Unlucky Charms (The Cold Cereal Saga) (10 page)

Still and all, getting swallowed by an albatross was nothing if not a step backward. And one relatively unimproved by the fact that the albatross was shot by a tuna fisherman that same afternoon.

The fishermen of the
Albacore Four
had been watching a World Cup match, and South Africa had just won, and Jerry had taken his gun up on deck to celebrate by shooting at the sky for a bit. The sky, disgruntled, threw something back: a great white bird, plummeting, pinwheeling from the hole Jerry had just made in its right wing. An albatross, looking as preposterous as a biplane on the deck of the
Albacore Four
.

People claim that so many things are bad luck. Black cats and broken mirrors and sidewalk cracks. What you probably don’t know is that it’s also bad luck to kill an albatross. And why would you? You are presumably not a sailor, and you’ve likely never seen an albatross, and even if you have, you probably hadn’t anything against it personally and so you managed not to kill it. Unless it was an accident. But in general terms it is terrifically easy not to kill an albatross—you’re probably not killing one right now.

The point is that you may not have known it’s bad luck to kill an albatross, but Jerry the sailor knew. He knew this very well.

The usual custom in this sort of situation is to wear the albatross around your neck for a while, but instead Jerry scooped it up and, glancing about, rushed it belowdecks to one of the freezer holds, where he hid it inside a first aid cooler. Then he rejoined his crewmates and remarked loudly what a nice, birdless day it was outside.

When the
Albacore Four
was destroyed by lightning, Jerry found the first aid cooler useful to hold on to as he kicked for shore. On land, he found a buyer for his well-preserved and mostly intact albatross carcass, and bought a fresh suit of clothes, and landed a new job, and was killed a week later in an unrelated pumpkin-catapulting incident.

The albatross was freeze-dried and resold to the New Jersey Museum of Natural History, where it was displayed with a plaque that failed to mention that it contained any pixies. A week later it was stolen by mistake.

“How will I know which one is the eagle?” the thief asked, fidgeting outside the museum.

“Aw,” Haskoll answered. “And to think people say there’s no such thing as a stupid question. Good for you!”

“Sorry, but not everybody’s a … a bird doctor or whatever.”

“You sure you’re up for this, big guy? I bet I can find another hobo at the bus station who’s willing.”

“If you got the two hundred dollars, I’ll get your bird. Just don’t want to grab the wrong one …”

Haskoll smiled. “It’s easy. You bring me the biggest bird they have, okay?”

“’Kay,” the thief breathed. Then he headed across the quiet street to the rear of the museum.

When Haskoll saw him again at the meeting place in the parking garage, he was carrying an albatross and a pelican.

The albatross had been freeze-dried with its wings extended, and it caught the air like a kite as the thief ran.

“There wasn’t any eagle, boss!” the thief said. “I swear! There was a little sign that
said
eagle, but it was in front of another sign? And that one said ‘exhibit removed for cleaning.’”

“And so you just grabbed every other bird you could carry,” Haskoll replied. “What a go-getter you’ve turned out to be. You gonna make me an eagle out of spare parts now?”

The thief waggled the albatross in front of him, and it was one of the singular experiences of Haskoll’s life. There’s really nothing like having a dead albatross waved in your face.

“The sign said this bird has the biggest wings!” said the thief. “Bigger than the eagle, maybe? I thought it might be just as good.”

“So why the pelican?” said Haskoll.

The thief was giving Haskoll a look now, a look that said,
Man, why NOT the pelican?

Haskoll sighed and glanced down, and that’s when he noticed that the small chunk of iron on the tether around his neck was glowing. Faintly, sure, but there was definitely a glow. The little nugget was a coldstone, a lump of meteoric iron that gave off pink and purple sparks when it was near magic. Only now it was glowing black.
No, that’s not right
, thought Haskoll.
Nothing can glow black.
Still, it was making a color he’d possibly never seen before.

Haskoll was part changeling, and like all changelings he had a natural talent for seeing elves and magical creatures. He worked for a hunter named Papa who liked to shoot such creatures. But Papa was not a changeling and had to take Haskoll’s word for it that his trophy room was filled with the heads of fairy-tale beasts, and not just empty wooden plaques.

Recently Haskoll had been contacted by a private collector who wanted to pay him good money to steal Papa’s griffin head and replace it with just such an empty plaque. Haskoll had planned to give this collector an ordinary eagle head instead, and keep both the griffin and the money. Now he needed a new plan.

“I can give you a hundred for the both of them,” he told the thief. “Minus fifty to pay the pelican disposal fee. So that’s fifty, total.”

The thief sighed and nodded. Haskoll paid him and waited until he was out of sight, then left the pelican on top of a Subaru.

He had to wait a week before he met his secret buyer, a week he’d originally intended to spend gussying up the eagle head. He’d only spoken to the collector on the phone, so the man’s appearance was a bit of a shock.

“Mister … Mister Smith?” Haskoll said when the tall, thin man arrived.

“Mister Haskoll,” the man replied. “Is there something wrong?”

“Sorry, it’s just … you look
exactly
like Prince Charles. Of England?”

“I get that a lot.” The man smiled. And of course he couldn’t be Prince Charles. He didn’t even have an English accent. “Do you have something for me?”

Haskoll exhaled. “I … didn’t get the griffin head. I thought about it, and I just couldn’t steal from Papa, you know? But I have something else that might interest you.”

He produced the albatross from the tarp he’d wrapped it in, and set it on the table between them.

“A seagull,” said Mr. Smith. “I don’t think this is quite the prize you think it is.”

“It’s an albatross,” said Haskoll. “But look at this.” He pulled the coldstone over his head and held it at arm’s length. Except now it was glowing quite pink. Pink
and
black, actually, as if the colors were fighting each other. “That isn’t what it—” Haskoll began to add. Then he narrowed his eyes at Mr. Smith. “What
are
you?”

Mr. Smith stood, smiled, and then his skin split and fell away like laundry. Underneath were two goblins, one standing atop the other’s shoulders. They were wearing little suits.

“Misters Pigg and Poke,” said the goblin on top as he hopped to the floor.

“Conductin’ a test of your loyalty,” said the other.

Haskoll stood. “A test? For who? Did Papa set all this up?” It didn’t seem possible—he just didn’t give the old man that much credit.

“For our current employer,” said the first goblin. “A very important lady from a good family. She prizes loyalty, you see.”

“And yet she’s able to make an exception and work with goblins,” Haskoll said. “I think that kind of flexibility is really great.”

“Oh, but Our Lady is righteous, don’t you know.”

Haskoll understood. You could always fool the righteous.

“You’ve shown loyalty to this Papa,” said the second goblin with a conspicuous wink. “And yet also a willingness to work with other … interested parties. Our Lady would like to hire you, on retainer.”

“Hire me to do what?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe she’ll never call on you at all. But for fifty thousand dollars, you will be at her beck and call. Much like we are.”

Haskoll thought. “It’s gotta be fifty thousand in
real money
. American money, capiche? No fairy gold, no enchanted bills. I don’t wanna open my safe one day and find it full of bark or whatever.”

The first goblin stood atop the other’s shoulders again, and they grew a new Prince Charles skin. They shook Haskoll’s hand.

“We’ll take the albatross,” they said with one voice. “And in return, a little gift.”

They reached into their suit coat and removed a gun. Haskoll tensed, but then they turned the pistol and offered it to him, handle first. Haskoll took it.

“An enchanted weapon,” said the goblins. “It never runs out of bullets.”

“Sweet.”

“And here’s something for free,” said the goblins. “A foretelling.”

Haskoll looked up from the gun and frowned. “You mean, like … my fortune?”

“All the Fay get little glimpses of the future, though we never know quite when to expect them. But we had a peek just now when we shook your hand.”

Haskoll shifted from foot to foot. “Good stuff, I’m sure?”

The goblin Prince Charles smiled. There was possibly something not quite perfect about the disguise—the smile was wider than it should have been.

“Something big is coming your way,” said Charles in one of the goblin’s voices.

“Soon,” he added, in the other’s. “Something
very
big. It’s going to drop right in your lap.”

Haskoll grinned and peppered them with questions about this big something, but they insisted that it should be a surprise. So he thanked them, and they left with the albatross.

It was the middle of the night. Pigg and Poke liked this world, with its nights and days. The other Fay could talk all they wanted about the perfection of twilight, but a goblin’s rightful place was in the dark.

The Goodco factory was staffed at night by a skeleton crew, so it was easy for the goblins to find a quiet spot where they could tear the albatross apart.

“How now?” they addressed the pixie at the heart of the mess.

Prince Fi, still immobile, stared up at this poor counterfeit of a human face, searching for any trace of compassion.

“You know, I do believe it’s the last of King Denzil’s boys,” said the man in a goblin’s voice.

“Right as usual, Mister Pigg,” he answered himself in another.

Fi screamed in his mind.

“You know, I do think Our Lady Nimue would be pleased to meet you.”

“She’d certainly thank us for making introductions, Mister Pigg.”

“She would at that, Mister Poke. She would.”

“We
could
set up a meet and greet.”

“We
could
.”

The goblins paused.

“Or we could just throw His Tininess into a cereal box and let the gods sort him out.”

So that’s what they did.

A Puftees box, of course. He was found by one giant girl and sold to another, who took him home and introduced him to a trunk full of princesses.

CHAPTER 8

“—Oh, Princess Barbie, I love you. Please honor me with a kiss.”

“—But what will my father say?”

“—He won’t mind at all ’cause I slayed the Dorkmonster, and now he must give me your hand. Kiss me, I love you so.”

But I
don’t
love her
, thought Prince Fi as the tall blonde pressed close.
I don’t even know her. Not that Barbie doesn’t possess many … agreeable qualities, but—

The giant knocked Fi’s face against Barbie’s and made kissy noises.

—Mwah mwah mwah.

The poor woman
, he thought as he looked into Barbie’s rapidly advancing and retreating eyes.
To be disgraced in this way. Were both our curses lifted, I might make an honest woman of her—if only she weren’t three times my height.