Pixie

Chapter One

One Year Ago

Atlantic Ocean

Aching pain was the first thing she noticed. The second thing was the nasty taste in her mouth as consciousness returned. Water would help wash that away. Is there any water?

With a grunt, Gillie rolled over on a hard surface. She cracked open one eye and winced as sharp photalgia stabbed into her head. Through the haze she saw her worn leather pack within easy reach. She pulled it close and blindly fumbled inside for her water bottle. With eager gulps she quickly drained half the contents. Her moisture-starved tissues sighed in relief. She capped the bottle and dropped it beside her.

Much improved, she squinted against the overhead lights. Her last memory was of being deep inside Langjökull Glacier in Iceland where she’d attended the annual Secret Solstice Festival. She’d danced with Sigyn, an excessively rich young woman who had picked Gillie up in a pub a few days earlier. Four days of music, unlimited Reyka Vodka and warm nights in Sigyn’s bed had made for quite the adventure, Gillie’s first since she’d left England two months ago.

Gillie staggered to her feet and scrubbed her face. Perhaps she’d had too much Reyka Vodka last night.

Where am I?

The room looked somewhat familiar in a utilitarian sort of way. She turned in a circle and noted gray-painted walls, metal floors and rivets. Large straps and thick rope nets held boxes and crates in place as the floor rocked gently beneath her. It didn’t take long for her to figure out her location. She was in the cargo hold of a freighter ship. If she ventured up the metal stairs and through the overhead door with its wheel-lock mechanism, she’d find cargo containers piled high on the deck. She’d stowed away aboard a similar ship to get to Iceland.

How did I get here? At her feet, her pack sat open with the now-half bottle of water. Beside it was her accordion case. Her tarp and sleeping bag were out and unfolded—she’d been laid atop them. If Sigyn had tired of Gillie, had wanted to get rid of her, why go to such extremes? A simple bugger off would have done the trick.

Still, this was a tad better than being run out of town on a proverbial rail.

Gillie squatted and inventoried her pack. Everything was there—all her camping supplies and personal hygiene items. Even the leather pouch that contained remembrances of home and family sat unmolested in its place. Someone had added food for several days, but not enough water. Gillie sat back on her haunches. Five one-gallon containers of water had been tucked close by behind a cargo net, her name written on the side of each one.

Well then. Enough food and water to get her through a few days. She could conceivably stay here until the ship docked at its destination. I do so hope it’s not back to England, she groused under her breath. Getting through security there hadn’t been easy. The Port of London Authority had hired fairies to watch their ships. Those little gits were as bent as a nine-bob note against any kind but their own. It had taken three days of sneaking and squatting to board a ship heading west.

Gillie blew out a breath, pushing recalcitrant locks of dark hair away from her face. A glance at her old pocket watch indicated it wasn’t quite evening. If she wanted to, she could go topside to see where she was headed. Of course, if this ship remained above the Arctic Circle, the sky wouldn’t darken at all. In any case, she could be on her way to Greenland or Norway. Her preference was westward—she’d wanted to see the new country as soon as she’d heard about it.

It was far too early to alert the crew that they had a stowaway. Best to remain hidden for another day. The farther from their port of origin when the crew discovered her, the better. There was still time for them to call seagoing authorities to pick her up and cart her back to Iceland. Besides, luck had always been with her. It didn’t matter when she decided to explore the ship; if she wasn’t supposed to be seen, she wouldn’t be. And if she was discovered, so be it.

Gillie folded her sleeping bag into a cushion and sat, leaning her back against a nearby crate. Ow! She searched for the splinter that had stabbed her in the shoulder and was unable to locate it. With a frown, she tugged her T-shirt aside and peered at the damage.

The thick, black lines of a tattoo met her gaze, a tattoo she knew she hadn’t had the day before. What the— She leaned farther away from the crate and exposed more of her shoulder. Yes, there was definitely a tattoo there, a big one. She explored what she could reach with her fingers, felt the faint lines of raised skin along shoulder and spine and down to her waist. The flesh was tender but not overly so.

She’d had experience with tattoos. Thick, blue woad lines circled her biceps and ankles, each representing life achievements and lost friends. They had all taken time to fully heal. This new one seemed a week old, not a tattoo acquired within the last twelve hours. Have I been unconscious for a week? She had no way to tell. Her pocket watch didn’t have a date function, and she’d yet to attain the funds to purchase any of the newfangled electronics everyone sported these days.

Why would a moneyed and gorgeous woman like Sigyn pick up a ragamuffin like Gillie, treat her to the best weekend ever and then slip her a mickey? What was the purpose of tattooing her and dumping her on a cargo ship heading gods knew where? Where had Gillie been this last week? Curiously, she didn’t feel like that much time had passed, which would indicate the tattoo was magical.

That was a scarier prospect than waking in the hold of a cargo ship with no idea about her destination.

Gillie gingerly leaned against the crate until she found a somewhat comfortable place. What was that song she’d once heard? Something about people being strange when you were the stranger? This world had grown older and the people in it more peculiar. She had a choice now. She could allow disquiet to blossom into terror or not.

Rather than become frightened by a situation that was fully out of her hands, she took the pragmatic road. This last week of experiences had been well worth the discomfort she currently endured. And hadn’t that been her reason for leaving home to begin with? To live life to the fullest? She only hoped that whatever tattoo Sigyn had gifted her with was at least decorative and suited to Gillie’s temperament.

She retrieved packets of feverfew and willow from her kit. First to doctor the headache and then perhaps take a nap. Afterward I’ll have a gander upstairs.

It was time to focus on her next great adventure.

Chapter Two

Sunday

Portland, Oregon

I was late.

My skateboard skidded as I turned it sideways to halt my forward momentum. It was a close thing. I almost smashed into the Dumpster that shared space with the two recycling bins, but they barely brushed me with their grime and stench. The back door to the Homeless Youth Outreach Center stood open, blocked by a crude chunk of wood hastily employed as a doorstop. I heard the clash and clatter of a kitchen in full swing and the hum of industrial-sized fans. With practiced ease I stomped on the end of my deck. It leaped from horizontal to vertical, and I caught it by the truck and lifted it from the ground.

Stepping into the kitchen was like entering another world. Outside the alleyway smelled of garbage and beer cans, dust and maybe a slight hint of mold. Inside the aroma of cooked food permeated the steamy atmosphere. The fans barely touched the heat, but that was to be expected. Air-conditioning wasn’t in the budget this year. Or last. Or next.

You’re late, Lindsay, a deep voice called.

I know! I recognized the smell of mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables as I wended my way through the kitchen. One of the other volunteers grinned wry amusement as he carried a tray of food into the dining room. I’m sorry. I was up all night.

I reached a series of open cubbies the volunteers used to store their belongings while at work. One had my name taped inside—Lindsay Wells. I parked my skateboard in it and retrieved a T-shirt from my backpack. The pack hit the cubby and the shirt my back as I tossed it on over my camisole. It was too hot in the kitchen, but shirts were required when at work. Damned food-handler regulations.

Studying?

Yeah. Finals start in a couple of weeks.

I turned toward the voice. Max Brona was the director and chief cook at the center. A large, burly man, he was respected by most of the street kids as much for his tough-guy appearance as for his gruff generosity. He wore the requisite kitchen whites proudly stained with the day’s work and a pair of black rubber clogs, the standard outfit of any professional cook. Tattoos covered his bare forearms, another common feature among Portland’s culinary experts. His long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a frizzy ponytail.

He nodded his grizzled head and tossed me a disposable apron. Well, lucky for you, a couple of the kids offered to fill in. Go wash up and get on the line.

I tugged the plastic, full-frontal apron over my head and hustled to the deep basin sink. Once I had my apron on and hair tied back, I scrubbed my hands and arms. No one worked in the kitchen or on the serving line without a thorough wash. Max had little tolerance for people who didn’t follow food-service protocol, which was probably a good thing. Our clientele drew a lot of attention from the authorities—the last thing we needed was to be shut down on a health code violation. Clean and prepped, I exited the kitchen and out into controlled pandemonium.

The dining room ran along the front of the Old Town building. Large plate-glass windows looked out onto a street busy with traffic. The outreach center had been at this fortuitous location for fifteen years, far enough from the new and improved public transit corridor to have been left alone during the renovation and gentrification of the neighborhood, yet close enough to allow easy access for the homeless youth we served. A long row of folding tables held today’s offerings, each pot or pan manned by one or two volunteers with ladles and serving forks. Servers ranged in age from a teenager doing community service work to a seventy-year-old grandmother who hated sitting idle in her musty condominium two blocks away.

Beyond the serving line a mishmash of tables of assorted sizes and materials filled the rest of the room. Summer always drew large crowds of street kids to the center as many traveled north to beat the heat of the Southern states. Their ability to just hoist anchor and sail off to parts unknown by whatever means necessary both terrified and amazed me. Severe introversion coupled with a healthy yellow streak had meant that my time on the streets had been spent as a walking doormat; I couldn’t imagine what would have happened if I’d left the minuscule safety of my hometown. My heart quailed at the idea of thumbing rides with strangers to places I didn’t know. Even now the idea of leaving Portland for graduate school somewhere else frightened the hell out of me.

A line of raggedy teenagers passed my station. I smothered their mashed potatoes with thick hamburger gravy. I knew most of them well enough to engage in small talk. These were the regulars who remained in Portland year-round, as I had done years ago. Others came through on a habitual basis, most often in the summer as they passed through en route to concerts in the Gorge or music festivals in Washington and Canada. Contemporary homeless youth were travelers by nature, unable to sit in one place for too long. They took to the highways and railways with abandon, receiving firsthand experience of cultures all over the country.

A little girl appeared before me with a plate and a wide grin. Love the blue hair, pet.

It took a moment for me to register the comment, almost as if I needed to translate it. While my mind worked the problem, I had to concede that she had to be the youngest person I’d ever seen here. After several seconds, I realized she wasn’t a child. Her tiny stature, barely five feet tall, had confused me. Upon closer examination, she appeared to be in her late teens. Thanks.

Her dark, shaggy hair framed a creamy complexion, and her deep brown eyes sparkled as if to indicate she fully understood my immediate incorrect assumptions about her age. She came up on her tiptoes to peer into the pan from which I served. And what would that be, then? It smells absolutely delightful!

And now I realized why I hadn’t instantly understood her first words. An English accent! A smile teased the corner of my lips as I recognized the lilt. It was rare to find foreigners among the homeless population. I’d once met an Australian while on the streets but no others. It’s hamburger gravy. I carefully deposited a serving onto the Englishwoman’s mashed potatoes.

Thank you.

You’re welcome. I gestured down the line. Be sure to grab an apple for dessert.

She studied me with hooded eyes that promised more than friendship. And are you the snake in the garden to tempt me with forbidden fruit?

Heat of a different kind caressed my cheeks. I struggled with the urge to duck beneath the table or back into the kitchen. Cute, English and a flirt—a winning combination. I glanced at my serving mates, but no one paid us any attention. You’re not twelve anymore, Wells! Grow a spine! It took effort to overcome my initial inclination in all social situations—to flee—but my mouth opened of its own accord. That depends…is it working?

With a coquettish wink, she sauntered down the serving line.

Aghast and elated that I’d said anything at all, I focused on my task. My hand trembled from the short burst of adrenaline that had shot through me at her come-on and my audacity. While I inwardly patted myself on the back for stretching beyond my rigid boundaries, my attention drifted to the Englishwoman. I watched as she received a spoon of vegetables from another server, a dinner roll and a set of plastic utensils.

She studied the bowls of mixed fruit—apples, bananas and pears—with care before she finally selected an apple. Just before she left the line, her eyes met mine and she wiggled her eyebrows at me.

Oh yes. Definitely a flirt!

* * *

Other than the English flirt, the rest of lunch passed in a blur of dirty faces, irreverent language and constant ladling. Heat from the kitchen radiated against my back, and the warmth of an overcrowded room permeated the air. Cleanliness wasn’t a priority to our clients, and the dining room was soupy with sweat, dust, body odor and food despite the open front door and two fans that battled to move the air. I’d worked here for so long, I barely noticed the discomfort anymore.

Eventually the last of them had eaten their fill, the empty pans had been returned to the kitchen for a soak, and the rest of us enjoyed a quick meal of leftovers. My eyes were continually drawn to the tiny woman as I ate, but she seemed oblivious to my interest. I tried not to let her lack of attention depress me. To be honest, it was just as well. The last thing I needed was to invite homeless-kid-drama into my life. It had taken years to get where I was now, and I was too close to graduation to be sidetracked. Besides, she exhibited a confidence that indicated she knew she was cute. With my luck she was an airheaded narcissist. I wasn’t the type of person interested in one-night stands, and she’d be gone with the next train or truck driver anyway.

With reluctance I tossed my empty plate into the trash and returned to the kitchen. There Max directed the two homeless kids who had helped earlier to wash dishes. I joined them while the other volunteers put things away and scrubbed down tables, counters and floors.

I knew my assistants, Growler and Teena. They were a young couple that annually hitchhiked up from Florida to visit family in Seattle. The last time I’d seen them was in September as they headed south. At the time they’d acquired a pit bull pup. I scraped and rinsed the pans before passing them to Growler. How’s Baby? Is he still with you?

Yeah, he’s fine. Growler scrubbed at a recalcitrant spot. His arms were dark from constant exposure to the sun, and they glistened in the soapy water. Still growing.

Teena stood beyond him, using the spray nozzle to rinse newly cleaned serving utensils. He’s tied up outside. Max won’t let us bring him in. Says it’s ‘unhygienic.’ She rolled expressive green eyes. Like the rest of us are hygienic to begin with. That dog is cleaner than most crusties!

I snorted laughter at her reference. Keeping clean on the road wasn’t easy, but there were a subset of homeless kids who eschewed bathing even when the service was available. I’ll see if I can find him a little something before you leave. He’s probably hungry too.

That’d be awesome, dawg. Growler finished his pot and handed it off to his girlfriend. Did you hear what happened last night in Old Town?

No. I passed him a pan and started on another. I stayed in last night, up to my armpits in textbooks.

Magic, Teena supplied, her voice lowered in awe. A lot of it!

My ears perked. Really? Magic wasn’t heard of in these parts very often, of which I was eternally grateful.

Since Joram Darkstone opened the door between dimensions two years ago, a flood of strange creatures had returned to their homes of old all over the world. The only known mythological being that had taken up residence in the Pacific Northwest was a tribe of Bigfoot in the Cascades. The same Darkstone event meant magic was also available to anyone with the ability and willingness to study. Fortunately it wasn’t a skill easily learned; the only human being who had the training at this point was Joram Darkstone herself. It would be several years before today’s current thaumaturgical students would become sorcerers. Right now we lived in a transformative age between the old ways and the new. The children born this year were even being called Gen M.

Anyhow, for a noticeable amount of magic to be seen in public, there had to be a corresponding supernatural creature in the vicinity since no human was yet capable. And the only magic Bigfoot employed was that of stealth.

The thought of something or someone able to cast spells and hurt or control others creeped me out.

Growler leaned soapy hands against the edge of the sink. It ripped the hell out of the tail end of an incoming train at Union Station. Bright lights and explosions!

Lindsay stared at him. Whoa! You saw it?

Not much of it. Teena pushed dark dreadlocks away from her face. We were camped across the river.

Yeah. We thought it was illegal fireworks. Growler returned his attention to the pan. But we ran into somebody this morning who saw more than we did.

And there’s scorch marks all over the ground out there too, Teena supplied. We went and checked this morning.

Wow. I collected the last of the dirty utensils, rinsed them and dumped them into Growler’s sink. Scorch marks and explosions in Old Town Portland. Union Station was only a few blocks away from here. My skin crawled at the thought.

Right? He handed the clean pan to Teena. Ain’t heard of a human sorcerer besides Darkstone, you know? And I doubt she’d be hanging outside a train yard in Oregon at night.

Teena nodded. Yeah, we think it was maybe a traveling creature. There’s so many of them all over the world…

Too true. I wetted a cloth and wiped down my end of the sink. As intriguing as it would be to figure out what exactly had happened and what had caused the disturbance, I felt a stronger pull toward self-preservation. The Internet was full of real-life horror stories where humans had poked their noses into the lives of the newly returned mystical beings and had paid the ultimate price for their curiosity. Life was hard enough without those sorts of complications. I could only hope that whatever it was would continue on its way with a minimum of fuss.

But the questions remained: Why would something attack a train? Why here?

Chapter Three

A pit bull sat outside the outreach center, tied to a parking sign. Gillie fished a bottle of water out of her pack and poured it into the bowl at its feet as she scanned her environment for anyone who took offense. Homeless teenagers tended to be somewhat territorial when it came to their animal familiars. No one balked at her presumption nor did anyone burst from the center to take her to task. Pleased with her success, she gave the dog a pat on the head, hoisted her accordion case and walked away.

She strolled along a brick-laid sidewalk as an electric train trundled past. Portland was pretty for a large city. The air was cleaner than that in most metropolises she’d experienced. Everywhere there were trees and planters with flowers and greens. Since she’d arrived in America last year, she’d explored multiple large cities. Each one had both its pleasant and deplorable points. So far she’d yet to see a downside to Portland. The atmosphere was mostly uncontaminated, and the people were friendly, especially that beautiful woman with the blue hair in the soup kitchen. Gillie almost wanted to settle in the area for a few weeks.

Well, except for that…whatever it was at the train station.

Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered. Whatever had dogged her heels over the last several months had gotten nearer. Had she remained on that train car a few minutes longer last night, she’d have been burned to a crisp. She’d managed to jump mere minutes before the explosion. A number of odd accidents and outright attacks had occurred over the course of her travels this year, but they’d all happened far away or were too weak to do her harm. Last night her luck had taken a severe turn for the worse, one that had almost cost Gillie her life.

But why? Who would target her—a know-nothing from Devon, England? She certainly hadn’t stolen anything from anyone of substance since leaving home. And try as she might, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d met in her travels who would mean her harm on such an expansive level. That meant she must have ticked off something of a metaphysical nature. She pondered the magical quality of the attacks as she walked along, trying to decide what kind of creature she’d crossed.

In her native land, fairies had made a reappearance since the doors had opened. Had one followed her? What? All the way from Devon? All this time? Is that even possible? Fairies were a cold and cruel people, more than willing to kidnap children, kill interlopers or generally cheat and murder people for the slightest of transgressions. They were stuck-up, pompous and murderous, able to destroy whole families who encroached on their territory without the slightest qualm.

Or perhaps Queen Joan the Wad had sent these attacks.