Fairyville

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

FAIRYVILLE

Copyright © 2007 by Emma Holly.

Cover art by Judy York.

Cover design by George Long.

Text design by Kristin del Rosario

BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First edition: September 2007

Berkley Sensation trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-425-21705-4

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the real-life mediums

who share their stories.

Many thanks.

Zoe Clare saw dead people.

This wouldn't have been bad if dead people were all she saw. In this day and age, a person could make a decent living talking to ghosts. But Zoe's gift had come with an eccentric extra—a tiny, annoying extra that was, even now, tugging at the covers she'd pulled determinedly over her head.

"I need my sleep," she said, her eyes screwed shut against the bright Arizona morning. "It's important for a medium to recharge her batteries."

The tugging changed to a weighted prickle on her scalp, between the corkscrew curls of her long black hair. One of the fairies who'd been her constant companions since childhood (much to her parents' dismay) was standing on Zoe's head.

"Wakey-wakey," it said, like a DJ on helium. "It's a beautiful day in Fairyville, and your batteries are as charged as they're going to get."

"Your mother was a toadstool," Zoe retorted, her eyes still closed.

The avoidance was ineffective. Her tormentor shone clearly in her mind's eye, complete with diaphanous gown and dragonfly wings. Like many mediums, Zoe saw the other world better without her physical sight. Although the different fairies' voices sounded the same to her, this one's iridescent purple wings and gaudy yellow tiara proclaimed that she was Rajel, queen of Zoe's personal flock. She flashed her tiny white teeth in a twinkling grin, Zoe's insult having slid right off her.

Serious fairies, apparently, had little hope of rising through the ranks. Only the most persistently positive could be queen.

"It's time to rise and shine," Rajel cooed. "You know you hate to be late to work."

This was usually true, but today was the day after the full moon. Spiritually, this affected her not at all. Personally, it made her stomach sink to her toes.

The full moon was when her landlord-slash-manager, the painfully scrumptious Magnus Monroe, indulged in his monthly sexual debauch. The day after the full moon was when Zoe had to watch him stroll into their office, all loose-hipped and jovial, and know that—yet again—she wasn't the woman who'd put that smile on his face.

She wondered who his partner had been this time. Every month was different, and he didn't seem to have a type beyond female and breathing. She suspected the lucky lady was Sheri Yost.

Sheri was the waitress at Zoe's favorite steak house, where she and Magnus often ate lunch. Magnus flirted the way some men inhaled oxygen, but over the last week, Zoe thought she'd noticed an extra bit of zing in his and Sheri's repartee. If Sheri had been his "chosen one," Zoe's lunch was destined to be as hard to stomach as going in to work. The women who slept with her manager always had a glow afterward, an I've-been-screwed-six-ways-to-Sunday-and-I-loved-it glow.

Remembering how many times she'd seen that sensual female smirk made Zoe sit up growling in disgust. She shoved her tangle of long black curls away from her face. Now that her physical eyes were open, Rajel was a sparkly purple sphere, no bigger than a penny, hanging in the air in front of her. Most people wouldn't have seen her, but Zoe could see her and more. Rajel's fairy court bobbed behind her, a cloud of at least a dozen snickering rainbow glows.

It was a larger gathering than usual.

"Well, well," Zoe said. "The gang's all here. Must have been a slow night for parties."

The fairies giggled in agreement and whizzed off in different directions.

"Dibs on helping Zoe with her hair!" cried one.

"I'm picking her jewelry!" said another.

"I'll talk to the toaster!" announced a third.

"No!" Zoe whipped out her hand to grab the last fairy, but the little bugger was too fast. "No talking to the toaster! You guys keep shorting it out."

The darting rose-pink sparkle paid her no mind. "Stop her," Zoe begged Rajel. "I'm tired of cold cereal."

"Oh, I couldn't discourage Florabel." Rajel brushed a bit of fairy dust from her gown. "She's only trying to communicate with the machinery. It does have a primitive form of consciousness, you know."

"Great," Zoe mumbled, throwing off the covers and stumping toward the shower. "I guess until Florabel figures out the toasters' 'primitive consciousness,' I can kiss my morning bagel goodbye."

Cold cereal aside, if a person had to go to work, Fairyville, Arizona was the place to do it, especially on a cool, bright morning in July. The sky was a deep, saturated blue, and while the temperature might climb toward ungodly as the day went on, for now it was as pleasant as a baby's smile.

Zoe's fairies swooped off somersaulting into the ethers, chasing bees or showing off. Zoe couldn't begrudge them their high spirits—or their abandonment of her. No matter how many times she'd seen the local red-rock cliffs against that deep blue sky, the sight never failed to catch at her breath.

You just couldn't forget the power of Mother Nature here.

A definite beneficiary of that power, Fairyville lay north of its more famous sister, Sedona, but shared the same awe-inspiring landscape of buttes and spires—and the same reputation for mystical oddities. Zoe's home had been a virtual ghost town fifty years ago, a copper mine gone bust in the Great Depression. It had been revived by a carefully calculated tourist scheme, devised by the their desperate residents, who decided to tout it as the "Number One Fairy-Spotting Capital in the U.S.A." Today Fairyville was divided into two camps, the "real" Fairyvillers and the "normals." Being a real Fairyviller had nothing to do with how long you'd lived there. You became one by having a psychic gift, by treating those who had psychic gifts with respect, or by being so loony tunes everyone figured you had to be touched by
something
.

Normals were the folks who thought the real Fairyvillers were "colorful."

Zoe grimaced at how much local color she herself represented and parked her classic white VW bug at the end of Canyon Way, well beyond the spots the tourists would be fighting over once they rolled out of their B&Bs. Even at this distance, her walk would be reasonable. Fairyville's carefully restored historic district was, at most, a ten-minute stroll from end to end. Zoe knew every inch of it, from the mix of Old West storefronts to the rock shops to the Spanish adobe restaurants.

She'd lived in or around Fairyville all her life and considered herself lucky this was the case. Her parents, normals down to their toes, had tolerated her claims of being visited by dead relatives. This was, after all, a mainstream sort of weirdness. When she refused to outgrow her fairies, however, they'd drawn a line. Dead people existed. Fairies were delusions. It was time Zoe admitted she'd made them up.

Fortunately, the psychologist they'd insisted she see while she was in high school was a real Fairyviller, too. Dr. Sweetwell ended up being—unbeknownst to Zoe's parents—her spiritual mentor. In truth, it would have been hard for Catherine Sweetwell to avoid it, seeing as how
she
liked to call in angels for consults. She'd guided Zoe to the best teachers to hone her gifts, even covered for her when she went to workshops.

"Thank you, Doc," Zoe murmured as she forced her reluctant sandals past the Navajo rug store. She felt in need of counting her blessings. The gallery in which she did her readings was only a few doors down, a restored brick two-story building from 1910. From where she stood, she could see the potted prickly pear cactus that guarded the entrance, the last of its lush hot-pink flowers drooping off. Magnus loved that cactus. He called it "Gorgeous" and said hello to it every morning. The first time Zoe had heard him do it, her heart had clenched.