Toil & Trouble

by Emery Belle

  On a dying man’s lips, Meryl sounded an awful lot like Gerald.

  I was so distracted by this thought as I stepped out of the cell block and back into the police station that at first I didn’t notice the older man in the rumpled suit standing at the desk and speaking to the officer on duty, but at the sound of Gerald’s name, I swung around.

  “Yes, yes, I’m his attorney, and I’m in a hurry, so could you please take me to see him now?” The lawyer balanced his briefcase in one arm as he scrawled his name across the visitor log, then began drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk while the officer answered the phone.

  “Excuse me,” I said, walking up behind the lawyer and tapping him on the shoulder. “Did you say you’re Gerald’s defense attorney?”

  “Huh?” The man squinted at me. “Yes, that’s right.” He glanced at his watch, then back at the officer, and sighed.

  “Well,” I said, drawing up my shoulders, “then you’re just the man I want to talk to. I have an alibi for Gerald—I work in his department at the hospital, and at the time of the murder, I saw him sleeping in the breakroom. I told this to Kellen also, but—”

  “Any alibis I present in court need to be airtight,” the lawyer said, one eye on me, one eye on the police officer now leaning up against the desk and laughing into the phone. “I don’t care what you told Kellen—I don’t deal with he-said, she-said nonsense that weakens my case. I need cold, hard facts.” He turned to me, his light blue eyes scrutinizing my face. “Do you have any solid proof you were there? Any other witnesses? Any kind of paper trail that places you with Gerald at precisely eight-thirty that night?”

  “I don’t have any of that.” I folded my arms across my chest, undeterred. “But I know Gerald couldn’t have committed this murder. I saw him in the breakroom at that time. I was sitting next to him. There’s your cold, hard fact. And I’ll stand before the High Court and proclaim his innocence until I’m blue in the face.”

  The lawyer cocked his head, considering me. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Wren Winters.”

  His lips quirked up into a smirk, and he laughed. “Wren Winters? As in the witch who has a history of confrontations with the High Court?” He shook his head. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Winters, and not in a good way. You get up on that stand, you weaken Gerald’s case. That’s a fact.” The police officer beckoned to him, and he tucked his briefcase under his arm and smoothed back his hair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my case.”

  He shook his head at me one last time, and then followed the officer through the metal door leading to the cell block. I watched them disappear through the door, listening as their footsteps echoed on the cold cement floor, and then marched out of the police station, my head held high.

  It looked like I was on my own again. Good thing I could always count on myself to get the job done right.

  Chapter 7

  I decided to follow up on my coworkers’ tip to track down Pete, Auggie’s roommate, though it took me a while to find him. Finally, the yeti who worked in the housekeeping department recalled that Pete used to spend every evening at a self-defense class for small magical creatures, and so I figured it couldn’t hurt to start there. The class, taught by a brawny werewolf with knife-sharp teeth and a big bushy beard, was held every other evening in the basement of a weapons shop at the outskirts of town.

  The sun was already beginning to set as I hurried along the sidewalk toward the shop, which was located in a less than desirable part of the island frequented by werewolves, hags, and an ogre or two. I’d decided to bring Pierre, my familiar, for some semblance of protection, and he was waddling along behind me, his belly dragging on the ground as he panted heavily and sniffed every garbage can we passed for leftover treats.

  “Come on,” I said, heaving him away from a container of old syringes stowed in the trash outside a bar that catered exclusively to the blood-loving crowd—he’d spotted half a meatball sandwich underneath the stained, dirty syringes and was whining frantically as he tried nosing them aside to get to the treat. I glanced down the sidewalk toward an ogre hovering in the shadows of a dingy pawn shop, eyeing me with interest. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting me?”

  Pierre looked at me and cocked his head, then, with great difficulty, lowered himself into a sitting position, his hind legs splayed, and offered me his paw. “Yes, yes, I love you too,” I said, taking the paw and giving it a shake. “But that doesn’t make me any less sorry I brought you along.”

  He gave my hand a sloppy lick, then began trotting down the sidewalk, this time ahead of me, as if to prove me wrong. When we passed the ogre, who leered at me with broken, mossy teeth, Pierre tossed in a growl for good measure, then threw me a hopeful look over his shoulder, as if that should be enough to earn him a snack.

  We arrived at the weapons shop with a few minutes to spare before class started, and so I spent some time browsing the displays of swords, tridents, spiked ball-and-chain sets, crossbows, and battle axes, all while keeping one eye on the creatures who were trickling into the shop to learn self-defense.

  “Can I help you find something?” a lithe female werewolf said, brushing her thick gray-brown hair out of her face. She eyed the table of ornamental salt shakers I was perusing. “Do you have a genie problem? Because take it from me, throwing salt at them is the only way to banish them for good.” She shrugged. “And why waste the rest of it? These make a great addition to your kitchen décor, not to mention the perfect seasoning for a delicious cut of raw steak.”

  Hearing this, Pierre began trying to clamber up the display table, but his rolls of fat prevented him from making it very far, and he slid back to the ground, landing on his haunches.

  “No, actually, I’m here for the self-defense class,” I said. The shop door opened with a tinkle of bells, and a brownie wearing a sweatband and boxing gloves hurried inside and then down a set of cement stairs that presumably led to the basement where the class was held.

  “Sorry,” the she-wolf said, shaking her head. “No can do. The class is only for your miniature variety of magical beings—your brownies, your pixies, your tree nymphs, and so on. Sometimes a dwarf or gnome can slip in under the height requirement, but”—she took a step back and eyed me up and down—“you’re definitely too big. You don’t want to accidentally squash your classmates, do you? The amount of paperwork we have to fill out when that happens is unbelievable.”

  “I was actually just here to observe,” I said, giving her a hopeful smile. “You know, pick up some tips and tricks.” I pulled out my duct-taped wand and showed it to her. “As you can see, I’ve been having a bit of difficulty with my wand, and so I’m feeling a little vulnerable at the moment. I heard this was the best class in town… so couldn’t I just sit in the corner? I promise I won’t make a peep.”

  “Wellllll,” the she-wolf said, chewing her lip as she considered my request. “All right,” she finally relented. “But keep that thing out of sight.” She scowled at my wand. “I don’t need the other students feeling intimidated. You witches and wizards are half the reason why these classes need to exist in the first place. Go on down, but if Bane reports that you’re being disruptive in any way, I’m going to have to escort you out of my shop.”

  She cracked her knuckles and gave me a not-so-pleasant smile. I thanked her and hurried down the stairs, Pierre struggling along behind me, and emerged into a well-lit room with a dozen or so pint-sized magical creatures chatting while they donned boxing gloves and mouth guards and began warming up by sparring each other.

  The instructor, an intimidating werewolf twice my height and at least triple my weight, was performing his own warm-up stretches in one corner of the room, his muscled body on full display. I stared at him unabashedly for a few moments, taking in the raw power and masculinity that oozed out of him. Half of the romance books in the island’s library featured werewolves as the main love interest, and I had no trouble understandi
ng why.

  “All right, let’s get started,” the werewolf said, striding to the front of the room and pulling off his T-shirt to reveal… dear God, was that a ten-pack? The chatter died out as the students arranged themselves in rows in front of him, though a brief scuffle occurred when a brownie accidentally speared a dwarf in the bottom with a wooden practice sword.

  I settled myself out of sight in one corner of the room, Pierre by my side, and leaned back against the cinderblock wall, squirming in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Seeing this, the werewolf tossed me an exercise mat from a pile by his side, then turned his attention back to the class.

  “Today we’re going to be learning how to defend ourselves against a rabid zombie. This happens more than you think, folks,” he called over the rash of mutterings that had broken out around the room. One gnome let out a squeak of fear, and I could see his knees trembling.

  “Now,” the werewolf continued, grabbing a samurai sword from a selection of weapons on a table behind him, “the key, of course, is to destroy the brain.” He made a slashing movement with the knife, decapitating an invisible foe. “For someone my size, that’s not a problem. But for you folks, it’s going to take a bit of maneuvering to reach the cranium.” He knelt down, demonstrating an upward thrust with the sword as the students looked on nervously.

  “Some of you may need to get a running start.” The werewolf sprinted forward, then leapt into the air, his powerful thigh muscles launching him high off the ground as he speared his sword into the zombie’s imaginary head. “And if you’re good at sports and have an accurate arm, go ahead and throw it at him.”

  After another demonstration, the werewolf turned to face the students once more, his chest glistening with sweat in the warm room. “But remember, the rabid ones are unpredictable, and it’s unlikely you’re gonna get more than one chance. So use any tools at your disposal to take him down, but remember not to go overboard, because there’s always a risk of the brain matter seeping through your skin and infecting you.” He moved through the room, positioning the students so they had ample room to practice without lobbing off one another’s heads, and then prowled around, offering tips and adjusting their stances.

  “Whoa there, Pete,” the werewolf said to a particularly frantic-looking brownie whose brow was shining with sweat. The brownie’s eyes were closed and a look of terror was on his face as he pummeled at the air-zombie with his fists, mostly missing his mark, until he tripped over his own feet. Squeaking in terror, he fell to the ground and cowered there, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.

  My ears perked up at the sound of the brownie’s name, and I craned my neck to get a better look at him as the werewolf wrapped his massive paw around Pete’s tiny hand and pulled him to his feet. He slapped the brownie on the back jovially, and the force sent him tumbling back down to his knees. “Whoa there, little buddy. Sorry about that.”

  This time, the werewolf lifted Pete off the ground by the scruff of his neck and set him back on his feet, then brushed the dust off his shirt. “Remember what I told you last class?” The werewolf crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave the brownie a stern look. “You’re letting your fear get the best of you. If you don’t keep a cool head in a crisis, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Easy for you to say,” the brownie squeaked, his yellow eyes wide with terror. “You’re at the top of the food chain, and I’m on the bottom.” He swiveled his gaze around the room, watching his classmates successfully bash in the brains of their invisible rabid zombie foe, and bowed his head in defeat. “Look at what happened to Auggie. He’s dead, and it’s all my fault.” As he rubbed his eyes, his shoulders shaking, the werewolf got down on his knees and took both of Pete’s shoulders in his broad hands.

  “Look at me.” His gaze was sincere as he met Pete’s. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for Auggie’s death. You were the one who held his hand as the police came, you were the one who used your magic to keep him alive long enough to reveal the name of his killer. If it weren’t for you, Gerald may never have been arrested.” He gave the brownie’s shoulders a shake. “You’re a hero, Pete, and you need to remember that.”

  “I’m a coward,” the brownie howled, and by this time, most of his classmates had stopped brandishing their wooden samurais at the air and turned to eavesdrop. “I heard Auggie screaming during the attack, and do you know what I did?”

  He balled his tiny hands into fists and began pummeling himself in the side of the head before the werewolf tackled him, pinning him to the ground as he writhed around in anguish. Eventually, his body went limp, and a fat tear rolled down his cheek as he whispered, “I hid in the closet while it was happening and let him die. If I had been there—”

  “You would have been killed too.” The werewolf’s voice was soft yet firm. “Auggie was a powerful leopard shifter, and he wasn’t able to protect himself. You have a noble heart, Pete… but there was nothing—nothing—you could have done.”

  He rested his hand on the brownie’s shoulders for several long moments, until finally, the brownie nodded. “Okay, folks, show’s over,” the werewolf said to the other students as Pete wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  The class resumed, but Pete no longer seemed to want to participate; dodging flying samurai swords, he scurried to the corner of the room, only feet from me, then gathered his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder, stumbling slightly under its weight. I grabbed my notebook and heaved myself to my feet, intent on talking to him, then stopped as I caught sight of the look of pure misery on his face. I recognized that look—it was grief in its purest form, raw and heavy.

  Pete was in no condition for an interview. Not today. Not so soon. And so I hung back, watchful, silent, as the brownie trudged out of the room, looking as though the weight of the world was bearing down on his tiny shoulders.

  A sparrow woke me up just after dawn the next morning, twittering and tapping at my window, a note clamped in its beak. “Wazzit?” Garnet mumbled, sitting up drowsily and pushing her hair back from her eyes. She yawned widely and stretched her arms over her head as I hurried to the window, stumbling over my own feet in my exhaustion, and pushed it open.

  With a delighted squawk, the sparrow soared into the room, knocking over my alarm clock and the bouquet of sunflowers Sebastian had given me before zooming straight into Monty, sending him spinning around wildly on his chain and howling with indignation. The next time the sparrow soared past, Monty swung forward without warning, catching the bird between his fat gray lips so that only its tailfeathers were sticking out.

  “Monty!” I gasped, lunging toward him as Garnet screamed and covered her eyes. I pried his lips open—they were dry and sticky, and felt gummy between my fingers—and managed to hook my thumb around the bird. When I dragged the sparrow out—by force, since Monty refused to let go—it let out a feeble squawk, looking slightly ruffled but otherwise unharmed.

  “You are disgusting,” I said to the shrunken head as I cupped the sparrow in my hands and carried it back to the window. The note, though soggy, was still clamped in its beak, and I managed to extract it just before the bird flew out the window as fast as its wings would carry it. I turned back just in time to hear Monty let out a rich belch and smack his lips.

  “Chewier than I remember,” he said thoughtfully. “But still adequate. Back in the old days, we used to dine on pheasant, quail, and other delicious feathered beasts morning, noon, and night. You should have seen the servants trying to spear them out of the air with their wooden forks! It made for quite the spectacle, especially when one of the maidens took a tumble and gave us a delectable glimpse of her petticoats.” The reminiscent gleam in his eyes faded. “Then, of course, the famine hit. After that, it was eat or be eaten, and believe me, I did my fair share of both.”

  Ignoring him, I unfolded the sparrow’s note and scanned my eyes down it, frowning. “Lady Winthrop wants to meet me in her office before class today.” I glanced up at Garnet. “Wh
at do you think that means?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said airily, though I could detect a hint of worry in her tone. “Maybe she’s figured out a way to get your wand working again.”

  “I bet she wants to send me back to level zero classes,” I said, my stomach knotting with anxiety. “She’s been hinting around for weeks that she doesn’t think I’m able to keep up with you and Hunter.” She wasn’t wrong; my wandwork was growing more pathetic by the day, while my classmates were continuing to excel. Last class, while trying to move a feather from one desk to another, I’d managed to set the tip of Lady Winthrop’s nose on fire. And then accidentally doused it with gasoline instead of water.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing quite so drastic,” Garnet said gently, nudging me over on the bed so she could sit beside me. She slung an arm around my shoulder and gave me a comforting squeeze. “You’ll be fine. You’re a powerful witch who’s just going through a tough time right now, and I’m sure Lady Winthrop knows that too. She’s one of the smartest witches in the coven.”

  Garnet hesitated, and I could see her studying me out of the corner of her eye. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about, Wren?”

  The faces of Lord Macon and my mother danced around in my head, until they were pushed aside by images of Cole’s lifeless body and Gerald’s tear-stained face as he rotted away in his cell. I so desperately needed to unburden myself. I could tell Garnet that I was in over my head, on so many levels. I could tell her that my very existence in this world was the reason I had no mother. I could tell her that I lay in bed every night, battling it out with myself over whether I should confront Lord Macon, once and for all, and force him to admit to the truth. I could tell her that when I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares, the last man whose face I pictured was the one I could never have.