the way. They just really hate the smell. “Also mushrooms, fennel seed, balsamic vinegar, and this…”
“Molasses?”
“It’s the critical ingredient.”
“You know, there’s a McDonald’s right down the street.”
“It isn’t for me. You don’t by any chance have a hot plate, do you?”
She didn’t, but the old Asian lady down the hall did. She wasn’t initially all that interested in helping us, up until I sweet-talked to her in Mandarin. She even loaned us a saucepan.
An hour later I had a deeply foul-smelling dish that no human would ever consider eating, even on a dare.
“Ugh, God, I’m gonna be sick,” Brenda declared.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have done this in the apartment,” I said.
“I may have to move.”
“Sorry. Are you ready to go?”
“Go where?”
“The alley down the street. Come on, the sun’s down already.”
“Is this some sort of immortal trick or something?”
“Yeah. Hurry up.”
I set the saucepan on the ground at one end of the alley and then joined Brenda behind the dumpster at the other end.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Shh. Now you watch for me. Your eyes are better from here.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Focus on the top of the pan,” I said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Is this magic? Did you cast a spell or something?”
“Of course not,” I said. “There’s no such thing as magic.”
She looked at me with the kind of disbelieving expression only a vampire can give to an immortal man who doesn’t believe in magic.
“Honest,” I added.
“Whatever.” She refocused on the pan. And we waited.
About an hour passed, and I was still crouched uncomfortably behind the dumpster watching the back of Brenda’s head while she stared down the alley. She stood dead still the entire time, and I swear she didn’t blink once. Police would do themselves a service by hiring vampires specifically for stakeouts.
Finally… “What the hell?”
“What do you see?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Something flew into the pot, right?”
“Yes, but…”
“Did it fly out?”
“No. What the hell was that?”
“That is what we’re here to catch.”
I led her back to the saucepan, and crouched down to say hello to my new friend. Stuck in the molasses about knee deep was a tiny naked woman with mosquito wings.
“Hello,” I said to her.
“Iza stuck,” she said back.
“Yes, you are,” I said, picking up the saucepan.
Brenda stared at our prize with naked astonishment. “What
“This,” I said proudly, “is a pixie.”
Back in the room, I placed the ensnared pixie on the bed while Brenda lit a few candles. The pixie just pouted, which is something they’re very good at. They are, unfortunately for this particular pixie, very bad at resisting the smell of mushrooms, garlic, and fennel. (The part they eat is the mushrooms. It is possible to tame a wild pixie with just raw mushrooms, but very difficult to catch one that way, and we were under the clock.)
The average pixie is somewhere between three and four inches tall, with gossamer wings and, scale-wise, simply fantastic bodies. Most every one I’ve ever met was a blonde, and I mean that both literally and in the intellectual sense, although calling them stupid isn’t really fair. They’re simply innocent. If Jerry the iffrit is the devil on your shoulder, a pixie is the angel on your other shoulder. Not that either species is particularly good at advice, but you get my point.
You may have encountered a pixie once or twice in your life and not known it. And since they move faster than anything else I’ve ever seen with wings, if you did see one it was for the merest of seconds, just enough time for you to convince yourself your eyes were playing tricks on you.
“Hello,” I said to my new friend.
“H’lo,” she said back, then repeated, “Iza stuck.” She wasn’t afraid, just annoyed at being stuck. It’s not that I’m naturally non-threatening; it’s that it would never occur to her to be afraid. Think Adam and Eve before The Fall, if that helps.
“It’s a little tiny girl!” Brenda observed. She was still dealing with this.
“Yes, as far as I know, they’re all girls,” I said.
“Then how do they… you know.”
“I never figured out how to ask one. They don’t seem to understand the concept.”
“Iza stuck!” the pixie repeated.
“Right, sorry,” I said. “What’s your name?”
She looked at me blankly. “Iza. Iza stuck.”
“Oh.” Silly me. “Iza? Would you like me to help you get unstuck?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I’ll do that for you, but I need you to do me a favor.”
She looked unsure. “Big favor?”
“No, a small favor.”
“Iza small.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m asking you. Can you read, Iza?”
Iza brightened. “Iza read!”
I held up the newspaper and pointed to a word. “Can you read that line for me?”
She squinted at it for a few seconds. “’Nay-than-eel,’” she read.
“Good! And that one?”
“’Gah-ree.’”
“Very good!” Ooh boy, this was going to take a while.
“Favor done?” she asked.
“No, that wasn’t the favor, Iza.”
She pouted again. “Feet are mushy,” she complained.
“I’m sorry about that. Iza, do you know what a police station is?”
