Fairy Blues
(Songs of Magic #2)
by
J. L. Bryan
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Jeffrey L. Bryan. All rights reserved.
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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
When his phone woke him up, Jason's first thought was Wow, that hurts.
His back burned and itched from his left shoulder all the way to the lower right side of his back. Right where the dragon had clawed him, naturally. His hair still stank like scorched sugar, just like the pink dragon after Jason hit it with a huge fireball from his guitar.
His phone rang again.
“Any plans on answering that?” Grizlemor asked. The goblin sat on Jason's windowsill, reading a cracked leather-bound book titled Gobblering Heights. His grandma-style reading glasses were perched on the tip of his snubby green nose. “That's the sixth time it's rung. Very annoying.”
“I'm in serious pain here, Grizlemor.”
“You said you were fine last night.” The goblin cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn't have been lying just to impress your lady friend, would you?”
“Shut up.” Jason pushed himself to a sitting position, feeling the burn spread across his back. “Dragons aren't poisonous, are they?”
“Only if they're poison dragons.” Grizlemor licked his thumb and turned a page.
“Well?”
“Well what? I'm trying to read,” the goblin said.
“Was it a poisonous dragon that scratched me?”
“I'm not an expert on dragons.”
Jason sighed. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched, which made the pain in his back flare up. His cell phone rang again, rattling its way across his bedside table.
“Who keeps calling?” Jason asked.
“Had I been interested enough to look, I could tell you,” Grizlemor replied.
Jason picked up his phone. It was Mitch, the keyboardist and the creator of the Assorted Zebras. There were also several missed calls from different numbers he didn't recognize. None of them appeared to be from Erin, though.
“What does Mitch want?” Jason asked.
“Perhaps the best way to find out would be to answer the phone. Or put it on silent so it stops bothering me.”
Jason flicked his phone to silent.
“How long do you plan to keep living in my room?” Jason asked Grizlemor.
“Do you have any plans to return those instruments you stole from the fairies?” the goblin asked in return.
Jason thought of the concert the previous night, the roaring and applause of the huge crowd in Minneapolis. The delight on Erin’s face as the crowd lapped up their music.
“Not anytime soon,” Jason said.
“Then there's your answer. I can't go home until the matter of the stolen instruments is settled to the Queen's satisfaction. Otherwise, I'll get blamed for the whole fiasco. A human stealing fairy instruments.” Grizlemor snorted.
“All right, I get it. It was a good show, though, wasn't it? Last night?”
“Very impressive, for humans. I believe nobody left with bleeding ears. Your man-girl Erin seems unusually talented.”
“I’m not sure I like the term 'man-girl',” Jason said.
“We have much worse terms for humans where I come from.”
“Right.” Jason listened to his voice mail. The unknown numbers turned out to be kids from school, people who'd never spoken to him before, mostly girls. They all wanted to know when the Assorted Zebras were playing again. Then he reached Mitch's voice mail.
“The people have spoken,” Mitch said. “We're great. I'm putting together demo CDs today. We're going to mail these babies to every radio station from here to Chicago. And send them to the big record labels. Also, we need to pick some of these gig offers to accept. Wouldn't mind some help. Hit me back.”
Jason groaned.
“That guy's a workaholic,” Jason said. “Why can't he take a day off?”
“The early unicorn gets the cobra,” Grizlemor said.
“What does that mean?”
“Just a saying. I think it's talking about hard work and effort, or something. Will you fetch me some breakfast now? I'm hungry. And I don't think your parents would appreciate a small green man digging through their kitchen cabinets.”
“What do you want this time?”
“Oat cereal,” Grizlemor said. “Topped with ketchup and mustard. Don't go splashing that cow-sauce all over it.”
“Cow-sauce? You mean milk?”
“Would you hurry?” Grizlemor's pudgy stomach rumbled. “Hear that?”
“Be back in a minute.” Jason closed the door firmly behind him before heading downstairs.
He was surprised to see his mom had cooked a full Sunday-morning breakfast: pancakes and sausage and wedges of fresh cantaloupe. His parents and his six-year-old sister Katie sat at the table, his dad reading the Sunday paper while Katie read the comics.
“There's our little star!” Jason's mom said. “How was the show last night? We tried to stay up and wait for you.”
“It was good,” Jason said. He sat down and poured a glass of orange juice.
“Good write-up of the show in the paper,” his dad said. “Good for your group, anyway. They said everyone else paled in comparison.”
“Great.” Jason thought of how hostile the other bands had been to them at the festival. Jason's band, the Assorted Zebras, had been scheduled at the last minute, and the event organizers had bumped another band that had already auditioned and been accepted. The crowd of high school and college students had been restless and dissatisfied until the Assorted Zebras played, not really giving the other bands a chance.
“Says there was a big fire in an alley nearby,” Jason's dad said. “Did you see that?”
Jason thought of the huge dragon he'd destroyed with a blast of fire from the fairy guitar.
“I don't think I saw anything like that,” Jason said.
“How come I didn't get to see Jason play?” Katie asked.
“Maybe next time, Katie,” Jason's mom said. “When are you playing again, Jason? We would love to see you in concert.”
“I don't know.” The whole conversation felt weird. Only a few weeks ago, Jason's parents had insisted he quit the Assorted Zebras. Jason's mom wanted him to focus on the clarinet and the school band. Jason's dad wanted him to work a summer job. But the music from the fairy instruments had entranced his parents like everyone else, and now Jason felt like he could get away with anything. That was not a normal feeling to get from his parents.
As he ate, he thought about Grizlemor waiting upstairs. It wasn't going to be easy to sneak out a bowl of cereal topped with condiments while his whole family was in the kitchen.
His phone rang in his pocket, and his heart jumped when he saw the caller ID picture. Erin.
“I'll be right back,” Jason said. He started to stand, but his mom took his arm.
“Oh, here's a thought,” his mom said. “Your cousin Tori is about to have her thirteenth birthday. Maybe your little band could play at her party.”
“In Sheboygan? That's all the way across the state!” Jason's phone rang again. “I really need to answer my—”
“It would be such a nice gesture. Don't you think so, George?”
“She's your cousin,” Jason's dad said.
“We're kind of looking for bigger venues than Uncle Ned's back yard,” Jason said.
“Don't go getting a big head,” his mom said.
“Why would his head get big?” Katie asked.
“Sometimes people can't handle a little bit of success,” Jason's mom said.
“And it makes their head bigger?”
“It's a figure of speech, Katie,” his mom said.
“I have to go.” Jason hurried out of the kitchen.
“I'll just call your Aunt Polly and tell her you'll play at Tori's birthday party,” his mom said.
“Wait!” Jason walked back into the room. His phone had stopped ringing, and he'd missed Erin's call. “I don't control the whole band. They all have to agree.”
“Why wouldn't they agree to do a nice thing like that?” Jason's mom asked.
“They're wild kids,” his dad commented.
“Maybe they have big heads!” Katie added.
“I'm sure that Erin Kavanagh girl is a bad influence,” his mom said. “You don't want to spend too much time with someone like that, Jason.”
“Gotta go,” Jason said. “Don't call Aunt Polly, okay?”
Jason hurried upstairs and closed his door. He raised his phone to call Erin back, and then noticed Grizlemor on the windowsill.
“Can you go somewhere for a minute, Grizlemor?” he asked.
“Where's my bowl of Oatie Smacks?”
“I couldn't get it yet. I need to use the phone, though.”
“Then use it.”
“It's private.”
Grizlemor lifted a dirty eyebrow. “Calling your man-girl?”
“It's none of your business.”
“If you want me to go, I will.” The goblin disappeared in a green puff, then reappeared on the carpet below the window. “I'll just hop down to the kitchen...”
“No!”
Grizlemor folded his arms. “Where do you expect a thirty-inch-high green man to be inconspicuous?”
“I don't know. Just go into your room, I guess.”
Grizlemor shrugged, lifted the hem of Jason's bedspread, and walked under the bed.
Erin had left a voice mail, so Jason listened instead of calling her back.
“Hi, it’s Erin,” she said. “Just checking to see about your, um, dragon wound. I know you said it wasn’t too bad, but it looked pretty deep. So I hope you’re okay. Call me sometime.”
And that was the message. The tone of her voice sounded a little distant and awkward to him. Just “call me sometime.” Like she wasn’t in any hurry to hear from him. Maybe she regretted kissing him. It sounded that way to Jason.
His back was still burning and itching. He walked to the mirror, raised his shirt, and turned around.
The claw mark on his back was hot pink, swooping down from his left shoulder, passing just behind his heart and down to his right hip. More veins of hot pink snaked out on either side of the main wound, like the tributaries of a river.
“When will this telephone conversation begin, exactly?” Grizlemor asked from under the bed.
“Forget it. Does this look poisoned to you?”
Grizlemor appeared in a green puff on top of the bed. He looked at Jason’s reflection in the mirror and made a sucking-in-air-through-his-teeth sound.
“Is it bad?” Jason asked.
“Looks bad.”
“Poisoned?”
“Wouldn’t know. I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
“That’s it? You don’t have any like, magic help, or advice, or anything?”
Grizlemor sighed. “I suppose I could whip something up. Meet me in my office.” He disappeared in another puff of green smoke.
Jason knelt slowly by the bed, wincing at the pain in his back. He lifted his bedspread.
In the space under Jason’s bed, next to Grizlemor's small mattress and end table, the goblin was rummaging through a miniature armoire full of tiny glass bottles stoppered with bits of cork.
“Potions, potions...” Grizlemor muttered.
“You have a potion armoire?” Jason asked.
“No. It’s a regular armoire. I just happen to use it for potions.” Grizlemor took out a few bottles. “Tea tree oil...garlic drippings...vinegar vinaigrette...Ah! We just need a fresh luck-clover or two and we’re all set.”
“A luck-clover? Is that like a four-leaf clover?”
“Yes,” Grizlemor sighed. “I suppose one might call it a ‘four-leaf clover.’ I suppose one could also refer to poison ivy as a ‘three-leaf vine,’ if one wanted to avoid mentioning anything important about the plant.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were so picky about words.”
“If we don’t use the proper words, we sound like blithering stupids,” Grizlemor said.
“You mean blithering idiots?”
“Do you want the dragon-scratch ointment or not?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Then go and find a fresh four-leaf clover.” Grizlemor flopped back on his small mattress and raised his book.
“Where do I find one of those?”
“In a clover patch, we might imagine.” The goblin looked at Jason over his glasses. “Simply find one with four leaves instead of three. And don’t come back without my breakfast.” Grizlemor pulled Jason’s bed comforter down like a curtain.
Jason walked downstairs and out into the yard, to begin what would turn out to be a long and fruitless search for a four-leaf clover. His back itched and burned the whole time, and he couldn’t quite manage to scratch it.
Chapter Two
Hokealussiplatytorpinquarnartnuppy Melaerasmussanatolinkarrutorpicus Darnathiopockettlenocbiliotroporiqqua Bellefrost trudged through the marsh, leaning heavily on his sugarcane walking stick. He’d barely made it home from man-world, sneaking back into Faerie through a door whose dullahan guard must have been slacking on the job.
He touched the scorched pink unicorn horn tied to his belt. Buttercake had gone down in flames, burned until only the horn remained. He felt terrible for her. Just now, after walking all day through the swamplands, slapping away the swarms of booger-bugs that tried to burrow up his nose, Hoke missed having Buttercake as a mount, too. His old elven feet ached inside his cracked leather boots.
Hoke took a shortcut through Depressed Cypress Swamp, which he usually avoided because of all the deadly quicksand. He was just too tired to go the long way around. It was almost nightfall, anyway. He didn’t want to get caught outside when the giant saber-toothed swamp ducks emerged into the moonlight, looking for small animals to eat.
He trudged through the soft, heavy mud sucking at his feet. He approached some of the ancient Depressed Cypresses for whom this part of the marshland were named. Their dark trunks flared at the waterline of the swamp water, and there they had faces made of knotty bark. All of them looked like sour old men with mossy beards. Some of the faces were half-submerged in the black water.
“Happy sunset,” Hoke greeted the stand of trees as he walked through them.
“There’s nothing happy about this sunset,” one of the trees grumbled.
“Or any other,” a second tree added.
“It looks like the season’s been well to all of you,” Hoke said.
“Horrible season,” a Depressed Cypress replied.
“I think I’ve got a limb infection,” another added.
“An alligator pooped on me the other day,” a third tree complained.
“My mouf fills weh water whenever I talk,” another tree burbled, his mouth right at the surface of the dark water.
“No one wants to hear you talk, anyway,” a tree said.
Hoke tried to pick up the pace. He wanted to get through the Depressed Cypresses as quickly as possible, but they were easily offended and quite touchy. Besides, he had to step carefully while he watched out for quicksand.
“What awful things have you been doing?” another tree asked Hoke.
“I’m sure it’s depressing,” a tree commented.
“Actually, it is rather sad.” Hoke stopped to show the unicorn horn to the tree’s sour-old-man face. “My poor unicorn was burned to a nub by a wicked young man-whelp.”
“That kind of thing always happens,” a tree said.
“Life just gets worse and worse as you go,” said another.
“It’s not so bad,” Hoke said. “Unicorns can regrow from their horns.”
“But doesn’t it take a long time?”
“I bet it’s hard. It sounds like too much trouble.”
“Why would anyone bother growing back, anyway?”
“You’ll be missing your unicorn for a long time. A long, sad time.”
“It can take quite a while,” Hoke said. “Days, for some. For others, years...”
“Yours will probably take a long time.”
“Why even bother?”
Now Hoke was feeling down. In fact, he was down about six inches. His boots were sinking deep into dark quicksand.
“Oh, you did it to me again!” Hoke said. The Depressed Cypresses were known for engaging travelers in depressing conversation until they sank away into the quicksand, where they became Depressed Cypress fertilizer. “I don’t appreciate you trying to eat me.”
“We’re sorry.”
“We’re just hungry.”
“And depressed.”
“We eat when we’re depressed. Do you ever get like that?”
“Stop it!” Hoke snapped. “My cornhorse, Buttercake, will be perfectly fine. And I’m going to go home, take off my boots, and have a lovely meal of sugar beets and Sweetish fish. And everything will be fine!”
As he spoke, he rose from the quicksand. When his feet were free, he jogged the rest of the way through the Depressed Cypresses.
“He doesn’t like us,” one tree moaned.
“Nobody does,” groaned another.
Soon, the sour-faced cypresses gave way to huge primordial sugarcanes that towered overhead, reaching toward the sky and filling the swamp with shadows. The ancient canes were shaggy with leaves and marshmallow moss. The smell of the swamp turned from bitter to sweet. Hoke trudged onward.
Finally, he reached his little hillock, which was mostly walled in by dense stands of sugarcane. He passed through the gap in the cane that served as his front gate. Inside the cane walls, everything looked normal—his little house made of cane and brambles, his beet garden, his row of caramel cornstalks.
Hoke approached one of the scattered sugar pools and removed the pink unicorn horn from his belt. He whistled, but his two remaining unicorns, Berrymuffin and Cinnamon, didn’t emerge from the stands of cane.
Hoke stiffened up. If the unicorns were hiding, that meant danger was nearby. Hoke could guess what the danger looked like, too—fairies in black armor, with iron swords at their hips.
He heard something plop into the mud behind him. Plop, plop, plop. Three somethings. He didn’t turn to face them, but kept his hand near the flint knife and pouches of combat herbs on his belt.
“Hokealussiplatytorpinquarnartnuppy Melaerasmussanatolinkarrutorpicus Darnathiopockettlenocbiliotroporiqqua,” said a stern male voice.
“You forgot ‘Bellefrost,’” Hoke said. He turned slowly to face them.
The three male fairies were dressed in black armor with the Queen’s golden crest on the breastplate. The one in front, the one who’d spoken, was Icarus, the Queensguard fairy who had hired Hoke to go into man-world and search for the stolen instruments.
“I do not see a lute in your hands,” Icarus said. “Nor a harp, a drum, or pan pipes. Did you fail to find them?”
“Oh, I found them,” Hoke said. “In the hands of four man-whelps. But I couldn’t take them.”
“You were bested by man-children?” Icarus sneered.
“They knew how to use the instruments. Frighteningly well, in fact,” Hoke said. “It makes me wonder if there might be a fairy among them. Buttercake had to turn into a dragon, and that trick is hard on a cornhorse. And even when she was a dragon, they still smoked her.” Hoke held up her horn.
“The thieves slew a dragon?” Icarus gaped at the smoke-smudged unicorn horn.
“It won’t be easy to take those instruments back,” Hoke said. “Anyhow, I’ve done my part. I tried. I lost my best cornhorse. There’s nothing else I can do for you.”
“Then we’ll expect a full refund of the payment we made. The pearl, the ruby, and the emerald.”
“I ought to keep something for the loss of my cornhorse.”
“You failed to accomplish anything, Hoke, and your treasonous attitude toward the Queen has been noted,” Icarus said. “You will return the payment, and if you tell us what you have discovered about the thieves, you will receive the Queen’s mercy.”
Hoke nodded. He reached into one of the sugar pools, dug through the soft muck at the bottom, and came up with a small burlap pouch dripping chocolatey mud.
“I’ll return your stones, if that will convince you to leave me alone,” Hoke said. He opened the pouch and handed over the three gems that Aoide the Lutist had paid him, at the insistence of Icarus. “You’ll give them back to those nice young fairy ladies, I’m sure.”
“Tell of these human thieves you saw,” Icarus said. “How many were they?”
“Four. One for each instrument.” Hoke had also spotted a goblin with the group, but he didn’t want to volunteer extra information. Icarus had only asked about the human thieves.
“What were their names?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Where can we find them?”
“Not sure,” Hoke said. “Buttercake tracked them to a music festival. No idea where they’re from.” Hoke had also noticed the band was called the Assorted Zebras, but still, he didn’t see any reason to help the Queensguard.
“What did they look like?” another of the Queensguard fairies asked.
Hoke gave the vaguest possible description of the four band members, the two man-boys and two man-girls. “All humans look alike to me, to be honest,” Hoke said. “Big, ugly, gangly.”
“Thanks so much, elf.” Icarus jangled the three stones in his hand. “You’ve been almost no help at all.”
“I’ve done my best,” Hoke said.
“You’d best stay here in the swamp,” Icarus advised. “Keep your treasonous mutterings to yourself. Don’t come near Sidhe City.”
“I wouldn’t set a shoe inside Sidhe City even if it was Free Lollipop Day,” Hoke said.
“Good. We wouldn’t want you stinking up the place.” Icarus jumped into the air and flared out his bright, multi-hued butterfly-style wings. He climbed toward the sky, and the two other Queensguard fairies followed him without a word.
“All fairies are looney-nuts,” Hoke mumbled when they’d flown out of sight.
He heard a tiny splash.
Cinnamon and Berrymuffin emerged from a patch of pink cane, their heads low and their ears flattened. Cinnamon’s reddish-brown eyes, and Berrymuffin’s blueberry-colored eyes, were both huge and full of tears. Both unicorns had their lower lips pooched out and quivering .
“I’m sorry, girls,” Hoke said. “Your sister didn’t make it.”
Both unicorns ran toward him, wailing and whimpering. He hugged them close.
“There, there, everything will be well.” Hoke held out Buttercake’s pink horn over a narrow but deep pool of sugar water. “She’ll be back. You’ll see.”
He dropped the horn into the water and watched it sink down to the thick, sweet silt at the bottom. Buttercake would regrow, and one day emerge from the pool as a clumsy little foal again, but there was no telling how long it would take. It might be days, or years, or centuries.
Chapter Three
The Assorted Zebras agreed to play The Monkey Paw, a large club in Madison that had been converted from an old mitten-and-galoshes factory. Or Mitch had agreed to it, and then told the rest of the band, complaining nobody had shown up to help him sort through the various gig offers.
On Thursday, the day of the show, Jason sat in his room watching for Dred’s orange van. The band hadn’t gotten together again since the festival on Saturday night. As Mitch pointed out, there wasn’t much point in rehearsing when the magic instruments did all the work.
Jason had watched the view count on their YouTube videos gradually climb past a million, while the number of fans on their Facebook page soared by the thousands. Bootleg videos of their set at the Spoon and Cherry Festival were popping up, too. They were getting hugely popular without actually doing a thing—that was the power of the fairy instruments. Once people heard them, they couldn’t get enough.
Jason lifted his t-shirt and looked at his back. He hadn’t found any four-leaf clovers for Grizlemor's potion. The long, deep dragon scratch, and the infected-looking curlicues snaking off on either side, had been turning an ever hotter shade of pink over the last few days.
“Can I go to your show with you?” Katie asked, walking into his room.
“Not tonight, Katie.” Jason hurried to pull his shirt down.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a long way away. And it’s just college kids there.”
“So? I’m going to college.”
“Not for a long time, though.”
Katie frowned. “Can I go when you play on Tori’s birthday?”
“We’re not playing Tori’s birthday.”
“But Mom said you were. She even told Aunt Polly.”
“Are you serious?” Jason asked.
“I heard on the phone! Cause I was listening in. That’s how I heard Tori screaming when she heard you were gonna play at her house. Happy screams, I mean.”
“Oh, man.” Jason shook his head. “A middle-school party in Sheboygan? Mitch and Dred will never agree to do it. Why did Mom have to tell her that?”
Dred’s van pulled into the driveway. Jason grabbed his guitar case and the backpack into which he’d stuffed Grizlemor the goblin.
“I have to go. Bye, Katie.”
“Should I tell Tori you’re not coming?” Katie asked.
“No! Don’t worry about that.”
“But she thinks you’re coming.”
Dred blew the horn.
“Just let me deal with it, Katie. Don’t say anything! And stay out of my room when I’m gone!”
Jason hurried downstairs, out the front door, and into the back seat of Dred’s van. Dred was wearing her hair tied under a kerchief, as usual. Mitch’s long hair was tucked behind his ears, and he wore an old t-shirt which had once depicted Keith Richards and a band of Jamaican Rastafarians, though more than half the image had flaked off over the years.
“Where’s Erin?” Jason asked.
“We haven’t picked her up yet,” Dred said. She backed out of his driveway.
“Somebody’s eager to see his little kissing pal,” Mitch said.
“Shut up,” Jason said.
“Ooh, I think you’re right,” Dred said.
“If I saved you from a dragon, would you kiss me, Jason?” Mitch asked.
“Yeah, hilarious, Mitch,” Jason said.
“So how many kisses have you gotten out of that one?” Mitch asked.
“What? Just one. No big deal.”
“Really? I’ve barely heard from you or Erin this week,” Mitch said. “We thought you two snuck off somewhere together.”
“No, we haven’t been hanging out,” Jason said.
“Jason was too wussy to call her,” Dred said.
“So she plants a big wet one on you like that, and you’re just going to let it slide?” Mitch asked.
“Guys, she has a boyfriend. She’s happy with him. She’s not interested,” Jason said.
“Wuss,” Dred said.
“I agree.” Grizlemor appeared in a green puff on top of Jason’s guitar case. “He’s a wet biscuit.”
“Thanks for your advice, everyone,” Jason said. “So, anyway, let’s change the subject.”
They reached Erin’s, a low brick ranch house near the fairgrounds. Erin was on her front porch swing, playing her harmonica. She didn’t seem to notice when Dred pulled into the driveway right in front of her. She was lost in the music. It happened to Jason when he played his enchanted guitar, too.
Dred blew the horn, and Erin jumped and finally seemed to notice them. She hoisted an overstuffed messenger bag over one shoulder and hurried toward the van.
“I hope she’s got snacks in there,” Mitch said. “I told her to bring snacks.”
“Why didn’t you bring any?” Dred asked.
“You’ve seen my kitchen. What was I supposed to grab, tofu dogs? Celery?”
Jason pushed open the side door for Erin. She climbed over him, giving him a quick half-hug along the way. Her face didn’t pass anywhere close to kissing distance.
Mitch and Dred greeted Erin, and Grizlemor startled her by greeting her from the back of the van, where he sat on their gear.
“How’s your claw wound thing?” Erin asked Jason.
“It’s not bad. Grizlemor's working on a potion for it.”
“Oh, you know how to make potions?” Erin asked the goblin.
“None that would interest someone like you,” Grizlemor said, crossing his arms.
“Is he always like this?” Erin whispered.
“His full name is Grizlemor the Cranky,” Jason told her.
“Why didn’t you call me back?” she asked.
“You just said to call you ‘sometime,’” Jason said. “Like you didn’t really want me to call back.”
“Oh...well, Zach was on his way to pick me up, so I really didn’t have a lot of time to talk right then.”
“Right. You’re busy.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“So, Mitchy,” Erin said, “What’s so great about this club that it’s worth driving three hours to play there?”
“It’s Mick,” Mitch said.
“And how much are they paying?” Dred asked.
“What they pay isn’t important,” Mitch replied.
“It is to me.” Dred scowled at him.
“Guys, this is The Monkey Paw. That’s where Lost Asteroid got their start,” Mitch said.
“They’re a good band,” Erin said.
“A ton of other indie rock groups, too. Like all those Squid Ink Records bands,” Mitch added. “You know, Paperhat. Buzzboy and the Western Railroad got signed after they did a show at this club. The owner of Squid Ink hangs out there all the time.”
“Why didn’t you just send him a demo?” Dred asked.
“A demo’s nothing. You have to feel how powerful these instruments are. In person. It’s not just this one guy, either. The Monkey Paw is like the capital of the Wisconsin music scene,” Mitch said.
“There’s a Wisconsin music scene?” Dred asked, and Erin laughed.
“And while we’re talking about it,” Mitch said, “The key word for tonight is ‘dial it down.’”
“That’s three words,” Dred told him.
“Don’t make things complicated,” Mitch said. “I’m just saying, everybody take it easy, don’t play too hard. We don’t want earthquakes and fireballs tonight.”
“Or storms,” Dred added.
“Or storms,” Mitch said. “Just a nice little set. And hopefully no elves or unicorns come attacking us tonight. That’s your department, Jason.”
“It’s what?” Jason asked.
“You’re the one who knows all about this supernatural stuff,” Dred said.
“I am?”
“You’ve got that goblin and everything,” Erin said.
“He does not have me like a pet toad,” Grizlemor said. “I’m simply keeping an eye on the instruments, and trying to keep you man-whelps from torching yourselves. Or getting caught by agents of Queen Mab.”
“See?” Mitch said. “Supernatural stuff is you and Grizlemor's department, Jason.”
“Great.” Jason watched out the window. He kept an eye out for unicorns, dragons, black-armored fairies, or whatever other completely insane thing might be chasing them tonight.
Long after sunset, when they finally reached Madison and rolled down University Avenue toward the club, they saw the street and sidewalk in front of the old galoshes factory was packed with hundreds of people, maybe a thousand of them.
“I didn’t know The Monkey Paw could hold that many people,” Mitch said.
They had to slow down as the crowd grudgingly parted for them. Then people started to point at Mitch and Dred through the windshield. Then the crowd surged in around the van, pounding at the doors and peering in the windows. Jason heard the words “Assorted” and “Zebras” repeated many, many times by squealing, excited voices.
Dred rolled down her window.
“Hey, we need to get through, people!” she yelled. She honked her horn repeatedly. “Scoot!”
If anything, the crowd closed in tighter. Dred’s van rolled to a stop.
“Just keep going,” Mitch said.
“I’ll run over somebody,” Dred said.
“I’m sure they’ll move.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I bet I can move them,” Erin said. Hands slapped the window beside her, and faces pressed against the glass, as if they’d driven into some zombie apocalypse movie.
“If you have an idea, Erin, go for it,” Dred said.
Erin unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed over the console between the front seats. She sat on Mitch’s lap, and Jason felt a little pang of jealousy even though Mitch looked more annoyed than anything else. Erin rolled down the window, and the crowd reached their hands into the van.
“What are you doing?” Mitch asked, dodging back from hands that tried to grab at him. One girl with long black fingernails managed to catch his mouth with a finger, stretching out his lip like he was a fish on a hook. “This eh nah a guh idea.”
Erin raised her wooden, rune-engraved harmonica and blew a long note. A wind rustled through the van, stirring up Jason’s hair and assorted fast-food wrappers on the floor. A strong gust blew straight out from the harmonica, sending the people outside Mitch’s window stumbling backward.
Erin leaned out the window, pushing the crowd farther from the side of the van with another long, high note. Then she sat up on the edge of the window and pointed her harmonica at the crowd in front of the van. She blew open a path, sending people staggering to either side.
“Oh, good work, Erin!” Mitch said. “Try not to do anything that’ll lead to a lawsuit, though.”
Dred tapped the gas. They advanced at a mile per hour through the crowd while Erin blew people out of the way with blasts of wind. The front lines of the mob stumbled into the arms of those behind them, looking surprised.
When they were past the crowd, Dred drove up to the next block and turned. She circled around to park at the loading dock behind The Monkey Paw.
“Those fans are scary,” Dred said.
“Everybody loves us.” Mitch grinned.
Chapter Four
The stage at The Monkey Paw didn’t have a curtain, just a door at the back, below the DJ booth. Jason stood just inside the door and watched Dred and Mitch set up the drum kit and keyboard arrangement. The lighting currently pointed out toward the dance floor while the DJ played a dance mix for the crowd of University of Wisconsin students.
The silver harp Jason stole from Faerie had become a silver keyboard with opal and onyx keys, and it had sprouted silver wires that took over Mitch’s other keyboards, plus the laptop he used along with them. Not only had they all turned silver, but they now ran on magic instead of electricity. This made their set-up and tear-down faster than most bands.
“How do I look?” Erin asked behind him. She’d put on her stage makeup, which was exaggerated and brightly colored, as if to complement the green and blue streaks dyed into her hair.
“Amazing,” he said.
“Ha, I doubt that. I just hope I don’t look like a freak.” She looked at spotlights swooping across the crowd.
“Not to me.”
“Sure.” Erin touched his arm. “So, I hope it didn’t weird you out when I kissed you the other night. Did it? I was just really...you know.”
“Impressed?” Jason suggested.
“I was going to say grateful. And pretty impressed, yeah. So, I don’t want to make a big deal out of that. Did it freak you out?”
“I don’t really remember. Try it again now and I’ll tell you.”
Erin laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Jason! You know I have a boyfriend. I’m not a cheater.” She frowned.
“It’s not cheating if you break up with him, though,” Jason said.
“He doesn’t deserve to get dumped. That would be mean.”
“I think he’ll survive.”
“Why are we even having this conversation right before a show?” Erin asked. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“So, we’re just going to be bandmates and nothing else?” Jason asked.
“We’re friends.”
“Friends don’t drive each other insane,” Jason said. He picked up his guitar and walked out onstage.
“Yes, they do!” Erin said.
Jason was feeling a weird mix of things—disappointed, angry, confused. It helped when they started warming up and he could focus on the glimmering strings of his guitar. The fairy magic in the music soothed him, made him forget his problems, made him forget everything but the rich supernatural tones humming in the air around him. He closed his eyes.
They played a simple set, mostly Erin’s songs, plus a cover of “Not Fade Away,” a song they’d all agreed was too mild to set off the destructive forces inside their instruments. Jason never felt the flood of charged energy that had gathered around them at the music festival, probably because the crowd was only four hundred instead of ten thousand. His guitar gave no warning signals of blistering heat.
The Assorted Zebras played with as little effort as they could manage, trying to keep their instruments’ powers reined in. Still, the crowd lapped it up, dancing up close in a dense mob against the stage, screaming and cheering and stomping between songs. Jason got a big boost from that, and for a while all four of them seemed in a good mood, casually making music and soaking in the applause.
The show had sold out fast, and apparently the mob of hundreds outside were just hoping for an extra ticket to become available. Jason had been amazed when the club manager told them that.
Their set went off without any trouble, and ended with a long ovation from the crowd.
The lights went down and the DJ took over again.
“Good stuff,” Mitch said. “If we can package and sell it just like that, no fireworks, no destruction, we’re golden.”
The club manager walked onto the stage. She didn’t look the way Jason might have pictured the manager of the most famous nightclub in Madison. She was in her fifties, with chunky earrings and thick, angular glasses. She looked like someone who would host folk-art festivals instead of rock, punk and hip-hop nights at The Monkey Paw.
“I have some exciting news,” she said. “My friend Zig Kaplan is here. He owns Squid Ink Records—you’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”
“Of course!” Erin said.
“He wants to speak with you backstage. You can leave your set-up here, if you like.”
“We’d better not,” Jason said, thinking of the fairies who were searching for them. “These instruments have a way of getting stolen.”
“We’ll break down fast,” Mitch said. “Tell him we’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Minutes,” Dred added, as the club manager smiled and walked away.
“She knows I meant minutes.”
“Yeah, but you’d sound less dorky if you just said ‘fifteen minutes,’” Dred told him. “‘We’ll be there in fifteen.’ You’re getting so pretentious.”
They broke down their instruments and carried them back with the help of Grizlemor, who once more appeared as a diminutive human roadie.
The green room behind the stage was furnished with a scattering of worn sofas and mismatched old chairs. Decades of graffiti stained the walls.
Three people sat on a torn leather couch behind a coffee table covered in burns and names and dates carved with knives over the years. Jason recognized the famous Madison rock producer Zig Kaplan right away, a man who looked like he was in his fifties, with gray streaks in his long black ponytail. His ears were stippled with the scars of old earrings, long since removed, and he wore a dark turtleneck shirt. Kaplan stood when the band entered.
The two people who’d been sitting on the couch with him did not rise. They were a grayhaired woman in a gypsy dress who looked like she might be asleep behind her dark sunglasses, and a bearded younger man who kept lighting matches and watching them burn down, ignoring everything else in the room.
“Amazing show,” Kaplan said, clapping his hands a couple of times and shaking his head. “You know, all kinds of people have been sending me links to your videos. I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear you kids were playing tonight. And I was just completely blown away by what I heard in there.”
“Thank you,” Erin said, and everyone else hurried to echo her.
“I don’t want to sound corny here, guys, but this music really sounds like it’s from out of this world. Like there are invisible chords we’ve never heard before. Like it’s coming from a whole other place. You know what I mean?” Kaplan asked.
Jason found himself nodding, thinking of the world of Faerie. He’d had dreams of that place almost every night. Though his short trip there had been a confusing and scary experience, part of him craved a return visit, just to see the intense, vibrant colors, and feel the magic crackling in the air.
“...don’t know what exactly you’re doing here, but I’d love to just take you guys into a studio for a day and see what might happen,” Kaplan was saying when Jason shook off his reverie and started paying attention again. “I mean, no pressure, you know? No contracts or anything formal, just seeing where the process takes us. Whatever’s happening here, I just want to help cultivate it into the best sound it can be. You’ve got something extraordinary inside you, and I can see it.” The record producer was looking at Erin as he said this, and Jason felt another little twinge of jealousy. He wished he could have said something like that to Erin.
“Well, we definitely appreciate the offer,” Dred said. “We’ll have to discuss—”
“Appreciate it?” Mitch interrupted. “We love it. We’re doing it. Right?”
“It sounds good to me,” Erin said. “Squid Ink puts out great stuff. Like Paperhat. Not like all that cheesy stuff on the radio.”
“Our stuff gets on the radio,” Kaplan said. “Sometimes it’s college radio, but some major markets, too. Like Chicago. And...Denver. And we could help you tour all over the Midwest, maybe the West Coast. We’ve had a couple of bands go national in our day. Anyone remember the Velvet Billys?”
“Oh, yeah, they had that one song everybody still covers,” Erin said.
“‘Don’t Go River Tonight’?” Kaplan said.
“Yeah! What does that song mean?” Erin asked. “Nobody ever knows.”
“That’s why everybody likes it,” Kaplan said. “It’s an exercise in verbal irrationality.”
“Like one of those ink-blot tests that test whether you’re crazy,” Mitch said.
“This guy knows what he’s talking about.” Kaplan clapped Mitch’s shoulder. “So what do you say, everyone? Call my office tomorrow, we’ll schedule a little low-key recording session, see what we come up with?”
Kaplan held out his business card, and Mitch took it.
“You bet,” Mitch said. “We’re so ready to do this.”
“Can I have a card, too, please?” Dred asked. “In case Mitchell here loses that one?”
“Mick.”
“Oh, you’re Mitchell?” Kaplan shook Mitch’s hand. “I forgot to get your names.”
“I’m Mick,” Mitch said.
Dred, Jason, and Erin introduced themselves.
“Yeah, weird moment, ending the conversation with the introductions,” Kaplan said. “But hey, that’s rock and roll, right? Get in touch.” Kaplan walked out of the room, and the two people on the couch slowly rose to follow him. The grayhaired lady wasn’t asleep behind those glasses, after all.
“This is the best day I’ve ever had,” Mitch said, after closing the door. “We’re going to be produced by a legend.”
“Yeah,” Dred said, “But he seems a little burned-out, don’t you think?”
“What?” Mitch replied. “Squid Ink Records is still putting out the best stuff.”
“He does seem like he cares about making good music,” Erin said. “I think we could trust him, you know?”
“But I think this fairy-music stuff could go big,” Dred said.
“I think the music itself will take care of that, once people hear it,” Jason said. “He could give it a big enough push to get things going.”
“Yeah, and he’s Zig Kaplan,” Mitch said. “I mean, come on!”
“We know who he is,” Dred said. “But he’s more of a regional guy these days.”
“But this could be his comeback project,” Jason said. “It could be good for him, too.”
“I think we should do it,” Erin said, and Jason nodded.
“So only Dred is against this idea?” Mitch asked.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m the one holding everybody back,” Dred said.
“Just think about it overnight,” Erin said. “See if you feel like making a record with Squid Ink tomorrow.”
Dred smiled. “Thanks.”
They began carrying their gear out to the van in the back alley. Jason packed his guitar inside, then noticed a patch of clover growing beside a drainpipe. He stood over it and stared for a few minutes, looking from one clover to the next, but they all seemed to have three leaves.
“What are you doing?” Erin walked up beside him.
“I’m trying to find a four-leaf clover.”
“Oh.” Erin looked up and down the alley, then she walked about fifteen feet away and plucked something out of a crack in the street. She returned with a big smile, then placed it in his hand. The elusive four-leaf clover.
“Holy cow!” Jason said. “How did you do that?”
Erin shrugged. “Easy. I can always find them, if there’s one around.”
“But that fast?”
“Right away,” Erin said. “You’re welcome. Let me know if you need another one.”
“Thanks.”
Erin smiled at him again before walking back into the club.
Jason walked over to the van, where Grizlemor sat on a stack of instrument cases, reading a newspaper printed in what looked like chicken-scratch marks. This was Gobleese, the native goblin language. Jason recognized it from Grizlemor's books.
“What are you reading?” Jason asked.
“The South Goblin Democrat-Gazette,” Grizlemor said. “It’s not really the same since it got bought up by that leprechaun conglomerate. But I’m glad they kept the Dave Barry column.”
“Any big news in the goblin world?”
“Not if we can avoid it. We goblins try to do as little as possible, and to take as much time as possible doing it. It’s a philosophical choice.”
“Look at this.” Jason held out the four-leaf clover. “Erin found it in like two seconds.”
“I did notice that particular event.” Grizlemor held the four-leaf clover up to the van’s interior light and squinted, inspecting it like a diamond. “Yes, a perfectly formed luck-clover. Now I can get around to making your healing potion sometime.”
“Soon would be nice,” Jason said.
“Yes, it would,” Grizlemor agreed. He craned his head to peer at the loading dock door. “There’s something special about that girl, isn’t there?”
“Yeah. There definitely is,” Jason said.
Chapter Five
Aoide was unhappy to hear the knock on her front door. It was an unhappy knock, a gruff open-up-now sort of knock. She opened the porthole and looked out through the smoked glass. Two stout, rough-looking dwarves with thick beards stood outside. They looked like identical twins.
Aoide raised the smoked-glass window.
“Can I help you, gentledwarves?” Aoide asked.
“Rifgrid Brothers,” one said. “Collections and Repossessions.”
“We collect so you don’t have to,” the other said.
“Well, thank you for that,” Aoide said. “Unfortunately, I don’t need any collections or repossessions today. I’ll be sure to magic-mirror you if I do. Thanks for stopping by!”
“You’re welcome,” the first dwarf said.
Aoide closed the window. She only retreated a few steps from her door when the pounding knock sounded again. She returned and raised the glass.
“We’re not here to collect for you,” the second dwarf said. “We have to collect from you.”
“Collect from me? But I didn’t request any collections,” Aoide said.
“It’s not up to you,” the first dwarf said. “Because of your many unpaid bills, we have to liquido...liquify...take your stuff and sell it off.”
“Well, that’s no good,” Aoide said. “What are my other options?”
“You could pay us twenty silver pieces,” the second dwarf said. “That’ll stave off the bill collectors for a month.”
“I don’t have twenty silver pieces!” Aoide said. “You see, I’m a musician, and my lute was stolen. Our whole band was robbed of our instruments. The Queensguard is helping us find them. So if you can just wait a little while—”
“I’m afraid not, miss,” the first dwarf said. “We have to take your money or your stuff today.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not home today.” Aoide lowered the glass and locked it into place. She ran through her apartment to her sleeping-room, thinking she would hop off the rear balcony and fly away somewhere until the dwarves left.
The pink balcony shutters flew open as she approached them, and Aoide gasped in surprise.
Icarus and two other Queensguard fairies fluttered into her apartment. They kept beating their wings until they landed on her live hardwood floor, which was quite rude of them, as it made Aoide’s lighter, fluffier possessions whirl around the room.
“I’m so lucky to see you!” Aoide said to them. “Icarus, did that old elf find our instruments?”
“He did find them,” Icarus said.
“What fortunate news!” Aoide looked at their empty hands. “And where are the instruments now?”
“I said he found them,” Icarus said. “Unfortunately, he did not recover them.”
“What? How did that come to pass?” Aoide asked. The dwarves pounded on her front door again.
“The instruments were stolen by a troupe of four man-whelp musicians,” Icarus said. “They must have learned to use them. They defeated Hoke’s unicorn, even after it molted into full dragon form.”
“They slew a dragon!” Aoide gasped. “And they’re using our music as weapons. Typical humans. And they still have them?”
“The Queensguard will take a different approach to this investigation,” Icarus said.
“What kind of approach?”
“I am not permitted to say,” Icarus told her.
“And what of our savings?” Aoide asked. “You took them to pay the elf, but as he failed...We should get our coins and gems back today. True?”
“False,” Icarus said.
“Why false?” Aoide asked. “You have all of our savings. We need it back. The dwarves are literally at the door.” She pointed toward her front door, where the dwarves pounded and shouted for her to open up. “If you’re not going to pay the elf’s fee, you should return our savings.”
“We will use them to fund the Queensguard’s investigation into this matter,” Icarus said. “When we recover your instruments, I will refund whatever remains of your savings.”
“But that’s not fair!” Aoide said. “Just give it back. I’ll go to man-world myself and recover the instruments, if that is what’s needed.”
“You will not!” Icarus glared at her with bright sapphire eyes. He would be handsome, she thought, if he were not the Queen’s toadie. “All of you are forbidden to step toe into man-world. This violates the Supreme Law!”
“Of course, sir, I didn’t know what I was thinking,” Aoide said. “But how did four man-children enter our world?”
“That is part of our investigation,” Icarus said. “When we catch the party who let them in, the Queen will apply the full penalty. We are focusing on Goblin Row, near the music park where the theft occurred. It may be a goblin who stole your instruments and sold them to humans.”
“A terrible crime!” Aoide said.
“Which does not forgive your negligence in letting them be stolen,” Icarus said.
“Of course not.” Aoide looked at her bare feet. Inside, she was fuming. She and her bandmates were the victims—their instruments had been stolen. So far, all the Queensguard had done was take their savings, too, leaving them with nothing. On top of that, the Queen had suggested that Aoide and her band had broken the Supreme Law by letting objects of high magic slip into man-world. “But how am I to pay rent?”
“I have fortunate news,” Icarus said. “The Queen is hiring new cleaning staff for her palace. If you were a maid there, I could see you often.” He smiled.
“A maid? I’ve taken centuries of conservatory training,” Aoide said. “I am not a maid!”
“Pride will not take you far in the world,” Icarus said.
“Neither will polishing the Queen’s faucets,” Aoide said. “In fact, I have taken a job, as a barista at the Amberflower Cafe. It begins next week. So I will not need your help.”
“That’s too bad,” Icarus said. “I think you would look quite floral in a maid’s uniform.”
“Have you any other news, or do you only stay here to harass me?” Aoide asked.
“I have one further question,” Icarus said. “Tonight, there is quite an exciting rabbit race at the Circus. I would like you to accompany me.”
“I do not care for rabbit races,” Aoide said.
“And perhaps I will buy you a honey-flower as well,” he said. “You must be hungry, having no money left.”
Aoide was, in fact, quite hungry, but had no intention of letting this blond thug know it.
“A word of advice, Icarus,” Aoide said. “If you intend to ask a lady on a date, do not begin by robbing her and accusing her of crimes. You may go now.” Aoide pointed to her open balcony shutters.
“You should not be so unfriendly to a Queensguard captain,” Icarus said. He was smiling at her, but his eyes were like frost. “Some could take such a rejection as an insult.”
“And perhaps some are deserving of insult,” Aoide replied.
Icarus glared at her.
“Let’s go,” he said to the other black-armored fairies. “Not that way,” he added, when the two of them turned toward the balcony. “This way.”
Icarus tossed aside the paper dressing screen and led them out of her sleeping-room, past her snacking-room and out to her receiving room, right toward the front door. The dwarves hadn’t stopped their knocking and shouting.
“Oh, please, good Folk!” Aoide said. “Don’t open that door. Please simply leave out the back, as you came.”
“Raise your chin, Aoide,” Icarus said. “Be sweet, if there is sweetness in you, and perhaps one of these dwarves will take you out for a fried ostrich leg.”
Icarus threw open the door, and the hefty dwarves barged inside. They hesitated when they saw the three Queensguard fairies.
“Pardon us, sirs,” one dwarf said. “We didn’t mean to interfere with the Queen’s business.”
“You have interfered not at all,” Icarus said. “The Queen’s business is only to assure law and order. Proceed with your work, dwarves.”
Icarus and the other Queensguard fairies continued outside to the front landing porch, where they jumped into the air and flew away.
“You take the daybed,” one dwarf said. “I’ll start with the indoor trellis over there.”
“Oh, please, kind dwarves,” Aoide said. “I’ll get paid from my waitressing job next week. Can’t we wait until then?”
“Sorry, lady,” the other dwarf said, picking up her guest daybed. “Today’s the day.”
Aoide frowned. She stomped back into her sleeping-room and slammed the paper dressing-screen closed.
Chapter Six
Mitch called Jason on Saturday morning.
“Emergency band meeting,” Mitch said. “At high noon.”
“Dred doesn’t want to go with Squid Ink,” Jason guessed. “Is that it?”
“No. Something much bigger.”
“Can it be something more specific?” Jason asked.
“You’ll see. I already called Erin and Dred. I’ll say this—we might just have to say ‘never mind’ to old Zig Kaplan.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s happening or just give me clues?”
“Be at Local Coffee Shop at twelve o’ clock today, and you’ll see for yourself.” Mitch hung up.
Jason groaned and stretched. Grizlemor had finally completed his potion last night, with the clover Erin found, and painted it all over Jason’s back. It still burned, but a cool tingling sensation had crept in around the edges of the wound.
He managed to shower, dress and ride his bike into town by noon. Katie was at Kiddie Krafts Day Camp over at the church, so he didn’t have to babysit today.
Local Coffee Shop was a franchise of a national chain. Like all Local Coffee Shop locations, it had a false front meant to look like the entrance to a rustic cabin, which looked a little out of place on Bridge Street.
Jason parked his bicycle and chained it to the plastic-log bike rack outside Local Coffee Shop, and then he walked inside.
Dred and Mitch had taken the big picnic table in the corner, near the foam-brick chimney. Jason ordered a tall Caramel-Fudge-There’s-Coffee-in-Here-Somewhere (usually abbreviated “Caramel-Fudge Somewhere”). He also bought a Shamrock Mint Coffee for Erin. He didn’t know if she even liked that flavor, but it made him think of her.
“So what’s the big news?” Jason asked as he sat down next to Dred.
“He’s not telling,” Dred said. “He’s trying to be cool and mysterious.”
“There’s no point repeating the same information three times,” Mitch said. “When Erin gets here...and there she is.”
Jason smiled as he turned toward the front door, but the smile dropped right from his face. Zach, Erin’s handsome, Fleet-Farm-catalog-model, charity-activist boyfriend, was holding the door as Erin stepped inside.
Jason watched them go to the counter and order their coffees. Zach kept his arm draped around Erin’s shoulder the whole time. Jason did notice Zach wink at the cute girl behind the counter while Erin looked at a package of Mostly Organic cookies. Zach probably considered that to be better than a tip, since he didn’t put an actual tip into her tip jar.
“There they are!” Zach pointed as he approached the table ahead of Erin. Zach thumped Mitch’s back and held out his fist for a bump. “How’s it happening, Mick?”
“It’s happening,” Mitch replied, returning the fist bump. Dred rolled her eyes.
Zach held out his fist to Jason. “Jayce, a little love?”
Jason reluctantly gave fist love. Zach turned to Dred, and she held out her fist with an annoyed look on her face.
“Oh, nah, ladies get hugs.” Zach put an arm around Dred’s shoulders and hugged her head against his stomach.
“You can just stick with the fist bump,” Dred told him.
Erin set her coffee next to the Shamrock Mint. “Whose is this?” Erin asked, pointing to the heap of green whipped cream.
“Oh, mine.” Jason grabbed it out of her way and set it next to his Caramel-Fudge.
“You got two coffees?” she asked as she sat across from him. Zach sat between Erin and Mitch.
“Yep,” Jason said. “I was feeling sugar-deficient.”
“Are you diabetic, bro?” Zach asked.
“No. So what’s the announcement, Mitch?”
“Yeah, and can we keep the meeting on the quick side?” Zach asked. “I’m taking Erin shopping. Want my girl to look her best at the big showbiz party in the Cities tonight.”
“You mean the catalog modeling biz?” Jason asked.
“Actually, I do TV acting now, too,” Zach told him.
“What have you acted in?” Dred asked.
“I acted as a delivery guy for Uncle Otto’s Authentic German Pizza,” Zach said.
“You were a model in a commercial,” Dred said.
“No, I had lines! ‘Try our famous sausage-schnitzel pizza! It’s just like Uncle Otto used to make. Before he died.’ Three lines!”
“Three lines is pretty good!” Erin said.
“And here’s the best part,” Zach said. “Every time they play that commercial, five percent of my pay goes straight to Encyclopedias for Toddlers.”
“Well, I’m glad we could waste all this time, because now I don’t have to explain the big news,” Mitch said. “They’re here already.”