“Dusty, meet the Pixies,” Dick said with pride. “Pixies, meet my baby sister Dusty.”
A purple Pixie separated from the flock and settled on Dusty’s outstretched palm. She cocked her head and looked first from Dusty to Dick and back again. Her song, dum dee dee do dum dum, grew louder in Dusty’s ears. “Dusty is not your real name,” she chirped. Her hair and clothes were darker purple than her skin, but matched her eyes.
Dusty was so caught up in the happy expression in those eyes, she barely noticed that her green wings were jagged and prickly like a thistle. Then she realized the Pixie’s wild mane of purple curls that stood out from her head like a small pom pom resembled a flower.
“I bet your name is Thistle,” Dusty said. Her esses whistled because she forgot that one of her front teeth had fallen out and she didn’t push the sound around the gap like Mom insisted she do.
“You guessed right!” Thistle clapped her hands and hopped up and down, her wings angled so she didn’t catch the air and lift too far away. “I’m Thistle Down. So, what’s your real name?”
“Desdemona Carrick,” Dusty said on a frown. She hated the name Mom insisted belonged to her and only her.
“You don’t like the name any better than Dick likes to be called Benedict,” Thistle giggled. “Don’t blame you. Dusty suits you. Dusty you are.” A bright cloud of sparkling dust dropped over Dusty.
She felt lighter, bigger, important.
Something big crashed through the underbrush across the pond. Dusty jumped back, but she didn’t close her hand into a fist. She had to let Thistle fly to safety on her own.
Dick laughed long and loud as Chase Norton, his best friend, stomped on ferns and kicked aside blackberry vines. Chase wasn’t quite as tall as Dick-he was four months younger after all and wouldn’t turn eleven until March, where Dick’s birthday was in November-but he was broader all over and had thick blond hair that always flopped into his greenish-brown eyes-lighter and prettier than the pond water.
“I can’t believe you still believe in Pixies,” Chase snorted. “I thought you’d outgrown that, Dick.”
Dick shrugged. “Had to show my sister The Ten Acre Wood. She’s five now.”
“He doesn’t want to believe in Pixies anymore,” Thistle whispered in an aside to Dusty. “Adults are like that, expect for a special few. He can still see me and hear me, he just won’t admit it.” She rolled her beautiful purple eyes, but they sparkled with mischief at the same time.
Chase humphed something rude as he clomped around the edge of the pond to join them.
Dusty wanted to clamp her hands over her ears to shut out Chase’s language. But Thistle still stood on her palm, hands on hips, a scowl on her lovely face. Dusty didn’t dare move, or she might frighten her new friend away.
“We’re special friends now, Dusty. I won’t desert you just because Mr. Muscles doesn’t believe anymore,” Thistle said proudly.
“Special friend?” Dick asked. He looked like he might cry.
That scared Dusty more than the noise Chase made tromping through the woods.
“Does that mean you and I can’t be friends anymore, Thistle?”
“You don’t need her as a friend. You got me.” Chase pounded his chest importantly. “We’re guys now, going into fifth grade. We don’t need no girls hanging around.”
That was scary, too. Just since Dick was almost eleven now, did that mean he didn’t need Dusty, his sister, anymore? Would he still help her with her arithmetic and reading? Show her baby birds in their nest hidden under the eaves of the garage, or point out what was a weed, and what was one of Mom’s favorite plants? Or hold her hand during a rare thunderstorm to keep her from being too scared?
“Dick,” Thistle said gently. “Dick, as long as there is trust and love, friendship knows no boundaries. I can be your friend, and Dusty’s friend. You can be my friend and Chase’s. Though I don’t know why you’d want such a logical and clumsy oak as a friend.” Quick as a blink, she flew over to Chase and kicked his bangs down to flop into his eyes and returned to Dusty’s hand, almost before any of them realized what she’d done.
Dusty giggled.
“I am not clumsy!” Chase proclaimed, brushing his hair back again. “And the word is oaf, not oak.”
Thistle and Dusty giggled.
“You guys go on and play pirates. I’m going to dance with my new friend,” Dusty said and waved her brother and Chase off, deeper into the woods.
The huge old oak continued to frown. But Dusty didn’t notice.
One
A LONG JOLT OF PAIN arced from Thistle’s pert little backside to her shoulders, then up into her neck and over the top of her skull into her eyes.
Cool water splashed around her. A heavy dose of chlorine burned her eyes. But the water cooled the itching flush on her skin.
“What the f…!” She tried to open her eyes. It hurt too much to move her neck. Sun dazzle through her closed eyelids intensified the daggers lancing into her mind.
Where had she landed?
Oh, yeah. That was Alder getting even.
Except Pixies weren’t supposed to play tricks on other Pixies. That’s what humans were for.
Shivers racked her entire body. Wet. She was wet, wet, wet. Cold and wet weather sent Pixies into hibernation. She needed to find a warm spot to dry her wings. Then she’d fly back to Alder and give him taste of his own warped sense of justice.
She shivered in the unnatural weather. Wasn’t this August?
Without thinking, she started her wings fluttering. All the extra moisture and the chills racking her body would slow her lift. Pixies weren’t meant to sit for long on hard stone with their legs splayed in front of them.
Everything hurt.
She’d really let Alder have it.
Nothing happened. Water lapped her waist and continued to pour down over her head. Her legs remained stretched straight. Smoothly curved stone cradled her bottom while jagged and warped rock pressed into her back. A huge itch clawed her entire spine from butt to neck.
Unique and lovely green wings in the shape of double thistle leaves failed to flutter through the air.
What had happened to her wings? Gone!
Her eyes flew open. The remnants of sparkling Pixie dust settled in the pool of water around her legs, taunting reminders that Alder was king of her tribe and more powerful than any three Pixies combined. The old Faery in the oak had given him that power just before he left for… wherever old Faeries went when they no longer wished to live in this realm.
She wasn’t in The Ten Acre Wood anymore.
Then she noticed black hair-very wet black hair-tangled over her shoulders and chest. Chest? She had boobs! Big ones. When had that happened? Bad enough Alder had stolen her wings. What had he done to her lovely lavender skin and deep purple tresses!
And he’d given her human tits the size of watermelons-well maybe only the size of pomegranates. But still, compared to Pixie evenness, those globes would throw her off-balance. She’d be too heavy to fly.
If she had wings.
Fat, salty tears mingled with the water dripping down her face.
Blaring horns, angry shouts, the pelting of water hitting a rippling pool slammed against her ears as she grew more aware of things beyond her own pain and confusion.
“This isn’t Pixie,” she gasped.
“I don’t know what you’re on, lady, but dancing naked in Memorial Fountain during morning rush hour isn’t going to help,” a rough male voice said from somewhere near her left shoulder.
Thistle peeked in that direction, trying not to move her aching head.
A big, callused hand extended toward her. It was covered with sun-bleached blond hair on the back and knuckles.
She followed the line of the hand up a muscular arm to the hem of a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt with three gold stripes in an inverted chevron embroidered on it.