Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (28 page)

“Mabel’s house. Everything weird starts at Mabel’s house.” He eased his back against the doorjamb, stretching his long legs across the access to the parlor. As he rested his head against the jamb, he scrunched up his eyes in pain.

“Headache?” She shifted to gently rub his temple.

“Ah, that feels good.” He leaned into her hand.

Dusty twisted around to rub both his temples. “What did the doctor say about your wound?” She figured she knew what he’d say. Stubborn male.

“Didn’t stick around long enough to see him. The elementary school sent seven kids down with similar wounds to mine. Our old pal Snapdragon has expanded the war.”

“Oh. Then why are you here?”

“Running away from the headache of the report I have to file in order to get a hearing so I can get my weapons and my badge back. Life was easier before I believed in Pixies.”

“You lot are crazy, you know,” Hope said quietly.

“Cheer up. It gets crazier the longer you stay,” Dusty said on a giggle. “While I get the first aid kit, I suggest you check out the book of Shakespeare quotations in the bookshelf beside the fireplace. A lot easier and quicker than reading the complete works. It is wise when dealing with my mother to sprinkle at least some of the better known quotes through any conversation.”

Two minutes later when she returned with wet washcloths smeared with soap, a bottle of antiseptic with gauze pads, bandages, and aspirin, she found Chase and Hope in mirrored poses, sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, and knees drawn up to their chests, clasped firmly in place with knotted hands.

She knelt beside Chase and jerked the sagging butterfly bandage away from the seeping wound. She didn’t like the pinkish color of the fluid, but she supposed his body was
doing its best to flush out any toxins from the hawthorn sword.

“I’m taking you back to the clinic,” she announced.

He cringed away from the sting of the soap. “I’ve got too many things to do.”

“It will give you an excuse to avoid that horrible report a little longer.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“And I’m staying with you until the doctor either clears you or sends you to the hospital.”

“What about me?” Hope asked. Her chin sank deeper into the cleft between her knees.

“Mom may give you a headache, but she’ll feed you, keep you warm, and protect you for a reasonable amount of time.”

“What about the Pixies? Should I take my hallucinations seriously?”

“Life will be a lot easier around here if you do,” Chase said. “I didn’t believe either until I had the evidence thrust in my face a few months ago. Which reminds me—has anyone seen Thistle? I figure she’ll have more answers than anyone.”

“Thistle? Is that the gal Dick was looking for at Mabel’s house?” Hope asked. Her eyes darted from side to side, avoiding making contact with either of them.

“Yes,” Dusty answered. “I’m not sure what happened between them, but it must be bad if she’s not here or at Mabel’s.”

“What about the people she helps? She’s never missed a day checking on the old folks,” Chase said.

“I’ll have Mom call around. But this is looking bad.”

“Don’t tell me this Thistle person is a Pixie, too,” Hope sighed.

“Not anymore,” Chicory replied, flitting in from the kitchen. “Juliet says… she says to come and have some peanut butter and crackers. Dinner will be ready in an hour and ‘Who rises from a banquet with the same appetite as when he sat down?’ Or something like that.” He whipped around, ready to return to the kitchen.

“Chicory, why aren’t you dead?” Chase called after him.

“Who told you that?”

“Fellow named Dandelion.”

“Which Dandelion? There are dozens of them in every tribe. Except mine. I haven’t added any yet.”

“I’m not sure, but he was following Snapdragon. I diverted him here. Wouldn’t be surprised if he and his brothers are hiding in the back garden right now. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why did he think you were dead?”

“We-ellll—”

“Spit it out,” Dusty ordered.

“Snapdragon threw me into Mabel’s basement, and everyone knows that underground is death to Pixies.”

“So why aren’t you dead?” Dusty asked, curiosity piqued.

“I am not hearing this conversation,” Hope said, shaking her head. “I’m outta here.” She rolled to her feet.

“Only as far as the kitchen, young lady!” Dusty ordered. “But I can guarantee the conversation in the kitchen is weirder.”

Hope slid down to resume her place on the floor.

“Talk, Chicory,” Chase said. “You talk a lot most of the time.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I managed to crawl up the stairs. That got me above the worst of the death fumes. Then I slipped under the kitchen door and slept it off in one of the nesting boxes Mabel keeps around the house.”

“Did Thistle see you? She’d have helped, you know,” Dusty said.

Chicory blushed, that is if a blue Pixie could blush. His skin looked darker blue.

“She and Dick were making out, hot and heavy in the kitchen. I don’t think she cared about me and my doom at that point.”

“So whatever happened between Thistle and Dick took place today,” Dusty mused. “He left the house whistling at eight this morning,” she went on to explain. She was starting to worry about her best friend.

“That’s very interesting, Chicory,” Chase interrupted her thoughts. “So how’d you end up here? Inside. Entertaining my future mother-in-law?”

“It started to rain. I asked for refuge and she gave us the
attic. Now, if you don’t mind, you all are wanted in the kitchen, and I need to see if the Dandelions are willing to join my tribe. I’m the new king, see, and it’s my responsibility. And Daisy wants a mating flight.” He flew out, darting up and down in a complicated spiral, sort of skipping with excitement.

Dusty wanted to rejoice with Chicory about how he’d run away from a bad situation and found a much better one. But all she could think about was how Thistle should be here to rejoice with him.

Chicory halted at the swinging door to the kitchen—now politely propped open for him—“Oh, and if you can’t find a way to help the waif, there’s a really old tradition that allows us to absorb her into Pixie. Only there are so many of them nowadays that we don’t have enough magic left for all of them. Thistle should know how to do it since she’s changed from one to the other.”

P
HELMA JO SAT IN THE HARD, uncomfortable visitor’s chair in Mabel Gardiner’s hospital room. The old woman had been moved from critical care to a semiprivate room—though the bed closest to the door was unoccupied at the moment. Mabel reclined against the raised head of the bed, her knees propped up by the strange contortions of the mattress and frame. She wore a pretty pink quilted silk bed jacket and someone had combed her lank hair.

A single pink rose stood upright in a cheap milk glass vase, decorated with pink ribbons. Something about that lopsided rosebud bothered Phelma Jo. The shape was out of sync with everything, neither straight nor curved, just sort of lumpy without reason.

“We have a new runaway, Mabel. I can’t handle this. I can’t help you anymore.”

“Tell me about the runaway. Where is she?”

“How’d you know it was a girl?”

“Just guessing. Girls give up the street life faster than the boys. It’s only October. The boys will tough it out until the second frost. Usually late November.” Mabel picked at the soft blanket covering her to the waist. Her gaze kept drifting to the rosebud.

“Is your gossip network still intact?” Phelma Jo asked. She, too, looked at the flower. If she tilted her head just so, and let her eyes cross a bit, the lump could almost be a tiny pink Pixie.

No. She refused to go there. The day had been too weird
already. She needed a heavy dose of normal. Sending runaways and teens who’d fallen through the cracks of the foster care system on the road to safety was normal. Mabel, as head of the network of helpers, was normal. Hospitals were normal.

Pixies, like Haywood, or Snapdragon or whatever he called himself this week, or that pink lump, were definitely not normal.

“I still hear things. But I don’t like what I hear, and I don’t always trust the messengers.” Mabel sighed and turned her attention back to Phelma Jo. “Tell me about the runaway. I’ve had Chase, and some others, looking for one girl in particular.”

“I don’t know much. Dick found her in your house, took her to his sister with orders to pass her along to their mother. I don’t know if I trust Juliet Carrick…”

“Juliet’s is a good place for a while. She’s obsessive but not dangerous. She was a teacher before Dusty got sick, so she knows kids and won’t put up with bullshit. Until we get the girl to open up and talk about her past, we’ll let Juliet focus on her. We can’t know where to send the girl until we know what she’s running from. Juliet will make her talk to save her sanity. What’s her name?”

“She calls herself Hope. I think she grabbed the name out of the air to avoid telling us who she really is. We can’t track her past without her real name.”

“If I had my computer and police database, I could start checking faces on the milk carton. Match her up with Child Missing reports. Or you could ask Chase to show you the MC poster. If it’s the same girl, I know how to find… relatives.”

“Are you going to be well enough to go back to work?” That was really why Phelma Jo had come. She needed to pass on her job of forging papers to someone. There was a guy in Portland who was pretty good. But he wasn’t committed to the lost and abused children. The network needed someone who had been there and knew how desperately these teens needed a way out of the system.

But if Mabel no longer anchored the underground railway, who would? Phelma Jo couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to work again, even part-time, or as a volunteer,” Mabel said quietly. “The doctors are surprised I’ve recovered this much.”

“Are they treating you well?” Phelma Jo quickly ran through a list of investments she might transfer for quick cash. I can set you up in a private facility with state of the art…”

“No. Save your money for the kids. I’ll be all right. Just not what I used to be. I worry about my house and my garden. Is Thistle taking care of everything?” Her gaze wandered back to the rose.

Phelma Jo thought she heard a tiny sniffle. Was tough, pragmatic, ornery, and insightful Mabel crying?

“Thistle and Dick had a big fight this morning. She took off. As of an hour ago, Dick couldn’t find her.”

“Oh, dear. That is not good news.” Mabel cocked her head, as if listening. “You really do need to match the runaway to the poster. Quickly.”

Thistle has gone back to Pixie
.

Had Phelma Jo really heard the rose talking?

She closed her eyes and fought a wave of disorientation. Heat flushed her face. At the same time her hands grew cold and clammy.

“I refuse to believe this,” she said emphatically.

“Wake up, sweetie. You can’t deny the evidence of your eyes much longer,” Mabel chuckled. “There is trouble in Pixie right now. My Rosie has come to her senses. But the rest of them…” Mabel shrugged. “Thistle going back to Pixie may be the best thing right now. If she can’t straighten them out, no one can. But we have to leave Pixie business to the Pixies. That’s one of the rules. Get the girl talking so that we can find the best place for her. Don’t move her from Juliet’s, though. She really needs to be there. The entire Carrick family needs her there.”

“Dick loves Thistle. He’s really hurting right now.” Phelma Jo stalled, thinking about Thistle being a Pixie. About any Pixies mucking up her town.

“He’ll get over it. Dick always gets over his momentary fascinations with a woman.”

“Not this time. This is the real thing for him,” Phelma Jo admitted.

Just like she was aching in her mid-region because Ian had rejected her.

“If Thistle is gone, we need someone inside my house until I get home. Can’t let that fussbudget nephew of mine tear it down for a few cracks in the foundation. Tell Dusty and Chase they can have the house now and not wait until they are married. That will at least get Dusty out of the way of her mother’s obsessions.”

“I can get an unbiased building inspection. Maybe we can fix the house, make it safe again, without tearing it down,” Phelma Jo offered, wondering why she was so suddenly willing to take care of Mabel. She needed to take care of herself. Only herself. She’d spent a lifetime doing that, not caring about anyone who threatened her or got in her way on her convoluted path to financial security and independence.

What about emotional security?
the tiny voice asked.
You need to love and be loved, just like the rest of the world.

“No, I don’t!” Phelma Jo pushed her chair back and rose. “I’ll check back tomorrow with news about Hope.”

“Phelma Jo,” Mabel said softly.

“What?” she asked, cranky and bewildered and lonely.

“You’ve buried your past pretty deep. One of these days you are going to have to confront it in order to move on.” Was that Mabel talking or the pink Pixie hiding in the rose?

Phelma Jo shook her head to free it of that fantasy. “What do you mean? Everyone in town knows my past.”