Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (27 page)

“Sir, I’m needed up…”

“You are needed behind that desk filling out the eighty-five pages of report required for firing a weapon in the line of duty.” Beaumain didn’t budge.

If they were on the football field, Chase could have easily tackled the shorter man. Bulldog Beaumain had earned his own reputation on the gridiron and would have taken Chase down with him.

“Sir, there’s a situation uphill. Swarms of killer bees or infected birds or something else with wings are attacking children on the school playground.”

“Heard about it. Called the state Ag department. They are on it.”

“But, sir…”

“No buts about it. Nurse Hazlitt called me. Since you refused treatment of your wound, she advised you stay put. I need to collect your weapons and your badge until we sort out this mess.” He held out his hand.

Chase hesitated, reluctant to give up his gun, stick, and Taser to anyone.

“Norton, do I have to lock you up?”

“No, sir.” Reluctantly, Chase unsnapped his holster, withdrew his service pistol, and handed it to the boss grip first.

Beaumain held out his other hand.

Scowling, Chase handed over the nonlethal weapons as well.

“What about the knife in the ankle sheath and the derringer in your boot?”

“Not service issued, sir.”

“I know that. Not authorized either, but sometimes necessary. I have to take them, too.”

Chase growled something impolite. “Leaving me naked.”

“I know, I know. But the sooner you finish the paperwork, the sooner we can put you back on active duty.”

“It will still take two weeks to convene a hearing.”

“Fine time for a honeymoon. After you complete the reports.” Beaumain turned to leave, laden with Chase’s weapons and backups. “Oh, and Nurse Hazlitt is sending down an EMT to wash out that wound with saline and decide if you need stitches or not. It looks unnaturally swollen to me. I’d hate to clear you of overstepping your authority only to have you laid out flat on sick leave.”

Chase flopped into his desk chair and buried his face in his hands. His fingers touched the swelling along the thorn scrape. He winced as pain stabbed the full length of the cut. Beaumain was right. He needed medical attention.

After he made some headway on his report. He should call Dusty. He needed to call her just to hear her voice. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so naked if she held his hand.

Maybe they should just elope and spend the next two weeks on their honeymoon.

“Ms. Carrick had an emergency at home,” M’Velle said when he called the museum.

Dusty didn’t answer her cell.

Chase threw his pen across the room, grabbed the keys to his pickup, and headed out. Paperwork would wait. There was always a backlog of paperwork no matter how much he worked on it. Finish one report and three more cropped up.

Dusty’s emergency, no matter what it was, was more important.

“W
ILL YOU INTRODUCE ME TO TITANIA and Oberon?” Juliet asked as she rocked to and fro. She fiddled with bits she’d torn from a silk flower and a needle and thread.

Chicory had to shake his head to break free of the hypnotic rhythm of her rocking and the flick of her needle. He took a sip of cooling tea from the doll-sized cup his new protector had set out for him. Scattered about the front parlor, his tribe nodded and drifted drowsily.

“Ms. Juliet, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said and stuffed a cookie crumb into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say anything more.

“They are real! I knew it. The Bard couldn’t have drawn such wonderful verbal portraits of them if they weren’t.” Juliet stopped rocking, leaning forward to peer at Chicory over the tops of her glasses.

“You really should get trifocals, Ms Juliet. That way you
wouldn’t have to adjust your glasses constantly.” Chicory tried to change the subject.

“You’re almost as good at diverting me as Benedict,” Juliet said, returning to her rocking. She took a sip of her own milky tea. Her eyes crossed a little bit in contemplation.

Chicory stifled a yawn.

“‘Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.’ That’s from
Julius Caesar
,” Juliet said. “No more honey for you in your tea.”

Chicory shook himself awake. He knew he had obligations to Juliet in return for the freedom of her attic, but stars and storms above, didn’t she realize that Pixies needed their naps? Especially this time of year.

“Why is it difficult for the king of a Pixie tribe to introduce his patron to the king and queen of Fairies?”

Chicory took another sip of tea. Some of the sugar and caffeine wiggled into his brain, waking him up. A little. A very little.

“Because Pixies and Faeries don’t get along. They have their realms. We have ours. As long as we don’t cross borders, everything is fine.”

“William Shakespeare got it right, though, didn’t he?”

“Mostly.”

“Only mostly? What did he do wrong?”

“Faeries went underhill. They’re cowards, refusing to share the world with unbelieving humans. Pixies stayed above ground and won over enough people to help us thrive. Lovely people like you. Faeries only come out when called, or to manipulate people and Pixies in their never-ending games. They think it’s great fun to make us do dumb and ugly things, hurtful things to each other, like puppets on their magic strings.” Anger at the current Faery king heated his blood and twisted his tummy into livid knots. The old guy, whoever he was, would rather kill and disrupt Pixies throughout the town so he could claim The Ten Acre Wood as home. No way would a Faery bother going to the trouble of finding a new home of his own. No, he had to steal The Ten Acre Wood. He’d build a new hill and destroy all that was sacred about the treasured place.

“We play tricks on humans, but only so they’ll learn something—even if that is only to not take themselves so seriously. We
don’t hurt
our friends. And we can only go underground to die. Takes a lot, I mean a whole lot, of magic for either race to survive in the other’s realm.” He shuddered with cold and dread, remembering how Snapdragon had so casually thrown him into Mabel’s basement.

“Oh, well. Another time, perhaps. For now, here’s a new cap for you.” She held out a frothy blue thing. “See, I’ve worked a bit of gold thread into the top of it because you are a king.”

Chicory’s heart swelled almost to bursting with pride and gratitude. “Th-thank you, Ms. Juliet,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. He bowed properly.

She slipped the cap of silk flower petals onto his head. It fit perfectly.

“May I look in the mirror?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Joyfully, Chicory rose up and flew straight toward the big mirror stretched over the mantel. He turned this way and that to admire the new cap. “Oh, Ms. Juliet, it is perfect. Just perfect! I’m a proper king now.”

“Of course you are, dear. The crown does not make a king, but a king makes a crown.”

“What’s that from?”

“I don’t know.” Juliet looked up startled. “Did I say something profound on my own? Without quoting the Bard? I didn’t know anyone could do that.”

Chicory suppressed a giggle.

“Mom? Are you home?” Dusty called from the kitchen.

“Do you need to disappear?” Juliet whispered to him.

“No, ma’am. Dusty knows all about Pixies. She and Thistle are best friends from long ago.”

The sound of two sets of footsteps crossing the kitchen linoleum floor made both Chicory and Juliet sit up a little straighter. Chicory whistled to his tribe to wake up and get ready to hide.

Daisy flitted up toward the molding on the high ceiling then down to the double door opening between the parlor and the formal dining room and hung upside down, her
dainty feet hooking over the ornate wooden frame that hid sliding doors. She loosed a quiet whee-oo whistle. “Caution.”

Chicory took up his post on the corner of the coffee table but did not totally relax. His tribe took refuge in the velvet drapes and on the mantel, looking like cute porcelain statuettes.

“Experts at hiding in plain sight,” Juliet said sotto voce. “No wonder you survived so long.”

“Mom, I need your help,” Dusty said from the doorway. Her gaze riveted upon Chicory. Then her eyes opened wide and her mouth formed a silent “oh.” “You’re not dead?”

Chicory barely heard her words. He flipped a jaunty wave as he peered over her shoulder at the scrawny girl who hovered in the dining room, eyes downcast but warily searching the room.

“Help with what, Desdemona?” Juliet asked. She, too, surveyed the newcomer with curiosity and wariness.

“Desdemona? How weird is that?” the girl sneered.

“Mom, Hope here is another stray that Dick picked up and dumped in my lap. She’s cold, tired, and hungry, and I have to get back to work.”

“Not so fast, Desdemona,” Juliet said, holding up a hand to halt her daughter. “Explain, please.”

“Sheesh, she doesn’t want me any more than my stepfather.” Hope turned on her heel and headed back the way she came.

Dusty snaked out a hand and caught her T-shirt. They all heard the fabric tear.

Hope’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I didn’t say that.” Juliet rose from her rocking chair, set her cup and saucer on the table, and approached the girl cautiously. “I asked for more explanation. Now who are you and why are you one of Benedict’s strays?” She threw her hands in the air in one of her dramatic poses. She really should have taken up the theater. “When and why Benedict graduated from wounded birds and battle-hardened feral cats to lost girls I’ll never know. But I took in the animals he tamed, fed them, cleaned up after them, and grew to love
them. I might even do the same for you. But you need to justify your place in my house first.”

The girl looked up her. Something like respect flashed in her eyes before she dropped her gaze again and spotted Chicory.

Gulp. No sense trying to hide now.

“Dusty, are you here?” Chase came in through the back door—no one seemed to use the front—and across the kitchen to the dining room in direct line of sight with the entire tableau. “M’velle said you had an emergency…” He stopped short, seeing first Hope and then Chicory.

“Shit, this is a trap. You tricked me!” Hope rounded upon Dusty with accusations on her lips. “You lied to me. I said no police and you said fine. Now
he’s
here.” She looked as if she’d run right around Chase and out into the cold rain.

Time to earn his keep. Chicory flew up and over Dusty’s head to settle into a hover directly in front of Hope’s nose. “I’m the only one around here who gets to play tricks. These people may be weird, but they are honest.”

Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed at Juliet’s feet.

Dusty dropped to her knees to check the girl’s neck pulse. A steady beat throbbed against her fingertips.

Chase crouched beside her. “What is going on here?” he whispered.

“I wish I knew,” she replied.

Hope stirred and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Take it easy, Hope. I think the warm house after the outside chill, and an empty tummy were just too much for you.”

“I’ll make some more tea while you sort this all out,” Mom said. “Chicory, perhaps you and your tribe had best come with me. We don’t want to shock the girl any more than you already have.” She casually stepped over the waif and retreated to the kitchen. A flurry of winged creatures followed her.

Dusty counted eight Pixies, led by Chicory’s blue form.

“What’s going on here, Dusty?” Chase asked again.

“I don’t rightly know,” she replied. “From the few things Hope said, I’m guessing that she’s a runaway who’s been living on the street rather than a reject from foster care. Dick found her at Mabel’s.”