Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (33 page)
“Does that have anything to do with why you were exiled?” Dusty asked. She finally stopped her caress of the music box long enough to pat Thistle’s hand in comfort.
“Maybe. Sort of.” She still didn’t look up. But she firmed her chin.
“Don’t forget there’s another Pixie locking doors in City Hall.” Dick found himself saying without thinking. In the glorious aftermath of their kiss, he’d forgotten why Thistle had become so weak and vulnerable and so much more adorable than ever.
“What?” Chase sat up straighter. “What’s this about another Pixie in City Hall? That’s the same building as the police station and Mabel rarely goes home. She’s at the dispatch desk like fourteen hours a day. One of her Pixies could easily play tricks on people all through the warren of abandoned staircases, redundant heating vents, and odd alcoves.”
“Thistle, you know Mabel’s Pixies. Could one of them have locked the door?” Dick asked on a yawn.
“For Mabel to go out of her way to make sure her tribe will always have that garden is very important.” Thistle looked out the window, her eyes focusing on something far away. “Rosie’s tribe is one of the few that is really thriving. They have no reason to upset the balance of peace. They have their own territory. They don’t need to extend the boundaries to include City Hall.”
“Except the Patriarch Oak. They don’t have that,” Dusty whispered. “Which reminds me. I’ve got to call M’Velle and have her start researching heritage trees.”
Dick told them about following voices up a back staircase only to find the door they needed locked by Pixie magic.
He didn’t say anything about how he’d kissed Thistle. She looked up at him at last and nodded a
thank you,
ever so slightly.
thank you,
ever so slightly.
She must have come to the same conclusion he had, that they had no future together. She’d go back to Pixie soon, and he’d go back . . . go back to unsatisfying onenight stands because no woman could live up to Thistle.
“Thistle, you once told me that the Patriarch Oak is very special to all the tribes and that responsibility for caring for it makes your tribe more important than all the others combined. Why would any Pixie want to destroy The Ten Acre Wood?” Dusty put forth, returning both her hands to the music box. She pushed aside her half-eaten bowl of cereal in favor of caressing her treasure.
Thistle bit her lip. Her silence stretched beyond hesitation into refusal.
“Thistle, if you know something, now is not the time to keep secrets. We’re here to help you, and we will respect your confidence in us.” Dick found himself sitting beside her and holding her hand.
I’m not coming on to her. I’m protecting her, taking care of her. But, damn, I wish it could be more.
“The Patriarch Oak is where . . . is where,” she gulped. “Is where all Pixies go for a mating flight, the true expression of love and trust. Not all Pixies do it. But kings and queens of a tribe must when they take a mate, as a symbol of the peace treaty their marriage creates.”
“Maybe it’s someone who’s been hurt by Pixies who wants to cut down the oak,” Dusty suggested.
“Someone with the fire of Faery in his magic,” Thistle whispered. “The Faeries have always looked down upon Pixies. They call us traitors to our own kind because we make friends with humans, risking exposure and something called a witch hunt. We call them cowards because they won’t face up to the reality that humans are here to stay, thriving while they build atop our lands. We either have to adapt to them or die.”
“Maybe it’s because the current king of your tribe won’t let anyone use the oak except for him,” Chase added, as if he hadn’t heard Thistle’s last remarks. He tried to pin her with his gaze, but she kept slipping away, hiding behind her black hair.
“How did you know?” Thistle asked quietly. She hadn’t removed her hand from Dick’s.
He squeezed her fingers in reassurance.
“I half heard your conversation with Rosie. I’m guessing the rest,” Chase replied.
“If that’s the case, then another tribe might be really pissed off that they can’t use the Oak and would rather see it destroyed than let Alder taunt them with his possession of it,” Dusty chimed in.
“That’s it!” Thistle said with the first show of enthusiasm since the conversation started. Her eyes brightened and she rubbed the back of her head, looking puzzled.
“So we’re looking for a Pixie who is influencing the people who bid on the timber in the park,” Dick mused. “So, Chase, anyone new in town we should be looking at more carefully?”
“Haywood Wheatland.”
Thistle half nodded, then opened her mouth and shook her head, still puzzled about something.
“No!” Dusty gasped. “He wouldn’t. He’s too kind. He . . . he . . .”
“He also talked to Rosie in Mabel’s garden. He called her ‘beloved’ and ‘sweetheart,’” Chase said quietly. He looked as if he wanted to caress Dusty’s hands upon the music box.
“No, no, no.” Dusty gathered her music box tightly against her chest, eyes closed, and shaking her head in denial. Shutting them all out of her very private misery.
Dick reluctantly let go of Thistle’s hand and shifted closer to his sister. He draped an arm around her shoulders and held her tight, weathering together the storm of tears he knew would follow.
“Haywood Wheatland works for Phelma Jo. Her name is on the incorporation papers for Pixel Industries, Ltd,” Chase said more firmly. Facts. He laid out the facts as if they weighed more than Dusty’s fragile emotions.
“I won’t believe that. He . . . he said he loves me. I can’t be so wrong about him. I can’t. I just can’t.” Dusty threw the music box back onto the table. It slid across the straight planks where Thistle caught it before it fell to the floor and broke again. Dusty didn’t seem to care as she dashed out the back door.
“I’ll talk to her,” Chase said, rising slowly from his chair.
“No, she needs another woman to talk to now. I know what she’s going through.” Thistle also headed toward the door.
“No,” Dick said firmly. “Either or both of you will only make it worse. I’ll let her cry a bit, then I’ll talk to her and make her see logic. Just like I always have.” Seemed like he still had to protect his sister after all, even if only from herself.
“Um . . . Dick . . . Chase, I think there’s something you should know,” Thistle said. She looked over her shoulder toward the door where Dusty had disappeared.
“What?” Chase barked, all professional and stern. But he, too, looked toward the back door.
“Last night, I overheard Haywood Wheatland . . .” Thistle spilled the entire story, all the while rubbing the back of her head, wincing occasionally. “I hurt so bad last night I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to tell anyone. Talking about Haywood Wheatland made me remember.”
“Giving hallucinogenic mushrooms disguised in chocolate to underage kids. That’s enough for me to arrest him. I just hope he has a stash on his person, or the kids haven’t eaten any yet. I’ll need evidence, but an anonymous tip is enough to start a search and ask questions.” Chase stood up and straightened his uniform shirt and settled his utility belt around his hips.
“First, you have to tell Dusty,” Dick insisted. “She has a right to hear it before you arrest him.”
“But . . .”
“Chase, are you in love with her or not?”
Twenty-seven
C
HASE SLAMMED OUT THE BACK DOOR of Dick and Dusty’s house. He hurt all over. He’d been awake too long. The need to take down a dangerous corrupter of children burned inside him. He needed to hold Dusty in his arms and let her cry out her fears before he could reassure her.
HASE SLAMMED OUT THE BACK DOOR of Dick and Dusty’s house. He hurt all over. He’d been awake too long. The need to take down a dangerous corrupter of children burned inside him. He needed to hold Dusty in his arms and let her cry out her fears before he could reassure her.
Damn, but he thought Dusty would return his affection for longer than ten minutes once he fixed the stupid music box for her. Didn’t she know how hard it was for him to accept help from Pixies? They fit into tiny places and bent broken parts back into shape when his fat fingers just made things worse.
“Okay, Dusty. Time to stop being polite and hash this out,” he muttered.
Where would she go? The museum basement, of course.
A tiny blue Pixie sat on the yew hedge that lined the fence. He shook his head and pursed his lips.
“This hurt is older and more primitive than her work at the museum. She’s gone to The Ten Acre Wood,” Chicory told him.
“You sure about that, buddy?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I tagged her all the way over there. Do you know how far that is? I’m exhausted. No mere human is worth that much effort.”
“Dusty is.”
“Then go after her. If you truly love her. Stay here and dither if you don’t.”
“You’re a pest.”
“Yeah, but a wise one.” Chicory bounced up and dove deep into the yew where Chase couldn’t grab him. “Fix this before you take down that half blood, Haywood Wheatland. We’ll all be grateful to you when you do.” He flew back toward Mabel’s house and a well earned rest.
Chase turned his steps toward The Ten Acre Wood. Not that far away, about three blocks, in human terms. Maybe that was a couple of miles to a Pixie. He didn’t know. Didn’t really care.
He just had to set things straight with Dusty. See where they really stood; see if there was any chance at all.
With each step he found himself stomping harder until he hit the gravel patch at the end of Center Street. Tiny rocks rolled out from under his feet and he just kept marching through the drainage ditch onto the game trail that looked too overgrown for the end of summer when kids had been in and out of here every day for three months.
Two steps farther and he stopped in confusion. The place was dim, too quiet, almost sad. Birds and bugs and Pixies should be buzzing about gathering pollen, capturing the morning dew before it evaporated. Nothing moved. He couldn’t even hear the traffic down along the river road.
Sword ferns that bent over the trail drooped. The Oregon grape leaves had lost luster, their clusters of green berries, tiny, hard, and bitter. And sparse. The foxgloves that should stand nearly six feet tall around the edges of the woods had gone to seed long before they reached any taller than his waist.
Something was terribly wrong with The Ten Acre Wood. Like it had lost all of its magic. Its will to survive.
He wanted to say it had been cursed by Faery fire. Preposterous. Or was it?
He crept forward, careful to avoid making any noise. Some of the dullness lightened in the air as he approached the dried-up pond at the center. He expected a lot of mud with a trickle of a stream meandering toward the waterfall at the cliff edge and the path toward the river. He found hard-baked mud with dandelions and coarse grasses shouldering their way through cracks in the solid barrier. No water at all. No deer tracks. Not even raccoon paw prints.
Aghast, he stopped and stared at the withered landscape. The Patriarch Oak seemed to have retreated behind more scrub hardwoods and weeds. Its leaves sagged beneath the weight of dirt. Very little green peaked through the muddy covering.
A quiet snuffle alerted him to someone else standing nearby.
Dusty stared at the same barren depression he did. She stood beneath a limp vine maple to his left.
“Dusty?”
“It’s ruined. Even before the first chain saw fires up, it’s ruined!”
“I know. There’s a sadness here. A vulnerability.” He edged closer to her, needing reassurance that life continued despite the sere landscape.
“The woods know what awaits them,” she whispered.
“We can fix this. We have to.” He gestured to encompass the entire wood and themselves. “Can we fix what’s between us, Dusty?”
“I don’t know.” She snuffled again.
“Why did you run?”
“It seemed the right thing to do.”
“How?”
“You accused Haywood of being behind the plot to destroy The Ten Acre Wood. I was starting to like him. He was the first man I chose to date. It was my decision, not my mother’s or Dick’s. Just me.”
“He seems like a logical suspect. Thistle had some information she shared after you left.”
Other books
Heart of Steel by Meljean Brook
Nineteen Eighty by David Peace
Earthquake by Kathleen Duey
A Marked Man by Stella Cameron
Infinite by Angela Graham
Shoot to Kill by Brett Halliday
Theirs by Christin Lovell
The Boy That Never Was by Karen Perry
Cellular by Ellen Schwartz
