“I know something’s wrong, Horace,” she said to the dog who paced her progress from window to window.
The door of the screened-in porch also sagged so that the latch didn’t work. Thistle pulled it open with little resistance. She stepped into the shadowed room lined with more screen than wall. “Heaps of discarded furniture and a fine sanctuary for spiderwebs,” she mused. It reminded her of a hollow log Pixies had abandoned to beetles and ants when it began to crumble in the winter rain and no longer sheltered the tribe. “If Horace weren’t inside begging me to come in, I’d think this house abandoned for a long, long time.”
The back door, however, had a sturdy lock. Rusty, but still firmly engaged.
Horace began barking, his anxiety now filled with hope. Human or Pixie, Thistle couldn’t abandon him.
“If I were still a Pixie, I’d just fly through the keyhole. Keyhole. Hmmm, what does it look like inside?” Thistle closed her eyes trying to remember what keyholes looked like from the inside.
Blackness surrounded her memory. “Faery snot!” she cursed.
Horace barked louder.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. If I only had a little Pixie dust left… Well, I did yesterday morning. Let’s see if I can find any more.” This time when she closed her eyes, Thistle placed her fingertip over the hole and blew with her breath and her mind.
Bright sparkles erupted out of the hole, encasing her hand in warm tingles.
“I am going to be in so much trouble if Alder ever finds out I did this.” Without thinking further, she twisted the knob, felt the lock give way, and pushed the door open.
Horace jumped against her, paws landing heavily on her chest. His golden fur looked oily and matted. He smelled strongly of dog in need of a bath. Then he bounced away dashing for the nearest bush in the yard. He lifted his leg and poised there seemingly forever.
Thistle took one step inside. Waves and waves of hot air poured over her, leeching her energy. She nearly dropped to her knees in exhaustion. Not knowing what else to do, she crawled through the kitchen to the sink, then hauled herself up to the drainboard. This tap worked easily. But the water flowed warmly over her hand. She splashed some on her face and felt better. A tall glass stood upside down in a plastic drainer. She filled it drank down one glassful, refilled it, and walked slowly inward, taking an occasional sip.
Horace trudged back in and led the way. She followed him and the smell of sour bread rising. Not good. Not good at all.
In the front parlor, a tiny old woman, not much taller than Dusty, but much stouter, lay sprawled on the floor beneath the window.
“Oh, dear. We need help, Horace.”
Help us.
“What’s that number people shout when they are in trouble? What is it?” She racked her memory and came up blank. She had to call someone. Who?
An old black phone sat on a lamp table at the end of the sofa. Thistle grabbed the receiver as she’d seen humans do for as long as she had befriended them. There on the base in big red letters she saw 911 and a red cross.
“Let’s hope that’s right.” She dialed the three numbers, waiting a long time for the rotary to return to its original position in between.
“911, do you need police, medical, or fire?
“Um…”
“Stop! What are you doing?” Chase yelled from the archway to the kitchen. He stood, feet braced, a wickedlooking pistol held in both hands, menace written all over his face.
“Help us!” Thistle shouted, pointing with the hand that still held the glass of water. Liquid spilled and splashed all over the old woman. She stirred in the slight relief.
Suddenly, the heat, the exhaustion from throwing Pixie dust, and the smell robbed Thistle of all her strength.
She gave in to the need to lie down. Right here. Right now.
Chase stood with his mouth hanging open as Thistle wavered, shimmering in and out of view. The outline of wings in the shape of thistle leaves sprouted across her back as she collapsed. Her skin took on a decidedly lavender tone. Deep-purple highlights shone in her black hair.
Then the heat made everything in the room look off kilter.
He shook his head free of the illusion and took a good look around, assessing the situation. As he’d been trained to do. He plucked the receiver out of Thistle’s hand and briskly ordered an ambulance and a cruiser.
Then he found the thermostat and turned it off. Next to it, he found the ceiling fan switch and flicked it on. Mrs. Spencer must have mixed them up. What else could he do?
Windows. Cross ventilation. One by one, he unlatched and raised as many windows as he could reach behind more overstuffed chairs, bookcases, knickknack tables, and just piles of stuff. He opened the front door as well, after releasing two deadbolts, a security chain, and the normal knob lock.
Why all this security and leave the back door open? He’d looked. Thistle hadn’t forced her entry.
The dog began licking moisture off Mrs. Spencer’s face. How long had he been locked inside with her? He didn’t seem to be in much better condition than the woman who had taught fourth grade to nearly everyone in town.
He grabbed the glass, returned to the kitchen, and filled it. The first lot went into the dog’s dish beside the fridge. The second glass he dribbled on Mrs. Spencer’s brow and wrists.
Thistle stirred, too, as the fan stirred up enough of a breeze to lighten the air.
He watched as the light glinted off the heat aura that looked like wings, then dissolved as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her skin remained very pale and lavender tinged.
“Get yourself some water in the kitchen. I hear the ambulance coming,” he ordered. When she’d slumped through to the kitchen, he shook his head again. “It’s the heat. Has to be the heat. I did not see Pixie wings. I really didn’t.”
Horace licked his hand. His golden eyes told Chase he was lying to himself.
Dick would laugh himself silly at Chase’s lack of belief in the face of this evidence.
Thirteen
DICK LEANED HIS HEAD BACK against the wall where he sat in the utilitarian chairs of the community college’s free clinic waiting room. He always had to wait for his appointments to review the drug samples the volunteer physicians dispensed and to explain the new pills his company needed him to get them to try.
Nurse Edwards appeared at the door to the inner sanctum. Dick started to rise, grabbing his case along the way. But she beckoned the teen with the bloody elbow and forearm instead. “Skateboarding without pads again, Josh?” she quipped.
Dick settled back into his chair, squirming to find a more comfortable position. Yeah, he had an appointment, but patients came before pharmaceutical salesmen.
At least no one else had come in for the last half hour. Maybe he really would get to see the doctor on duty soon. In preparation, he pulled up a spreadsheet on his netbook showing all the samples he’d left here in the past six months and the ones he’d retrieved because they expired before anyone got around to prescribing them.
He couldn’t concentrate. Images of Thistle in her purple-flowered sundress dancing in his arms last night kept morphing into his faulty memory of the girl with purple hair he’d kissed… oh, so many years ago.
And then there was the annoying buzz of Chicory, the blue Pixie at the nursery. His tune clashed with Thistle’s.
Had he imagined the entire episode? He didn’t think so. The logical, science-trained portion of his mind told him Pixies didn’t exist. And they certainly didn’t grow to human size, losing their wings, their magic, and their purple skin.
The woman he and Dusty had taken in had to be a con artist, just like Chase insisted.
And yet…
He didn’t want her to be.
“I know better,” he muttered, applying himself to the spreadsheet, marking items nearing expiration and others that turned over rapidly.