Wishful Thinking (How To Be The Best Damn Faery Godmother In The World (Or Die Trying) Book 1)

by Helen Harper

  ‘You are good enough,’ I whispered to myself, startling a woman who walked past me and who quickly steered herself away from me. I paid her no attention. ‘You did the very best that you could.’ Luke Wells’ face flashed into my mind. I was the second faery godmother he’d supposedly had. And the second one who’d failed him. He hadn’t presented himself as a nice guy but if he’d had his wish granted then perhaps he’d have been able to sort himself out and get onto the straight and narrow. That would probably never happen now.

  I walked along for a few more steps. Then I stopped. The last person any of this was fair on was Luke. The least I could do was to help him out. Without my wand, I might no longer have the full bounty of magic invested in me as a faery godmother at my fingertips. I wasn’t entirely useless though. I gritted my teeth. Screw the Director. I’d been given a job to do and I was going to do it. It would be my last hurrah as the world’s shortest lived faery godmother. Luke Wells would get the wish he wanted. It would help me to sleep at night if nothing else.

  Spinning round, I changed direction. Without the Metafora room, I couldn’t transport myself in an instant to Oxford. There was still public transport, however. Trains ran regularly enough and the station wasn’t far away. I set my chin. I also pulled out my phone. The missed call had been from Jasper. I glared at his name as if all this were his fault. I still didn’t want to talk to him. I sighed. Unfortunately not all of this was about me. I pressed the button to return the call. I had to tell him my suspicions about the kidnappings. Five pinky-less faery godmothers couldn’t be blamed for my current woes.

  The call went straight to voicemail. I reminded myself that he was now occupied with ten little fingers and another traumatised delivery faery. I calculated travel times in my head, along with how long it might take me to sort out Luke, and left Jasper a message, telling him to meet me in St Clements Park later in the evening. I didn’t mention my firing. If I didn’t say it out loud then I could pretend for a little longer that it happened. Almost.

  ***

  It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon by the time I arrived in Oxford. I’d spent most of the train journey in a state of furious anticipation, my mind churning over what had happened. I had the distinct feeling that if I’d not spoken up about the second gruesome delivery, I’d still have ended up in this very same place. I questioned myself over and over about what I could have done differently to achieve a more optimum outcome. Unfortunately, the answer I kept arriving at was nothing. My fate had been sealed before I’d even stepped through those faery godmother doors a mere four days before. I kept telling myself that I should be grateful I was still free and still in possession of all my fingers. It wasn’t much of a comfort but it worked for a while.

  Rather than seek out Luke, who I was certain would be actually out of bed by this hour, regardless of his university timetable, I strode out of the train station and made a beeline for the tattoo parlour. He’d been certain they had the information he’d needed so that was where I’d return also. This time, I told myself, I definitely wasn’t going to get another tattoo. One dodgy cat emblazoned on my arm for the rest of my life was bad enough.

  If anything, the tattoo parlour looked grimier and more desperate than it had on my first visit. I didn’t waste any time in loitering around outside it. I pushed open the door with dramatic purpose and strode in.

  The tattoo artist who had created the supposed art which I now displayed on my skin was already in the front room, fiddling with some of the photos as if their arrangement would make the tattoos they advertised appear more desirable. When he caught sight of my face, he didn’t smile or greet me in any way which might suggest some form of decent customer service. In fact, I could swear the sound that emitted from his throat was actually some sort of growl. He was more bear than human then. It accounted for his clumsy fingers, I supposed.

  ‘Want a tattoo?’ he asked.

  Somewhat belatedly, I realised that he wouldn’t have any memory of my previous visit because I’d officially been on the job at the time. Thanks a bunch, memory magic. It didn’t work when I needed it to and when I needed it not to work, it did. That about summed up my life right about now.

  I rolled up my sleeve and showed him my misshapen cat. He squinted at it, obviously recognising his own work. His gaze snapped to my face then back at the cat and I could see him struggling to remember. He frowned and scratched his head. Then he shrugged. The tattoo was obviously fresh and still healing. Perhaps he’d decided he had been drunk at the time and that was why he couldn’t remember. It would certainly account for the state of the tattoo, I supposed.

  ‘No refunds,’ he said. ‘If you’re not happy with your art then it’s tough shit for you.’

  Hmmm. From the manner of his speech and his words, I could only presume that his customers often returned unhappy. I tilted my head and smiled, although my own mood meant that I was physically unable to take off the unpleasant edge which I knew was visible in my eyes. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m here to get a matching tattoo for my other arm.’

  The artist stared at me, his nose wrinkling in disbelief. ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Not really. In fact,’ I said, getting up closer to him, ‘I strongly suggest you seek out a new career. I’m not convinced that being a tattoo artist is your destiny.’

  He snarled at me, his muscles bunching up. I could see, however, that there was the faintest glimmer of hurt in his face. Vague guilt spluttered through me and I felt a sudden odd kinship with him. I was a useless faery godmother and he was a useless tattoo artist. We had more in common than I could have realised.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell you that I love my new tattoo because I don’t. It’s not a good tattoo. But you already know that yourself. It’s not my place to tread on your dreams, mate. Maybe you just need more practice. Ask your boss for more support and training and who knows what might happen.’

  My words had the opposite effect to what I’d intended. He growled again and puffed out his chest. ‘You’re still not getting a refund.’

  I held up my hands. ‘I don’t want a refund. I want information.’

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What?’

  ‘When I was here before, there was another guy here. Young-ish. He was trying to trace your records relating to an old tattoo. He was speaking to your …’ I took a stab in the dark based on what I’d earlier surmised, ‘brother about it.’

  ‘And?’

  I smiled again, more genuinely this time. ‘I’d like to see those records.’ I paused. ‘Please.’

  He looked me up and down. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to manhandle me back out of the door. For some reason, however, he decided otherwise. ‘Wait here.’ He turned round and walked through to the back.

  I breathed out. Maybe I’d get what I wanted without using any magic whatsoever. That would indeed be a bonus.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Less than a minute after he’d disappeared, the tattoo artist returned, this time with the second burly man in tow. ‘What’s so special about these records?’ he demanded, without so much as a hello. It must be a family trait to launch directly into conversation without any of the niceties that other people spent their time on.

  ‘You don’t need to know that,’ I responded calmly. ‘And I won’t take up much of your time. I only want to see who had that tattoo done.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give that kid that information. I’m not going to give you it either. Piss off out of here.’

  On comparison, the brother who’d done my tattoo was by far the more congenial of the two. ‘There’s no need to be obstructive,’ I said. ‘It’s an old tattoo, right? What does it really matter?’

  ‘You the police?’

  ‘No.’

  He raised his massive shoulders. ‘Then you don’t get to see the records. We don’t go back that far anyway. I don’t know who had that tattoo done.’ He pointed behind me. ‘Now piss off. I won’t say it again.’
r />   I hissed through my teeth in irritation. He was lying. I was certain of it. Once Luke Wells had visited, this man would have looked through his records and found what Luke was after. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I’d lay money on it. I quickly debated my options. I could continue trying to wheedle my way into getting what I needed or I could take a short cut. Alright. Perhaps I did need some of that magic after all.

  I raised my hands and drew on my own personal magic. While both brothers glared at me, I snapped my fingers. They froze. An instant later, I gasped and bent double. Bloody hell. No wonder faeries didn’t tend to use much magic when they weren’t working and no wonder our wands were so vital to proceedings. My head swam and the burst of energy it had taken me to bespell the pair of them left my whole body trembling. I tried to catch my breath, grimacing all the while. Then I slowly stood up straight again and examined the hapless duo.

  Now that I had time to examine the pair of them together, it was obvious that they were closely related. It wasn’t just their similar features. They held themselves in the same way, each one dropping their left shoulder enough to be noticeable. Both of them had almost comical expressions on their face, mouths half open and nostrils flaring. I poked the nearest one. He didn’t move. I knew I didn’t have long before the magic wore off though. Tick tock, Saffron.

  On legs that still felt like jelly, I wobbled through the inner door and towards the back. I ignored the two tattoo cubicles, especially the one where I’d been given the daft cat tattoo, and instead walked towards the third door, which I presumed led to some sort of office.

  I wasn’t disappointed. Although it was even darker and shabbier than the rest of the tattoo parlour, I’d definitely found the tattoo jackpot. Filing cabinets lined the walls, several of them with their drawers half open thanks to the many overflowing files which had been jammed in. There was single desk sitting against the wall, although it had two chairs beside it. Clearly, both brothers shared it. I sat down on the nearest chair and spared a thought for what Adeline would think about the mess. She’d complained about the boxes and files on my desk. That had been nothing compared to this, however. Every inch of the surface was covered.

  I shuffled around some papers, uncovering a small silver photo frame which had been hidden by a brown envelope. I picked it up and peered at it. Younger versions of both boys grinned out at me. In between them was another man, whose face also looked similar. Dad, no doubt. I examined the sign above all of three of their heads. It was this same tattoo parlour. So it was a family business. Their father had run the shop and they’d taken it on after him. That probably explained a lot.

  I lifted up various other envelopes. A lot of them displayed scarlet words and capitalized fonts. The tattoo brothers were in trouble. No wonder they didn’t give refunds. I wasn’t entirely surprised. I couldn’t imagine anyone rushing to this place to get their skin branded. I did, however, feel some sympathy for their situation.

  Shaking myself, I focused on the reason why I was here. I was still banking on the fact that one of them would have already looked out the records that Luke had been searching for. Without any clue as to when the tattoo in question might have completed, or the name of the person who had it done, the last thing I wanted to have to do was to start flicking through the overflowing filing cabinets. I cursed to myself and hastily scoured the other bits of paper, praying there was something here that wasn’t a final demand.

  I was about to give up hope when I came across a single sheet of A4 with an old Polaroid photo clipped to the front of it. The photo was faded and its edges were curling up. There was no doubt that it was what I was looking for, however. It displayed an elaborate tattoo of an insignia. The same insignia which Luke Wells had been doodling in his study carrel.

  Buoyed by my success, I scanned the details. The recipient of the tattoo was Mark Countman. It had been inked by A.G. in May 2005. Presumably, A.G. was the tattoo brothers’ father. The tattoo itself was far too neat and well designed to have been created by either of the boys themselves. I squinted at the faded words. There was an old address there. Bantam Road. I checked my phone. It was only a few streets away from here. Mark Countman had to be Luke’s dad. It was who he was searching for.

  I committed the address to memory. Maybe I’d get lucky and he’d still be living in the place. Or someone in the area would remember him. Either way, I smiled to myself in grim delight. Take that, faery godmothers. I could still get the job done without the power of the office behind me.

  I got up to my feet, leaving the little room behind as I’d found it. Out in the front, the brothers were still frozen in the same position. I took a deep breath and snapped my fingers once more. Almost immediately they shifted, changing from unmoving statues to living, breathing humans who were fully aware of their surroundings. And of me. I felt another wave of nausea assail me. Fuck a puck, that magic was hard-going.

  ‘Go on. I’m not saying it again,’ the second brother said. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  I refrained from pointing out that he had indeed said it again and started to shuffle towards the door. ‘Fine, fine. I’m going.’ I felt both their eyes on my back. I put my hand on the door knob and then looked round. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘before I go, there’s just one other thing.’ I hesitated. Without my wand, this would be nigh on impossible. It would definitely make me sick as a dog. I reckoned it might be worth it though. ‘You both took this shop on after your father died, didn’t you? He was a great tattoo artist.’

  I noted the brief identical spasm of pain on both their faces. ‘Yeah. So what?’

  I reached down inside myself and raised my hands one final time, twirling my fingers in the air, one hand for the brother on the right and one for the brother on the left. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘you’re as good as he was. Your skills match his.’ My vision was blurring but I managed a small smile. ‘It’s up to you what you do with that.’ Then I turned again and lurched out of the door, seconds before I started throwing up.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I wasn’t sure what happened to ex-faery godmothers who granted wishes off the books. I’d never heard of anyone performing such a feat. I had certainly learned why that was the case. I doubted very few had ever tried it before. I might have felt dizzy earlier, after causing time to halt for both brothers. Now, however, I had the definite feeling that I was dying. My head pounded and my vision was no longer just blurry. It had narrowed to tiny pinpricks of light. I stumbled away from my pile of vomit, staggering along the street and rounding the corner. I barely made it before my knees gave way and I felt, rather than saw, the pavement rushing up towards me. It was very cold and very hard. I closed my eyes, moaning slightly. Then I felt a pair of hands at my waist and someone hauling me back upright.

  My eyelids fluttered. ‘Wha – at?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Saffron,’ Jasper snapped. ‘What the hell have you done?’

  I blinked and tried to focus. ‘Wha … ooo…. ere?’ I frowned. That didn’t make any sense. ‘Wha are oo doing ere?’ Damn it.

  ‘I might ask you the same question. Have you been performing magic?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Did you grant a bloody wish without your wand?’

  I tried to answer but my stomach heaved and I began to retch once more. I felt Jasper’s hands reach for my head, gently pulling my hair out of the way. I was dimly aware of my own bile splattering the pavement. He lifted me up to face him and placed his hand against my forehead, muttering something under his breath. My body jerked as a buzz of warmth spread across my skin. A moment later, my equilibrium started to return. Slightly.

  Jasper’s face swam into view. His expression was dark and angry. ‘It appears,’ he said icily, ‘that breaking rules is something you regularly do.’

  I pulled away from him, regretting the sudden motion, and smoothed back my hair. I still felt shaky but I was definitely better than before. ‘It was worth it,’ I said weakly. ‘Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ve a
lready been fired.’

  Jasper cursed. ‘So I heard. That wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered.

  ‘I only gave the Director the most basic information about what we’d uncovered. I thought if I held some details back, she’d avoid doing anything rash, including where you were concerned. Clearly, I was wrong. The woman seems to think she is above reproach.’ He continued to glower. ‘Not that it’s any excuse what you just did. What are you even doing here?’

  ‘My job.’

  ‘The job you’ve been fired from?’

  I shrugged. ‘There’s no other.’

  ‘I can sort that out for you and get the Director to take you back,’ he bit out. ‘I told you before that I wouldn’t let you lose your position and I meant it. I can’t help you if you’re going to run around performing off the books wishes though.’

  I straightened my posture. ‘I do not want or need your help,’ I told him.

  He gazed at me with exasperation. ‘A moment ago, you couldn’t stand up without my help.’

  ‘Everyone’s a critic.’ I met his eyes. ‘I mean it. I can handle this on my own. I don’t know why you’ve come here anyway. I told you that I’d meet you later.’

  His expression darkened further. ‘I wanted to make sure you were alright. It’s as well that I did.’

  ‘I am fine.’

  ‘You won’t be if you do any more godmother magic.’

  ‘Then,’ I said, rather huffily, ‘I won’t do any more magic.’