Regeneration

The metallic scent of blood reached him first through the sharpness of the snow. For a moment, his heart leapt and he thought the battle was still raging, cries of dying men filling his ears and stopping his senses; but no. The mountains up ahead were the foothills of home, and there was no one else around, no sounds, no battle cries.

Easing his shoulders under their heavy mail – he hadn’t dared leave it behind, not when old Tom would curse him halfway to the grave if he didn’t return it – he trudged on.

The path crested and he spotted the source of the blood-scent easily: a great dragon, rear half fully skinned, muscle and sinew left exposed to the elements. Blood had seeped into the snow around it, tinting it pink.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d been at battle for nine and a half months. The war was supposed be over; coming home was supposed to be the end of all the carnage. But no, someone had to drop a stinking great dead dragon in his path. He gritted his teeth, hefted his pack, and trudged towards the beast.

Halfway there the bushes off the side of the path rustled. He barely had time to check that his sword was still in its scabbard before five scruffy-looking bandits appeared, three bearing equally scruffy swords covered in nicks and dings. The other two held rough-hewn bats, and one tried for menacing as he tapped the bat against his free palm.

The soldier sighed and eased his sword free. He could take the five of them on with his eyes closed – but probably not if he tried to keep them all alive. Gods, he was so tired of death.

The leader of the bandits swaggered forward. “Come t’ steal our dragon, have ye?”

“Put your sword down, mate. All I want to do is go home.” The soldier shifted his grip on his own sword in case the bandit lunged.

In response, the bandit sneered. “That’s what they all say.” He turned to his lackeys. “All right, boys. You know what to do.”

He gave them the nod and as one they advanced towards the soldier.

Gods preserve us all. The soldier adjusted his stance and let his pack slip to the ground.

A creaky rumble sounded, and before anyone had a chance to react, the great dragon’s tail swept right through the midst of the bandits, knocking them all off their feet. Three were immediately rendered unconscious, and without hesitation the solider leapt forward to follow up on his advantage, knocking out a fourth with the flat of his blade.

The fifth – the leader – cried out and lunged at the soldier’s shoulder, but the soldier ducked and let the stroke go past him. He dodged left, dropped to one knee and drove upwards with his sword, aiming for the bandit leader’s chin and intending just to knock him out. But the dragon’s claws caught him around the leg, destabilised him, and the sword drove point-first into the bandit’s throat. Arterial blood spurted, red and bright, life gushing from the man before his eyes.

War cries sounded in his ears, the smell of blood blocked out thought, and the pounding of a thousand warrior feet shook the ground.

The soldier barely even felt it as the dragon shifted its grip and dragged him closer. The smell of rotting meat on the great carnivore’s breath mingled with blood until it could have belonged to week-old bodies decaying on the fields, and the pain that lanced through him as the dragon bit down was the piercing of swords.

A moment passed in rippling pain, and the soldier realised he was on his feet, facing the great dragon while blood dribbled from his shoulder. He clamped down on the wound, noted that the dragon’s skin now covered nearly three-quarters of its body, and gazed up at the great iridescent eye.

The dragon turned its head, staring pointedly at where the bandit leader lay dead in a pool of his own blood.

Guilt stung the soldier’s chest, and he gulped down air like a man drowning.

Gently, the dragon nudged him with muzzle whose nostrils wafted smoke, and the soldier fell down beside the bandit.

What? he shouted in his head. What do you want from me?

But the dragon simply stared, waiting.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, the soldier gathered up the bandit in his arms. Yes, he’d initiated the attack, and yes, he was probably responsible for causing much loss and harm to other people; there was no doubt the corpse in front of him had belonged to a bad man. But still the soldier couldn’t shake his frustration at the senselessness of it all.

He’d had enough of senselessness. He pressed his forehead to the bandit’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to die.”

The bandit stirred in his lap, head tossing, eyes twitched beneath closed lids. The wound in his neck ceased bleeding; the skin began infinitesimally to seal.

The soldier’s gaze flicked to his own shoulder, where the bite mark had nearly closed beneath the tear in his chain-mailed shirt, then to the dragon, who was now fully clothed in skin again but for its tail.

“Oh,” the soldier murmured, eyes wide. “Thank you.”

My Grandma Carries A Machete

My grandmother carries a machete.

Really, it isn’t anything cool or exciting. She doesn’t fight crime or monsters. It’s just a gardening tool. And once you see the garden you realize what she really needs is napalm.

The garden of terror that requires a machete to hack your way to the center of started life as a discreet herb garden on the side yard of the house. It’s older than my grandmother, planted by some pioneering ancestor with more enthusiasm than gardening skill.

Planted by someone who didn’t realize that those small plants in tidy rows would grow so that the rosemary now resembles a small tree and the parsley is dense enough that small tribes of toddlers have been lost in there.

Perhaps the planter thought the Texas heat would be enough to keep the garden from taking on a life of its own.

Certainly it’s a theory that works for the rest of Texas. The easiest way to kill a plant is leave it outside during the month of August and wait for the plant to shoot itself in despair. Even cacti wither and die under the unrelenting heat of the Texas sun.

But not in grandma’s garden.

You can ignore the garden, walk away for months at a time, leave it unwatered for years, drop weed killer on it, curse it, exorcise it, even burn incense over it and yet the garden grows.

My great-grandmother tried giving the plants away. She uprooted the mint and gave it away to everyone who made eye contact. During the worst of Texas droughts you can tell who has the monster mint.

The media dubbed it the “Glenwood Mint”. The scientists at Texas A&M are still studying rogue clippings trying to determine how a plant can live with four inch roots and no water for two years.

That’s why Grandma needs the machete.

Every spring, around about March, she pulls the polished weapon from the cupboard over the washing machine, dons her gardening gloves and sandals, and marches into the backyard to see what damage has been done.

This year was different.

She sat in her rocking chair on March second, a tear in her eye as she watched the snapdragons bloom along the front walk. “I can’t do it this year,” she whispered to me. She raised a papery hand, set it on my knee. “Jenny. Go get the machete. It’s your turn.”

With a sense of impending doom I walked into the mudroom. I pulled on the gloves and the sandals. I pulled the machete from its case, put my cell phone in my pocket in case I needed to call for back up, and marched into the living room and out the back door.

“Grandma! There are tomatoes!”

Grandma moved with blazing speed to peer over my shoulder. “Good googlymoogly,” she breathes. “I forgot about them.”

“We haven’t planted tomatoes in two years!” I choke back fear. Four lush plants sit with their red fruit tempting the sinner like the apple in Eden.

“Get the pots!”

There are four burners on the stove, each large enough to hold a twenty-two gallon stockpot. We have two slow cookers, and each can hold sixteen gallons. I plunder the tomato orchard; the abandoned plants have grown well over six feet tall, they droop with heavy fruit, and spring upright as I pull the tomatoes away.

Stuffing the tomatoes into pots, and piling the excess on the long kitchen counter, my grandmother pours water over each set and turns on the heat. “Get garlic,” she orders. “You’ll find it behind the roses.”

I shudder, grab the machete, and stalk into the herb garden of terror.

The rosemary bush towers over me, a fragrant giant. Thick stalks of parsley reach to my knees. And all I can smell is the mint.

In the far corner I see the rambling roses that cascade over the front fence in a shower of red and pale pink. Beneath those roses the fresh garlic grows. I heft the machete in my hand. With grim determination I set out, hacking, slashing, pruning with fervor that is nigh on religious.

I bring the slaughter to Grandma: rosemary twigs as long as my arm, bunches of parsley, enough oregano to stuff a piñata, garlic, wild onions that I found tucked in a corner next to the lavender.

“Tell your cousins to bring garlic bread,” Grandma instructs as she stirs the six pots, tasting, testing, and adjusting the flavors until they are perfect. “Call the in-laws, we need extra noodles!”

I go back to the garden to trim yellowed leaves that have never seen sunlight. I slip on fresh loam; my cell phone flies. I scream as my cell phone slips between the thorny canes of the roses, another casualty of the garden of terror. From my prone position I see a miracle.

Basil!

“Grandma! Basil!” I hold the aromatic leaves up for her perusal.

“The mint must have insulated them from the snow this winter.” She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, releasing the scent like a lover’s perfume. “Perfect.”

The next day, as rosy-fingered dawn reaches out to her fleeing love, I roll out of bed and reach for the machete.

My machete. I have a cell phone to save and a legacy to keep. The garden must be tamed.

“Holler if you find a body!” Grandma calls.

I walk out the door.

I carry a machete.

The Game

Andrea stood at the edge of the clearing studying the opposing force. She counted three hundred and seven killerbots loaded with every armament the engineers could think of. They stood there, a lethal wall of AI menace separating her from her goal.

The bushes behind her shook.

With a puzzled expression she watched a man roll into view.

Lasers seared the bush, setting it on fire.

The man stood up and brushed the dirt away. He looked… wholesome.

Andrea tried to find another word. Crazy, maybe, he only had a small destabilizer, no armor, no vanguard of cohorts.

“Hello.” He smiled.

Andrea smiled back. “All alone?”

“No one else could play today. You?”

“Flying solo,” Andrea confirmed.

“Can’t figure out how to get past?” the man asked.

“I can’t figure out how to get past without cheating,” she corrected. “This is only level seven, I’ve gone past a dozen times. But I always cheat.”

“You can’t cheat the game.”

“You can,” Andrea said. “You aren’t supposed to, but you can.”

“How?” He looked over the massed infantry of death in confusion.

She knew what he was thinking. The gate leading to level eight was plain to see. All you had to do was charge in, kill all of the killerbots in your way, and run through the level gate.

“If you’re very fast…” he began.

“No. Just lazy. Watch.” Andrea lifted a small stone; she weighed it in her hand. “Watch.” She threw the rock, arcing it into the center of the killerbots.

As a unit the droids turned and opened fire on each other. Within seconds there was nothing left of the wall of death but the hiss of cooling metal.

“Impossible. It must be a system glitch. They are programmed so they can’t attack each other.”

“They each attack the rock and most of them miss,” Andrea said. “If the rock shatters it gets even better. Then they start shooting at the fragments.”

“And they don’t reset?” Intrigue and respect were written on the man’s face.

“No,” Andrea said. “It really is cheating though. I feel guilty just walking past their charred corpses.”

“Is a melted droid really a corpse?” he asked.

Andrea punched a code into the controller at her wrist and the level reset.

The bushes shook again.

This time an entire band of warriors rushed in, armed to the teeth and yelling.

“You need to go through?” one the adrenaline junkies asked.

Andrea looked at the first stranger; he shook his head. “We just reset the level to try a different tactic, not enough challenge the first time,” she said.

“Mind if we charge through?” one of the heavily-armed men asked.

“Go for it.” Andrea and the wholesome man with the charming smile watched as the band of berserkers rushed the killerbots.

“We could try that,” he suggested.

“They lost two people.”

“Ah, good point, the odds aren’t in our favor.”

“Any suggestions?” Andrea asked as the level reset again.

The man picked up a rock.

They stepped through the level eight gate casually, almost to casually. Andrea had to grab the man by his shirt to keep him from making a fatal mistake.

“Trip wires under the leaves on the path,” she explained.

“Ah,” he looked down at the jungle path in front of them. “How do we avoid the trip wires?”
“See the wood planks outlining the path?”

He looked at the narrow span of wood. “Yes.”

“Stay on that until we hit the clearing.” Andrea balanced easily on the beam and waited for him to follow before she began moving. “The wires trigger the killerbots and skydroids on the other end. If you don’t trigger the wires the ‘bots don’t come out.”

“I thought the rules said you had to stay on the path,” the man said.

“The rules were written by the same people who designed the killerbots. Think about it.”

“Good point. I suppose they aren’t rooting for the gamers.”

“If they are, I’ve never noticed.”

They moved through the artificial jungle, listening to the sounds ahead. A battle raged and fell suddenly silent.

“Do you think the berserkers died?”

“This isn’t a level that charging works on. I’ve seen lots of groups try that and it never works. Level seven is the last one you can survive on just charging. By eight you need tactics.”

“Do you play a lot?” the man asked politely.

Andrea looked at him, weighing her possible responses. “I play when I can but it isn’t often.”

“Do you always come alone?”

“Do you?”

The man laughed. “I’m not trying to pry. I’m harmless. Really. And yes, I usually play alone.”
“But you pick up the odd damsel in distress if you happen on them?”

“Nope. Never met one. Although I don’t mind picking up beautiful women who know how to cheat two levels in a row.”

“Do you meet many?” Andrea asked.

“Nope. But after I met you, who else could I need?”

Andrea snorted. “Nice line. But what you’re going to want is someone who knows how to get past level nine, because I don’t.”

They stepped into an empty clearing with monumental buildings on each side. The doors to the building were closed, locking in the hordes of death.

The level gate loomed ahead of them.

“Suggestions?” the man asked.

“Level nine is dark, pitch black. Outside light sources don’t work. The level gate is to the left but there’s a cliff and a river between you and the gate. I’ve died in each of them. And there’s a couple of killerbots. It never seems like a huge number but there are enough.”

“Maybe we should try splitting up? One go left the other go right?” he suggested.

“Bad plan. There are synergy bombs. If you and your buddy stand on the corresponding demolition plants at the same time everyone in the level dies.”

“Great.” He checked his charge. “So, want to try again if we die?”

Andrea blinked at the thought. “I’ve got to get to work soon.”

“Maybe we can meet up later this weekend. Where are you at?”

“Tetraterren, Alpha Side,” Andrea said. “You?”

“Homely,” he named a planet on the far side of the system.

“Thank goodness for faster than light relays, right?”

“Right.”

“Our best bet is to try not to die,” Andrea said. “Failing that, remember every detail you can so you can map the level when you die.”

“When are you coming to play next?” the man asked.

Andrea shrugged. “I don’t know.” She stepped into the darkness of level nine.

Five minutes later, simulated leg broken, a killerbots honed in on Andrea. She shot out its sensors, trying to buy herself a few more seconds in the game.

Light flashed, a fire flare. “I’ll find you!” the stranger shouted as he died.

The killerbots fired.

Andrea died.

The black and green grid of the ten by ten game room replaced the encircling dark of level nine.
Andrea checked her watch. “Flippers!” Her shuttle for the space station took off in ten minutes.
She raced out the door stripping her game suit as she went. She tossed the controls to the tech outside with a smile and grabbed her raincoat from the hangar.

“Good game?” the tech asked as she pushed herself out the door.

“The best!”

Andrea looked away from her computer screen to finish her sketch. It showed level seven in detail, with one minor new addition, a handsome man crouched and smiling. He looked predator, devilish, intelligent.

“How were the lectures?”

Andrea slammed her notebook closed. She looked up into the round, banal, face of Dave Sumners with a smile.

“The lectures? I enjoyed them very much,” she lied. “I especially enjoyed the series on Intrinsic Energies and Met Forces.”

“I knew you would.” Dave always knew what people liked. “Did you get to listen to Doctor Carores lecture on Forward Math’s?”

“No,” Andrea said regretfully, “that lecture was all sold out.”

“He usually is. I told you to buy the tickets earlier.”

“I know. I was really upset I had to miss his lecture. Everyone was talking about his ideas. I understand his new formula for to replace the Commonplace Theorem is quite revolutionary.”

“He just published a journal article on it, I’m expecting my copy to arrive any day now. Once I’ve read it I’d be happy to lend you my copy.”

“Would you really? That’s so sweet of you, Dave.”

Dave blushed.

Andrea looked at her desk, rolling her eyes. Her computer monitor pinged to get her attention. “Oh!” She looked at Dave with what she hoped was a regret-laced smile. “My equations are done running. I better get back to work. Being away for three days, well, I feel like I’m so behind in everything.”

“I know just how you feel,” Dave said. “I can’t stand vacation myself. All the free time? Ugh. I’d rather be doing something productive.”

Andrea made an appreciative noise. “There just aren’t many men like you anymore, Dave. You’re a rare breed.”

Dave laughed. “Rare breed? Ha! And I’m not even a biologist. Ha! Funny!” He walked away chortling.

Andrea assessed the readout from her computer and sent it to run another set of complicated variables. The number twelve solar array wasn’t getting optimal efficiency and she was trying to find the perfect angle for efficiency. The array would adjust to one one-hundredth of a nanometer, that gave her lots of variables to run, and lots of time to sketch game levels.

The Wasporcist

I'm cheating a little today and posting this story because @lianabrooks and @clareswords were talking about it on Twitter last week, and agreed that it's one of my creepiest stories. A couple of people asked about it, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it for you, because why not. If you're keen, it's actually one of the stories in my anthology To Dust and Other Stories; you can find a blurb over on my website :) 

Amazon | Book Depository | B&N | iBooks | Kobo | Scribd

Anyway. Sans further ado, The Wasporcist.

Today.

My ears won’t stop ringing. It’s been a week now—ever since Halloween, actually. That party was insane. I prob’ly shouldn’t have let that guy pour me a drink, even if he did compliment my outfit.

But anyway, the ringing. Every noise echoes in my left ear with a weird, computerized-voice-over effect. It’s especially bad in a crowd, since the echoes get so loud I can’t understand what anyone is saying.

I went to the doctor today. She says nothing’s wrong. I think she thinks I’m making it up.

Nov 8.

Ear ringing persists. It’s like the electricity in my brain is going mad, buzzing so loud I can hear it.

Will my brain explode, I wonder?

Day after yesterday.

The buzzing is so loud now I have trouble hearing anything else. At least it means I can’t hear things echoing.

First day of the rest of forever, in which I never hear again.

Have determined that my brain has been replaced with a wasp, and it’s mad at being trapped in my pitiful skull, hence continuous buzzing. Must see an insectologist or whatever they’re called to get it out.

Nov 13.

It’s Friday. I should have known that was a bad start. Insectologist, who is apparently actually called an entomologist, tells me that wasps don’t live in people’s heads. I told him I’m always an exception. He told me to call a shrink.

Had shrink. Didn’t work. Besides, I don’t need a shrink, I need a waspinator. I wonder what they’re called. Let me check.

Internet says exterminator. How dull. I vote in favour of waspinator. Let me go call one.

Nov 13, later.

Called. Booked. Didn’t tell the guy where the wasp was; just said ‘up there’ when he asked. Hope he comes prepared.

Another day.

Waspinator should be coming today, wootwoo. I am so SICK of this buzzing. I swear, the thing is driving me insane. Even Josh thinks I’m acting weird, and he’d know, he’s the King of Weird.

Oh, knock at the door. That’ll be the Waspinator. I’ll report back in a minute.

Later.

The guy looked at me like I was mad when I told him the wasp was in my head. “Too right it is,” he said. I think that was a little uncalled for. Still, I made him check, just to be sure. He shone a light in through my ear and said he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Personally, I’m suspicious. I think if I looked in his ear I wouldn’t see anything at all. Ha. Idiot.

But seriously, what am I going to now? Who am I going to call?

…Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters! Dun da-dun dun-dun.

HEY! That’s actually not a bad idea! What if it’s not a wasp? What if it’s, like, a demon who’s just pretending to be a wasp?

That’s so awesome I’m practically bouncing in my seat. Who do you call for demons, again? Exercise-thingies. What are they called? Oh yeah, exorcists. Right.

Snigger. Wasporcists. That’s what I need: a wasporcist. But I doubt that’ll be in the phone book. I supposed I’ll just try for a generic exorcist first.

I’ll let you know how it goes, diary-m’dear.

Even later.

I love coincidence. Got this mad phone call earlier that Josh took. Sounded like it was one of those sales calls, you know? The ones where they try to sell you a trip to Hawaii or insurance for your fish or something? Yeah. Those. But anyway, I was listening, and so I heard when Josh told the guy we didn’t need an exorcist.

I practically snatched the phone out of his hand, I was so excited. I mean, seriously? What are the odds?! So awesome. So anyway, exorcist—his name is Brad—agreed to come out. Says it sounds like it could be a demon. He gets situations like this all the time, he said.

Hmm. I wonder if there’s, like, a conspiracy of demons, all invading people’s heads as wasps? I wonder if Josh has heard buzzing lately?

I just ran out into the hall and asked him. He said he hasn’t. Bummer. No conspiracy after all. Oh well. I guess I’ll just wait for the exorcist.

Nov 20.

Exorcist is coming, exorcist is coming! I’m so excited. I hope he’s cute.

He should be here any minute now—oh, look, see? A knock at the door. I wonder if he knew I was writing about him coming, and that’s why he knocked now? I wonder if he’s been waiting at the door for, like, half an hour, just waiting for me to sit down and start writing so he could knock just as I wrote about—

I’m COMING, Josh. Sheesh. Let a person finish their sentence, will ya?

Urgh, better go before he comes in here and see this. No one’s supposed to know I’m keeping a journal. I’m only doing it ‘cause the shrink last year said I should. Not that I ever have anything interesting to write about.

Well, until the wasp-invading-my-brain thing.

Bloody hell, Josh, COMING. Right. See me go…

Tonight.

OHMIGOSH! The Wasporcist is totally that guy from the party, you know, the random one who poured me a drink? And he’s CUTE.

But yeah, ha, I told you it was a wasp-demon. Brad took one look and agreed. Said it was a pretty potent demon, though, so he’d have to come back a couple of times and have at it in bits—too strong to tackle all at once. Good thing I sold the car, exorcists aren’t cheap.

Mind you, why would they? With the work they have to do? No, thanks. Makes me shudder. I’m more than happy to pay someone else to do the dirty work. Especially if it means this infernal buzzing will stop.

Dec 2.

Sorry I haven’t written in ages, diary-dearest. I’ve been… occupied. Don’t tell Josh, but I think Brad—he’s the exorcist I wrote about last time, remember? —I think he has a crush on me. He’s come over every single day this week, usually while Josh’s at work. He brought me flowers, yesterday. Daisies. My favourite, not that anyone but you knows that.

Josh says he’s creepy. I dunno. He’s pretty cute. And I think the buzzing isn’t as bad when he’s around.

*scowl* Josh still thinks I’m making it all up. Idiot. I bet he wouldn’t even know what colours I like. (Green and purple, for the record.)

Anyway. Bed.

Dec 3.

I don’t have long, I’m going out to dinner in a minute with—oh, better not say, just in case. I’m sure you can guess. We arranged it this morning when he came over. And guess what he brought with him? Earrings, purple and green ones. He’s only known me for two weeks and already he knows more about me than stupid Josh.

Dec 6.

Brad is right. Josh is a dickhead. He’s been totally unsympathetic about this whole wasp-demon head-invasion thing, and keeps on ragging at me for the money missing from our bank account. It’s not like it’s that much; Brad is charging me less than half price, since the demon’s proving so hard to get rid of. And he told me at dinner the other night that he’s barely had any clients this month, and he had to negotiate with his landlord to pay double rent for December because he couldn’t afford to cover November.

…Maybe I should run away. I don’t mind being poor. And I know what it’s like to be so lonely…

But where can we go?

December nine, three nineteen pm. The moment of my momentous decision.

I’m doing it. Tonight. I’m going to sneak out of the house and I’ll meet Brad and he’ll take me away from here, away from all of this nonsense. The healing is almost complete, and he’ll take me away, and then I’ll be totally fixed, and he’ll never be lonely again, and everything will be wonderful.

It’s not like Josh will even care; he’s barely spoken to me since he found me sitting in the corner the other day doodling hearts around Brad’s name.

Okay, so that was a tactical mistake, but seriously, if he wasn’t such a jerk I wouldn’t be thinking of leaving.

No, not thinking, I am leaving. Tonight.

Oh, gosh, it gives me shivers just thinking about it. I’m so excited I can hardly wait! I wonder if Brad will mind if I’m early?

I’m going to go pack now, just in case. Can’t wait can’t wait can’t WAIT!!!!

 * * * 

Josh closed the document, throat burning, chest tight. “Yes,” he told the police officer standing behind him. “That’s her diary.”

“Well, you won’t mind if we take the laptop up to the station as evidence then?”

Josh shook his head. What difference did it make?

The officer gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m truly sorry. But your help—well, it might just make the difference between finding the killer and not.”

Josh nodded. Sure. Let them think he was a hero, if that’s what they wanted. He knew the truth. He’d lost her long before some psycho had torn her body apart in the woods behind the house, and even long before she’d gotten that stupid idea about the wasp in her head.

The psychiatrist had warned him she might never come back. He’d been stupid to hope.

And now his ear wouldn’t stop ringing.

The Perfect Match

Set in the Deep South in a little town where fairy godmothers (and godfathers) go to high school, play football, and sometimes make people fall in love...



Magic rushed up his arm, the wand in his hand glowed for a moment as he focused, and then it all fizzled out. Limp as a wet football game.

Bran shook the wooden stick and tried to figure out what went wrong. The set up was perfect. Ellis Holladay was the ultimate loser. Under appreciated, unnoticed in his new town, and with a ton of potential if he was just aimed in the right direction. Being a fairy godparent for Ellis was almost too easy.

Especially with Tawnya Brickle in the mix. Perfect smile, perfect curves, perfect social situation. She was everything Ellis needed. All the spell was going to do was make Tawnya look at him for long enough for natural attraction and destiny to step in.

Instead it looked like Tawnya was on a head on collision course with the school quarterback. She was going to cruise right on past Ellis instead of turning into the book store and finding him holding the last copy of the book she wanted to buy.

Attraction spells were never this hard in class.

Bran pulled his notebook from his back pocket and looked over the spell components for a Perfect Match spell again. Boy – check. Girl – double check. Mutual Meeting Place – the mall, triple check. All the spell did was bring them together.

He looked around at the early morning shoppers. No one else seemed to be running into waves of destiny and bliss. Maybe it back fired. He bit his lip. Hopefully the spell wouldn’t send Tawnya his way. That could prove awkward.

With a sigh, he turned and headed for the steps for the upper plaza. Maybe he could salvage the spell before lunchtime.

The mall music changed from the standard jogging music oldies to the latest hit single from the band Love Me. Sunlight split a cloud outside and sent a ray of light to illuminate Her.

The perfect Her.

The spell had backfired, a part of his mind screamed. But all the rest of his seventeen year old mind was focused on Her.

Tall, leggy, brown hair surrounding her like an aura of deep gold. Blue jeans, white shirt. Curves.
In the fey worlds where all the woman were ephemeral, dainty blondes she was the ultimate exotic prize. Maybe she would have a mind to match. They could hit the movies, maybe catch a basketball game at the school gym. Maybe she was in college.
The perfect woman moved down the stairs. Her smile snapped to a scowl, and then she moved with a vengeance.
Magic came cascading down around him. His head pounded with the fall out of something gone hideously wrong.

“What are you doing?” Perfect demanded.

Bran looked up, a little surprised she wasn’t yelling at him. He recognized the recipient though, Trisha Ellens, and her older sister Trista pushing her new born son in a stroller.

The Ellens sisters, that explained a lot. Magic happy harpies is what his dad called them. Fairy godmothers who liked the wand just a little too much. Trish was on target to graduate with him. He only knew Trista by reputation, but she was like her sister, times ten.

“We were just making some poor cinderella’s day,” Trisha said. When she shrugged her shoulders sparkles of fairy dust fell around her.

Perfect glared down the mall at Tawnya Brickle. “What were you going to do to her?”

“I was just gift-wrapping the school quarterback. She’ll thank me later.”

“No she won’t! That’s a terrible match up!”

Trisha shrugged again and smiled at her sister.

“It’s meant to be,” Trista said.

“True love,” Trisha added.

“They have nothing in common. He’s a man whore with a new ride every week. Tawnya is headed for college in two years. Why would she throw that away for a guy whose only accomplishment is the ability to catch a ball?”

“Throw a ball,” Trista corrected. “Don’t you ever pay attention?”

“Whatever.” Perfect folded her arms. “Undo it.”

“To late,” Trisha said. “My spells never break. This is true love.”

“Is not.”

“Is now.”

Bran felt the pull of magic. Not the warm wash of the spell he’d done, but the heavy, cloying, almost suffocating blanket of old dark magic welling up. Something bad was going to happen. He leaned against a wall, bracing for a storm, and then it washed away. Everything snapped back.

He opened an eye to see two mothers with strollers watching him.

“I told you, it’s a new dance move,” one said to the other as they walked by.

He ran up the stairs to the balcony and searched the crowd for Ellis, Tawnya, the Ellens sisters, or Perfect.

Ellis was easy to find, he was sitting on a bench engrossed in a book. Tawnya was flirting shamelessly with the quarterback who looked a little bit puzzled at why he was out of bed before noon, but game if there was a pretty girl involved. The Ellens sisters were MIA, but he saw Perfect making a bee-line for Ellis.

No good at all.

Magic got him within five feet of his target, but She was already there.

“Ellis?”

The boy pulled ear phones out and looked at her with a polite “Do I know you?” smile.

“How are you?”

“Good. I didn’t know you hit the mall.”

Ellis knew her? Bran wondered if it was against the fey law to pump a Cinderella for information.
“Eventually, even I have to go shopping.”

“Yeah.” Ellis’s eyes strayed back to the book.

“Good reading?”

“Yeah.”

Not one of the conversational greats. Ellis was officially an idiot.

“You know who else likes that series?” Perfect asked.

“Um?” Ellis’s foot tapped in time to the music he was listening to with one ear.

Perfect gave up and grabbed his arm. “Come on. Hey, Tawnya! Come here real quick.”

Tawnya Brickle turned, a half-scowl on her face. Seeing Perfect, she smiled. “Hey, Tracy.”

Perfect had a name. It didn’t fit her. Bran followed, drifting with the crowd so he could listen.

“Tawnya, this is Ellis.” Tracy held out the book Ellis was trying to read. “You two need to talk.”

“But, hey!” The quarterback made a grab for Tawnya as she started to drift after Ellis.

Tracy swatted his hand back. “You need to go home, shower, clean up, do your science homework, and get your head in gear before you become the biggest has-been since your father. If your grades drop any lower you won’t be playing next year. Remember?”

“Um…” He chuckled. “Hey, Trace. How’s it going?”

She really was tall, Bran realized. Tracy was glaring down at the football player. Without heels. That meant she was at least six foot tall, either that or the quarterback lied about his height. Maybe both.

“I don’t suppose you want to help me with my homework, do you?” he was asking.

Tracy shook her head. “Hard work never killed anyone.”

“But it might.”

“Nice try. Get going.”

The quarterback shook it off and wandered away, probably headed home, but at least not chasing Tawnya.

“See?” Tracy demanded of no one in particular.

Glitter filled the air, the mortals stilled, and the Ellens sisters reappeared.

“No magic,” Tracy said. “Very little effort. Work. It’s amazing how often standing up and doing something actually works. So much better than magic.”

“Why you little-“ Trisha cut her sentence off with a squeak.

Trista materialized a wand out of the flurry of magic holding time hostage. “Ungrateful little girl! That was my best true love spell! Now you’ll-“

“What?” Tracy demanded. “See the light? Learn my lesson?” She grabbed the wand. “I don’t think so.”

The wand burst into flames, and the magic cracked. Actually froze around him and shattered. Blasting through the fey minds at the mall and probably for a good few miles out. He wasn’t sure. By the time Bran woke up he was at home and the sun was setting.

It didn’t matter. He thought he’d lost Tracy Perfect but all he had to do was look. She was at school on Monday, wearing a white t-shirt with the rest of the freshmen. Fourteen years old, magic hating, Tracy Ellens. Her sister Trista gave her a ride and stomped past her in the hall.

Maybe it wasn’t a perfect match after all.