Faeries Gone Wild Page 5

  The full moon.

  A silvery howl split the air, and she knew Owen had gone through his Change. He had assured her many times that it didn’t hurt, but she had seen it and had her doubts. It would be like Owen to protect her from unpleasant truths. The big dumb ass.

  She heard him slip through the wild raspberry bushes on the north side of the property and then there he was, trotting down the driveway. He was the size of a golden retriever with the coloring of an albino: pure white fur, enormous blue eyes she could see gleaming even in the near dark, wide white tail waving a greeting.

  He grinned at her, showing many long teeth, and she said, “Piss on my tires and die a painful death, Owen.”

  He barked and whipped around, chasing his tail for a few joy-filled seconds. Then he froze, stiffened, and trotted to the end of the driveway and crossed the road.

  Another howl shattered the cool dark—one coming from the field across the road. Judith was so startled she nearly stalled.

  It’s that lone female he was telling me about! Is she here for nooky? Or a fight? Judith wasn’t sure which prospect was more upsetting.

  She crept to the end of the driveway, navigating by her fog lights. She could hear muffled barks and growls, saw the tangle of fur and limbs that meant a fight, and realized at once that Owen was in trouble.

  She slammed herself into drive, roared out of the driveway, and arrowed straight across the road into the field. Her headlights picked out the female, a wolf about Owen’s size with black fur and about a thousand teeth.

  Oh you fucker you should have left my family alone I’m going to park on your face I’m going to run over your head you piece of shit you bitch you cowardly puke you get away from him right now right now right the hell now you get away!

  She was bearing down on the black female, blaring her horn and hoping the cavalry was on the way, when suddenly there was a blur of white fur and Owen—Owen was standing in front of the female, Owen was right in her way, and she frantically tried to put on the brakes but had built up too much momentum, and as the black female jumped out of the way Judith plowed right into Owen.

  At the last second she managed to wrench her wheel to the left, so instead of hitting him head-on she clipped his left side. It was hard enough to knock him back several feet but not

  (please God it wasn’t hard enough please please)

  hard enough to kill him.

  Owen was perfectly still, a mound of white fur sprayed with dirt from the field. The female had backed up in alarm and was whining, circling Owen’s form and sniffing him. Judith blatted her horn and the female took off like she’d been scalded. Great. They were probably doing the werewolf equivalent of a handshake, and in response Judith had run over her friend.

  “Owen? Owen? Oh my God, why did you do that? Oh, Owen, please be okay, please please be okay, I’m so sorry, I thought you were in trouble, oh God, please help him, I’ll do anything,” she babbled, not quite sure who she was talking to . . . or even sure if anyone was listening. “Listen, if you make him be okay you can take me, you can do anything to me, but please please let Owen not be hurt; please be okay, Owen; I’m so sorry; please be okay, please!”

  Abruptly the wolf rolled over and was on his feet. He shook himself briskly and dirt flew.

  He grinned at her, tongue lolling.

  “You prick! You’ve got a lot of nerve not being seriously injured, Owen! How could you do that to me? You scared me to death, dumb shit! And who jumps in front of a charging SUV to save a stranger?” Her wheels chewed up dirt as she lunged at him; Owen avoided her easily and ducked behind old man Willow. “Oh, sure, now you’re Mr. Nimblepants! Why didn’t you do that before? I’m never forgiving you for this, you furry psycho!”

  He barked once, sharply, and she roared around in a half circle and drove out of the field, cursing him at every foot. She was so angry, she was exhausted. She was so angry, it was hard to think. She was so angry, once she was back in the driveway she fell asleep . . . fell asleep for the first time in over half a century.

  Chapter

  20

  Coffee Ray was rolling around in the ditch with Scarlett, kissing every inch of her he could reach, touching her, running his fingers through her hair. And she was an enthusiastic partner, returning his kisses, his embrace, with raw passion that was making it hard for him to breathe. Or to think.

  “It’s a ditch,” he managed.

  “What?” she said after she had shredded his shirt.

  “We’re in a ditch.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a ditch.”

  “Yes,” she replied, somewhat impatiently.

  “I don’t want our first time to be in a ditch.”

  Her head jerked up. “Our first time?”

  “Well. Yeah. You know my disgusting shameful secret and you didn’t head for the hills. Think I’m letting you go now?”

  “You must,” she replied seriously. She blinked her big pretty eyes at him. “I must make my report to the king.”

  “So. I’m coming with.”

  “You are?” She mulled that over, seeming to taste the words. “You are. But why?”

  “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I have never counted it before,” she replied seriously.

  “So if you haven’t counted it, it doesn’t exist?”

  “No! Oh, no. There are many things in the world I have not counted. I—I only meant that I had no experience in that. In love at first sight.” She paused, then forced it out: “In love.”

  “Well,” he said, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat, “it wasn’t love at first sight. I fell when you told me about giants. So it was more like love at second or third sight.”

  “I’d like very much to introduce you to the king. And my other brother.”

  “So you’re allowed to show up in the fairy kingdom or whatever with strangers?”

  “By the time we get there, you will no longer be a stranger,” she said slyly, and he laughed.

  “Seriously, Scarlett . . .” His shorts went flying. “A ditch? We’ve got to come up with a better story for our grandchildren.”

  “I would like it very much if you would not talk the entire time we are naked.”

  “But it’s a ditch,” he whined, then gasped and clutched at her as she flexed her wings, as they whirred and blurred . . .

  . . . and then they were soaring straight up into the star-studded night.

  Chapter

  21

  “Whoa,” he managed some time later.

  Scarlett giggled.

  “I—uh—wha? Whoa. Whoa.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Barely. You’ve spoiled me—forever! Flying sex is way better than masturbating alone to Internet porn.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Also, you’re the most incredible lay in the history of getting laid.”

  The events of the past few minutes whirred through his brain: her lips, her mouth. Her long, strong legs wrapped around his waist. Her inner heat, her silky limbs . . . and all the while he thrust and groaned, they were flying through the dark, and once an owl kept pace with them, hooing questions they both ignored. Scarlett hadn’t even counted the bird.

  “And gorgeous,” he said, wrenching himself back to the present. “And big-time smart—and I know about big. I’d feel sorry for you being stuck with me if I wasn’t hip deep in afterglow.”

  “ ‘Stuck’ with you? Not at all. It will be a good match. Your life span is much longer than if both of your parents had been human.”

  “Fairies have longer life spans than humans?” he asked sleepily.

  “Nearly every species on this planet has a longer life span than humans,” she almost-but-not-quite-sneered. Then, “Oh. I apologize. I didn’t mean to insult your honored father.”

  “Honored father,” he snorted. “Shyeah. Change of subject, please.”

  She obliged. “And you are not tiny, as you would have b
een if both your parents had been human, which also suits me very well.”

  “Tiny?” he asked, delighted. “Who are you calling tiny?”

  “I assume that is a reference to your penis, which we both agree is not tiny. And, thankfully, because your father was human you won’t get fatally distracted and walk off a cliff.”

  “Is that an occupational hazard for giants?”

  She shuddered. “Extremely so. So, as I said, this will be a good match.”

  He stared at her. They were floating just a couple of feet above the woods that covered the southern part of Ireland’s property. It was so dark, and they were so far out in the country, the only lights were from the stars overhead. “Is that how fairies get hitched? They make—I dunno—the logical choice? Does love never enter into it?”

  “Love comes after,” she assured him.

  “After what?”

  “I will love you, as you will love me, because our union is so logical.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be the only one in this relationship who’s in love. So hurry up and fall in love with me already.”

  “I shall make a point of it,” she said gravely . . . then ruined it by giggling.

  “Gee. That’s so romantic I may—Yeek!” he yelped as she pinched him in a sensitive place.

  “And now,” she whispered, drawing him close—her hair smelled like secret flowers. “Now, you will love me again.”

  So he did. Very thoroughly.

  Epilogue

  Ireland Shea, Magicka guardian of her generation, groaned, flopped over on her stomach, and cracked open a bleary eye. She glared at the clock and wondered what had woken her up . . . at 6:15 in the morning!

  More honking from the driveway. Her husband groaned and sat up. “What fresh hell is this?” he asked, shamelessly cribbing from Shakespeare. At least, she was pretty sure it was Shakespeare.

  Ireland, who had gone to bed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, didn’t have to dress. She waited impatiently as Micah shrugged into yesterday’s slacks; then they hurried toward the god-awful noise.

  Ezra wasn’t there, of course—the sun had been up for five minutes. But everyone else was—even the fairy Scarlett and Coffee Ray! He must have spent the night.

  Ireland saw Coffee Ray and Scarlett were holding hands, and smiled.

  The Violent Fairy (“Stop calling me that; it’s tainted”) was also outside, arms folded across his massive chest. Willow stood in front of him, hugging their baby to her chest.

  Owen was transfixed, and Ireland had to poke him three times before he looked at her. “What’s going on?”

  Owen pointed wordlessly, and Ireland looked. There was Judith, parked in her usual—

  Wait.

  There was a woman standing beside the SUV. Hanging on to the mirror, actually. Naked, and bewildered. Her short blond curls were a mess, her feet were black with dirt, and even from where she was standing, Ireland could see how blue her eyes were. She looked like a Dresden doll.

  “Hello,” Ireland called. She was long used to strangers showing up on her property—and they were naked an alarming amount of the time. “Are you hurt? It’s okay. We won’t hurt you.”

  “I know that, you nitwit,” the blonde snapped in a weirdly cherubic voice. Though the words were acidic, her voice was high and sweet. The woman was a Barbie doll come to life.

  “Okay. That seemed uncalled for,” Ireland admitted. “Are you—”

  “It’s Judith!” Owen cried, and ran to the nude blonde, and scooped her up, and swung her around in two big circles before he set her back on the gravel.

  “You knew me!” Judith said, and hugged him back, and even from where she was, Ireland could see the tears falling like rain down Owen’s back.

  “Of course I knew you, you awful bitch. I’ve always known you.”

  And Ireland realized with a staggering shock that the SUV the blonde was leaning on was just that. An SUV. And that Judith, after decades of imprisonment, was home.

  Pixie Lust

  BY LOIS GREIMAN

  To Tara Rose, the most magical person I know.

  Chapter

  1

  “These feet,” said Avalina, and, bending, stroked the broken stems beneath her, restoring them to full health. “They are as large as moons. I cannot seem to bend them to my will.”

  The slow-flowering sedum that covered rock and root granted forgiveness, though it did little to hide its grumpiness. But that was the way of ground cover, wasn’t it? Rather grasping, and generally irritable.

  Avalina glanced about. Dusk was falling soft and dreamy from the sleepy places of the earth. Fragile, silvery mist lifted gently, filtering over fig and fern. It was the first night of her first visit to the Mortal Realm. Smiling a little, she lovingly folded the knobby root of a willow herb in a length of weevil silk, then tucked it into the little hemp bag that crisscrossed her torso and hung at her hip.

  She was strangely garbed, dressed in garments humans would not find unusual. Or so she hoped, but the species was notoriously fickle, prone to change fashions as easily as their moral code. Each century brought new styles, new speech, new foolishness, while Faery remained the same for time immemorial. There was, after all, little reason to change perfection. Still, Ava could not bear the thought of losing Mortal’s lovely species to mankind’s capricious foolishness. Thus she had come.

  She had been given little enough time to study Mortal ways, however. Her plans had been rushed, for the portal between their worlds would not long remain open for her kind.

  Gazing through the soft, descending darkness at the quiet glen, Avalina adjusted the garment that chafed her skin and restricted her breathing. It was called a corset, or so she believed, and it was horrid uncomfortable. As was the itchy dress that covered her from throat to ankle in hot, restrictive folds. Foolish folk, these mortals. Did they know nothing of petal fabrics and corn silk gowns?

  Still, it was unkind of her to mock them. They were a young race by Fey standards. Raw, uneducated. Dangerous by many accounts. Foolhardy by all. Perhaps they did not deserve the mesmerizing flora with which they had been blessed, yet here it was, springing forth like rushing water, so lush and green with fragrant newness that she longed to caress each leaf, to drink in every newborn scent. For a moment she felt compelled to twirl gleefully, to feel the oddly heavy air rush through her hair, push against her unfamiliar clothing, but she stifled the idea and chided herself; this was no childish game she played, no frolicsome sport, and she no mischievous bogle. Neither was she some impish pixie, prone to bouts of ridiculous thievery or juvenile pranks.

  Oh, aye, tales of yore suggested that all the wee folk had once been one and the same . . . all wild pranksters who lived for naught but strong drink and merrymaking. For decadence and foolishness and frolicking with mortal men. ’Twas said, in fact, that they had, long ago, all been irresistible to humankind. But only in olden tales most forgot did a Fey find a mate who would become her rantinn, the one soul who was willing to give up the very essence of himself for her. Then and only then would they be bound for eternity and travel, forever joyful, between the realms.

  But Avalina believed no such tales. For as long as she could recall, no mortal had come to the land of the Ancients, though more than a few sex-drunk pixies had tried to smuggle in their besotted lovers.

  Ava shook her head at such idiocy, for she was not so foolhardy. Nay, she was stalwart and steady. She had a task to fulfill and she would see to it, no matter the circumstances.

  Placing a protective hand on her pouch, she glanced about the glen in which she stood. She would do that for which she had come and leave posthaste, though this was indeed a magical spot. Airil, they would call it in the early tongue. Surely even the barbaric human would recognize the beauty possessed here, with the mercurial mists just rising from the fragrant bog and the deep-throated frogs only now tuning up for their nocturnal songs.

  Mortal was indeed an intriguing place, a land filled with flower and thi
stle, with grasses and herbs that bloomed and twined and sprouted. But it was the ferns that fascinated her most. She was, after all, a Fern Fey. A Learned One in her own right, descended from the wise folk of Gelda. Not frivolous like the flower faeries with whom she had arrived.

  Avalina scowled a little at the memory. Silly creatures all, they had come to Mortal on the pretense of studying godetia, but she knew far better; they had no wish to learn of the fragile blossoms that grew in profusion in certain Mortal regions. Instead, they planned a week of debauchery with any male foolhardy enough to linger with them, which, by all accounts, were many.

  Queen Barilla should have known better than to allow them to come. Though indeed, Avalina was lucky to have the excuse to accompany them. The portal opened only once a century, and ’twas the flower folk who had convinced the queen’s Chosen to permit them to come. The flower folk with their beguiling eyes and winsome features. The flower folk who had giggled at the sight of her heavy garments. They had dressed in their usual gossamer gowns. But theirs was a mission of decadence, while Avalina had come for entirely different reasons.

  Indeed, hers was a rescue mission of sorts, for she had come to retrieve the illusive Pinquil Fern, which was said to have been seen here hundreds of long years before. It was for that mission that she had abandoned her own frolicking gardens to hear every tale told of the revered fern—the Pinquil with its feathery foliage and reedy roots, with its musky fragrance and potent medicinal properties. Perhaps those properties did not pertain to humankind. Perhaps that was why the mortals, with their self-centered natures and enormous appetites, felt no great need to save it. She did not know, though she had spent some time studying their ways so that she might blend in. Might appear as one of them to avoid interruptions by some passing buffoon.

  But perhaps “buffoon” was no longer a word oft used. She scowled into the rising mist, musing. A lazy shaft of sunlight shimmered through the gauzy leaves, gilding thorn and berry alike, but she was lost in thought.