, bewildered. Dad hadn’t even gotten home until after Elliott was in bed.
‘‘Boxes, Brandie. Work while you whine, please.’’
An engine started as I walked back out to the moving van. It took me a moment to realize that Daphne and Dru were pulling out in my car.
‘‘Hey!’’ I shouted, but the girls waved and kept moving. I patted my pockets in alarm and realized I’d left the keys in the ignition.
Misspelled Page 27