

Dragon Hoard

AND OTHER TALES OF FAERIE

CATHLEEN TOWNSEND
Copyright © 2015 Cathleen Townsend

All rights reserved.

Published by Phoenix Flight Press

This book is comprised of works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0692583968

Cover art by Cathleen Townsend, font by Deranged Doctor Design

For all those who've helped me at Absolute Write—

You've answered my many questions, encouraged me when I felt overwhelmed, educated me about story, and most of all, you taught me to critique.

It has been a gift beyond price.

Thank you.

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank so many people. My husband, Tom, and son, Paul, along with his wife Marachelle, were my first readers and offered valuable feedback which helped improve not only these tales, but others as well.

In addition to the fabulous Share Your Work critters of Absolute Write, I've also had the input of some truly talented critique partners. Special thanks to Stephanie Hunter Nisbet, Katharine Tree, Kevin Bartolotta, Amphora Graye, Debbie Falaye, and J. E. Harnish.

# Contents

Dragon Hoard

BabaYaga.com

Troll

Beware

Faerie Travel

Pixies' Revenge

Phoenix

Teenage Driver

Seymour and the Head

Gargoyle

Trojan Wargames

A Fair Exchange

Afterward
Dragon Hoard

I shifted my tail, and several coins rattled down the mound of gleaming treasure. Heaps of glimmering gold, urns overflowing with silver, precious gems in two-handled cups—all these and more filled my cave. Impressive, in a sense. More wealth than many countries had at their disposal. But there was so much more out there, and nobody carried it around in coins anymore. Everyone had credit cards and bank accounts. And I couldn't get them on my own.

I turned my attention to my current broker and his summary of the past quarter, which was encouraging. Not only because it showed a healthy profit—I expected that—but he had taken his agreed-upon five percent and not a penny more. This one was definitely smarter than his three predecessors.

"The spike in gold prices has definitely helped," he was saying. "Our hostile takeovers are well in hand."

I referred back to the figures. "None of them show fifty-one percent." I snorted a smoke ring to remind him that profit wasn't everything. I already had wealth. Power was something else.

"You've just got to be patient," he said, adjusting his tie, and his scent communicated sincerity along with the expected burst of fear. "If we do this too fast, prices surge and your net gain is lost. Other shareholders may unite against you if they see it happening. We're trying to optimize your profit potential."

I barely stopped myself from blowing another smoke ring. I hated business-speak. At least I'd stopped his inane chatter about paradigm shifts and synergy.

It was just as well I had turned my mind to other avenues. "I want you to investigate currencies for me."

He nodded. "I was going to suggest it. There's nothing quite as satisfying as making money off of money." He embellished this with more syllables and promised to bring me a plan next week.

I spent the intervening time investigating venture capital investments and privately held companies which were for sale outright. Nothing there. They were selling for a good reason, and I for one could read the death rattle in the neat columns of figures. And I wasn't about to risk money on gold mines in countries that allowed strikes.

At the appointed time, my broker returned to my cave and handed me his currency proposal. I gave it some serious attention. Interesting. Creative, and not too dependent on hair-trigger timing, although it went without saying he'd be watching it carefully.

"I like it. Your plan for the euro seems promising." He stood straighter, which was a relief. I liked them submissive, but cringing annoyed me. "And I've worked up an idea for precious metals." I indicated a proposal on the left side of the antique walnut desk.

I settled back as he read, scratching my shoulder against a particularly fine ruby-encrusted goblet. Nothing settled an itch quite like rubies. I made myself a mental note to keep it back during the next phase. My broker cleared his throat.

"It's elegant in its simplicity, but we can't do this."

"Why not?" I hadn't missed anything important when it came to money in centuries.

"A plan of this magnitude, flooding the market to depress the price of gold so we can buy up more..." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I can't do it. A plan like this could cause massive instability. Wars have started over less."

I suppressed a rumble of frustration; he was already afraid enough. This was the liability that came with an honest stockbroker; none of his predecessors would have hesitated. "Very well. I will come up with a new plan."

He turned to go and my flames enveloped his body. It was time for lunch anyway.

Damn. Now I needed to find an honest, unprincipled stockbroker.
BabaYaga.com

Joe leaned against the bar and took a sip of his beer. "So, you see the possibilities, right? From where I'm sitting, it looks foolproof. Online marketing is the way to sell these days. And BabaYaga.com has boosted sales for every one of our clients."

The man sitting next to him looked doubtful. "I'd have to think about it. It's a new product, and usually I only go with things that have a proven track record."

"Well, caution is fine, but with such a low investment, it's hardly worth missing out on the increased sales. Two-fifty down, twenty-five a month after that, and that includes twenty-four hour web support. That's nothing when it comes to advertising." Although the hundred dollar commissions were definitely worthwhile.

"That's still expensive for what you're selling, and the monthly fee is a disincentive."

Joe took another sip. "Look, to be equally frank, if you're going to quibble over an amount like that, you might not have the vision a successful entrepreneur needs." Sometimes, taking it away worked wonders. Never be too eager.

"How does it work? I've never heard about a product that can change Google ads."

Joe snorted. "Do I look like a computer geek? For all I know, this thing could use magic. What I do know is the program makes new connections with the data it's given." He shrugged. "Look, I'm in sales. And the secret there is to always have a product that sells itself." It still amazed him this line worked so often. If the product sold itself, no one would pay a salesman to sell it. But so far, only two people had ever called him on it, and they were lost causes anyway.

Joe started getting his things together, although the trick there was not to do it too fast. Just as he dropped a tip onto the bar, the guy said, "I can cancel anytime I want? No penalties?"

Joe gave him his best sincere smile. "We're not a cellphone provider─we don't need that crap. Cancel anytime you like. But nobody has so far." That was easy to say when your company was less than two months old.

A credit card number later and the deal was done. Another hundred bucks. Time to go to another sports bar and find another mark. Four sales later, it was time to knock off for the day.

He drove to the square little building on the outskirts of town and shook his head as he opened the front door. What a dump. For the kind of money this old biddy apparently had, you'd think she could at least make an effort. Someone needed to explain to her that dusty knickknacks on every available surface didn't make the ultimate decorating statement.

The black cat on the counter hissed at him, but at least that resulted in the appearance of his boss. "You do well? You make sale?" It was just as well she never wasted words; her Russian accent was hard enough to understand as it was.

He nodded and gestured to the laptop sitting on the counter. She pulled up the sales for the day, grunted in satisfaction, and then reached into the pocket of her shapeless, faded dress for five one-hundred-dollar bills. Joe wondered why she never wore anything besides those old dresses and tacky scarves. But he wasn't about to ask questions of anyone who paid up the way she did. He was going to ride this gravy train and hope it never stopped.

The cat hissed as Joe pocketed the money, and he was tempted to hiss back. But the old gal doted on the scrawny thing, so he merely nodded and left.

A month later, Joe was considering moving to a better apartment. He'd already updated his wardrobe, his computer, and his cell phone. As he drove to one of his favorite sports bars, the thought of a new car entered his thoughts. Nothing flashy—not like some guy going through a mid-life crisis. Something classy. Maybe a Mercedes or BMW. He'd go ahead and get one with a sunroof.

The bartender slid him a Heineken as he sat, and Joe grinned. He was just deciding he'd stop at the BMW dealer first when a guy in his mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a blazer, plunked down on the stool next to him.

Joe was trying to remember whether he'd talked to him already, when the man said, "There's a problem with that program you sold me."

Well, that settled that question. Joe put a puzzled look on his face and asked, "What sort of problem? Haven't your sales increased?"

The man barked out a short laugh. "Oh, sales are up, all right. But it turns out that thing is far too good at 'making new connections,' as you put it. Some of my business is cash only, and now those files are integrated with the ones I show the IRS."

Joe swallowed. "Ah. Well, have you canceled? Then it should just be a case of deleting the files you don't want."

The man's blue eyes grew hard. "Of course I canceled. But the files won't delete. And every time I try to write new files, they turn back into the old ones. Even if I input them on another computer."

Joe blinked and thought furiously. "Well, as you know, I'm in sales, not development. But I'll have a word with our resident geeks and see if we can find a way to solve your problem." The old lady hardly qualified as a computer nerd, but she was all he had.

"You do that." The guy put down his drink, then pulled open his jacket to show a pistol tucked into his belt. "Give me your number. And don't make me come looking for you. I want this problem solved, and I want my money back. Now."

Joe reached into his wallet and pulled out three hundred dollars. He folded the bills and handed them over. You had to be alive to spend it later.

The man nodded before standing up again. "Okay, that just bought you twenty-four hours. But I want this to go away. Make it happen."

Joe ran a hand through his hair as the man walked away. He looked so harmless, too. Just another wannabe rich guy, searching for his shortcut to the good life. Joe left his beer and drove to see the old lady.

He explained the situation as his boss stroked her cat. She pursed her lips. "So he pay for more connection, and now he no want. Should know what he want when he ask for it. No good blame me if he want wrong thing."

Joe was in no mood for a philosophical discussion. "Look, he had a gun."

She shrugged. "I have gun." She reached under the counter and laid a nine millimeter on top.

Joe shook his head. She just didn't seem like the type. "Yeah, except he was ready to shoot me with his."

His boss reached under the counter again and brought out a CD. "Tell him put this on computer, and it will stop problem. This stop connection. That what he want, yes?"

Joe breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes. So I can tell him this will fix it, right? Everything will be back the way it was before?"

The old woman frowned. "Now want like it was before. You sure? No ask for what you no want."

"Yes, that's exactly what I want," Joe said. Maybe he should get this thing copied, in case he had any other unsatisfied customers.

The gal even gave him his three hundred back before he left, and Joe was feeling much better about life. Every start-up was bound to have some problems. And it wasn't as though the guy had actually pulled the gun on him. An uninstall disk meant Joe could continue to sell, and that was a very good thing. This was so much better than selling cars.

He called his client and dropped the disk by his business, a tiny office in the warehouse district, not too far from the old lady's building. Any further from downtown, and the guy would be out in the cow pastures.

The next morning, perhaps inspired by that thought, he made several sales downtown. Parking was a hassle, but the sheer concentration of people looking for a quick way to make a buck made it worthwhile. He was opening his car door when he saw the same client from yesterday across the street.

"How'd that disk work?" Joe called over the traffic.

The man's face turned ugly, and Joe lost no time getting in his car. He pulled away, tires squealing, just as the window on the driver's side shattered.

"Son of a─" The car slid alarmingly as he took a corner. The look of fear on a skateboarder's face was small recompense for what was rapidly becoming a terrible day. A glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the guy's red Mustang had managed to get within two car lengths.

Joe headed south, running stop signs with abandon. He'd love to get pulled over right now. An old lady with a walker flipped him the bird as he screeched around another corner.

A train barricade started lowering ahead. Perfect. Joe swerved into the oncoming lane and made it across just ahead of the train. The sharp blast of the horn made him jump, but then he stomped on the accelerator all the way up the onramp. At least on the freeway, he wouldn't have to worry about pedestrians.

He kept an eye on the traffic behind him, but there was no Mustang. He exited and worked his way south, still in the clear. He definitely needed to talk to the old lady. Getting shot at was not part of his job description.

He pulled into the lot and sat frozen in disbelief before he remembered to turn off the car. He yanked open the door and ran to the open lot, where only yesterday the tacky little office had been.

All that remained was a row of giant bird tracks leading into the fields.

Troll

I've always wanted to see the sun.

"Did you find me anything?" I asked Doran as entered the circle of firelight. Doran was not your everyday companion. He was under four feet tall, slender, and could slap on a glamour faster than anyone I've ever seen.

Today, he removed one slowly, almost like opening a curtain. A beautiful painting of a sunrise emerged.

"Oh, that's the best by far," I said, taking it gingerly, being careful not to hurt him with my much-larger hands. It showed the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, gilding it and all the others in the sky with incredible shadings of red and gold. "How can you tell if it's a sunrise or a sunset?"

His smile was tinged with compassion. "You can't, not just by looking at a painting. But they're both worth seeing."

I propped it up against a rock in front of my cave where I could fill my eyes with the beautiful thing and went back to turning the spitted venison. It wouldn't do to burn the meal.

"I'm going to look at it this morning when I go to bed," I decided. Trolls couldn't bear the light of day, but it would be at least a little like being there.

"I scouted up a few caves for you," Doran offered. "Ones where you can see the sky as it brightens. That's the best part anyway."

What a friend. "Can we go in the morning?"

He got up and bowed. "For you, Grof, maker of so many fine meals, I could do no less."

I smiled as I turned the spit. Something to look forward to.

After supper Doran led me to a cave that seemed...average. Nothing wrong with it, but not as big as mine.

When I voiced this, he said, "Ah, but we're not here for the accommodations. Wait until you see the view."

At least the cave delved far enough into the hillside that I could sleep without worrying about a stray sunbeam catching me later. I had no desire to become a stone statue.

The sunrise that morning was incredible. The delicate shadings, the way the clouds changed color even as I looked at them, the unspoken promise that this would be a day worth living.

That night, before I even caught another deer, I moved all my things to the new cave. I left Doran a note.

"I see you decided the view was worth it," he said later as he tossed a rabbit down near the new spit.

I loved my new place. I became a connoisseur of sunrises, learning their nuances. Doran and I started a game where we'd grade them, and then we added predicting how they'd come out.

"I figure this one will be a seven-and-a-half," I said, settling myself back against the cave wall to watch. There were a few clouds, the thin stretchy kind, not as spectacular as the big, puffy ones. It was still worth seeing, though; they all were. I had to clamp down on the recurring impulse to go stand out in it.

"I'll have to miss seeing them with you for a few weeks," Doran said. "But I'll be back later."

I spared him a quick nod. I didn't talk much once the sunrise started.

I missed Doran for suppers, but not during sunrise. I wished there was a way to make it last forever. I became a person who lived for those few moments every morning, those perfect minutes at daybreak. I looked at my painting often, but it wasn't the same. Hiding in a cave to watch wasn't enough anymore. I wanted to be out in it, to live in the heart of the sunrise, even if for only a few minutes.

I sat outside my cave in the predawn light one morning and surveyed the coming day with a practiced eye. It was going to be beautiful. It would be the kind of sunrise people talked about for years. And I couldn't bear to watch it cowering in a cave.

I stood in the open and faced the day. The first hint of rosy gold hit the clouds and I smiled. I was finally going to do it.

Seeing it light up the whole sky, stretching away to forever, was better than I could have ever imagined. It was so wide, so open and beautiful. And I was here, a part of it.

I barely felt the first kiss of sun hit my body. I made sure my eyes were fixed on the sky; I wanted to watch for as long as I could. And in those moments, I breathed the sunrise, felt its warmth on my body, and sent my spirit upward to meet it.

Doran stopped short at the sight of the stone troll on the hillside. His eyes filled with tears as he walked over to give the stony hand a farewell pat. "I hope it was worth it, my friend."

Beware

He strode into the village, robed and hooded, staff in hand. No one could see his face, but they could all hear his voice. "Beware!" It rang out clear and strong, oddly incongruous with his tattered robe and slumped shoulders.

A farmer approached him and asked, "Beware what? Is someone coming? Do we need to move to safety?"

But the hooded figure simply said, "Beware," again, and the man stepped back, shaking his head.

"Lost his mind, poor thing," said one woman to her friend as they waited at the bakery.

The friend clucked. "Such a pity it is when that happens. I once knew a man like that. Took that way when his wife went." She stepped up to the counter and said, "I'll take three loaves, please."

One boy, bolder or more eager than the others, ran up behind the hooded man and let fly with a dirt clod. It hit the man's back squarely, and the half-dozen boys with him laughed.

"Good throw, Elric," said one, and soon the figure was pelted with dirty missiles, to the counterpoint of the boys' laughter.

"Beware," the figure said. He repeated it in a rising crescendo of urgency as the boys continued to taunt him.

"Stop that!" The burly baker barked out the order, confident in his ability to make it stick. "You lot run along, or you'll wish you had." He clenched his fists.

There were no takers; the boys cleared off. The baker shook his head. "They'll come to a bad end if they keep that up." He called to his daughter. "Why don't you offer the man a roll, Alise? He probably needs to eat."

She scurried out of the shop and held up a roll to the figure. "Would you like this? My Da wants you to have one."

The hooded face turned in her direction, but she could only see his mouth. "Beware," he said again, but it was gentle. He reached out a travel-worn hand and took a roll.

The girl ran back to her father.

Dogs ran through town, barking, but shied away when they got close to the stranger. Horses swished their tales and shifted as he passed. At the end of town, weary, the hooded figure sat. He pulled the roll out of his ragged sleeve and regarded it.

So did the man behind him, who put a knife to the figure's throat. "I'll take that. And anything else you've got." The thief drew a ragged breath, his eyes checking for watchers, but nobody would care much if the crazy vagabond was robbed.

"Beware," the hooded man said. He made no move to give the knife-wielder his roll.

"You've said that already. I'm telling you, hand it over." His knife broke through the coarse fabric, and blood seeped through the robe.

The figure turned and his hood fell back. His eyes blazed, and the thief fell, twisting and writhing, until he stilled. The hooded figure regarded him, perhaps with regret.

"Beware."

Faerie Travel

Amy sat on the curb and scowled at her once-pink sneakers. They were grubby, just like the rest of her. She could barely keep her eyes open, but there was no safe place to rest. No one she could trust to watch her back so she could sleep. And she'd never been this hungry in her life.

"Hey!"

It took a moment to realize the grizzled man was talking to her. Amy raised her head and brushed her brunette hair out of her eyes. "Yes?"

"Some gal gave me a box of donuts. You can have one if you like." The thirty-ish man held out a white box with a cellophane window. He was none too clean, but neither was she.

Watching him closely, wary of tricks, Amy edged closer and pulled out a powdered sugar donut. She'd never cared for them before, but now they were beyond praise. She had to force herself to chew and not just swallow each bite whole.

"Here, you can finish them," the man said. There was one left in the box.

Amy ate everything, including the crumbs and powdered sugar at the bottom. Now that her stomach wasn't demanding all her attention, she took stock of her surroundings. They weren't promising.

Dirty high-rise buildings, billboards, people in suits walking across the littered ground. None of them spared a glance at the unfortunates who sat with downcast expressions and the odd cardboard sign. Only yesterday morning Amy had belonged to people with suits. Now she was someone else. The kind of person other people looked away from.

She met the man's eyes; they were blue under the shock of greasy hair. "Uh, is there a...church, or maybe a place that gives out food?" she asked.

He cast her an assessing glance. "You eighteen?"

Amy raised her chin. "Yes."

He grinned. "Liar. Any of those places get a hold of you, and it's back to your parents."

Amy shuddered. Anything but that.

"Is there anyplace I could get work?" she asked, without any real hope. You needed an address, a phone, a social security number that didn't belong to a runaway. She didn't have any of those things. She'd bolted straight out the front door. There hadn't even been time to get her purse.

"I got a job for you, if you're not too proud to take it," the guy said.

She cast him a disgusted glance and got to her feet. It seemed like everyone wanted her for the same thing.

"No, it's not what you're thinking," he said, and Amy gave him a longer look. Grimy fingernails, dirty clothes, a hole in one shoe—he didn't look like he had any cash to spare. A Budweiser can in his left hand showed what he'd spent his last windfall on.

"Then what is it?" she asked, steeling herself. She couldn't afford to pass up even the chance of work.

"Let's take a walk in the park, and I'll show you," he said, getting to his feet. He had to steady himself against the lamp post, although he could be faking that. Still, he wasn't much bigger than she was, and one of his shoes flapped when he took an uncertain step. If nothing else, she could outrun him.

Amy walked on the man's right, a little behind where she could keep an eye on him. But he made no threatening moves. A duck landed on the pond as they arrived, quacking about something which apparently interested the other ducks not at all. A mother with two children tossed pieces of bread on the pond. Amy wished she could ask for a slice, but the grimy figure in front of her pushed on.

He stopped by a row of bushes on the far side of the pond. Amy looked around, but there didn't seem to be anything else.

The man finished off his beer and regarded it with a wistful expression before dropping the can to the ground. Amy bent to pick it up, but he said, "Don't. It's a marker."

She straightened and met his eyes. "What's it for?"

"To help us find this spot. It's an easy thing to focus on."

Amy stared at the guy in disbelief, and he sighed. "Look. Just because there's something you haven't heard of doesn't mean it isn't true. Well, okay, you have heard of it, but you've heard it all wrong. And I don't know if I can even show you anymore, but I'm pretty sober right now, so there's a decent chance. But only if you're the type of person who can see—which you probably aren't."

Great. The guy was not only a drunk, he was crazy, too. "What are you talking about?" Amy demanded.

"Faerie." His expression managed to be both defiant and weary at the same time.

Amy put her hands on her hips. "As in purple unicorns and Tinkerbell?" Wow. She sure could pick them.

"No purple unicorns. And not Tinkerbell, at least not how you think of her. That's what I meant by you've heard it all wrong. Look, not many people can travel to Faerie, okay? But some of those who can, talk. And things get changed in the telling. If you can take us there, I'll tell you some more. If not, I'm just another crazy guy you met on the street." He belched. "So, do you want to try? There's food there."

Amy had just started to turn away, but the possibility of something to eat had her attention. "What's your name?"

He blinked. "Quentin will do."

Okay, so Quentin was probably crazy. But even if he saw a Salvation Army as fairyland, he was probably right about the food. Even crazy people needed to eat. And Amy was still so hungry that it hurt. But she wasn't desperate enough to take the only other job that had been offered.

"What do I need to do?" Please let it be something she could bear.

Quentin smiled. "First, listen. Faerie travel allows you to move in space, both in our world and in Faerie. Adepts can move up to twenty miles, but you and I? Figure a mile radius from where we are now. That's why we need the marker, to come back to this spot."

"How do we leave, and how do we come back?"

"You open your mind and fan out the possibilities in front of you. I always think of it as laying out cards, the kind that have scenery printed on them, like from a national park, instead of jacks and queens. Anyway, you choose one of the possibilities, focus on it, and take us there. I'll help."

Amy searched Quentin's face. He looked like he believed what he was saying. "How will you help?" she asked.

He grinned. "I can tell you what Faerie looks like. It helps to be in a park because the land hasn't been changed as much. The shape of Faerie is just like here, but people change that. They fill it in and dig it out to build things. Parks are closer."

"So Faerie looks just like this? Then what's the point of going there?"

He made a disgusted sound. "No, of course not. I said the shape is the same. Picture the grass in front of us, only see it as perfectly green. Nobody mows it, so it's longer. The trees..." He closed his eyes for a moment. "The trees have small white flowers, and you can smell them, like perfume."

His voice droned on, and Amy tried to picture what he said. Unbidden, more details came to her. Daisies in the grass. A bird, something like a robin but with blue on its breast, fluttered down from a tree and pecked at something by the pond. The pond had swans instead of ducks. More clouds in the sky. And the air smelled wonderful...

"Take a step forward," Quentin said.

Amy's foot moved, and when it came down, it was on grass studded with daisies. She threw out her arms and spun around. "It's real!"

Quentin grinned. "Still think I'm crazy?"

Amy smiled back. "Of course not. This is wonderful!"

"Ah, a new mortal."

Amy looked for the speaker and froze in disbelief. He was maybe two feet tall, and he swept her a full bow. "Greetings, from one trickster to another." He was wearing old-fashioned breeches and jacket, all in brown, but the cap he doffed was green.

Amy bowed back, awkwardly. "I don't think I'm a trickster."

Quentin said, "That's a name for someone who can do what we do. Travel from our world to Faerie and back." He grinned. "Besides, it usually fits, sooner or later."

Amy shook her head. "You mean you use this to...oh, pull chairs out from under people and stuff?"

Their new companion shook his head. "Nothing like that. The hallmark of a good trickster is not being noticed. Or if we're seen at all, only out of the corner of someone's eye as we disappear." He gave her a long look and then turned to Quentin. "When are you planning to return?"

Quentin shrugged. "It'll be easier to come back if she's eaten something here first."

Amy shifted her gaze back and forth between the two. "Then where do we find some food?" This place was so much better. It smelled wonderful, although the absence of cars was enough to do that on its own. And the colors—the grass was so vivid, and surely the pond wasn't that bright a blue back at the park. Maybe she could build a hut or something. "Do they have jobs here? Could I get one?"

The small man shook his head. "No lord will want the services of those such as we. Besides, it is summer. Why work for what the land offers in abundance?"

They spent the next hour gathering mushrooms and berries. Amy had never grown anything before, but the scent of the earth, when she pulled out each mushroom, made her dig her fingers into it with longing. It was rich, full of the promise of growing things.

They ate their small meal sitting together, talking of inconsequential things. Their short companion declined to give his name, even when Amy told him hers, and she could see why he called himself a trickster. He made fun of everything—the birds in the trees, Amy's expression when she bit into a sour berry, the way Quentin rubbed his hands together.

When they finished, he stood and bowed. "You were a pleasant companion, Amy. Be wary."

"Why?" she asked. It was the first time she'd let her guard down since she'd left home.

He smiled, but it was thin. "Merely a common well-wishing among tricksters. One such as we will be dead if we're not careful." He stood and shot Quentin an urgent look. "Someone's coming."

The little man beckoned to Amy, and they huddled inside some thick bushes that grew near the path. The most beautiful person Amy had ever seen rode past. His silvery blond hair hung past his shoulders, held back by a gold circlet. His robes were a deep green and gleamed like satin. Several others followed, a hunting party perhaps, for they all carried bows.

The leader stopped his fine white horse and sniffed. "Mortals," he said in a voice filled with disdain.

"Perhaps ones new to Faerie," the companion behind him said. "Shall we show them the things the tales left out?" All the group laughed.

"Better sport by far than a fox," said the leader with a smile. He dug his heels into the side of his horse, and they cantered off.

Amy was glad to see them go. They'd been so cold. Beautiful, too, but she was glad they didn't have dogs. "They...they would hunt us?"

"We have only to step into the mortal world to escape," the little man said at her side.

Quentin scrambled out of the bushes and brushed leaves out of his hair. "That's why they hate us—we can get away. Faerie lords don't like that."

Amy stepped out, trembling, and Quentin took one look at her and laughed. "It's not that much different from how men treat each other. The strong prey on the weak. But we can move faster than any deer. After you get used to it, you'll grow to like the feeling."

"You will show her how to travel back," the little man said to Quentin, fixing him with a stern look.

He nodded. "Of course. Nobody should have to put up with their crap."

The little man nodded sharply, took a step forward, and was no longer there.

"He disappeared!" Amy cried.

Quentin shook his head. "So did we when we left the park. He just took a quick step into our world and reappeared somewhere else in Faerie. I've seen him before. Twenty miles is nothing to him."

"What would they do to us if they catch us?" Amy asked.

"Nothing good. So make sure you don't get caught."

Amy suppressed a sigh. Be wary, indeed. She used to listen to other kids in school, whose biggest problem seemed to be that they couldn't take their parents' car since they totaled the last one. She wanted to be able to relax enough to do things wrong, to even gripe about the consequences. She could barely remember feeling safe, back when she was younger. It seemed like forever.

Quentin's smile crooked. "You want something better than mushrooms and berries?"

"Is there anything more?" The small meal hadn't exactly been filling.

Quentin stretched out his arms. "If you know where to look. Food even tastes better in Faerie. And the wine..." He got a dreamy expression on his face.

"The last thing I need is wine." Amy was having enough trouble staying awake as it was.

"Then how do you feel about pie?"

Amy's mouth watered. "Where can we get one? The little guy said nobody would give us any work." She wasn't about to ask for a job from anyone in that hunting party.

"Well...I wasn't thinking of paying for it."

Amy stood. "Oh, no. I'm not stealing anything."

"Fine. Go home on your own, then." Quentin stood and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

Amy blinked. "Isn't it the same as coming?"

"So try."

Amy pictured the park, including the beer can. She added the ducks on the pond, the scarred bench, and the litter blowing across the grass, with brown clippings scattered across the top. She held her breath and took a step.

Nothing.

She looked up into Quentin's grinning face.

"Not so easy, is it?" he said. "This is a valuable education I'm giving you. Getting home will cost you a pie."

Amy shot him a look of loathing and stomped away several paces. But if she couldn't go back, those hunters might catch her. She should've asked the little guy more questions.

There was a scuffle of leaves behind her, and Amy whirled around. "Where are you going?"

Quentin shrugged. "Home. It's time for another beer."

"No—wait. I'll do it." Amy rubbed her hands on her jeans. What else could she do? She had no idea if the little guy would ever come back. Quentin was all she had.

"That's more like it. I knew you'd see things my way."

Quentin led her up a small rise not too far from a grand stone house and pointed to a room around the side. "That's the larder. I used to come and snag the odd meal here before."

"What if someone sees me?" Amy said. "Will you please show me how to get back? Just in case I'm caught?"

Quentin laughed. "I'm a drunk, not an idiot. Don't be seen, and there'll be no problems."

Amy threw him a disbelieving look, but she bent over and crept through the bushes. She had to take her time and be careful of leaves and twigs. Her feet still caught a few, and she stopped, her heart racing, each time to listen. When nobody came to check, she edged forward again. One step at a time. She had to remind herself that no one else could hear her heartbeat, even if it was thundering in her ears.

When the bushes ended, a ten yard run separated her from the door. It was painted green, set into a stone lintel. Amy hoped with every fiber of her being that it didn't squeak.

A quick dash across the grassy space, and she edged the door open, oh-so-carefully, but it didn't make a sound. She slipped inside but left the door ajar.

It opened into a pantry filled with food-laden shelves. Amy grabbed a pie just as a woman's voice came from the room next door. "Now, which of you has..."

Amy bolted for the bushes, her heart in her throat. It was even harder creeping back. Move the pie, crawl up next to it. Shift the pie again. A screech from the direction of the house made her want to leave the pie and run, but she had to get the thing back to Quentin. The thought that he might have given up and left was enough to make her whimper with fear. She had to get out of here. She was the kind of person those men were hoping to catch.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally caught sight of Quentin, thumbs still hooked into his grimy pants and a smug smile on his face.

"See, you're back safe and sound," he said.

Amy handed him the pie. "Here. Now tell me how to get home."

Quentin laid a hand on her arm. "Sure. Do like you did before."

Amy pictured it carefully, took a step forward, and they were back at the park, right next to the beer can. "Why did it work this time?"

Quentin grinned. "No way you could picture where you wanted to go as easily as I could focus on what was all around us. I thought about Faerie harder than you did about the park." He threw her a wink. "Thanks for the pie."

Amy bit down on despair as Quentin shuffled off. She scrubbed away tears, angry at herself for crying. There was nobody who would care. Faerie was real, and she was too afraid to go back.

What she really needed was a job. There had to be someone who wouldn't turn her in. A church steeple beckoned in the distance. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started off.
Pixies' Revenge

The underground facility was stark and utilitarian—and the hallways were usually empty. The quiet hum of refrigeration units and climate control provided the only sounds. Not even muzak played in the hallways. Why would it? There was no one to hear.

Tonight, however, furtive steps echoed in the passage. The metallic clink of pliers dropped on the polished concrete floor resulted in an even louder round of shushing. Then a voice said, "Screw it. If they can't hear that, they're deaf as well as daft."

The speaker, Horace, would surprise any onlooker. Ten inches tall, he wore coveralls and carried an open wooden toolbox. None of his four companions were any taller, although they were cleaner. Horace flaunted his dirt in this place like a badge of honor. He was good at defiance, and the tools he bore were not for show.

"What do we do now?" Stanley asked in a puzzled voice.

Horace sighed. "You just stand right here, nice and still."

Stanley's face brightened. "That's right—I remember now."

"That's a good lad," Will said as he climbed up to stand on Stanley's shoulders. "Pity he was wrong about the wings. They'd come in handy now."

Horace gave Will a sharp rap on his ankle and Will howled, causing another round of shushing.

"Don't you ever say that again!" Horace snapped. He clambered onto the shoulders of Maisie and Emma, and then hoisted himself up on Will's shoulders to fiddle with the lock.

A satisfying snick, and all the pixies dropped back to ground level, to push on the white-painted door. It didn't put up much of a fight.

"Are you sure this is the right room?" Maisie asked, her eyes wide under a cap of brunette curls.

Emma shimmied up a table leg to read the screen that glowed softly in the corner. "It is." Her voice was filled with grim determination that belied her delicate features and blonde hair. Of all of them, she had the most personal reasons for being there.

Will immediately strode to the large metal casket in the center of the room, which was bristling with electronic safeguards. It looked large enough to contain a body, and in fact, did.

"It's not going to be a simple as unplugging the thing," he said, after a close look at the readouts. "This thing is set up with redundancies on its back-ups."

"So we figure a way around them," Horace grated. He laid out his tools, and Maisie began chalking a circle around the central casket. Horace harrumphed and got back to work on the readouts. He'd rather do this without magic entirely, but the last thing they needed was an alarm.

When Maisie finished sprinkling her herbs around her chalked circle, she gave Will a nod, and he and Horace began the delicate task of untangling wires.

"What should I do, Emma?" Stanley's face radiated eagerness, and she spared him a quick smile.

"You stand watch at the door, all right? Make sure nobody interrupts us."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you think we're doing something wrong, Emma? I don't want to kill anybody."

Her eyes hardened. "He's already dead, Stanley. We're just making sure he stays that way."

Stanley nodded, still uncertain, but craned his head out the door anyway. Emma gave his shoulder a comforting pat before joining Horace and Will on top of the casket.

"Have you disconnected the temperature controls yet?" she asked.

Horace shook his head. "These are tricky. You'd think technology this old would be simple enough."

"They've likely upgraded it since," she replied in her most soothing voice. The last thing they needed was Horace ranting from frustration.

"And it's the mix between the two that's making it so difficult," Will added, teasing out a wire and giving it a careful look. "Half of these are probably dead."

"Oh, I can help with that," Maisie said. She shimmied up the rope that Horace had tied off and laid a hand on the wire. "Current is close enough to life force that I can sense it. This one's dead."

Will marked the wire and pulled it to the side.

Engrossed in their task, no one remembered Stanley until he stage-whispered, "Someone's coming!"

Muttered obscenities greeted this news.

"What are they doing, Stanley?" asked Will.

"It's some guy with a mop," he answered, looking around the group.

"So we need a distraction." Emma met Maisie's eyes in supplication. She'd rant like Horace if they had to leave with their task undone.

Maisie rummaged in her bag. "I can animate the golem. But it won't work if it gets too far out of range." She pulled a little wooden figure out.

"We've got to try something," said Horace. "If he comes in here, the whole thing's over." Getting in hadn't been easy, and Maisie had complained this was wiping out her herb supply. They might not get another chance.

Maisie joined Stanley by the door. "I can cloak this in a glamour as long as I can see it," she whispered. "It's small enough. But I'll have to run after it to keep it in sight." She winced at the chance of being seen as she cast a glance down the hallway. There wasn't much they could use as a distraction. "You grab his mop and take it as far as you can."

Stanley smiled. "That's smart. He can't clean the floors without it."

"Wait until I say go," Maisie warned as Stanley stepped forward.

Stanley bobbed his head, and Maisie crept past him. Her face scrunched up in concentration as she set the wooden puppet onto the polished concrete floor.

The janitor had just wrung his mop again when the golem rammed into the bucket.

"What the..." The man dropped the mop and trailed after the sound of the golem banging into door after door.

"Go!" whispered Maisie, as the janitor's head swung around at the next hollow thump. He dove to catch the puppet, but the glamour held. He obviously couldn't see the golem scamper away.

Stanley rushed to the mop and dragged it doggedly behind him. He might not be great at planning, but he could do strong.

"Circle around," Maisie said before darting down the left side of the T-intersection at the end of the hall.

Stanley trudged on, turning to the right when he neared the end, even though Maisie and the man were nowhere in sight. He had no idea what he could do if he ran into them. But he trusted Maisie.

Maisie wouldn't have been able to voice the same confidence in her judgment. She dogged the man's steps and hissed in alarm as he took a step back and nearly crushed her. This caused the man to whirl around, and she just barely ducked out of sight behind his legs again.

"What the hell's going on?" the man said, scratching his graying head. The golem bumped into another door further down the hall, and he jumped. "That's it. I knew there had to be ghosts in a place like this. The floors are clean enough for tonight."

He headed back the way he came, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

Maisie kept on his heels and bit her lip. What would the man do when he saw his mop was gone? She should've told Stanley to wait with the others.

Maisie followed the mop trail, reflecting the fluorescent light, although the janitor was apparently too rattled to notice just yet, since he headed back down the hallway to his rolling bucket. She raced down and skidded around the corner.

Stanley was hauling the heavy mop backward now, his face puckered in concentration as he struggled to maintain his snail's pace.

"Just drop it!" she said, then winced at the sound of her voice. The mop handle fell with a clatter, and Stanley started to roll his shoulders in relief, but Maisie grabbed his hand.

"Run!" She tugged him further down the hall. They mustn't be seen. Not when they were so close. And she could hear the rumble as the man approached, pulling his rolling bucket behind him.

They were just rounding the corner when they heard a startled, "Hey!"

Maisie wished fear actually gave wings to her feet, but it washed over her in a wave of nausea instead. Stanley had to pull her down the long hallway. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to run. She scooped up the golem again as they passed, its magic spent. Maybe if they left no physical trace, the man would still believe it was ghosts.

The sound of the mop bucket grew fainter as they ran. They skidded around the final corner, and the other three were in the hall again. Horace stood on Emma's shoulders, fiddling with the lock, to put it all back as it was before.

"Is it done?" Maisie asked, panting for breath.

"That it is." Horace hopped down and nodded in satisfaction. "He'll trouble us no more."

"We've got to get out of here," Maisie reminded them. If the broken machine was found out too soon, perhaps they could hook it back up again.

Horace picked up his toolbox, but Emma turned to face the door a final time. "A token of esteem from Tinkerbell, Mr. Disney."

She pushed back a blonde curl and followed Maisie down the hall.
Phoenix

Personally, I blame the phoenix. It's supposed to rise from the ashes to signal the beginning of a new age, and now I'm wondering if that's ever going to happen. We need a new era. Somebody should do something.

The last year of the old millennium, 1999, didn't get off to an auspicious start. On January first, UCLA went down in the Rose Bowl. And to who? The Wisconsin Badgers.

And the year went downhill from there. We had the President of the United States plastered over every media known to man, attempting to lawyer his way out of Monica Lewinsky. The world's population passed the six billion mark, and we couldn't feed everybody even before that happened. A bunch of school kids got shot by their classmates in Colorado. And you couldn't turn around without hearing about Y2K. My neighbor sank his life's savings into an emergency food stash. He's going to be disappointed if everyone's okay when January rolls around again.

I was too intelligent to waste my money on beans and rice—I booked a flight from LAX to Paris. I was going to spend Christmas at Notre Dame, and the New Year partying on the Champs-Elysees. French women and wine, right? I even bought a French-English dictionary.

And then, right after Christmas, Cyclone Lothar hit Paris. I made it back to my hotel just before the electricity died.

The storm raged all night, although it was impossible to tell the extent of the damage in the dark. But I could hear the trees being ripped apart outside, a massive tearing sound, followed by the thud as they struck buildings and cars. I spent the evening huddled under my blankets because the electric heat was out along with the lights. The French Army mobilized its soldiers, but what could they do? Storms aren't impressed by tanks and guns.

I poked my head outside on the morning of the twenty-seventh, and that's when Cyclone Martin struck. This storm added heavy rain to the devastating winds; the combination of the two made it impossible to see outside. I left the lobby and climbed the stairs back to the fourth floor. I was glad there was a fifth floor; at least if our roof blew off there'd be something between me and the rain.

I spent the rest of the day in my room, except for periodic forays for food. The kitchen served only sandwiches, but everybody seemed relieved to see them. Except for my fellow countryman, the beer-belly geezer down the hall who fought here on D-day and apparently thinks the storm is the entire French nation showing their lack of gratitude.

The next morning, the rain finally ceased, but the reckoning of the damage had barely begun. The view from my window showed people picking their way around the rubble in the street. Some of them stumbled, and some merely stared, as if they couldn't believe their eyes. The hotel across from mine had a construction crane thrown smack down the middle of it. It now showed a cross-section of Parisian decor, augmented by wreckage.

Down in the lobby, the beer-belly guy was complaining to the manager again. The manager's jaw clenched, then he turned and said something in rapid-fire French to a lady and two girls huddled in the corner on a couch. She stared at him a moment in disbelief, but she stood and began to shepherd her children toward the door. The youngest was crying and clutching a doll.

"Why are you leaving?" It was none of my business, but that street was no place for children.

The lady shot my countryman a look of pure loathing. "The American says we should not be here. So the manager has said we must find shelter at the school, even though I told him the roof had blown off." She was still trying to get her daughters to the door, but the youngest was dragging her feet, and I didn't blame her. This was wrong. Somebody should do something.

As she reached the door, I said, "Wait." This was something I could fix. "Monsieur, please allow this woman to have my room. I assume you can find me a corner to sleep where I won't offend the other guests."

When no one objected, I gestured to the woman to precede me down the hallway. All three of them put some hustle into it, the older girl pulling on her mother's arm. That was smart; I gave the complaining geezer maybe sixty seconds before he recovered from the shock and found something wrong with this, too. I'd get them settled in, and then I'd go out and lend a hand to clear some of the wreckage.

In my heart, the phoenix spread its wings.
Teenage Driver

Alana closed the passenger side door and told the knot in her stomach to go away. Her mother had insisted that she eat, and now the food sat like a hard lump in her stomach. Just what she didn't need. That bitch Sierra was just waiting to spread it all over the school that Alana had failed her driving test. Well, that wasn't going to happen. She was going to text Sierra a photo of the form with the word passed on it. Ha. Let her chew on that.

"Are you ready? We can always come back another day." Her dad's brown eyes were concerned as they met hers.

No way was she going to wimp out. But she made one last attempt to better her odds. "Dad, can't we go to a different DMV? Please? The traffic is awful downtown."

He shook his head firmly. "I scouted them out, and everyone's white at the one by our house. I want you to get tested by a brother."

Alana rolled her eyes. She hardly thought the color of her skin was enough for a pass or fail, not when it was someone's job. And people drove like maniacs around here. If you got in an accident, even if it wasn't your fault, it was an automatic fail. Not to mention her mother would pitch a fit for weeks if Alana got a scratch on her precious Honda. But Dad's truck was a stick shift.

And Dad had brought her downtown and helped her practice, over and over. And he'd taken the day off work so they could do this in the morning before lunch, when the traffic was as mild as it got. Alanna clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ground together. There was no way she could back out.

Sierra was going to eat her words, every last one.

Alana took a deep breath and followed her father into the DMV. They took a number and waited on the hard plastic chairs, along with everyone else who didn't want to be here. Whiny kids, linoleum floors, cross people waiting in line with their registration forms—this was not a place to inspire confidence. Alana pulled the little newsprint book of driving rules from her purse to focus on instead. Her dad smiled and opened his iPad.

Alana whispered the words as she read, trying to get them to stick into her brain. Whoever wrote these things had apparently never read a bestseller. She was halfway through the second pass when her number was called.

"Here." Her dad held out the keys with a smile, and for a fleeting moment, Alana wished she was still young enough to hug him in public. But she took the keys and forced herself to stroll calmly to meet her examiner.

He wasn't black. But he seemed nice enough, Latino-Asian with a welcoming flash of white teeth. "Are you ready?" He gestured with his clipboard to the glass doors. "Just pretend you're driving with your instructor."

"That would be Dad," Alana confided as she snuck a quick glance at his name tag. "Mr. Gonzales."

He smiled. "More fathers than mothers seem to step forward when it comes to teaching their kids how to drive. I've never figured out why."

Alana's jaw clenched at being called a kid, but she unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat as if she didn't care. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and added a little lip gloss for luck. Maybe her dad would snap a photo with her and the examiner by the car to go with the one of the form. The one that said pass.

"Make a right as you exit the parking lot," Mr. Gonzales said, pulling a pen from the pocket of his polo shirt. Alana backed out carefully, smiling at the neat arc the car made. Dad had even brought her down to practice backing out of the parking spaces after hours.

She remembered her blinker and looked both ways, exaggerating the movement so the examiner couldn't miss it. There was no way she was getting dinged before she even made it out of the parking lot.

They drove east, toward the freeway. Right hand turns, left hand turns—they all went flawlessly, except the one with the guy who swerved and almost hit them. But that was clearly his fault.

Alana snuck a glance at the passenger seat and her heart sunk. Mr. Gonzalez was pale, and he seemed to be panting. Great. Now her test guy was sick. Did they fail you for that?

"Do you need me to take you to the doctor, Mr. Gonzalez?"

"I'm fine." But his voice sounded strained, and it was huskier than when he started.

Alana pressed the accelerator when the light turned green as if nothing had happened. Maybe if she just ignored it, he'd get better.

But he started making gurgling sounds after another block, and she hadn't even done anything remotely wrong. She coasted to a stop and peeked again. Shit! Now he looked blue. And his skin was...shiny.

She took a right and stomped on the gas. There was a hospital this way. Dad had made some not-funny jokes about needing to take her evaluator here after the test. Or to the bar a block further down.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Alana said, trying to keep her voice calm.

But the only response was a growl from the other seat.

Alana turned in shock and screamed. His hair had turned to a row of spikes. His face was all scaly, and his teeth were pointed like a bear's. The blue polo shirt only made it worse.

Someone honked and she yanked her attention back to the road, barely swerving in time to avoid the oncoming car. She fumbled in her purse for her phone, but that...thing grabbed her hand, and she screamed again as she pulled it back.

Alana yanked the wheel from side to side, hoping if she drove like she was crazy or drunk, a cop would see. That thing grabbed her hand again, and this time she felt the scrape of claws before she was able to wrench it back. Why hadn't Dad shown her where the police station was? Her softball bat was in the trunk, but it might as well be on the moon.

Alana pumped the brakes, making their heads rock back and forth, but that was a mistake. As the car slowed he growled, "Now," and clutched her shoulder. She lashed out with her elbow and connected with a sickening thunk.

An enraged, bloodcurdling yell filled the car, and Alana hit the gas again, swerving for all she was worth. The car went over the curb and she jerked it back, just missing a fire hydrant. The monster grabbed her hand, and now she couldn't elbow him again. She tried punching him, and he just barked a horrible raspy laugh as he held her hand tight.

A man in a business suit flipped her off just before she heaved on the wheel, and the car spun out, to the sound of brakes screeching all around her. The world went round and round, and she had no control at all as the wheels skidded over the asphalt. Nausea nearly made her lose her breakfast.

Alana gritted her teeth as the car skidded to a halt—she was ready to jump out and run. Nobody would believe her, but she couldn't stay in this car one more minute. Forget the driving test─she just wanted to live.

She grabbed at her purse just as a calm voice said, "Well done. Good reactions in an emergency situation."

Alana turned to the test guy in dread, but the polite twenty-something was back, thick hair looking as though it had never even moved, let alone turned into spikes.

He made a notation on his clipboard and added, "I think it's safe to say you're ready for the driving public. It's unlikely you'll face anything more stressful in your everyday commute."

Alana took her foot off the brake and got the car pointed back to the DMV, taking deep breaths to get the shaking to stop. Should she tell someone? Nobody should have to go through that to get their license.

But who would believe her? And even if they did, she'd have to take the test all over again. They pulled into the lot, and she snuck a look at the form. He'd written pass in bold block letters, just the sort that would show up beautifully in a photo.

She turned off the car. Screw it. She needed that pass too badly. And the look on Sierra's face tomorrow was going to be priceless.

But she wouldn't ask for a picture with the test guy.
Seymour and the Head

Seymour thumped the scarred oak table, hard enough to make the grimoire bounce. To become a journeyman wizard, he must have a special spell, greater than the animated puppets or illusions he'd spun thus far. He needed to impress the masters enough to be promoted to journeyman—he didn't have enough coin to last the winter. He had to come up with something good. Something new.

He flipped through the book for the umpteenth time. Spells to make crops crow, to make a woman speak the truth, to animate objects, to bring—wait. That could work. He had a fine touch with the puppets.

He scratched out a spell, looking for a way to combine the last two. It took several drafts, but he finally stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. Then he fetched down a brass sculpture of an old woman's head from a top shelf, currently doing duty as a bookend.

A brush with his sleeve and the thing was shiny again. Seymour took a deep breath and began his spell. Each sonorous syllable rolled off his tongue perfectly. And when he finished, the brass head blinked and looked around.

"So you're supposed to be a wizard, are you?" it said in a tone of withering scorn. It sounded just like a crotchety old aunt.

Seymour had no intention of letting this continue. "Tell me when the first storm will come, that the farmers may get their crops in on time." That would be worth a pretty penny.

"How am I supposed to know?" the statue said. "I'm inside a room. And it's none to clean, I can tell you. It must be at least two months since you took a duster to the place."

Actually, it was closer to three, but Seymour wasn't about to admit that. "Well, what can you tell me?"

"I can tell you a couple of those spiders are poisonous, and you'd better flatten them before they take a bite out of you. And those mouse droppings everywhere are dreadful. What kind of a wizard are you that you don't have a cat?"

"That's witches, madam," he said in what was meant to be a dignified voice. It would have helped if hadn't cracked at the end.

"And your voice is still changing. Well, get a move on. If I've got to be alive, I'm not going to dwell in squalor. Or do you fancy dying because a spider got peckish?"

Bit by bit, Seymour found himself doing her bidding. He didn't want to die, certainly not from something as undignified as a spider bite. He'd rather go in a splendid mage's battle if he had to go at all, like his master had.

"No, don't shake the dust rag in the house—you'll undo all your hard work. You shake the dust outside." It would help if she didn't talk to him like he was an idiot.

When he was done, Seymour said, "Fine, I cleaned the cottage, just like you wanted. Now will you tell the master wizards something important tomorrow? I doubt they want to hear about mouse droppings." He shook his head in disbelief. He was bargaining with a brass head.

"I'll give them as much truth as they can stand—don't you worry."

Seymour had to be content with that. Just getting the thing to talk should be worth something. Although getting it to shut up might be worth even more.

He waited impatiently as the other four apprentices presented their journeyman projects. None were as impressive as his, although they were all quieter. Master Blaise gave an approving nod to the lad who'd crafted a divining rod that even a child could use.

Seymour set his brass head on the table. This had to work. "Uh, please tell the masters something useful."

"I'll tell them something useful, all right. You in front, who drew that sigil on your robe? And why did you bother if you were going to let it get smeared with grease? The thing's a disgrace. It'll never work like that."

Seymour gasped and wished the ground would open up and swallow him. But the head kept going.

"And you with the mangy beard. A little hygiene would keep you from scratching all the time." The head went on to upbraid them all impartially as Seymour's face got redder and redder.

Master Blaise cleared his throat. "I think, under the circumstances, that another project would be more appropriate─"

"Oh, no, you don't," the head cut in. "Seymour demonstrated journeyman ability. He made an object that functions independently of any magic user."

"Too independently, I'm afraid," the master replied. "Still, there's no denying it. Seymour is now a journeyman."

Seymour sidled to the table and collected the head. He would've felt better about the whole thing if he could get his face to return to a more normal color.

He went to bed early. How could he set up shop on his own with a head that drove all the customers away? Perhaps he could lock the thing up somewhere.

"Psst! I said wake up!"

Seymour rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Even when the thing whispered, it was insistent. "What─"

"Quiet. There's a man outside, and he's not here to buy a spell. He'll rob you and murder you in your bed if you're not careful."

Seymour stood, all thoughts of sleep gone. "What should I do?"

"That's a good lad—just listen to me." The whispered voice was kind for a change as the head talked him through picking up the poker and standing behind the door. Seymour clenched his knees together to keep them from knocking. Then a scratching sound came. Someone was picking the lock.

The door inched open, and Seymour slammed the poker down on the back of the man's head with a sickening crunch. The man dropped like a stone, and Seymour tied him. "Now what?"

"We wait for a more civilized hour to fetch the constable. What else?" The bossy elder aunt was back.

Seymour didn't care. "Thank you."

The head smiled. "I knew you had potential. Now go comb your hair."
Gargoyle

The gargoyle wished he could recall his name. He listened intently as people walked by, hoping they might speak it so he would remember. It gave him something to do besides guard the church.

A young girl caught the gargoyle's gaze. She was supposed to be standing in line with the others, but there had been any number of hold-ups, and the children waiting for their first communion were getting edgy.

Her appearance was otherwise unremarkable—olive skin, dark hair, brown eyes. But she was dancing in excitement, spinning on her toes to make her lacy dress swirl, throwing her arms out wide.

"Hey!" the boy next to her cried, as he bent to pick up the glasses she had knocked from his face.

"Sorry, Steven," she said to the blond boy. "Look, I'll make it up to you—I'll show you something. See that gargoyle up there? He's the best one."

The gargoyle would have blinked if he could. She was pointing at him.

The boy wiped his glasses and then squinted upward. "Why that one, Michelle? The one next to him is scarier."

"I like him," the girl replied. "His pointy ears and pointy wings go together, and I like the way his nose turns up. Like mine."

"Huh," said the boy, clearly unimpressed. "I wouldn't go around telling people your nose was like an ugly old gargoyle's if I were you."

Michelle raised the nose in question into the air, with all the superior disdain a seven-year-old could muster. It did indeed have the same tilt. And she didn't mind at all. Curious.

The gargoyle watched for her after that. Every Sunday, the girl gave him a cheery wave, and a "Hello, gargoyle." It wasn't her fault she didn't know his name. But he longed to hear her speak it.

The years of his parole passed, and watching for the girl gave the gargoyle's task a certain interest. Not that he complained—there were far worse ways to spend eternity. Although now he would rather guard the girl than the cathedral.

Another line formed along the side of the church, waiting to process in with the bishop. It must be confirmation. The girl was near the end of it, taller now, and she shaded her eyes as she squinted into the morning sun to smile at him.

"Hey, is that the gargoyle that looks like you?" asked a boy in line behind her.

"Shut up, Jack," she said absently, her attention directed at the gargoyle's niche.

"Yeah, zip it," said Steven, still next to Michelle, and she turned her face long enough to give him a grateful smile.

"Hey," said Jack, "you're the one who said it first, Steve."

Steven flushed and raised his fist until the other boy looked down. "I'm sorry, Michelle. I just thought it was funny. Back when I was a kid."

"That's okay," the girl said, looking upwards again. "As long as you don't pick on my gargoyle." Her voice grew soft. "I wish I knew his name."

"We could name him," offered Steven, tilting his head up to squint. "How about...Frank?"

The girl shook her head. "No, he doesn't look like a Frank."

The gargoyle was relieved. Whatever his name was, he was certain it wasn't Frank.

No line snaked in front of the church this time, but the girl came to the side to wave at him anyway. Then she spun around until her skirt was as full as a bell. Her lacy white dress was longer than the first, and she looked radiant in it.

"Isn't it beautiful? We went to ever so many shops to find the right one. My whole family's here to cheer me on, but I wanted you to see it, too."

The gargoyle would have blessed her, if his blessing had any power. All he could do was watch.

"There you are," Steven said. "I should have known you'd be talking to your gargoyle." He had grown much taller, and his glasses were now gone. The handsome man who put his arm around the girl might possibly even deserve her. A sculptor could have used him for a model for the archangel on the tower. "C'mon, we don't want to be late for the ceremony." His voice lowered as he added, "Or the honeymoon."

"Oh, you." The girl seemed flustered, but recovered enough to say, "You just can't wait to try out that new rock-climbing gear."

Her husband-to-be murmured in her ear and she blushed. She took his hand and followed him, but she turned her face upwards as she did. "Wish me luck!"

The gargoyle wished her far more than that, but he could not lift even a scaled claw to protect her. If only he could remember his name, he was sure he could do more.

The girl grew in happiness. Two sons and a daughter were brought for his inspection, in their satiny baptismal gowns, and later stood for first communions and confirmations of their own. The gargoyle learned their names and watched them carefully at church, although they never took any notice of him unless their mother was present. But from the tears she blinked away as they readied themselves in line, they were dear to her, and thus precious to him as well.

He only saw Steven at special occasions and holidays, but the man seemed to still love the girl. Her lithe figure thickened with childbearing, and she now needed glasses, but she still waved to him every Sunday.

His favorite times were when she showed up to work in the garden on church clean-up days. She would always pick a flowerbed to weed where she could talk to him, to tell him of the children he no longer saw. They had moved on in their lives, to college and jobs in other cities and did not often come home. But they still held a place in her heart.

He was glad he still had a place in hers.

The gargoyle's attention sharpened as a hook lodged itself around the pillar to his right. A soft, "Got it," from the ground, and the rope tightened. It was far too late for anyone to be at church. What was the girl doing?

The pronged hook holding the rope slid a fraction of an inch. He strained as he never had before, to reach the thing and hold it safe, but he was frozen, imprisoned in rock. Useless to the girl when she needed him.

His entire being surged with relief when her head appeared next to him. At least she had not fallen.

Yet. "You know (gasp), working out at the gym (gasp), just doesn't take away age." She hauled herself up, inch by terrible inch, arms shaking. "There."

She reached over to pat his cheek. "I've always wanted to do that." Then she reached under her jacket and withdrew a flask. She wiped her mouth afterward and said, "Shit. Now what? That was the last goal I had."

After another pull, she had to wipe her eyes as well. Then she fell against him, weeping, and the flask fell from her fingers to crash down on the streets below.

"What the hell, I've got enough in me already." This was apparently a cue for more weeping, and small horrible whimpers as she struggled to keep the tears in check and failed.

The ledge was too small. Only her arms around him and the foot she'd wedged against the pillar were keeping her here. And her arms were shaking. Her whole body shook as sobs wracked her body.

He strained. Surely he must not be required to watch her fall to her death.

"So, you won't be seeing Steven anymore," the girl said. Silver threads in her hair reflected the moonlight. "He's got someone else now. Tiffany! It's like a bad joke—even a bimbo name. Except that it's happening to me."

She wept again and reached for her flask, peering over the edge. The gargoyle longed to hold her fast, but she caught herself in time.

"Well, that nearly solved that. You know, I wouldn't even mind. Everyone always had something for me to do. And I told myself it was okay, that I was spending my life for the ones I loved. Except now, none of them want me anymore. I guess all the things I did for them weren't that important after all."

What? He loved everything the girl did. He treasured every gesture, every word. His soul cried out in supplication, but his stone prison was absolute.

The girl's foot slipped.

The gargoyle's wing snapped open. He pulled her close and whispered a single word. "Fideles."

He remembered his name.
Trojan Wargames

The beaches of Troy were quiet as the sun's last light gilded the rows of tents and ships. Warriors lounged before fires with wine cups, dining on fish and roasted goat. Slaves attended their masters, binding the wounds of the less fortunate. Achilles sat alone in his tent, gazing in despair at the body of his childhood companion, Patroclus. In the city itself, Hector enfolded his wife in his arms, trying to ease her worries of the morrow with kisses. Olympus would decide his fate, but not just yet.

High above, the many-pillared halls of Olympus were well-lit. In the center of the throne room sat a vast marble table. Fine gold plates held a few remaining squares of ambrosia. Three gods sat on each side tonight, with Zeus presiding from his throne at the head of the table. In the center was an exquisitely drawn map, with mountains, cities, and oceans rendered in fine detail. Every immortal's attention was riveted on the Aegean coast.

Since the Trojan War began, every night was game night on Olympus.

Zeus gathered the six-sided dice, and the faint clink caused the whispered conference of the gods to cease as effectively as a shout. The corners of Zeus's lips turned up, and he prolonged the moment before releasing the dice with a practiced flick. They rolled to a stop, showing a three and a two, not enough to beat the previous eight. The gods on Team Troy groaned. Aphrodite gestured to the hulking Ares and golden Apollo, and they drew together, discussing how they could recoup Troy's losses before the next toss.

Gray-eyed Athena traded smug looks with Poseidon and Hermes, the other members present from Team Greece. Poseidon said, "Achilles will receive special armor, then." His tone was bored, but amusement lurked in his sea-green eyes. He was as quick to erupt in anger as the sea itself, but Greece's latest gains had restored his good temper.

Aphrodite's own blue eyes narrowed. Troy had Greece nearly beaten, driven back to their ships due to her brilliant argument between Achilles and the Greek king. Now Achilles, a piece she'd gone to great lengths to neutralize, was back in the game.

"We could always try another side bet," Athena said. The willowy brunette's tones were soothing, keeping all traces of excitement from her voice. Athena's side bets had so far scraped a lead for Team Greece from what had been a losing position.

"What an excellent idea," Apollo responded without missing a beat. Team Troy could use some guile as well. "How about a new demigod? Aphrodite versus Athena for who is the mother. The winner can choose the father, and he will henceforth lead a charmed life." It was a brilliant strike at Team Greece's weakness. Aphrodite had already undergone pregnancy cheerfully, but Athena had never lain with a man in her life.

Athena shot back a steely gaze filled with barely-contained anger. "Sex is hardly worth the inevitable complications."

Aphrodite laughed. "You have no idea what you're missing. That's taking wisdom entirely too far." A pleased smile, one that mortal men would cheerfully kill for, curved her lips as her hip shifted forward and she smoothed back a lock of blonde hair. All the male team members sighed.

Apollo grinned. "And just think how great the make-up sex will be later." Aphrodite hadn't been getting along with her husband, Hephaestus, since the game began. He rarely bothered to show, and when he did, he often sided with Team Greece. It was an insult really, considering all the work Aphrodite put in for Team Troy. They'd need great sex to be on speaking terms again.

"That will be enough," rumbled Zeus. If his queen showed tonight, sex would be an unfortunate topic. He'd fathered enough demigods that it was a subject best avoided.

Aphrodite batted her eyes one last time at Poseidon to annoy Athena, but she subsided. It was enough that she'd shown her rival that battle strategy wasn't everything. Again.

Poseidon stepped forward, attempting to head off yet another confrontation between the two goddesses. The battle between Hector and Achilles tomorrow was too important to cancel because of squabbling. "We could pick a hero to have a charmed life regardless."

Athena gave Poseidon an appreciative glance. "An excellent idea. I want Odysseus." The wily charmer had just the right sort of guile to appeal to the wisdom goddess.

"Then I want Paris." Aphrodite smiled as she saw that bolt sink home. Athena would never forgive Paris for choosing Aphrodite over her. It was a pity the prize she'd won, the golden apple, was sitting on a small table at home. It would have been the perfect time to pull it out and polish it in front of Athena.

Poseidon sighed and Apollo took a turn at peacemaker. "Perhaps we'll even throw in that his wife will be faithful to him while he's been away."

He met Aphrodite's eyes and she nodded. Paris living a charmed life would be the perfect victory over Athena. Besides, Odysseus's wife was head over heels in love with her husband anyway.

Zeus laughed. "It's more than the king of Greece will get." All the gods joined in. The hubris of Agamemnon had angered them all. Whether or not the king conquered Troy, he was sailing home to an extremely unpleasant surprise. It had taken several evenings to work out the details.

Zeus picked up the dice. "A two through a six, and Troy's champion lives. An eight through a twelve, and Odysseus returns safely home."

"What if you roll a seven, brother?" asked Poseidon, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He had a good idea what the answer would be.

"If I roll a seven, then I get to choose who will live." Team Troy and Team Greece traded glances and shrugged. Zeus had to get the occasional reward.

Zeus rattled the dice and threw, and all eyes followed them until they displayed a four and a five. Athena broke into a pleased smile—Odysseus would live. She should have specified more details about how he would return home, but that would've opened the discussion to the same protections given to Paris. And Paris was going to die. Unpleasantly, if she had any say in the matter.

"Are we ready for the main event?" Aphrodite asked, trying to move past her loss. "The outcome of the battle tomorrow between Hector and Achilles."

Apollo said, "Hector has always offered us sacrifice, but Achilles's piety is lukewarm at best. And Hector fights to defend his city. He should get the advantage." Team Troy often let silver-tongued Apollo speak for them.

"Achilles fights to avenge his slain comrade, Patroclus," Poseidon reminded him.

"Only because Hector was defending his city from him," countered Apollo. Athena assumed an angelic expression. It had been one of her best strategies, driving the Trojans back from the ships and getting Achilles back into the war in one fell swoop.

"Achilles wouldn't have been out of the war at all if it wasn't for King Agamemnon's pride," added Aphrodite, with her most winsome expression. Team Troy needed this victory.

"We'll give you the advantage for a return consideration," said Poseidon. "If the Greeks win the overall contest, I get to choose the trick to get inside the walls." He was tired of Athena getting all the concessions for Team Greece.

"Only if they're warned," Apollo insisted. "Give the women and children a chance to get away."

Poseidon shrugged. It wasn't as though the Trojans had believed any of their seer's other prophecies.

A hush fell as Zeus picked up the dice. He glanced around the table. "For total of two through seven, Hector wins. All other throws and the victor is Achilles." Several gods exchanged exasperated glances; they knew which throws would win for their team. Zeus could be insufferably pompous at times.

All the gods craned forward as the dice tumbled to a stop. A five and a three. Team Greece erupted into cheers, and Team Troy exchanged rueful looks.

The next morning, Hector kissed his son before meeting his wife's eyes. "It is in the hands of the gods now," he said gently, with a parting caress. She lifted her chin and blinked back tears, to lend him strength.

Hector squared his shoulders and signaled to the guards to open the gate. It was time to face Achilles.

A Fair Exchange

The first thing Lottie saw when she opened her eyes was a gold coin lying next to her pallet.

She squeezed them shut again. Surely this was a dream, and she wanted to enjoy it before it went away again. Still, the possibility that it was not was too urgent to ignore.

The coin was still there.

Carefully, so as not to wake her father on the other pallet, Lottie slid her arm out and picked up the coin. She bit it, and her tooth marks showed nothing but gold underneath.

It was real.

Lottie slipped the coin under her pallet, her mind reeling with possibilities. She must be careful. If her father found out, the gold would be turned into nothing but drink, and this great chance would be lost. Her only hope of escape.

Lottie rose and dressed, and as she milked the cow and fed the chickens the coin kept intruding into her thoughts. She was skilled at spinning and weaving cloth, but she couldn't get a fair price in the ragged dress she was wearing. She could do nothing so bold as to buy a nice gown, although the idea filled her with longing. But her father would merely sell the gown for drink. What could she buy that her father wouldn't notice?

Flax and more wool. And some dye. She'd make her fine dress, and a shirt for her father, too, so he wouldn't be angry. With this coin, she could spin and weave more cloth for sale. That would bring in coppers which her father could spend at the alehouse. As long as he had drink, he'd be content, or as close to it as he ever got.

Lottie made a breakfast of boiled eggs and gruel, and her father sat on his stool, bleary-eyed. "That's mine," he snapped as Lottie reached for an egg. "I need to eat later. I can't live on grass like the sheep."

He was soon gone, driving their sheep and cow out to the pasture next to the mill. Lottie tied a drab kerchief over her hair. She couldn't hide who she was, but she would do her best to be unremarkable. If tongues wagged, her father might hear.

Lottie left a cup of milk for the fairies and drank the rest, before taking the coin and tucking it into her kirtle. She strolled to the marketplace, trying to seem as though she hadn't a care in the world, although the wild thudding of her heart seemed it would give her away by itself.

The moneychanger's stall was set up for privacy, thank heaven, so as soon as she slipped inside, she was safe. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the selection of lovely trinkets for sale. Scarves so fine her fingers ached to touch them, lovely beads that sparkled even in the dim light, and a brooch of real gold, gleaming in solitary glory.

"How can I help you, miss?" the slight, hook-nosed proprietor asked.

Lottie had meant to ask him to merely change the piece into something she could spend without comment, but he'd be more likely to keep silent if she was a customer. "I would like to buy something pretty," she said, and then wanted to kick herself as he reached for the brooch. "If it's not too dear."

A smile came and went on the older man's face. He reached for a set of wooden beads, painted blue and yellow. "This will cost you a mere twenty coppers."

"Ten coppers," Lottie shot back, but then her voice faltered. "Only no one must know."

He smiled, and the dicker was soon settled at fourteen. Lottie pulled the gold piece from her kirtle, praying he wouldn't ask her where it came from.

But the man took it without comment and gave her change in silver, and at Lottie's request, copper as well. Lottie hid the silver under her kirtle and went out to do battle in the marketplace with copper. People might talk if she had silver to spend today. She had no reason to own any yet.

Hours later, she was richer by more flax than she'd ever been able to grow. She had enough wool to make herself a shawl and her father a warm smock, a generous quantity of beautiful blue dye, and a pot of ale. She left the last two coppers next to the ale on the table.

That evening she began spinning the wool, and for many evenings after. Her father's smock came first, and he took it with a pleased grunt, never asking where the wool came from. Her new shawl was much warmer than the old one, and she dyed that one the same deep blue, and sewed it into the underside of the new one. More warmth in winter was welcome indeed.

All winter she spun and wove cloth on her loom. The calluses on her fingers cracked and bled, but she kept going, switching over to weaving when the pain from spinning grew too great. It took seven spinners to keep one weaver going, but she had only herself. She worked long hours by firelight, trying to make up the lack.

Spring brought new wool from shearing, and she spun still more and knitted new socks to cushion their wooden shoes, along with more cloth for sale. Lottie began going to the marketplace to sell her wares, and she sewed herself a fine blue dress to do it in. She brushed out her flaxen hair and left it loose on her shoulders, although she used a band of woven blue to pull it back from her face.

The donkey Lottie bought cost her a beating that night, the pot of ale notwithstanding, but it was worth it, as was the beating for the small cart. Now she had something from which to sell her wares. Her stack of coins quit dwindling, held steady, and began to increase. Lottie was able to pay her father a copper every market day and still add to the pile.

Carl Smithson, burly and bearded, stopped at her stall one week, and ran an approving eye over her lengths of linen and wool for sale. "This is fine cloth, but I have no woman to sew for me. What would you charge to do that as well?"

She wanted to say, "I'll do it for nothing, if you'll just come back," but she dickered for the new smock and promised it within a week. She dyed it a warm brown to match his hair and added strips of blue to the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She was careful to work only when her father was not home or asleep. If he saw the new smock, he would take it for himself.

She arranged her wares as usual the next market day, trying not to look like she was waiting for anyone in particular. But at the sight of Carl coming toward her, she smoothed her hair quickly and brought the smock out from beneath her stack of fabric.

"Good morning." The flash of white teeth in his face made the sunny day even warmer.

Lottie cleared her throat. "I have your smock right here." She set it in front of him on her cart.

He shook it out and held it at arm's length. "Now this is too fine to wear in the fields."

"I...I'm sorry. I thought you might like...I'll make you a plainer one. I won't even charge you." The words tumbled out, and Lottie felt the blood rush to her face. What was wrong with her? This was no way to impress a man.

But Carl's expression was gentle as he put the smock down. "I can use something fine to wear on market days." Then he grinned, and his brown eyes grew even warmer. "But I still need a plain smock. Since I lack more coin, will you barter?"

Lottie swallowed. "Of course. Do you grow flax? Or I could use turnips or flour." She'd take anything, as long as he didn't leave and never return.

Carl said, "Flax it is, then." He reached forward and gently touched a lock on her shoulders. "To match your lovely hair."

Lottie looked down, cursing the blood that rushed to her traitor face, but she forced her eyes back up. "I'll sew it this week."

He took her hand, gently, as if unsure what to do with it. He finally gave it a squeeze and said, "Till next week, then." He put the coppers in her hand and left.

Lottie took several deep breaths, trying to look as though this was any other transaction. The last thing she needed was for her father to find out. For all that he seemed to not care for her, she had no doubt he wouldn't approve of her trying to get away. She shot a quick look at the old dame selling eggs next to her, but she was busy gossiping with her neighbor.

The next week Lottie sewed two plain linen smocks. She made certain only one was visible at a time, and she gave the first to her father when it was finished.

He showed more interest in the copper coin that came with it, but he nonetheless put the smock on before he went to the alehouse. Lottie sighed as he left. It wouldn't even stay clean for the night. Her father was a quarrelsome sort; it might well come back torn.

Lottie pulled out Carl's smock, to finish putting in the hem. It was undyed and plain, but she nonetheless put her finest stitches in. Unlike her father, she'd never heard of Carl losing his temper. She whispered a prayer, that he think well of her when he wore it. And that he would like it enough to barter for something else. She had no excuse to seek him out.

Lottie was on pins and needles all day at the market, although she tried to act as though nothing was unusual. She smiled and bartered, putting away her coins carefully, but every footstep was a broken promise of Carl's coming.

A fiddler set up in the green just as she was readying the cart to go home, and she forced herself to hum along with the tune. Music this fine shouldn't be wasted. Perhaps Carl had a sow with a new litter, or the goats could have gotten into the grain. He might have had to mend their coop to keep the wolves from the chickens. There were a hundred things that could've happened. It might mean nothing at all.

"Thank heaven you're still here."

Lottie whirled around, a delighted smile tugging at her lips. Carl was bearing a heavy armload of flax, already beaten out, with a soft cloud of carded wool on top. "Oh, Carl, that's far too much─"

"Not at all." He gestured to the smock she'd made him, now covering his broad chest. "This is a fine garment, worth more than I paid. I'm just evening things up." He set his load onto the cart and swept a bow. He was even wearing the smock she'd made.

"Well, then I'll have to make you another." Lottie bit her lip, hoping she hadn't been too bold.

Carl took a step forward and reached for her hand. "That would be wonderful. But for now, I hear a fiddle playing. I'm wearing this fine new smock, and you've got a lovely dress on. Shall we dance?"

Lottie nodded, then had to steady herself on her donkey as a flood of misgivings washed over her. Her father would return soon, and he would not be pleased to find no ale pot waiting on a market day.

But she couldn't say no to Carl—not that she wanted to. She'd try for a middle ground. "I'm afraid I can't stay long. My father will expect me home soon."

Carl smiled. "Then we'll have to make the time count." He tied up the donkey and held out his hand with a challenge in his eyes.

Lottie's misgivings fled with the feel of Carl's strong fingers. Her entire world filled with the way Carl threw his head back when he laughed, the rhythm of their dancing feet, and his warm brown eyes looking into hers.

She gave up counting the dances. This was worth anything. Her father wouldn't want to beat her too badly, not when she could keep the good brown ale coming in. Although from the way Carl held her close as he swung her around, perhaps soon her father would have to get his own ale. She'd give her father some of her coins when she left. That would sweeten his temper, although she'd better have Carl offer it to him.

When the fiddler finally stopped, she faced Carl. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

He shook his head and kept hold of her hand. "I should apologize for keeping you, but that was too wonderful to have it end after only a few dances. Will I see you next market day?"

Lottie caressed his fingers with hers, although she felt her cheeks color at her boldness. "Yes, I would like that very much. And I'll make you something else." Perhaps she'd sew a pair of breeches, sturdy enough for farm work. She could dye them brown, like his smock.

Lottie whirled back to the cart—she'd almost forgotten. She pulled the new smock out and said, "This is for you."

Carl gave Lottie's hand a kiss before he took it. "I'll think of you when I wear it." His eyes smiled at her before she turned to go.

With every step Lottie took toward home her dread grew, until her stomach was nothing but knots. Her father would be furious; she'd never been this late before. Perhaps she could tell him she had a new customer; that was even true. He'd paid her well in advance for several pieces of clothing. Even if you only looked at the day in terms of barter, she was well ahead. It wouldn't be enough to avoid a beating, but it might take some of the sting from the blows.

Lottie stowed most of her money away in her hidey hole in the shed and milked the cow. She left it all for the fair folk tonight. If she brought it in with her, Father would only hurl it across the room. She grabbed the jug of ale and put it on top of the wool and flax. It was a heavy load, but at least it wouldn't be damaged by being tossed around, and it was something for her father to take his anger out on besides her. The ale was in no danger at all.

She was right about the last. As soon as she opened the door, the ale jug was grabbed from her hand. Then her father's fist hit her head, and Lottie sprawled on the ground, her burdens spilling around her. There was no time for any explanation.

"You filthy slut—now you'll dirty the house as well." But her father wasn't done; he hauled her up by the hair and threw her into the wall, hard enough to crack the daub. "Flaunting yourself in public, dancing with men. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

The blow that followed brought tears to Lottie's eyes, but she bit down on the cry of pain. "Father, he's a new customer—"

"Oh, you're taking money for spreading your skirts now? So that's why you're making good money all of a sudden."

"No! Never," Lottie cried, and covered her face and neck as several blows landed on her back and shoulders. A gob of spit struck her hand, but she stayed still as it trickled down and landed on her good blue dress.

"Clean up this mess." The door slammed, and Lottie dropped her arms.

Her father knew about Carl. But what could he do? He had to go to the mill every day; it was the only way to earn his living. He wouldn't risk having no ale. Lottie would take her donkey, her spinning wheel and loom, and build her own daub hut. Summer was almost here.

And perhaps Carl's family would allow her to build it near their farm. She'd gladly sew for them in return. Carl's mother had died in childbirth last year, and his sisters were too young for much sewing. Carl had a father and two grown brothers. They would be enough to keep her safe even from her father.

But even if she had to build a hut somewhere else, she had to get out now. If she didn't, she might not get another chance. Father had thrown her hard enough that it was only good fortune that she hadn't broken a bone.

Grimly, Lottie cleaned up the mess and gathered her things. The loom took a maddening amount of time to take apart, and the spinning wheel and loom took up most of the cart. She filled in the spaces with her clothing, and tied the load Carl had brought with her blanket on top. Her father was welcome to the rest. Their one-room cottage would likely be rank and stinking within the week.

She was just turning to go when the door slammed open, and Lord Duvalle entered, followed by her father, who said, "There she is, my Lord. What did I tell you? Lovely enough to tempt any man, and her spinning and weaving is pure gold. Worth a pretty penny, that one is."

Lord Duvalle peered at Lottie more closely. "Could you not have been more careful? Her face is swollen."

Lottie turned to her father in horror, but he didn't even look at her. "So have her spin until she's pretty again, my Lord. It only takes a few days." Not a trace of regret showed in either his face or his voice.

"A week, most likely," the man said in disgust. "Very well. I'll take the girl and her wheel. You may have this." A purse hit the table.

"Father, please, I would pay more than that as a bride price─"

"The deal is done, woman. Hold your tongue if you wish to keep it." Lord Duvalle headed for the door. "Follow unless you want my men to bring you. I guarantee you will not find them gentle."

At least she was allowed to bring her donkey and cart. The lord rode on ahead, and his two retainers led her to his manor. It was a weary walk, at least five miles, but she had no way to escape. Her money was tucked into her bodice, but it wouldn't be enough to buy her freedom. She'd have to keep her eyes open; there had to be a chance to slip away.

But as soon as they arrived, Lottie and her things were taken to an upstairs room, and the door was locked from the outside. She threw herself down on the bed. Sobs wracked her body, and hot tears soaked the fine down pillow.

"Why do you weep?"

Lottie jerked her head up. The room had been bare when she came in, except for the bed and a chair. But now, a curious person was standing next to the bed. He was barely three feet tall, slender, clad in brown breeches and coat, with a shirt of undyed linen. His hair and eyes were a dark brown, and he even had a brown felt hat.

She stood and wiped her eyes. "Who are you?"

He smiled. "I am careful of sharing my name. But since you have left me many cups of milk and did not wish to go with those men, I followed. Why are you here?"

Lottie swallowed. "I think...that is, I hope I'm here to spin and weave. My father sold me to the lord of this place. They allowed me to bring my spinning wheel and loom. I...if I could work off the debt, there is another place perhaps where I could go."

"Very well," the brown man said. "I can spin if you will weave. But what will you pay me?"

"I─" Lottie's hand went to her purse, still under her bodice, but something about the man led her to think that money wasn't what he wanted. She went instead to her pile of belongings and drew out the little necklace of beads. With a last regretful stroke, she held it out. "Will you take this? It's the nicest thing I own."

He nodded and tucked it away, and without further speech, he began loading the distaff with flax.

Lottie reassembled her loom. By the time she was done, the brown man already had the first spindle full. Whoever said it took seven spinners to keep a weaver busy had never worked with a fairy. He spun all the flax and wool into thread and still had time to help her thread the loom.

They worked all night. When the first daylight hit the room's leaded glass window, they had a dozen yards of the finest linen, with another two yards of the smoothest wool Lottie had ever woven. She was an adept spinner and made excellent thread. But the brown man's thread was lighter and smoother than any she had ever seen.

He gave her a bow at the end, and when he straightened back up, he winked out of sight.

Lottie blinked and rubbed her eyes. She was tired, but certainly not so weary that she was seeing things. Or not seeing things, as it were. She couldn't even call out to him; she didn't know his name.

The door opened, and two servants came in, maids, to judge by the curtsey they gave her.

Terribly conscious of her bruised face, Lottie drew herself up. "I need a tub large enough to dye my fabric for Lord Duvalle." It would take the last of her blue, but she was out of flax and wool already. If the lord wanted more fabric, he'd have to supply her with something to make it with.

The two maids exchanged glances, and one of them left and returned with an older woman, who carried herself with an air of authority. She ran a careful hand over the linen and wool, and her brows shot up. "Very well. A dye bath will be prepared." She hesitated, then added, "And perhaps a bath for you as well."

Lottie dipped her a curtsy. "Thank you. I'm rather stiff after working all night. And...could I be given more flax and wool? I used all I brought with me last night."

The housekeeper met her eyes gravely. "It will be arranged."

Lottie's bath wasn't in the river, but in a special room, in a tub filled with warm water. She sighed as she slipped in. It was pleasant and soothing, but the river might have given her a chance to slip away.

She woke with a start to find the water had cooled. The maid held out a large drying cloth. "Miss, will you be wanting out of the tub now?"

Lottie nodded. "Thank you, yes." But she ignored the fine green gown the girl offered and wore her everyday dress instead, of serviceable brown linen. She wanted no more debts. She would work off what she owed the lord, and then beg him to let her leave.

The maid took her to another room, where her fabric was soaking in a tub. Lottie took the paddles and turned the fabric several times, making certain the dye got into every inch of cloth. "I will need to return in an hour to pull the fabric from the dye and hang it in the sun," she said, but the girl shook her head.

"You must go back to your room, miss," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

At least there was a fine breakfast laid out. Lottie drank the wine, ate the boiled eggs and buttered bread, and fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

When she woke, it was late afternoon by the angle of the sun. Lottie sat up to find she had slept through several deliveries. There was a thick pile of beaten flax and another of smooth carded wool, bleached white. Her dress had been washed and folded, and her blue linen and wool were set next to them. Another meal had been laid out. She put half of the spiced meat into rolls, looked around in desperation, and hid it in a kerchief under the bed. There was no other hiding place.

As soon as the maid left with the plates, Lord Duvalle entered. "They tell me you have been busy." His eyes swept the room.

Lottie bobbed a curtsey. "Yes, Lord. I wove you lengths of linen and wool." She walked to the small table which had been brought in, but when she turned to give them to him, he was already standing next to her.

He shook out the linen first. "Indeed. I see why your father praised your weaving. I will have more dye provided for you tomorrow as well."

Lettie bowed her head. "Thank you, my Lord. I will do my best."

He shot her an inscrutable look and said, "See that you do." He sauntered out again, and Lettie sagged onto the chair in relief. Then she shook herself and began loading the distaff with wool. It was so smooth; surely she could at least get close to the fairy's work. He might not choose to help her again.

"Do you wish to work alone tonight, then?" Even though she was hoping for it, the brown man's voice made her jump.

She swallowed and met his gaze. "No, I desperately need your help."

"And what do you offer?"

Lottie went to her sack of belongings and drew out a woven band. It was blue, with a pattern of flowers in undyed flax woven into it. She'd used it to pull her hair back from her face on market days. "All I have is this. The spinning is not as fine as yours, but it is truly the best I have. And I saved you some supper."

He nodded gravely. "It is enough."

That night went much the same as the first, except the flax and wool were so fine that the cloth was finer still, and there was more of it. Lottie ran her sore fingers over the linen and felt nothing but smooth, gossamer-light cloth, without a single snag. Surely this exquisite fabric would be enough to pay back Lord Duvalle for whatever he'd paid her father.

She turned to thank the brown man, but he was already gone.

When her door opened perhaps an hour later, a brunette lady in a fine blue gown entered before the maid. Lottie rose from the bed, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes, and gave the woman a deep curtsey. Surely this woman was noble.

Her voice was remote and displeased. "I have been told you weave fine cloth."

"Yes, my Lady," Lottie replied. She walked to the table and gestured to the folded offerings on it.

"Hmm. This would look lovely in yellow," the noblewoman said, fingering last night's work. "And the blue is suitable as well. At least he found someone who can do something useful this time."

Cold feet of dread ran up Lottie's spine. "My lady, I was hoping that since the cloth pleases you, perhaps I have repaid the money the lord spent for me. Please...is there any way I can leave now?" Surely this woman had the power to release her.

The lady's eyebrows rose. "You were not brought here for your ability to weave. You will be released only when my husband tires of you."

The blood rushed to Lottie's face, and she knelt at the lady's feet. "Please, will you help me get away? I will gladly send you more cloth if you will save me from this." She turned her face up to plead, but the lady's disapproving look filled Lottie with dread.

"Of course not," the noblewoman said. "My husband would simply replace you with another. And I will have your fabric if you stay." Her mouth tightened. "I may not interfere in my husband's amusements."

Lottie collapsed to the ground, weeping. "Please, my Lady," she begged, but the noblewoman merely swept from the room. When Lottie struggled to her feet, the beautiful cloth was gone. Along with her only hope for freedom.

Lottie threw herself on the bed. Carl's face filled her thoughts, laughing as they danced, but that only made her sob more. A single hour would be all she would ever share with him. She would never feel his strong fingers holding hers again. She would be used, for her labor and her body, and she would be discarded only when the lord was tired of her.

Only two days ago, her life had been filled with hope. It took a long time to cry herself back to sleep.

When she awoke, great piles of flax and wool had been laid out, along with a sumptuous meal. Lottie didn't eat any of it. She had little enough to offer the brown man. And he was the only one who might aid her in this place.

She pulled out all she had left to offer him. Enough fabric to sew him a new smock, if he didn't mind a blue shirt to go with his brown breeches. Her small purse.

When she turned around from setting everything out, he was already there. "I see they have left you more flax," the brown man said. "What do you offer me tonight?"

Trembling, Lottie gestured to her remaining possessions, but the fairy shook his head. "I left you the gold piece, and the value of the purse is not equal to that. The cloth is merely what you have left, not the best you have to give. If I help you tonight, you will promise me your firstborn child."

Dread washed over Lottie, and she felt the blood run from her face. "P-please," she begged. "I cannot promise that. I will not sacrifice my child to save myself."

He shook his head again, and his brown eyes were grave. "I have listened today where you could not. You will be kept for the lord's use until a child thickens your body. Once it is born, the babe will be killed. You would be saving your child."

A horrible vision of the future stretched in front of her. "Is there nothing I can offer you for my freedom?" she cried.

The fairy nodded. "But freedom is no small thing. It will require a great gift in return."

Lottie scrubbed the tears from her face. She had to think. She couldn't imagine the brown man being harsh to a child. It was as though he was bound to a code that he must honor before he could help. It was up to her to find a way.

"Then will you take not only my firstborn, but all the others who come after? Only not take them away, but live with us, as part of our family? You could be their beloved uncle, and I would treat you as my own kin."

A smile appeared on the fairy's solemn face. "The gift is sufficient. Shall we begin spinning?"

"But...are you not going to help me leave?" Lottie asked.

The brown man nodded, seeming surprised. "Of course. But these people have taken your good wool and flax, taken also the cloth we made from them, and offered you nothing but pain in return. We will leave before dawn, and this time we will bring the fruits of our labors with us. No one will see you when we go. Locks cannot hold me, and my glamour will hide us." He smiled. "If I am to be your family, then I will not send you to your young man empty-handed. As old as I am, I can surely give you better counsel than that."

Lottie fell to her knees and threw her arms around him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." Her breaths were ragged, and gratitude swelled her throat. She finally pulled back and wiped her eyes. "If you are to be part of the family, then I will have to call you something. Brown man isn't enough."

His eyes met hers. "You were not so far off—a brownie I am. But my name is Rumplestiltskin."
Afterward

Dragon Hoard and Other Tales of Faerie began with my desire for more fairy tales that felt true to the spirit of the original stories. It's one thing I've noticed—many fairy tale retellings have nothing like the feel of the Brothers' Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, or Perrault. I know some people have fun turning genre conventions inside out, and there's an audience for that sort of thing, which is fine. But as a child, I loved the originals, even with the abundant plot holes. Later on I began filling them in for my own satisfaction.

We were poor when I was young, and I was an only child. When I was school-age, my parents visited friends in the evening quite often. Sometimes the houses we'd go to would have kids, and we would play board games or watch a children's movie if one happened to be on. (Remember, this was back in the long-ago—before VCRs or DVDs.)

But many times there were no children, and my parents were very strict. I was not to be seen or heard by the adults at all. I had many evenings sitting quietly out of the way, waiting for the adults to stop talking so we could go home.

One evening a kind lady noticed me nodding off in the corner, and she gave me a marvelous book. It was old, published in the forties. The binding was fragile, but it had over a thousand pages, printed on thin paper with double columns, like a Bible. It was a collection of children's literature with all the old standbys—Mother Goose and The Three Little Pigs and such—but it also had poetry by Shakespeare, and whoever had compiled it had chosen versions of folklore that required me to stretch to read it.

It became my most treasured possession. I devoured tales of Thor and his mighty hammer, the terrible tragedy of Troy, and the wide array of fairy tales from different cultures.

I never saw that woman again, and many times I wished I could thank her. She casually lit a fire in my mind that was nurtured later by the likes of Tolkien, Lewis, and McKillip. It blazed so brightly that it has yet to die down.

In the spirit of the original gift that was given, I've made this ebook permanently free. (Amazon has reset the price to $.99 twice already. If that happens again, let me know via my blog at cathleentownsend.com, and I'll send a free PDF while I request the price be dropped again.)

If nothing else, I hope it's a fun hour or two for fairy tale enthusiasts. But I'm really hoping that somewhere, a bonfire will be lit in someone's heart like it was in mine.

If you want to read more free tales, I've blogged quite a few of them here: https://cathleentownsend.com/my-stories/.

I send out still more free short stories to folks who sign up for my newsletter, at https://cathleentownsend.com/welcome-to-my-newsletter.

Also, you'll receive a free copy of my novelette, Stolen Legacy, available only to newsletter subscribers.

Flip to the next page for a preview.

### Stolen Legacy

We kick off from the river bottom, and the brilliant ring of light above our heads grows brighter as we emerge, gulping our first air in over an hour. I cast a quick glance at the ferns lining the riverbank—we are still alone. The castle is safely out of view, hidden by a turn of the river and a willow grove.

"Ah, that was fun," Jentelle says, finger-combing her blonde hair back from her eyes.

I push my hair back as well, dark to her light. We are unalike in so many ways, but when we play in the river, none of it matters. "Shall we go riding to dry off? It will help avoid the courtiers' questions."

Jentelle laughs. "We won't let anyone catch us until we're quite ready for them, will we, Falada?"

She should never have been born a princess. Her mother's court has been kind to her, but what will it be like when she is married to her prince? Royal blood is no guarantee of virtue, despite all their words to the contrary. Will they value her independent spirit or try to take it from her? Would they slay her if they knew she is different from them?

"You should have been born a full siren," I murmur as I clamber onto the bank and drop to all fours. Jentelle stands watch while I shift—anyone else would see me as a threat. I groan as my bones lengthen and my joints settle into place. My body shakes itself into another form, that of a black mare. After a certain point, there's an inevitability to the change. Stopping it would be like trying to stifle a whole-body sneeze.

When the change is finished I nod, and Jentelle leaps onto my back with a cry of joy. We race past the pavilion of courtiers nibbling succulent morsels and sipping wine from ornate goblets. "Princess, wait," one of them calls, but we gallop past, my hooves hammering a litany of disdain for their mounts. No horse ever foaled can catch a kelpie.

We race past the castle gates, the frowning iron and wood just another cage to fence my friend in. We keep to the road, and Jentelle's people know to stand aside as my hooves beat the miles into submission. But in time even I tire, and we canter back to the blue-and-gold pavilion. Jentelle slides from my back and gives my neck a caress, a brief one.

She hands my reins to her guard and murmurs, "Thank you, Armand," before she turns to address the waiting courtiers. She is already assuming the mask required of her at the human court.

An elderly retainer steps forward with a rich robe, gold embroidery threading through the royal blue, and Jentelle dons it over her shift. "Princess, it is not seemly—" one of them begins, but my friend soon has them soothed. Siren blood is good for more than breathing underwater.

I am led away for a meal of boiled oats with milk and honey. Later, I will slip away, back to my riverbed, but there are compensations for the time spent with humans.

The next morning Jentelle comes to my stall, and I see her sorrow in the set of her shoulders and the droop of her head. She wraps her arms around me and says, "I knew this day had to come. And at least this prince says he wants to try for a true marriage. It could be much worse. And we need this alliance against the menace in the south." The roomy stall is warm, filled with the scent of hay and oats, and Jentelle takes a deep breath, as if to save up against future trials.

"Talking to your horse again?" Armand's tone is teasing, but his eyes betray his concern as he rounds the corner by the stall door.

A brief smile lifts the corners of Jentelle's mouth. "She is a very wise horse."

Armand grabs a stool from the passage and perches on it, leaning forward to catch Jentelle's gaze. "Did she remind you that I will be there as well, and no harm will come to you as long as I draw breath?"

I raise my eyes to Armand and bob my head, which causes him to chuckle. His appearance is unassuming, brown eyes and hair, clad in the princess's blue livery, but he bears a quiet strength, both of mind and body. It is a comfort to me that he is there to protect Jentelle in the castle, where I cannot go. And if danger threatens in our new home, I can count on Armand to bring the princess to me, and I will spirit her to safety.

"I am blessed to have such friends," Jentelle says, and she gives me a final pat. "My mother has been...concerned about my departure, and I'm afraid that sort of thing is catching."

Armand gives Jentelle a wry nod. The queen is not one to tolerate any disrespect to her daughter. As a full siren, she can convince anyone in her presence with sweet reason, although she is nothing loathe to add the sting of retribution in case of failure. But all her skills are of no avail when the threat is at a distance. The queen cannot leave to accompany her daughter for the upcoming wedding. Their kingdom is preparing for war.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of this news, my lady," Armand says. "But I have been sent with a summons from the queen. She says it is time to prepare for your journey, rather than escaping for a gallop on your horse. Your mother feels you'll have enough time for riding in the coming days."

"Not the right sort." Jentelle sighs and steps away from me. "Mother was wise to send you."

"We will get through this," he assures her. "Perhaps we will even find joy on the other side."

When I next see Jentelle, she is near tears, although her back is very straight. She and her mother stand together, flanked by retainers, in front of the castle gates while the breeze ripples the blue-and-gold pennants. The queen displays more outward calm, but her demeanor can best be described as icy fury. She is livid over the necessity of an alliance, of giving up the one she loves best to keep the kingdom safe. She adored her king all the days of his life, until he died from an illness no powers of persuasion could quell. Jentelle told me her mother's fondest wish was for her daughter to have that same sort of union. Now the queen cannot even accompany Jentelle to see for herself that nothing is amiss—she needs to ready their kingdom for possible invasion. The alliance may prevent this, and Prince Benard wrote several eloquent letters, full of his hopes for a marriage that would unite him and Jentelle as well as their kingdoms. But the queen distrusts courting men. She says they will say anything when they are trying to win a bride. It is what comes after the wedding that has her concerned.

The queen offers her daughter the stirrup cup, and they stand for a time gazing into each others' eyes, blue as the river on a sunlit day. "If any dare offer you insult, send word," the queen says. "I will see to it that they regret their mistake. Briefly."

Mother and daughter embrace, their blonde heads pressed together, and they both wipe tears when they step away. "I am certain I will be quite well, Mother," Jentelle says. "Missing you will be my greatest sorrow."

The humans mount, and we follow the road east through the small farms that surround her mother's castle. A dozen men-at-arms and a single serving woman are not much of an entourage, but the queen is much loved by her people, and banditry is scarce. I am far more concerned about what awaits us at the end of our journey. My worries are baseless, yet I cannot shake them. I tell myself firmly that kelpies are not given to foreknowledge. Even those of Faerie can be shaken by the unknown.

We travel for many hours through a forest of beech, elm, and oak, interspersed with an occasional farm. The road is reasonably free of potholes, and there have been no recent rains to make mud splatter beneath my feet. When the sun lowers in the sky, tents are pitched on a grassy knoll, and the men stand guard in turns. I watch as well for a time, but the only event of note is an overly bold weasel that tries to sneak into the provisions wagon. The nearby river murmurs its night speech of ripples rushing over stones, and I close my eyes. At least the same river runs through the neighboring kingdom. Not everything will change for us.

I awake to the clash of steel and the horrible gurgle of a man choking on his own blood. "My lady, you must flee!" Armand cries as he parries a stroke from a burly assailant. I spin around and kick in an attacker's head.

How can this be? The Maglar were supposed to be weeks away.

Jentelle rushes out of her tent, looks around wildly, and grasps her serving woman's hand, pulling her along behind.

To finish the story, go to https://cathleentownsend.com/welcome-to-my-newsletter/.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cathleen Townsend is a California native who absolutely loves the incredible beauty of her home state.

She's an avid reader and writer, particularly of fairy tales and other forms of fantasy.

She lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills with her husband Tom, a puckish white horse, a border collie and a German shepherd, as well as a cat who's sure he can whoop any dog, any time.

You can find out more and contact Cathleen at https://cathleentownsend.com.

***

If you enjoyed Dragon Hoard, please leave a review wherever you downloaded the book. It doesn't have to be anything fancy—a simple, "I thought it was a fun read," would be greatly appreciated.

