another.
When he looked again at Haywood, the man seemed normal, just as tall and robust as he should be.
“Rosie,” he called into the bank of prize-winning roses. “Rosie, my beloved, where are you?”
A pink bug darted out of a showy flower near the house. It flew from bush to flower to tree branch in short, hesitant bursts of energy, pausing at each point as if to rest. Or search for intruders other than Haywood Wheatland.
“Ah, Rosie, sweetheart, there you are.” Haywood held out his palm and the pink bug alighted on it. Its green wings, shaped like rose leaves, rubbed together in a decidedly flirtatious preening.
Then that high-pitched buzz invaded Chase’s head again.
He turned sharply away from the scene. He had too much to do and too much to think about to linger. Digger was expecting him, and then he’d meet up with Dick and Dusty and Thistle at the Old Mill.
But he couldn’t get the thought of
Twenty
THISTLE GRABBED AT THE SMELLY and furry thing Dick plopped on top of her head. He grinned hugely at his joke. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to spit at the ugly lump.
She’d only just stepped across the threshold of the Old Mill Bar and Grill; not even enough time to absorb the smells of spilled beer, sweaty bodies, grilling meat, and… and an emotion she guessed was fatigue or wariness. Or both.
“Relax, it’s just a coonskin cap. And it’s fake fur, not the real thing,” he said, spreading the lump out and exposing the striped tail. He wore one, too, the tail hanging over his left ear at a jaunty angle.
“Why would anyone want to wear such a thing?” Then she noticed almost everyone in the bar wore similar headgear.
“It’s coonskin cap night,” Dick explained, taking her elbow and guiding her to a small table in the back corner. Dusty and Chase already sat there, pouring beer into tall frosty glasses from a pitcher. They, too, wore the fuzzy hats with the tail trailing down their backs.
“What does that mean?” Thistle asked, still fingering the obnoxious lump.
“If everyone at your table wears a coonskin cap, then the drinks are two for one. It’s a Festival tradition,” Chase said. He looked grumpy, eyes watching the crowd, shifting from group to group. “Actually, it’s a tradition whenever the owner gets bored.”
Thistle remembered the dozens of furry blobs hanging on the wall the last time she was here, Friday night. She looked above Chase’s head. Only a few hats remained on the wall.
“A lot of people have their own hats,” Dusty explained. “The management keeps a stock on hand for the rest of us.”
“Put the hat on, and I’ll go get another pitcher,” Dick said, placing the hat on her head for her. He bounced away.
“He’s in a good mood,” Thistle commented. “Did he find out anything?”
“We just got here. Thought we’d wait for you to exchange information,” Dusty said. She held her glass in both hands, not drinking.
Chase only sipped his own drink.
“What’s the matter?” Thistle asked quietly.
“Lots of things,” Chase replied.
Both Thistle and Dusty raised their eyebrows questioningly. Interesting, Thistle noted, how they’d begun to use similar gestures and expressions after only a few days of living together. Or had the similarities happened when Thistle was Dusty’s only friend?
“Phelma Jo’s not wearing a cap,” Chase observed.
Both Thistle and Dusty turned to look. Sure enough, Phelma Jo and Haywood Wheatland sat at a table with the mayor and Councilman Smith. None of them participated in the community nonsense.
Dusty frowned, then looked away hurriedly. “They must be working,” she said, as if needing to justify Haywood’s presence.
“I’d like to hear what they’re saying,” Chase said, rising from his chair.
“Not you.” Dusty placed a hand on his arm to keep him in place. “You represent the law, even if you are off duty. You get too close, and Phelma Jo will shut up.”
They both looked pointedly at Thistle. She shrugged and pushed her chair back. “Gathering gossip is a Pixie duty… and thrill.” She bowed formally, as if she was still four inches tall and had wings. Her cap fell off. She left it where it was.
Thistle worked her way around the room slowly, glass in hand. She nodded to people she’d seen in the parade, and the families of her new friends. Snatches of conversations reached her.
“Wish it would rain.” “Been a long hot summer.” “Forests are set to burn at the next lightning strike.” “Who needs a new cell phone tower? It’s ugly and spoiling my view of the mountain.” “Too hot to take the kids to the carnival.” “Had to run off some teens I didn’t recognize.” “That new discount store they’re building up on the hill will kill the merchants downtown.” “They had firecrackers and matches.” “Spray painted gang logos on the produce warehouse down by the tracks.” “Damn cell phone won’t work.”
All grumbles. No delight or excitement over the Festival. Thistle frowned. Pressure in the air made her uneasy. Trouble. She knew trouble was coming. And soon.
A wiggle of blue on the top shelf behind the bar caught her attention. Chicory sat between two bottles on the edge of the shelf surveying the entire room. His hat sat askew and his wings sagged. He was drunk on beer fumes, and probably some honey he’d stolen from the kitchen.
His report back to Rosie or Mabel, whoever nabbed him first, would be garbled at best.
From the way he kept moving his head back and forth, pointedly not letting his gaze rest on Thistle, she knew he’d seen her. Just like he’d probably seen her during the parade. Either Rosie, his queen, or Mabel, his boss, had ordered him not to acknowledge Thistle now that she’d been exiled from Pixie.
Thistle was betting those orders came from Rosie.
“Thistle, where are you going?” Dick asked, grabbing her arm.
“Huh?” She looked around and found herself with one foot inside and one out. A quick look at the people told her she’d passed through only half of the room. She turned to Dick and smiled. “It’s stuffy in here. I thought I’d get some air.”
Deliberately, she stepped back inside and aimed toward the table where Phelma Jo presided. A heartbeat later, she was back with Dusty and Chase on the opposite side of the room without knowing how she got there.
Something strange was going on. Why couldn’t she get close to Phelma Jo?
She had Saturday night at the restaurant. What was different tonight?
Haywood Wheatland.
She squinted her eyes to check his aura. All she could see was drifting beer fumes, smoke from the kitchens, and the overlapping energies of the other three people at his table. Nothing from him at all.
Before she could voice a concern to Dusty, the entire building shook, followed by a whoosh of air and a deafening
Thistle swayed. The room went fuzzy.
“Thistle, what’s wrong. Are you okay?” Dick asked anxiously.
“Explosion at the new cell phone tower on the hill. It took out a bunch of construction equipment when it fell,” the bartender called over the unnatural hush in the bar. He waved his normal phone. “No cell signal anywhere in town. Chase, they need you down at the station. Dick, the EMTs are rolling and want you on board.”
“Damn, that’s the second attack on the cell tower. Only half complete and vandalism has put completion behind by three months,” Chase muttered.
“Explosion. Fire and Air. This is Faery work. Faeries making trouble,” Thistle breathed. Her vision cleared.
