Whatever the case, the fact remained that the fairies’ gemstone was missing, and they needed me to help them find it.
Han Solo lay atop my pile of knit scarves, and he gave me a glare as I pushed him away to search for a scarf to match the plum-colored corset I was wearing over my silk shirt. I did my best to dress up in period-appropriate attire, adding my brown cloak and leather pants to the ensemble. But after being assaulted by Mr. Duncan, I had to force myself to be festive and dress up. If I had more clients like him today, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be open for business.
When I left my trailer, the morning fog obscured the field outside, making it hard for me to see the tent that sat on the edge of the tree line. A chill in the air made me quicken my steps toward the festival gates.
It was still a few minutes before dawn, and the sun had yet to chase away the lingering night. Crickets chirped with a musical cadence. I pulled my cloak tight, giving another sidelong glance back at the tent.
Staring at the tent through the fog made it look ethereal, making me wish I’d dreamed it all up. Were fairies really in danger of being destroyed? Did they really need me?
Were the Wults really on their way?
That last thought made my stomach sicken, so I put it out of my mind and headed for the gates.
This early, the festival had yet to open, so I entered through a small door near the closed portcullis. As I stepped onto the festival grounds, I was surprised to find fog still trailing along the ground, obscuring the cobbled path that snaked through the quiet buildings. The mist muffled my footsteps, and I hurried to my booth, wishing I could shake the feeling that I was being followed. I glanced casually over my shoulder but saw no one.
My rented space was up ahead, but I paused before entering. The stone-and-stucco building rose overhead, somehow menacing in the dim morning light.
I’d never felt this way here before. What had me so spooked? Perhaps it was because someone had snuck into my booth and cleaned and organized my mirror case last night. I still had no explanation for that.
Shaking off my unease, I found my keys and unlocked the latch, the metal cold in my hand as I opened the gate halfway and ducked under to make it inside the booth. Walking inside, I blindly searched for the light switch when the unusual odor of fresh-cut greenery caught my attention. Where had that come from?
I found the switch and flipped it on, but the bulb in the faux-lantern popped—a brief glow of white—and then it burned out, creating darkness again.
Muttering under my breath, I could barely see as I crossed the room toward the lamp. My foot caught on something, and I tripped, catching myself before I fell. I managed to make it the rest of the distance to the lamp and quickly switched it on. As the room came into view, my breath caught in my throat.
Mr. Duncan lay dead in the center of the floor.
Breathe. One. Two. Three.
“Mr. Duncan,” I said, although I knew he was dead.
His cowboy hat was propped over his face, and only his blue lips were visible. Thorn-studded vines wrapped his body, and dried blood had soaked into his clothing where the vines had pierced through his skin. I knelt beside him, my heart pounding as I moved the hat away from his face.
I almost lost it right there.
His eyes had been cut out, and purple flowers covered each eye socket. I wanted to scream, but my voice wasn’t working. My thoughts turned frantic.
What should I do?
Voices came from outside my booth, and a knock came at the half-opened door. I couldn’t find my voice to answer, but it didn’t matter—the person outside ducked under the door and walked in without being invited. Officer Gardener, the security guard from last night, stood in the entryway. Another guard, dressed in medieval attire, stood with him. His face paled as he looked from me to the corpse on the floor. My thoughts became a blur as I stumbled away from the body.
“This isn’t—I don’t know…” I couldn’t concentrate long enough to make my mouth work.
Slow down. Breathe.
“I don’t know how he got here,” I finally said.
Officer Gardener spoke into a walkie-talkie as his cloaked friend made his way toward me.
“Did you touch anything?” he asked.
“Only the hat.”
He gave an exasperated sigh, then moved cautiously toward me. “I need you to leave the room. Do not touch anything else. Do not take anything with you. Leave it exactly as you found it.”
“Can I grab my mirror box?”
“No.”
I glanced at the box. It still sat on the table, arranged the same way it had been last night. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it—the thing had almost killed me when I’d touched it last. But what would I do without my box?
The uniformed guard led me outside as the other man followed. They said something to one another about procedures. Calling the police. Protocol.
I couldn’t focus on anything. The sight of Mr. Duncan’s eye sockets kept playing through my head—the severed tendons, the blood, the purple flowers. They’d looked odd, with the topmost petal longer than the others and folded over the top like a hood. Who would have been so depraved as to cut someone’s eyes from their sockets?
I found myself sitting in Mr. K’s pub, the smell of spiced meat in the air, and someone handed me a hot cocoa. There were voices around me, some of them frantic. Then, the sound of police sirens.
The Styrofoam cup warmed my hands.
Empty eye sockets. His eyes had been cut out. Who would do that?
Hours must have passed.
“Ma’am?”
I looked up
