Onward, Drake! - eARC

by Mark L. Van Name

  I smacked the table, and Steven jumped. “Got it. Come on,” I said.

  We paused on the way out to remove the squashed fairy from under the crate. When I was a child, I had that cute squashed fairy book (since removed from the shelves for diplomatic reasons, as the author is considered a mass-murderer and snuff-film maker in fairyland). I can tell you that the mess underneath the crate was nothing like those pictures of mashed fairies. A lot more red glitter that I assumed was blood, and a lot less flesh. It wasn’t gory, but it was definitely messy. I reached under and picked his green breeches and tunic—breeches and tunic, never thought I’d say those words outside the SCA as an adult—from the glittery mess and shook it out. Steven fetched a broom and we swept up the glitter and wing fragments and tossed them into the Dumpster outside.

  “This feels really wrong,” he said, brushing glitter from his hands and wincing.

  “You should have thought of that before you squashed the poor bastard,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  In the car I told him my plan. “See, they don’t know each other, HRH has never met her fiancé. If we can find another fairy to take his place, we should be fine.”

  Steven stared at me so long I took my eyes off the road and glanced over. “What?”

  “You’re insane,” he said. “You don’t think she would have researched him? You don’t think she knows what he looks like?”

  “Well, actually, no. He hasn’t been in the public eye. I remember HRH saying the other day that she hoped he would be handsome. For all the cameras that are constantly around her, he’s the opposite. We could present anyone to her and she would have to take us at face value.”

  “He’s a brilliant historian,” Steven said weakly, carried helplessly along with my scheme as he was. “He lived through, what, six wars, two of them civil wars? He can recite more ‘begats’ than the Bible has listed. In fact, HRH was telling me it was sad we needed the Bible, because she had a new husband that could keep all that and more in his head. This will not work, Cass.”

  I jammed on the brakes, causing our belts to lock up and my old Honda to shimmy down the road a bit and then groan to a stop on the side of the road. “Fine. The way I see it, our other options are turn yourself in, or run. Which one of those two would you like to do? If it’s the second, I have to get gas.”

  He didn’t answer me, but looked away, out the window at the gray day.

  “All right, then,” I said, and pulled into the parking lot we had screeched to a halt in front of.

  “What’s here?” he asked sullenly.

  “Bar,” I said.

  “It’s eleven thirty,” he protested.

  “It has a lot of third shift patrons,” I explained. “They need a drink in the mornings just like I am going to need one tonight.”

  We stepped inside, pausing to let our eyes adjust to the dim light. A couple of hunched bodies sat at the bar, and a perky white couple sat uncomfortably in a booth. Tourists who picked the wrong lunch joint, I figured.

  I spotted what I needed: the pool table.

  Fairies loved movies, popcorn, and pool. They had a lot of sacred things, putting most of our world religions to shame, and it was hard to keep up with them all. Most pool halls had accepted the traveling fairies, and the seedier joints ended up attracting the seedier fairies. It was not official, but we all knew that more and more often the governments of the fae were exiling their undesirables here. You could call the whole human world Australia for the fairies. I wondered if that made us the native population, and squirmed under that line of thinking. One problem at a time.

  “OK, so we need male, and probably green,” I said, looking over the fairies. The problem with fairies was that even the least desirable of them were a hundred times more beautiful than any human you could find. Even Cillian Murphy, who I am still convinced is half fae, but he won’t admit it to the frequent queries by entertainment reporters.

  The exiles of the fairy world flitted lightly around the pool table, sinking ball after ball. I had no idea why they liked it so much, considering I had never seen a fairy who was bad at pool. It was like me trying to do my niece’s wooden dinosaur puzzle. Sure, dinosaurs are fun, but it got old fast. These pool sharks consisted of two female fairies and three male. Two of the male fairies had greenish coloring, with green wings, hair, and bright kelly green eyes that romance authors always liked to claim were pretty, but turned out to be pretty freaky when you saw them in real life.

  The other three had blue, red, and a pinkish tint to their coloring, and all five of them perked up and watched, interested, as we approached. For most big cities, the novelty of fairies had worn off, and they didn’t get so many interested humans watching them anymore. As long as they paid their bills and didn’t bother anyone, they could stick around. But no bar fights. You didn’t want to get into a bar fight with a fairy.

  When they noticed us, I gave Steven a shove to his lower back. He looked at me, annoyed. “What? This is your idea, you talk to them!”

  “But you’re the one who killed the guy.”

  “I don’t even know half your plan!”

  I sighed audibly and stepped forward. “Greetings, friends,” I said, using the typical greeting one used with fairies in a bar, or at least, what I hoped was typical. “We are working on a local movie and find ourselves in need of—“ I paused, as inspiration hit me. “—a fairy to fill a role. One of you two green friends would be a good fit. Care to come talk to us?”

  “Are you going to ask them why they’re exiled?” Steven whispered to me as the fairies conferred among themselves, looking over their shoulders at us, and then back to the group.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I said. My palms were sweaty.

  “What if we get a murderer?” he asked.

  “Steven, you’re a murderer,” I reminded him. “We can’t be choosy.”

  He recoiled like I had slapped him, but I didn’t take it back. I’d stick by him, I owed him that much, but I wouldn’t sugarcoat why we were here.

  The darker green fairy stepped forward. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, his voice light and golden, if a voice can be defined as golden.

  “Steven, get us some drinks,” I said, and motioned for the fairy to follow me to a booth.

  By the time we were done telling the story, the fairy, who allowed us to call him Yuri, was frowning and staring at Steven, who squirmed under his gaze.

  “I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” he said, his voice downgrading from glorious gold into flat yellow.

  “We know it’s a big deal,” I began, but he held up a long-fingered hand.

  “Big deal doesn’t describe it. You killed one of the greatest historians of our people. Even if I were to successfully pretend to be this woman’s husband, there is no way I could replicate this fairy’s knowledge. You can’t just grab some fairy off the street and expect him to pretend to be a famous historian and husband for the next few decades.” Yuri took a sip of his Zima (which had come back into popularity as soon as fairies showed a preference for it) and shook his head. “Do you even know who I am?”

  I shook my head, as much as I would do to admit this was a horrendous idea, then took a sip of my beer. I glanced at Steven, who looked even more sickly under the pale lights of the bar. “Listen,” I said, leaning forward. “I know you’re an exile, yeah? That’s why you hang out here. They kicked you out of fairyland for whatever reason, we’re not going to ask why, cause clearly we’re not the best representatives of our race, either, but you’re here and you can’t go back, right?”

  His face was stony. “And your point is?”

  “If we pull this off, and you pretend to be this historian and marry the director, you get back into society. Not just your world, but married to a rich and powerful director! You’d be her third husband, and I’m not exactly sure what that means, but at least you wouldn’t be carrying the husband duties by yourself. People would be impressed with you, invite you to places. U
nlimited Zima!” I was getting desperate here, and he could tell.

  He tented his fingers and regarded me. “You. You didn’t kill this fairy. Your pheromones do not show any desire towards this human,” he gestured to Steven, who looked offended, even though my opinion of him was never a secret. “Yet you are dedicated, determined, to help him. I want to know why.”

  It wasn’t a story I liked to tell. I didn’t like admitting weakness and Steven didn’t like reliving the experience. But we were asking a lot from this fairy, and we had gone this far. “Steven saved my life once. We don’t have a ton in common, but I owe him more than I can say. I’m by his side until he doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “A life debt. I didn’t know humans did that,” Yuri said, regarding Steven again. “Do you know what happens if we are caught?”

  I shrugged. “I’m hazy on the details, but Steven will go to fairyland for trial, or whatever you guys call a trial over there. As I’m actively trying to help him cover it up, I expect I’ll go with him. With you, is there something worse than exile? Will you come back here?”

  “There is something worse than exile,” Yuri said. “You people might call it a heavy box.”

  I winced. I didn’t know they did executions. I thought about suggesting to Steven that he could get a job as a fairy executioner, but didn’t think he would find it funny.

  “What else can we do to convince you?” I asked. “We can’t really ask around. We don’t need every bar-hopping fairy exile to know that the director’s historian husband is a fraud. You’re our only hope.”

  He broke into a grin and pointed at me. “Star Wars! I’ve seen it. Wonderful film, but they should have listened to the wookie more.”

  I let that odd comment slide. “Well? Do you think you can pull off faking a historian? And would you want to?”

  “I need something from both of you. I need to know you are willing to pay the price for something this big.” He pointed at Steven’s armband. “You, give me a secret from the person you mourn.”

  Fairies had different views of legal tender than we did. They loved to take things from human minds and souls, but only if offered freely. Some poor fools wanted to prove fairy tales wrong and had given fairies their names. The idiots were now living in fairyland with no sense of who they were, but as I understood it, were very well taken care of. High price to pay, though.

  “How did you know he was in mourning?” I asked, distracted by Steven’s armband again.

  Yuri glanced at me, still pointing at Steven. “I have studied human culture extensively. I know the mourning black sashes. You don’t see them much anymore.”

  I gave a pointed look at Steven, but he didn’t look at me. He stared at the table and traced a dirty word carved into the tabletop. “Gran was poor. She didn’t have much.”

  “Love and memories require no money to create,” Yuri said. “What secrets did she leave you?”

  “Come on, Steven, did she tell you where something was buried, or tell you about a bastard cousin, or an aunt raised to be an uncle, or anything?” I prodded.

  He shook his head, tears rising in his eyes.

  “You are such a liar,” I said. “We need that secret if we’re going to get out of this.”

  “She only left me some recipes,” he whispered. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “That,” Yuri said, leaning forward hungrily. “The recipes. That’s what I want.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Recipes?”

  “They are his most precious memories,” Yuri said, his voice low. “That is all I need. I can almost smell them, they involved . . . eggs?”

  Steven nodded. “Deviled eggs. You . . .” He was obviously searching for the correct words.

  “‘You may have it with my blessing,’” I prompted.

  He nodded and repeated my phrase, closing his eyes and letting the tears fall. Yuri did something odd with his hands in front of Steven’s face, and my friend relaxed.

  “Did you kill him?” I asked as he slumped against me.

  “No, it is a trying process,” Yuri said. “Now you.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I want the story of how he saved your life.”

  Saying Steven had saved me implied some active purpose on his part. He hadn’t lifted a car off of me, or shot a mugger in the back. Steven had just been Steven, that bumbling, awkward guy, in the absolute right place at the right time.

  It was before I had gotten a job at the studio and was washing dishes at a coffee house. A struggling indie one, not one of the ones named after Battlestar Galactica characters or large antlered animals. It was midnight and I was taking the trash out to the back alley, which we shared with a bar next door. I had taken the trash down the five cement steps—no railing, which was a work hazard our boss didn’t care at all about—to the street level when I heard her.

  “Hand over your phone,” she said.

  I turned, and saw the gun. The girl was in a black hoodie, her face concealed by the shadows. “You’re really holding me at gunpoint for a secondhand phone?”

  She brandished the gun, and I saw her hand was shaking. Still, deadly projectile was deadly shot from frightened hands. I reached into my pocket slowly, and the panicked mugger shouted at me to hold still.

  “How will I get the phone out then?” I asked her slowly.

  “Just give me your money and your phone and any jewelry!” she said, voice breaking. This chick was going to either shoot me or turn and run any second.

  I thought about explaining to her that I was just getting out of a hipster phase and the only jewelry I wore was a My Little Pony pendant I had bought at Hot Topic, but figured she didn’t want to go into the issues of fashion. I tried to move slowly to get the items from my pocket, but the door opened then. Steven, who was bussing tables that night, had heard the shouts and come to check on me. He flinched when he saw the woman with the gun, and took a step forward to where I had dropped the trash bags on the steps. He tumbled down, pin-wheeling his arms and smacking the gun out of the woman’s hand. It fired once, and I felt a searing heat along my arm as the bullet grazed me. Steven fell on top of her, breaking her ankle and spraining his wrist.

  The paramedics were delighted to have so many different injuries to deal with on a slow night, and we got patched up. The woman went to jail, and Steven was a hero, and I got a good scar.

  I opened my eyes. Steven and I were in a booth in a bar, leaning on each other.

  “What happened?” he said, lifting his head off my shoulder.

  I looked around. I remembered fairies, and making a deal. I shook my head, as if expecting my brains to rattle around audibly. I felt gaps, but I couldn’t remember why.

  “There was a fairy. It took something from us,” I said.

  “How?” he asked. “They’re not supposed to be allowed . . .”

  “I know that, we must have said it was OK.” I rubbed my face, and the details started trickling back to me. “Oh god. We found a replacement for the fairy you killed. Only he took stuff from us and took off.”

  “We just got rolled by a fairy?” he asked, sliding out of the booth.

  I followed him. “This is not going to help my reputation.”

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Go back to the studio, hope they haven’t discovered the body yet, and if they have, hope it won’t be tied to us, I guess. Or go on the lam,” I said.

  Do you remember what he took from you? I didn’t ask. I knew he wouldn’t.

  We drove back in silence, Steven quivering in his seat, me thinking hard. Since we had struck out, and a fairy now knew of our crime, we had to face facts and pay the piper. I don’t know if Steven had the same thought, but he so rarely had his own thoughts it was hard to attribute any to him.

  When we walked into the studio, Marcellus accosted us at the door. He was a tall thin African American man with deep black skin and an eye for continuity. He was a grip now, but they were girding him for
an editor position considering he was so good at keeping things like facial wounds consistent over months of shooting.

  “Where the hell have you two been? The director wants some sort of impromptu wedding, and demands that everyone be there!”

  I glanced at Steven, my stomach dropping somewhere around my knees. “Impromptu wedding?”

  He waved his hand irritably. “It’s a fairy thing as I understand it. Her fiancé showed up. She liked him. She wants to marry him right away and start making little fairy babies or something. I just hope she does so after the film is done.”

  “Really? What’s he like?” I asked, willing my voice not to shake.

  Marcellus frowned again, and held his hand around waist height. “This tall. Green. What else is there to know?” He turned and motioned for us to follow.

  Steven relaxed a hair, and we walked to the sound stage where craft services had set up their tables to mimic a banquet. The whole cast and crew were seated around the table at whatever chairs they could find—including the throne from the movie we were shooting—with HRH at the head of the table, with Yuri beside her.

  He wore the clothes of the dead fairy—had I given him those duds?—and gazed adoringly at his new wife. His eyes didn’t even flicker our way as we pulled stools up to the opposite end of the table.

  HRH, a tall fairy with red-tinged wings and flaming red hair, stood to address us. “My cast and crew, we may not be of the same race, but we share the same love of film. This unites our troubled peoples, and I am pleased to be here with you to celebrate the marriage with _____” here she made a sound that was apparently fairy language for Yuri’s name, and we had better remember not to call him Yuri from now on, “my third husband. A celebrated historian, he now gets to live one of the most momentous weddings in history. Will you be writing this down, my darling?”

  Yuri looked up to the woman he had known for twenty minutes and nodded, “Of course, my pet.” He carried himself taller, now, and his voice was richer. He was green tinged and handsome and I thought we might actually get away with this. “May I address our audience?”