'Over here,' the voice said. I craned my neck in the direction of the sound. Behind my right shoulder was a tiny woman, about eight inches tall, hovering in the air near my ear. Dragonfly wings were a hummingbird blur at her back. She was cute, in an early Meg Ryan kind of way-short ruff of blond curls, upturned nose, impish mouth, slender frame and golden skin. She was also naked.
'Honey?' I asked. I had to admit, she was a little hottie. Small, pert breasts-well, really small, but I mean proportionally-toned belly, gently curving hips and long legs, again proportionally.
'Yeah, that's me,' she said in her wind-chime voice. 'Who're you?' She put her hands on her hips in a Peter Pan pose and thrust her chest out. She was irritatingly perky.
'Dominica Riley,' I said. 'You can call me Domino. I'm Abishanizad's, uh, master, mistress, whatever.' I offered my hand to shake and then, feeling stupid, modified it to a kind of pull-my-finger gesture. Honey just looked at me.
'Abby, huh? I was wondering where he'd been. You got him in a lamp?'
'TV,' I said.
'Nice. More to do in there than a lamp, I guess. Still boring, though.'
'Yeah, so he says.'
'So what do you want?' Honey alighted on my knee and sat down.
'Mr. Clean-I mean, Abby-says you owe him a favor. I need a guide.'
Honey laughed. 'Mr. Clean, I like that. Not very original, but I bet it pisses him off.'
I nodded and smiled.
'Okay, I'll be your guide. That'll clear my debt to Mr. Clean. I'm an excellent guide.' She looked me up and down-as well as she could, perched on my knee-and winked. 'What are you going to do for me?'
I blushed. 'I thought since you owed Mr. Clean, I wouldn't have to do anything.'
Honey shook her head, tossing those golden curls across her face. 'Nope, doesn't work that way. If I'm your guide, I'm straight with the jinn. But I'm still doing you a favor, so you have to do something for me.'
'Damn,' I said, 'all y'all work this way?'
'Yeah, pretty much.'
'You like chocolate?'
'What girl doesn't like chocolate? Anyway, that's not going to cut it. Like for like. I'll show you around the Between, but you have to help me cross into Arcadia.'
I waited, on the same principle by which I try not to ask Mr. Clean stupid questions when he says something like this.
'Arcadia. The mortal world. Your world.'
'Can't you cross over on your own?' I asked. 'You know, fairy circles, Midsummer Night…'
'Not anymore. Now I need help. So will you?'
'You're not going to possess anyone, are you?'
'Of course not! I'm a piskie. We don't do that.'
'A pixie?'
Honey frowned. 'Piskie,' she corrected.
'Honey, are you dyslexic?'
'No, the word is piskie. You meatheads corrupted it, started calling us pixies.' She huffed prettily. 'It's offensive and insensitive.'
'Okay, piskie then. All right, if you promise not to possess anyone, or, you know, do evil, I'll help you cross over.' I'm not a complete airhead, and I was feeling a little nervous about this deal. But as far as I knew, pixies-I mean piskies-were friendly fairy spirits that cleaned your house and kept your milk fresh. What harm could it do?
'Done,' she said with a little bob of her head. I wondered why I couldn't have gotten Honey as a familiar. Smaller than Barbara Eden, sure, but better than having Mr. Clean in my TV.
'I need to go to Brentwood,' I said. I gave her Adan's address.
'Just off Wilshire?' Honey asked. 'I know where that is. Let's go. Just keep your head down and try not to look like a tourist.' I got up and started down the sidewalk, Honey buzzing along beside me over my shoulder.
'So, Honey,' I said, 'are you always, you know, naked?'
'Yeah, why? Does it bother you? Piskies can't wear clothes. They interfere with our magic, can't fly. I can wear fig leaves or garlands, if you want.'
I looked at her. She had that concerned, does-this-outfit-make-me-look-fat expression women sometimes get when we're feeling a little self-conscious.
'No, Honey,' I said quickly. 'You look great. I was just wondering. You're very pretty.'
She smiled. 'Thanks! People say I look like Meg Ryan.'
'Yeah, I bet you get that a lot.'
I was thinking it was going to take a while to get to Brentwood without wheels when we disappeared into the mist and the world shifted. I found myself standing in front of Adan's building.
'Cool,' I said.
'Yeah, things are a little different here. That's why you need a guide.'
Just as there were no cars in the Between, neither were there any locks. We went in the front door and climbed the stairs to a short hallway with access to the two second-floor lofts.
'Any magical defenses will still be in place,' Honey warned.
'It's okay,' I said. 'I'm authorized.'
Standing in front of the door to Adan's loft, I took a deep breath. I hoped I was authorized. I could bypass all the other wards the outfit used, but I'd never tried to break into Adan's home before. I turned the knob and pressed on the door. It swung open and we went in.
The apartment was deserted. It was the usual L.A. loft, which is to say fake but trendy. The walls were bare concrete and brick, and the floors were dark hardwood. The wall to our left was comprised entirely of floor-to- ceiling windows, and exposed ductwork hung silent above our heads. It was one large room dominated by an open living area, with a small kitchen tucked in one corner. Metal stairs ran along the far wall to a bedroom loft.
I searched the place and found no signs that it was inhabited by an evil spirit. I climbed up to the loft and looked under the bed. I searched the closet and checked the tiny bathroom. I tossed Adan's underwear drawer and rummaged in the table beside his bed. Then I went back downstairs.
'Didn't find what you came for?' asked Honey. She turned away from the wall mirror by the door and flew over to meet me.
I looked at the mirror and back at Honey. 'Were you checking yourself out?'
'No,' she lied. 'Didn't find what you came for?'
'No,' I said. 'But I think I know where to look.'
In the Between, the Cannibal Club looked much as it did in the real world, but yellower. There were a lot of Goth kids standing in line outside the door-that seemed to be a constant on both planes of existence.
'Overdoses and suicides,' Honey said and shuddered.
I looked at the ghosts. 'They off themselves and then come to the club to stand in line? Don't they have anyone to haunt?'
'Absentee parents, dead-end jobs, empty relationships-they probably felt like ghosts even before they killed themselves.'
I turned to Honey and arched an eyebrow.
'Sometimes I read magazines to pass the time. Newsweek had an article.'
I recognized one of the ghosts standing near the front of the line. It was the blond kid who'd been following me in the Ford Taurus.
'Hey, kid,' I said, walking over to him, 'small world.' He didn't respond, just continued staring straight ahead. I did the usual battery of tests-hand waved in front of the eyes, arm pinch, sharp poke in the ribs-and got nothing.
'He probably doesn't even know you're there,' Honey said.
'No way I can get him to talk to me?'
Honey shrugged. I gave it one last shot, clapping my hands in his face. No reaction.
