Alan Goodspeed is an ordinary teenage boy with all the hopes and dreams of any other teenage boy. Except for when he was a teenage girl. And then there was the whole pixie parenthood thing. That's fairly normal... right?

 

Fair warning, this is Chapter 1 in a series that I've not finished yet, though Chapter 2 is 5,000 words into it. That being said, for those who do decide to proceed, it's all plotted and I do intend to finish this, even if it is at the normal Jemima pace of things and will be woven around producing chapters of 'We are Family'. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this first chapter! *big hugs*

Chapter 1

I was a man with a plan or I guess more accurately a boy with a ploy.

It was a meticulously laid out plan that even had a colour coded wall chart setting out each objective. I would study hard and party lite. When I wasn't studying I'd be cramming in as many extra hours of paid work and chores as possible to earn money for my savings account. And in roughly fifteen months time at the end of the next academic year, grades permitting, I'd be off to pursue my dreams at the university of my choice, or second choice, or third choice, or whatever institution I could get into through 'Clearing' depending on how good or bad my grades were. Regardless of which university I ended up attending, although my preference was for one a considerable distance away, I'd be living my dream and enjoying three years of freedom to live my own life away from the pull of the Family business.

I had a plan. A perfect plan. What could go wrong?

As it turned out, a lot of things.

My ordered, planned life had descended into a life of weirdness and calamity during the previous summer. Despite all of that I was just about hanging onto my goals, flexing the plan as needed on the hoof and it was mostly working until today. As I sat in the Headmasters office, soaked to my skin in what I really hoped was water and covered in masonry dust and little bits of ceramic, I saw the plan finally slip from my grasp.

"So let me get just summarise your story Mr Goodspeed to make sure I've got it down correctly... the explosion in the second floor boys’ toilets wasn’t caused by you. This is despite the fact that Mr McCormack entered the toilet only seconds after hearing the explosion and found no one else there other than you. Is that an accurate summary of your statement?"

The combination of his bushy eyebrows, his roman nose and the look of disapproval on his face oddly reminded me of Sam the American Eagle and I had to work hard to suppress a nervous giggle. I cleared my throat before speaking, edging backwards in my chair in response to the questioning gaze of the Headmaster as he peered at me over the edge of his half moon reading glasses.

"Yes sir."

"It may interest you to know Mr Goodspeed that several thousand pounds worth of damage was caused by the said act of vandalism and I have been forced to call in the Police to investigate the matter. As I'm sure you are aware from the never ending stream of procedural police dramas on television, the police have very good forensics teams these days and take a very dim view on homemade explosive makers in this post 7/7 world. So, I would like you to take a moment to consider very carefully your answer to the next question that I ask you..."

"Yes sir?"

"Do you know who caused the explosion in the second floor boys’ lavatory?"

The vow I'd made to my mother echoed in my mind - 'I will speak no lies'. I know what you're thinking, a teenager who keeps his promises in a tight spot is a fairly rare thing but we take promises very seriously in the Family. Very seriously. And there were consequences if you broke a promise to a member of the Family. Consequences I wasn't in a hurry to experience.

I'd been made to make that vow to my mother after the most recent act of weirdness predating this one that blighted my life. Then, just as now, I'd been found at the 'scene of the crime' and I'd avoided telling a truth which would more than likely have had me sent to a place where the sleeves on the jackets lace up behind you. Instead I'd gone with a much more plausible story that falsely implicated another student. This left me to catch the lesser charge of doing nothing to stop him, which only resulted in a few days detention through collateral guilt. To be fair, my patsy was no saint and many a bullied kid had breathed a sigh of relief when he was expelled. As a consequence I only felt a little bit bad about framing him. I mean, he'd done a ton of stuff he should have been expelled for and wasn't, so really this was just him reaping his karma right? I was really just returning balance to the universe I told myself. Situational ethics are only bad if the outcome is bad right?

However, my mother didn't see it that way and there had been threats of sending me off against my will to my siblings’ boarding school which I only managed to dodge through my vow to tell no lies. My brother and sister might like it at boarding school but I'd seen the syllabus and there was no way it met my academic needs or did anything other than prepare me for a life in the Family business, which I wasn't going to join. Uh huh. No way Jose. Heck, no way Jack, Jeffrey or Jeremy either.

So there was my dilemma, my Catch-22 as it were. My options were to:

(a) Tell a lie that would get me in serious trouble with my mother likely leading to being sent to my siblings boarding school but would smooth things over with the headmaster; or

(b) Tell the truth which would keep the vow I’d made to my mother but would mostly likely end with my being sent for psychiatric evaluation or expelled on the spot as a liar.

I was damned whichever of the two options I choose. I'd completely discounted the third option of saying nothing because this is school, not a court of law. There is no right to remain silent and indeed nothing ticks off a teacher more than the silent treatment. Silence equals guilt in the blackboard jungle.

Ludicrous unbelievable truth or perfectly plausible lie. Pick one. Tick, tock... tick, tock... buzzzzzz! Thank you for playing and your answer is to the million dollar question is... I’d like to take option (b) please. My mother scares the crap out of me.

"Ummmm... could it have been pixies sir?"

"I'm glad you saw sen... what? What exactly do you mean by 'pixies' Mr Goodspeed?" he asked leaning forward.

"Pixies sir."

"As in the small blue mythological creatures from Cornwall, Mr Goodspeed?"

"Yes sir. Cornwall sir. Sort of Bluish fur sir. Not mythological in the sense that you mean sir."

Removing his glasses, the Principal rubbed his eyes briefly before looking back at me.

"Pixies... I'll give you your due and admit that it's the first time in my twenty years here as Headmaster I've heard that excuse... You're sure you wish to stick with that story Mr Goodspeed?"

"It's not a story sir. It's the truth sir."

I nervously ran my fingers through my hair, never more grateful for dad's insistence that it be kept short than now given how wet it was. The absence of cold wet hair against the back of my neck was about the only good thing going for me right now.

"Fine," he said putting his glasses back on. "I'll be sure to remind the police to round up members of the local pixie community for questioning."

I desperately resisted the urge to point out the inherent unfairness of his last statement. Just because some pixies blew up the toilets doesn't mean all pixies were guilty. I'd have thought the sort of educated man who read The Guardian would have been against 'species profiling'.

"However, until such time as the pixie or pixies behind this come forward to assist the police with their enquiries I will be suspending you for a period of three weeks. At the end of which a meeting will be held with your parents to discuss what future, if any, that you have with this institution. I must confess to be very disappointed in you Mr Goodspeed. Your excellent GCSE grades and enthusiasm for sports had led us to have high expectations for you. This incident may well end up significantly limiting the university offers you receive in the next academic year. I wonder if you bothered to think about that 'eh? Frankly, I don't know what happened to you during the summer holiday but since you returned you have been nothing but a magnet for trouble Mr Goodspeed."

"But sir..."

"No 'but sirs' Mr Goodspeed," he interrupted, handing me a piece of paper. "Please take this note to Miss Bradbury. She will contact your parents and make the necessary arrangements for them to come collect you. I would also expect a visit from the local constabulary in the near future Mr Goodspeed and you may wish to consider changing your story from 'pixies'."

"Yes sir..."

His gaze softened slightly as I took the paper from him.

"I'm very disappointed in you Alan," he said with a sigh. "I hope you take this opportunity to reflect on where your life is going and find a way of turning this around. If this is about problems at home or you need someone to talk too, Mrs Fitzwilliam's a trained counsellor and even on suspension she will meet with you if you ask. Either way, if you are still with us after Easter, I hope you can knuckle down and get back on track to achieving the sorts of grades we expected from you in your 'A' Levels."

"Yes sir, I would like that too sir."

"You are dismissed Mr Goodspeed. I will see you and your parents in three weeks," said the Headmaster, his expression hardening as he rose to his feet. "I should warn you though, if you are found to be guilty of causing the damage to the toilets, you will more than likely be expelled."

"Yes sir."
 

~o~O~o~
 
Closing the Headmasters door, I made the short trudge of the condemned to the secretary's desk dropping the piece of paper off with her before bonelessly flopping in one of the nearby chairs lining the walls of the anteroom. Burying my head in my hands I tried to think how I was going to explain this to my parents.

"Alan, I've already called your mother and she will be here shortly," said Miss Bradbury, leaving her desk to take the seat next to mine.

Well that solved that one. No trial, straight to execution. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to stop at McDonald’s for a last meal?

“It’ll be alright Alan,” said Miss Bradbury quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Despite the fact she was only in her early thirties, Miss Bradbury had a easy going charm and elegance to her that reminded me of old style Hollywood stars and I was the envy of most of the boys, and some of the girls, in school whenever she stopped to speak to me in the halls. She was actually a close family friend who I'd known since, well forever. She'd baby sat for me when she was a teenager. It was difficult to keep secrets from a woman who had changed your nappies and had been a childhood confessor and substitute mother. I remembered being devastated when she'd moved away after university and later got married. I was quietly elated when she returned to live amongst the Family again six months ago following her divorce. It was a source of great pride that she would ask me to babysit her young kids now and then and I hoped that her kids might regard their time with me as fondly as I did my time with their mother.

"Dawn... I didn't do it you know," I whispered, unsuccessfully trying to fight back the tears behind my hands.

"I know sweetie," she said, her tone softening to become almost maternal and she rubbed my back. "But if you can't control them it does amount to the same thing..."

"It's not my fault! I'm not even old enough to vote for a nearly another year and yet I'm expected to be responsible for a litter of pixies? How is that fair?" I asked sparing her with a plaintive look.

"Well, if you didn't want the responsibility..."

"I was PUSHED!! PUSHED into the nest!! By my bastard of a younger brother."

"There's no need for that sort of language young man."

"Sorry," I replied, blushing a little at the rebuke.

"Well either way, you imprinted on them and vice-versa. On the plus side, they are sort of cute."

I snorted at that, burying my face back in my hands.

"It could have been worse. I attended the Institute with a girl who had accidentally bonded with a litter of gremlins," she giggled, the sound reminding me of a young Doris Day. "The number of times we'd come back to our dorm rooms to find they'd dismantled all the furniture on a whim was frustrating. I shouldn't laugh but I remember once in class they'd removed every screw from the chair and desk of this boy who'd been trying to chat her up for weeks and wouldn't take no for an answer. As you can imagine when he sat down..."

I couldn't help but smile a little as I imagined the scene. Wiping my eyes, I looked around the room for the cause of my problems.

"Where are they?"

"Oh, it was so cute! They were working on an apology. At least, I think that was what they were trying to say."

Yeah, pixies are real if you hadn't guessed. Seriously, I'm not making it up. They were about the same size as a small cuddly toy, maybe fifteen or so centimetres tall, and covered in soft light blue fur. At least they were now, I was told they would eventually get a bit bigger and more human looking. Right now though they were more a cross between a 'Gizmo' and 'Stitch' than 'Tinkerbelle', with disproportionately large saucer shaped eyes, large sort of mouse-like blue ears, cat like teeth and completely covered in fur all over, yet they still somehow managed to convey cute in an anthropomorphic way. Unfortunately or fortunately, I'm never sure which, most people could not or would not perceive them. You needed either a seriously open mind, or to be in possession of the Talent, to be able to see a creature of The Golden Court. Do you ever see the hint of movement just out of sight that when you turn to see, there is nothing there? That's probably a pixie. Or a sprite. Or a peri. Or a faerie. Or... well you get the picture.

For those of us who can see them though, communicating with them is a whole other problem. They have at best a rudimentary form of spoken language although to human ears nearly every word sounds the same. They can speak a little English but what they do speak is mostly mimicked from something they've heard or seen and repeated back when they think it's germane. I guess their poor language skills are because their primary method of communication is a form of telepathic empathy. I'm not a telepath though so I can't really control what I think and therefore by default unintentionally broadcast random feelings and thoughts to them. I can however mostly understand the emotions they broadcast to me.

What makes it even worse is that pixies have no concept of the abstract and neither do they understand the concept of lying. As a result they can't distinguish between fiction and reality. After all fiction, aka pretending, is basically organised lying. If this was a movie trailer, this would be the moment where a forced jovial voiceover would chuckle "resulting in hilarious misunderstandings". For the record, when it happens to me I generally don't find the misunderstandings hilarious.

"Girls are you ready?" called out Dawn looking towards her desk.

Oh yeah, that's the other thing. Pixies are always girls. Always. Don't ask me why and don't ask me about the pixie version of the birds and the bees because that's their business. All you need remember is pixies are girls and that's important for reasons that are about to become clear.

"Tikka! Tikky tikka tikka tikka!" sang out a soft lyrical voice from behind the desk.

A gentle fluttering sound announced the presence of the pixies and I looked over to Dawn's desk to see 'Sonnet' and 'Pell' rising from behind it on their gossamer like wings, unfurling a banner made from what looked like school headed paper. In cut out newspaper letters stuck on it were the words "sorrey momma".

I brushed my long wet hair out of my face as I felt a brief tingling sweep over me and slid my feet out of my now slightly too large shoes. I was also very glad that a jumper was part of the school uniform given how my wet clothes were sticking to the new curves of my body. A wet shirt on its own would do little to cover my modesty right now.

"I know you are," I sighed. "It's okay, you're forgiven. You can come out now."

Even after just over six months I still couldn't quite recognise my 'new' voice. Holding out my hands, I was quickly surrounded by a small litter of pixies. To be precise the small litter of pixies I imprinted on, which from their point of view makes them my children. In accordance with what passes for pixie logic, if they are all female and I'm their parent then I must also be female. Evidently for magical beings my biology is childishly simple to correct, something that my bastard of a brother thought was hilarious. So every time I interact with them on anything approaching a mother - child basis, and being contrite for misbehaving obviously felt like a parental rebuke to them, I undergo a forced crossing of the gender divide.

"That is soooo cute," cooed Dawn as they enveloped me in fourteen tiny hugs. "They really do love you."

"Yeah..."

And heaven help me I loved them too at moments like this. It's hard not to when fourteen tiny empaths are broadcasting their completely unquestioning love for you. I gently lifted Sonnet up in the palm of my hand so that I could look her in the eyes. She was surprisingly light even given her small size.

"Let's go out front and find grandma," I said, trying to hide the feeling of impending doom. Running a finger across the top of her furry little head I listened to her soothing purr in response. I found myself cooing softly as she nuzzled against my finger tip.

"Don't worry about the police," said Dawn as she picked up my now slightly too large shoes. "The Family will take care of that."

"Yuh-huh," I scoffed. "Good luck with that. They totalled an entire boys lavatory. I can't see how the Family can make that go away. Are they going to pretend it's the 1950's and blame it on a weather balloon?"

"Something like th--"

"Miss Bradbury," called the Headmaster, interrupting our conversation as he stepped out of his office. "I'd like you to..."

He stopped taking in the sight of a bedraggled teenage girl dripping onto the carpet for a second.

"And you are?" he asked, canting his head slightly.

"The explosion in the boys’ toilets caused a problem in the girls’ toilets Headmaster," said Dawn, gently pushing me towards the door. "I was just taking her to change into her PE kit while her parents brought her some dry clothes in."

"I know every one of my students Miss Bradbury and I don't know this one," replied the Headmaster advancing towards me with an increasingly stern visage. "This student who seems to have an uncanny familial resemblance to Mr Goodspeed and is wearing a boy’s uniform for some reason. Are you a co-conspirator perhaps? Hmmm?"

Yeah, we're that sort of school where the girl’s uniform is different from the boy’s. Before I could respond however 'Sunflower' swooped up in front of him and literally puffed herself up to look bigger like a cartoon puffer fish, raising her hands above her head and roaring at him. In hindsight letting them watch Monsters Inc. was probably a bad idea not least because very few people could actually see her which made her even more frustrated and angry.

"Aaaargh!" shouted the Headmaster, physically recoiling from the pixie.

O.M.G... he can see her. "Oh shi--"

Miss Bradbury stepped forward, pointing her left hand towards the Headmaster.

"Befuddle!" she exclaimed, the large sapphire blue ring on her finger flashed as she said it. Although when she said it it sounded less like 'befuddle' and more like 'be-food-e-ly'. "Vos Obtemperare!"

I noticed her ring flash once again, although this time a similar sapphire colour washed over the Headmaster in synch with it. Magick - with a 'k' - spells are cast using Latin because the first recorded Families date from ancient Rome and they wrote the first spell books. It wasn't actually necessary to use Latin but it was the magical equivalent of learning your ABC's so all those with the Craft cast in Latin. It was the same with the ‘ring’ or the ‘wand’ that warlocks used (nothing phallic about that right?). Magick needed a focus to be channelled through and while in theory this could be something as simple as a plastic rubber ducky, over time witches and warlocks had become so indoctrinated into using rings or wands that their perceptions prevented them from using anything else.

Oh, and for those like me whose Latin was pretty no existent, 'vos obtemperare' was an instruction for the Headmaster to obey her.

"You will return to your office and take a short nap. When you awake you will have forgotten everything that you have seen here."

In reply the Headmaster yawned and like an automaton stiffly turned and returned to his office. We both cringed as we heard him fall heavily to the ground shortly after closing his door.

"In hindsight I should probably have been more specific about where he was to take a nap," she said, tiredly rubbing her forehead.

"Ya think?"

"Less of the backchat young lady... Huh, I'd never have thought he would have had an open enough mind to have seen the girls."

I bristled a little at the young lady comment before my anger deflated when I remembered how I appeared to others at the moment.

Oh yeah. I should probably have mentioned this before but the Family business is magick. With a 'k', not that stage illusion crap. Dad's a warlock. Mom's a witch. In fact, about a good third or more of the people living in Ackholt are either witches or warlocks themselves or the mundane related by marriage to one. Collectively, we make up what is known as 'The Family'.

"Are you going to get into trouble for using the Craft on the Headmaster?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

In reply she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I'll have to report the destruction of school property and the pixie incident just now that's for certain."

"I guess you'll probably be okay. Dad's Chairman of the Family Council after all and mum and a couple of my aunts also sit on it, so you'll have friends."

"Of course it's not just me that will be before the Family Council, Alan..."

"Oh that's going to be just... peachy," I groaned. "The one group of people I'm not going to get a fair hearing out of are my blood kin! I'm an embarrassment to them. The black sheep. The first member of the House of Goodspeed to turn his back on the Craft in ten generations. I'll be lucky if they don't throw the grimoire at me. Destruction of property involving the Craft in a public setting and allowing a normal person to see the existence of mythological creatures under my care are serious matters to them."

"There are thirteen people on the Family Council and you're only related to four of them."

"Like the other nine are any fonder of me. Beside it would need to be a lot more people than that if you think it's going to stop mum making a scene."

"If you offered to try to learn some of the basics of the Craft it might appease them a little and who knows you might find you like it? You really are turning your back on so much."

"Yeah, I'm missing centuries of persecution from the mundane majority, abuses of the Craft and blood feuds between the great Covens... oh I'm sorry, 'the great Houses' because we never miss an opportunity to sound like pretentious arses. I'm sooooo going to miss that," I mocked. "No way. I'm turning eighteen next year and then I'm off to university. I'm getting free of the grip of the Family and the Craft. Assuming they will let me..."

"Why wouldn't they? A lot of us leave to get an education. I've never known the Family to force anyone to stay. The only grounds I could think of would be in the case of those whose use of the Craft makes them a danger to others," said Dawn, her face creased in confusion. "I moved away after university after all."

"Yes, but you never broke your ties with the Family or the Craft and you moved back when you got divorced."

"Which was my choice."

"Of course it was. I'm sure no one ever tried to sell the benefits of moving back to Ackholt and living amongst the warmth and support of the Family again. No one ever talked about being with others who practice the Craft or how the Family would help you find a job, assist with childcare arrangements and always be there for you..."

"No. It's a good thing. A generous thing. When you twist it like that, it sounds... almost Machiavellian..."

"Just when I thought I was out..." I snarked in my best Pacino impression.

"That doesn't sound the same when you do it as a girl," giggled Dawn.

"Yeah, I know," I said with a sigh. Again. It's been a real morning for sighing. "I'm serious though. Don't take everything the Family does unquestioningly. The great Houses rule with absolute power in the affairs of the Craft and we know what people say about absolute power..."

"I always thought you weren't as stupid as you looked," said Dawn, smiling as she reached out to ruffle the top of my head. "And it's been a few years since I could do that to you without getting arm strain. How tall are you now?"

"5 foot 7 inches in my bare feet," I replied. "I really liked being 6' 4".

The school basketball team kind of liked it as well.

"Well that explains why your hands have disappeared under those sleeves..."

"Ta da!" I laughed, waving my newly revealed fingers as I bunched my long wet sleeves up at the elbows.

"So... if you leave the Family what happens about the girls?" asked Dawn, her face becoming more serious.

My expression softened as I looked at my pixie companions fluttering around the room.

"As I understand it, this is a life bond that only ends with the death of them or me. I'm told that they draw on my magical Talent for part of their sustenance. It's one of the reasons they were able to bond with me in the first place after all, so I know I can provide for them. Other than that they mainly eat cat food and Lion Bars, so whether I'm a member of the Family or not they'll be fine as long as I'm within easy access of a Tesco's."

Dawn laughed before reaching to affectionately mess with my hair again.

"You always were different even as a small child," she said, smiling at me. "Knowing you and how determined you can be, I'm sure you will get to live your dreams even if I can't say that I understand why you would want to turn your back on something that has been a great source of comfort to me in my life."

"Thanks," I replied, my voice hitching a little with emotion that this woman who I admired so much would have such faith in me even if she didn't understand why I was doing it. "You know you are just about the only member of the Family who doesn't look upon me as some sort of freak."

"Let's get your stuff and then wait out front until your mother gets here."

She waved off my attempt to hug her, grimacing at how wet I was.

"This is a clean wet right?" she asked, looking at her wet hand from where she had touched my hair.

"I hope so. I really do hope so," I sighed pulling a small piece of blue urinal cake from my hair. "But given the way my day has been..."

"I'll get some wet wipes," she replied, pulling a face as she held her hand out away from her. "You wait out front."
 

~o~O~o~
 
"She's here," said Dawn, pointing to the black people carrier as it pulled into the school visitor car park. "I'd better get back and check on the Headmaster."

"Thanks Dawn. I really mean it. I've never been able to talk to anyone in the Family before about this. Most of the 'discussions' I have with my parents end up in screaming matches."

"No problem," she giggled. "And thanks for the flowers."

"Flowers?"

Dawn moved slightly to reveal one of my pixies hovering beside her with a collection of freshly picked flowers in its arms.

"Lysithea!" I hissed. "Tell me you didn't just pick those from the flower beds in front of the school!"

"Tikka?"

"Well I think it's sweet that you wanted to give me flowers," said Dawn, smiling as she accepted the offering. "See you around Alan."

*sigh* Uncontrolled 24/7 broadcast empathy.

"Bye, Dawn."

I waved farewell to Dawn as she passed through the doors back into the school and braced myself for what was to come. Staring at the car, I briefly contemplated running away and joining the navy. A life of swashbuckling adventure on the high seas with a girl in every port sounded quite exciting in theory, though knowing my luck the girl in every port would be me.

"Alan! I'm not waiting here all day for you!" shouted my mother from the car, shaking me out of my daydream of freedom.

"Tikka! Grandma! Tikka!" called out Sonnet, swooping around my head and then off towards the car closely followed by the others.

"Yeah... tikka grandma tikka," I snarked, picking up my backpack and following them.

"In the back on the plastic," ordered my mother with a scowl. "And make sure you keep your little familiars with you. I don't want them playing with the climate controls again."

"Yes mother."

Her dark haired bob flicked as she quickly turned her head away, underlining how angry she was with me. Opening the door I slid onto the plastic, which turned out to be some hastily ripped dustbin black bags, and I gestured to my litter to follow me.

"And make sure they stay down out of sight will you. You're in enough trouble as it is young lady."

"Sit down please girls," I instructed, trying to mentally project an image of them sitting down on the back seat of the car. I couldn't help but smile as I watched Sonnet shoo some of the stragglers onto the back seat. She'd always been a little bossy and had sort of become the de facto leader of the group.

"I trust you'll keep them there until we get home?" asked my mother as she pulled out of the school car park.

"I'm sure between Sonnet and me we can keep them in order mum."

"Sonnet? Which one is that?"

"Fourteen mum. She's number fourteen."

"Well if you had kept the little collars with the numbered tags on them I'd be able to tell them apart."

"The fur patterns are slightly different on each of them mother, you just have to make the effort to learn them. Anyway, they don't like the collars. It makes them feel like pets."

"That's part of the problem right there," said my mother shaking her head. "If you give them names without the binding ritual it just encourages them to act up. It makes the relationship one of equals. It's a basic rule of the Craft. Names convey power and if you actually took an interest in your heritage then you'd understand that. I mean, what sort of name is Sonnet anyway?"

"There are fourteen lines in a Sonnet. They all have names that are in some way linked to the numbers you insisted on giving them."

And you wouldn't believe how difficult it was to come up with interesting names linked to fourteen numbers.

"Alan," snapped my mother. "You needed to be able to control them, directing them to individual tasks as required. They are tools. Your life might even depend on it one day. That's why I suggested the numbers. It's the main reason why those of us who do have proper familiars try to keep the relationship to that of mistress and servant."

"I never really thought of Moondust as a familiar," I murmured in a small voice. "She was just the family cat."

"And that was cute when you were a small child but as an adult you must see them for what they really are. They are your protectors when you can no longer protect yourself and conduits through which additional magical energy can be conjured to augment your own. Pure magic, that is magic harnessed through the old races like pixies, is far more powerful and unpredictable than that tamed by humans through the Craft. Properly controlled and bound to your will their magic would make you a very formidable opponent. You know all this."

"Bound to my will, mother. Bound. I would be taking away part of their free will in exchange."

"You are being melodramatic. Again. It's not enslavement, it's housetraining. Taming. They would not suffer any more than working animals do. A familiar is also a responsibility for the master or mistress and in return for your mastery over them you would be expected to care for them."

"Well it's a shame it is too late for that then isn't it?" I replied, a sly smile playing at the corner of my lips. "If only you could have found them when the bond was still fresh enough for a binding ceremony..."

"You know very well why we couldn't find them," said my mother, sparing me a withering glance in the rear view mirror. "Don't think I didn't notice that they mysteriously vanished for that entire first moon."

Actually, they'd gone no further than my sock draw but I'd managed to convey the need for them to hide themselves from the rest of my family through a series of drawings and a slightly awkward game of charades that wasn't helped by the fact neither of us spoke the others language. The signal for 'sounds like' in charades is no use if in one players language 'ride' and 'hide' don't rhyme.

"Well, what's done is done..." I tried hard not to look smug as I said it.

My mother let out a disgusted snort in reply and turned her attention to the road. I gently tickled 'Canada' on her tummy where she lay next to me. I felt a genuine smile form as she alternately squirmed and purred next to me.

"You will be appearing before the full Family Council at 7.30pm tonight to explain yourself," said my mother after a few minutes of uncomfortably loud and pointed silence. "I expect you to be dressed appropriately."

"Muuuuuuum, the cloak is so hot and heavy," I whined.

"Fine. If that's how you want to be then I will lend you a smart dress instead."

I could see my mother's raised eyebrow in the mirror daring me to call her bluff.

"Errr... On second thought, the cloak is fine."

"Good. Then that's decided," said my mother, rather too smugly for my liking. "Make sure you find your father or I before we leave tonight if you are still a girl and we will change you back. We don't want a repeat of what happened with the neighbours do we?"

"No mother," I said, blushing slightly at the memory of that incident.

I'd been not long after my transformations started and I was sorting the recycling, which was one of my punishments... sorry chores... for staying home from the Institute. My regular recycling buddy was old Mrs Gentry from next door who I helped out now and then with some of her sorting when her arthritis was playing up. We had struck up a firm friendship even if it was mostly that sort of stereotypically English way where you say a lot about nothing. I'd continued a conversation we had been having the previous day and was half-way through telling her about my winning try for the school rugby team when I realised I'd forgotten that I didn't look like Alan at that moment. Luckily, mum had spotted the whole thing and come out to 'introduce' me as my cousin Alannah visiting for the weekend.

I'm not sure what Mrs Gentry made of it, I think she suspected that I was one of those ladettes she read about in the Daily Mail but regardless she clearly never suspected the involvement of the Craft and that was all that mattered. Revealing the existence of the Craft to a non-Family member was a serious matter and as long as she never suspected that I was a magically transformed Alan, I was still golden with the Family Council. Or at least silvery or bronzy given my black sheep status. However, ever since then mum kept insisting on reminding me about how careless I was whenever she wanted to put me in my place. Was it any wonder I couldn't wait to leave home at the end of the next academic year?

Maybe I wouldn't wait that long. I could runaway and join the circus right now. I could visualise my act - the Amazing Alannah, Queen of the Pixies. Not that the majority of my audience would be able to see the pixies thinking about it but then flea circuses in the 19th Century didn't seem to stop the public turning up to watch something they couldn't see and at least my pixies could genuinely ride a bicycle.
 

~o~O~o~
 
I let out a growl of frustration as I struggled with the knot of my tie. Normally, I wore my tie in that simple school boy style used the world over but for official House Goodspeed matters I was required to wear the House tie in a Double Windsor knot. Normally I'd ask my mother to tie it for me as I had deliberately never bothered to learn the knot as another sign of my rejection of the Family. Tonight though I was determined not to go begging for her help again after having to ask her to turn me back to Alan earlier in the afternoon. It was tempting to learn how to use the Craft just to change my gender back on my own but I knew that even learning the one thing would mark the slippery slope into a life I was trying to escape. With a resigned sigh, I flopped down on my bed and dropped the pictorial guide to tying the Double Windsor that I'd printed off from the web. I'd been trying unsuccessfully for fifteen minutes to get it right with no luck. I was so fu--

"Alan? Do you need any help?" called my mother through my bedroom door. I swear that woman was psychic sometimes and I could hear the hint of smugness in her voice. She knew I couldn't tie my own knot properly and wanted me to go cap in hand for her help.

"I'm fine mum!" I yelled, unable to stop an edge of teenage petulance creeping into my voice.

"There's no need to take that tone with me young man. Your father asked me to check you were ready as we're leaving in five minutes."

"I'll be down in a minute."

"We'll be expecting you. You know your father has to be there early as the Chairman of the Family Council."

As I heard her footsteps receding down the stairs I let out another squeal of frustration. Looking across my bedroom to the tailors dummy with the long royal blue hooded cloak hanging from it. I knew there was no way I'd get away with hiding a normal knot. The clasp holding the two sides of the cloak together was designed to show the area around the base of the neck. I was sooooo screwed.

A fluttering noise from beside the bed drew my attention, and I turned to see Sonnet hovering next to me with a broad smile on her face.

"Momma?"

I felt my body tingle as she spoke and I shifted a little uncomfortably as my body changed.

"Yes baby girl?" I asked, cringing slightly when I realised what I had said.

The flow of love through our empathic connection washed away much of my tension but also resulted in my lapsing into more maternal mode. One of the Family Elders had suggested that this was a self-defence mechanism in the bonding to ensure that I would not harm my newly acquired offspring. To be honest at moments like this I didn't care, the warmth and strength of the feeling of the love I received from my litter was almost giddying.

"Tikka! Hay-ulp Momma! Tikka!"

"How can you hay-ulp? I mean help," I asked, sitting up slightly.

"We can do it, we can do it! We can help our Momma!" she sang, tugging at one of my hands. "We can make her dress so pretty."

"I'm cutting back the amount of Disney Channel time you guys get," I laughed, letting her pull me to my feet. Around me other members of the litter buzzed.

"There's nothing to it really, we'll tie a sash around it," sang out Sunflower and Canada grasping opposite ends of my tie. To my side I noticed Pell holding up the instructions for the knot that I'd dropped which Sonnet proceeded to demonstrate like some imaginary Tie Airways stewardess going through the in-flight safety demonstration.

"Put a ribbon through it," sang Sunflower and Canada, checking periodically back with Sonnet as they worked. To my amazement the two pixies, swooped and looped around each other tying a perfect knot.

"Yessssss!" I exclaimed, clenching a fist in victory.

"When dancing at the ball, Momma will be more beautiful than all, in the lovely dress we'll make for Momma!" chorused the remaining members of the litter as they lifted my robe off the dummy and lightly draped it across my shoulders. Sonnet zipped back and forth directing minor adjustments to the positioning of the cloaks oversized hood which was currently draped over my shoulders and down my back. Once satisfied she signalled for the clasp at the front to be closed in position, locking with a delicate 'click'.

"Perfect," I beamed at my reflection in the mirror. Well perfect apart from the fact my trousers pooled around my ankles and my sleeves ended well past my hands due to the loss of 9 inches in height as a result of my transformation. The tie and cloak however were both perfectly positioned though. "Thank you all so much for your help."

I received a flurry of small kisses on my cheek in response before the litter flew back their converted cat basket bed.

I wiped a small happy tear from my eye. "Damn empathic connection."

"Tikka! Momma! Prit-ty!" sang Sonnet as she landed on my shoulder.

I turned slightly to look at myself in the wardrobe door mirror, my long wavy fair hair framed my heart shaped face with its high cheek bones. If I had to say so myself my eyes were my best feature, a beautiful hazel colour with long thick lashes that were underlined by a smattering of freckles. I had my mother's nose, which I had to say wasn't her best feature and my lips were a little narrower than I normally liked in a girl. I wasn't beautiful but I wasn't plain either.

"Pretty? Maybe..." I said, a smile on my face as I bit my lip slightly and flirted with my reflection. Was I pretty? I wasn't a 10 or a 9 but I was definitely a 7... in the right light, maybe an 8? I could live with that.

I could... what? Where the hell did that thought come from? Okay, I'll admit I was quite used to the gender change after over half a year of flipping and I wasn't freaked out by it anymore but I never embraced it. I'd clung desperately to the belief that I was the same regardless of the packaging and made no attempt to make any gender related adjustments. I wonder if it could be the empathic connection making me feel like this?

"Sonnet, sweetie, I need to turn back to Alan again."

"Tikka?"

"Alan. I need to look like Alan again," I said, carefully scooping her into my hand. I pointed to a picture stuck to the side of my mirror taken last year during our annual family holiday. "I need to look like that."

"Tikka?"

"Me," I said pointing to myself. "Look like that." I pointed to the picture of my male self.

"Tikka!"

A feeling like goosebumps surged across my skin and I watched with tears of joy as my reflection morphed from my girl form back to my normal male form.

"Finally! I got you to under--" I clamped my free hand over my mouth at the sound of my female voice.

"Tikka?" asked Sonnet, who with a push rose from my hand.

"Testing?" I whispered before clearing my throat.

"Testing?" I repeated more audibly. "Damn it."

I let my fingers tentatively touch my throat, noticing the absence of my Adam's apple. As I did so I felt my forearm brush against something that wasn't supposed to be there and indeed, looking down there was no sign of. Despite what my sense of touch told me my eyes kept telling me I possessed a flat male chest.

"Of course," I groaned. "It's a glamour. I said 'look like Alan' not 'be Alan'. Just great."

I'd been around the Family long enough to recognise some aspects of the Craft. I remember my older sister using an enhancement glamour before a date to hide spots and other imperfections. A very good glamour could even fool other members of the Family if they weren't actively looking for it.

"Tikka?" asked a smiling Sonnet as she floated in front of me.

Great. I can just hear my mother telling me it served me right. She wouldn't miss the opportunity to gloat over how if I embraced my heritage I'd be able to undo this on my own. I so need this on a night in which I'm going to be roasted - figuratively I hope - by the Family Council.

I squealed in anger, kicking at the waste paper basket under my desk. I had no choice but to try and brazen it out and hope no one noticed the glamour or even worse that it wore off while I'm speaking to the Family Council.

Noticed... damn. The height difference is going to be an immediately obvious sign.

"Sonnet, sweetie, please undo this," I begged again.

"Tikka?"

"Alan Lewis Goodspeed! Will you get a move on!" shouted my mother from the bottom of the stairs.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Alan! Answer your mother! Do you hear me?" bellowed my father, joining in. This was bad in that it meant he'd got fed up waiting and come back in from the garage.

"Sonnnnnnet?"

"Tikka?"

"Alan!" That last shout from my father was accompanied by the sound of him stomping up the stairs. Great. Now he's got a cob on as well.

"Sonnnnnnnnet? Please, for me?" I begged, my hands pressed together in prayer. "Pretty please?"

"Tikka! Momma prit-ty," sang Sonnet.

"Alan!" shouted my father, throwing the door open. "If you aren't dres--"

"Oh... you're ready," said my father, stopping in mid-tirade. "Why didn't you answer me?"

"Da--" I stopped and cleared my throat, trying to lower the pitch of my voice.

*Ahem* "Dad. Problems with my tie."

"Sore throat son? You sound very hoarse."

Oh my god, it's actually working. Although I think I sound more like Christian Bale's batman but with a less monotone delivery. Yeah, evildoers beware, I'm Pixie(wo)man.

"Tikka! Grandpa! Tikka!" cooed Sonnet, fluttering to him in greeting and saving me the need to speak. In reply my father gently but firmly waived her away from him.

"I can make your sore throat go away you know. I just wish you'd let us use our Craft skills to help you. Your brother and sisters have never had a day off sick in their lives and yet all you do is suffer unnecessarily," said my father, a weary tone in his voice. He was a good man and I knew it hurt him to watch me suffer when he could help me. He held his hand up to silence me when I started to reply. "I know. I know. You want to be 'normal'. It's overrated if you ask me."

I stifled a snort at that. I'm a girl wearing an illusion of my true self about to be hauled before a coven of witches and warlocks because of something done by my adoptive pixie children. From where I was standing in boxer shorts that were riding uncomfortably, normal looked like the promised land.

"Don't think for a moment that most of your normal friends would accept you if they knew about the Craft or the Family..." said my father before shaking his head in resignation. "Okay, let's go son."

He signalled for me to follow him. As I took a step forward I felt my feet slipping in and out of my shoe.

"Errr..." *Ahem* "I need to change my socks dad. These have a hole in and its cutting into my toe," I muttered. That and keep Gotham safe from crime.

"Oh for the love of... you've got one minute. You better be down stairs by the time I reach the car. You understand me?"

I nodded my head in response, not wanting to risk tripping up by speaking any more than I had too. Not least because my Christian Bale voice was actually beginning to make my throat genuinely hoarse.

My father canted his head to the side for a moment, staring intently at me.

"There's something different about you," mused my father with a frown. "I just don't know what it is."

I shrugged in response, feeling a trickle of sweat run down my back.

"I think it's seeing you in that suit and cloak for the first time in ages. You are starting to become an adult. A man," he said as his frown softened.

Nervously fidgeting with my collar I couldn't help but pray that he didn't discover how far from the truth that statement was right now.

"I... it seems like only yesterday you were so small, now look at you. I just wish that you would learn to take some responsibility in respect of your heritage. The world isn't always as kind on people like us as it is here in Ackholt and living in denial of your birthright isn't going to help you, as much as you might wish it too. I'm not trying to stop you from chasing your dreams whatever you may think, I just wish you'd work with us so that we could do it in such a way as to be compatible with the needs of the Family. I probably don't say this as often as I should son, but I do lo... care... about you. Very much."

My heart skipped a beat as he took a step towards me, arms starting to reach out for me. In a state of abject panic I was repeating the mantra 'please don't try and hug me' over and over in my mind. The glamour might be masking my appearance but my true state would be revealed by the contact of a hug. After a half a step he hesitated and instead of hugging me placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'll see you down stairs. One minute remember."

I deflated like a balloon as he left the room, letting out a loud exhale. The steady trickle of sweat running down my side was a demonstration that my anti-perspirant was 39% nice smell, 60% outrageous marketing claims about my irresistibility to women and only 1% science. Thank heaven for that old fashioned slightly awkward English reserve my father had about hugging anyone other than my mother. The more pressing question was how he failed to notice the changes in me even with the glamour.

"Some sort of perception filter or trust spell to make him not question my height difference?" I mused aloud. "It must be a powerful one too for dad not to notice it at a conscious level."

"Tikka?"

"It was rhetorical," I replied, wearily massaging my temples with my hand. Slipping out of my shoes I grabbed a couple of pairs of sports socks from my draw. It would be uncomfortable as hell but worth it if it kept my shoes on and got one over on mum. Let her see how little I needed her help.

Pulling a couple of pairs of my thickest sports socks over my existing socks I squeezed my now thickly cotton padded feet back into my shoes.

"Hmmm... bit tight now if anything," I said to myself, taking a few test steps. "Still can't be helped."

After folding my trousers up enough so that I wasn’t standing on them, I carefully scooped Sonnet out of the air and put her down in the converted faux fur lined cat box on my dresser that was serving as their nest.

"Be good," I said to my litter. "Remember no internet and if I'm late, no tv after 9.00pm and no eating after midnight. Do you understand?"

"Tikka?"

"I'll take that as a yes. Be good and don't wait up!" I called as I closed the bedroom door behind me.
 

~o~O~o~
 
The squeak of the hinges on the doors in front of me signalled that after nearly two hours of waiting my moment had finally come. Pausing Kate Rusby in mid-song on my iPhone I rose to my feet. Standing between the double doors was a tall middle aged man with an inscrutable expression on his face like some butler out of a costumed drama.

"Master Alan Goodspeed... the Council requests your presence," he said with a slight bow.

Taking a deep breath I carefully wrapped my headphone cable around my iPhone, using the time it gave me to compose myself, before sliding it under my cloak into my suit pocket. Clearing my throat to affect my 'male' voice, I tugged at the edges of my cloak trying to ensure it hung correctly.

"Do I look okay Jenkins?" I asked.

"You like fine Master Goodspeed. Every inch the future warlock."

"Don't get your hopes up," I snorted as I strolled past him into the Council Chamber. "I turn 18 and I'm never setting foot in here again."

"Think what you like Master Goodspeed but mark my words. Blood will out," replied Jenkins. The patronising tone in his voice really got my hackles raised.

"Mark my words Jenkins, this blood is out of here."

As the double doors squeaked closed behind me I slowed my walk a little in order to allow my eyes adjust to the gloom and tried to ignore the sound of Jenkins footsteps following behind me. Up ahead was the raised horseshoe shaped podium on which the thirteen members of Family Council were usually seated, although I noticed there were only twelve members of the Council present. The backlighting combined with the raised hoods of their cloaks shrouded their faces in darkness making it impossible to see which member of the Council wasn't seated. Glancing upwards I spotted a dark cloth embroidered with small golden stars. It gave a limited impression of the roof being open to the stars while not actually being outdoors. Modern witches and warlocks preferred the comforts of the indoors over meetings on Shakespearean style blasted heaths.

I came to a halt in front of the Council at a small chest height lectern, trying to suppress a smile as I noticed the lines of the centre circle of the indoor netball court running under my feet. In typical English fashion the Family Council Chamber was a multi-use facility, doubling as a sports hall at other times. The overall impression of the Council Chamber was that of a nice homely feel rather than the intimidating environment I suspected it was supposed to be. I dare say that it would have invoked more reverence if I'd actually been bothered about the Craft and the Family.

"Merry we meet, Master Goodspeed," intoned a deep voice from beside me. Flinching slightly in surprise I turned to see a figure cloaked in the navy blue robes of one of the many different Chapters of House Goodspeed. Personally, I thought my own royal blue robes were a more flattering colour.

"Jeez Uncle John," I squeaked before remembering to lower my voice. "Uhhh… what's with the sneaking up on me?"

He wasn't a blood uncle but rather an honorary one as he was a close family friend who I'd known all my life. Despite the lack of blood ties he was always my favourite uncle. In response to my question he raised his right hand slightly to show me the wand in it.

Yeah, there's absolutely nothing phallic at all about the tradition of women using rings but men using wands to cast magick. Technically all the wand or ring was, was a focus for the craft. I thought the ring was a much better approach as it saved having to carry a separate wand in a pocket but y’know, ‘tradition’.

"What? Seriously?" I asked, my voice rising in pitch a little in anger. "You think I'd come in here carrying? I don't even have a wand!"

"I'm sorry. I know in your case it's a formality but everyone who comes before the Council now has to undergo it," he replied, having the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"Since when has the Council been doing this?" I asked, raising my arms as if to be pat down.

"Magica abscondita revelare!" exclaimed Uncle John, waving the wand around me much like an inspection at an airport. "Since things have taken a turn for the worse between the feuding Great Houses on the Continent."

"What do you mea--"

"Wait... I've got something..."

Uncle John pointed to the folds of my cloak's hood with his wand. A bright golden glow emitted from deep in the hood, slowly rising and emerging in the air behind me. Behind me I could hear Jenkins' heavy footsteps as he rushed towards me.

"Tikka?"

"Whoa!" I called out, interposing myself between my uncle's raised wand and the stowaway pixie floating in a ball of golden light. "Everyone calm down! She's one of mine! Chill!"

Reaching out with a finger, Sunflower burst the ball of golden light like it was a soap bubble and spun to face the red faced and rapidly closing figure of Jenkins who had drawn his own wand and had started to utter the first words of a spell.

"Tikka Tikkety!" she growled as Jenkins was swallowed up in a similar golden ball of light to that which had imprisoned Sunflower. I gently reached out and pushed the floating ball of light away from me, smiling as it gently tumbled away with an immobile Jenkins inside.

Turning to Uncle John, I gestured for him to lower his wand which he did after a moment's hesitation.

"How dare you insult this Council by bringing that... that... creature... here!" screeched a voice from the podium.

I turned to see one of the Council members rising to her feet. I think it was Mrs Dorian from the shrill sound of her voice and her aquamarine coloured robes. I'd never particularly liked her but didn't feel too bad about it as the feeling was mutual. I stepped back to the lectern, gently ruffling the fur on Sunflower's belly. She rolled over on the slope where papers normally were placed, squirming and purring under my ministrations.

"Which one is that?" asked a voice that could only be my mother. The hood on her cloak was slightly tilted to one side and I couldn't help feel that I was being intently studied by her.

"Hi mum," I said waving to her seat on the podium and forcing as jovial a tone into my Christian Balesque voice as I could. "It's Sunflower."

"John step back and return to your seat if you will," said my mother in an even voice. "Sunflower and Canada are Alan's main guardians. Sunflower will interpret any threatening move towards my son by anyone other than immediate blood family as a hostile act and will react accordingly. I'm guessing that my son's feelings of goodwill towards you are the only reason you aren't like Jenkins right now."

Actually, I had no clue if that was the case but pressing my advantage I smiled genially towards Uncle John and nodded my head slightly in acknowledgement of what my mother had said. His eyes fixed on the golden ball of light that held Jenkins as he slowly backed away towards his seat on the podium.

"Merry we meet Master Goodspeed," intoned my father in a formal voice from the centre seat of the podium. "I don't suppose you could see your way to asking Sunflower to release Jenkins?"

"Merry we meet dad," I replied, the slight nod of deference ruined by the smirk on my face. "I'll try but I can't guarantee anything."

"Sunflower, would you please release Jenkins?" I asked as I continued to rub her tummy trying not to convey any mental sincerity to my words. In response she just giggled and purred. We all watched as Jenkins bounced off the back wall of the room and started to gently spin upwards towards the ceiling.

"Erm... no. I guess not. Not to worry though as their magic usually wear off after a couple of hours. Maybe you could tie him to something until then?"

I tried not to smile as I heard Uncle John suppress a laugh that earned him what I'm sure would have been a dirty look from Mrs Dorian had we been able to see her face. A faint groan from my father attracted my attention and I noticed that his head was tilt forward into his hands. If I had to guess I would say he was probably having one of his headaches. I'm sure it was coincidental that he seemed to have so many when I was about.

"Let's get this over with," my father said out loud. "We've heard from Miss Bradbury her version of events at the school. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with yours?"

"What?" bellowed Mrs Dorian, rising to her feet yet again. "You ask him to give evidence before the Council when he has yet to be placed under the 'Geas of Truth'?"

"He is already under a 'Vow of Obligation' so there is no need," said my mother. "I will know if he speaks a lie."

As I said earlier, we take our promises seriously in my Family. Unlike a geas which has a physical consequence for breaking it, a Vow of Obligation purely conveys upon the caster the ability to know whether the subject is, or has previously broken, the obligation of the vow. In my case this would be to speak a lie. I know some shall we say, less romantic, couples in the Family use them as part of their pre-wedding vows in respect of fidelity. My parents used them from time to time as punishments for us kids as they had the advantage of being non-binding thereby allowing us to break them if necessary for our or the Family's protection while still enabling our parents to know if we broke the vow. Try that with a geas and you might find yourself suffering twenty-four hours of boils or something equally unpleasant no matter how noble your reason for breaking the geas was.

"And we're going to accept that?" snapped Mrs Dorian, her hood turning slightly as she looked around the horseshoe at the Council members.

"Umm... yes?" replied the figure at the end of the horseshoe on my right. "I trust Mistress Goodspeed to appraise us if her son tries to lie."

"Yesssss!" I hissed under my breath. "Way to go Aunt Sophie."

Seeing no support from the rest of the Council Mrs Dorian rather petulantly slumped back in her seat causing it to creak slightly under her weight, which like her age was I'm sure something that was greater than she ever publicly admitted too.

"Master Goodspeed, your version of events please?" asked my father.

I kind of felt a little for him trying to hang onto the seriousness of the proceedings despite the fact that Jenkins' bubble was bouncing along the ceiling. This was compounded by the fact that I knew pretty much everyone on the Council thereby negating the whole reason for the cloaks in the first place.

"Well, as you know I've been trying to teach my litter about the differences between what's real and what's not and to understand the concept of consequences. So, I've been showing them tv programmes where they debunk urban myths through sort of DIY science."

"And?"

"Well, I think they decided to conduct their own DIY myth busting after watching a cartoon where one of the characters cherry bombed the school toilets causing water to spout out of them."

"Truth," announced my mother.

"I have a question," asked Mrs Dorian.

"The Chair recognises Mistress Dorian," sighed my father.

"Master Goodspeed. Is it true that you did not complete the binding ritual to control your little pes... familiars?"

"Yes."

"Truth," said my mother confirming my statement. Not that she needed the magic of the vow for that one.

"And why was that?"

"Because my parents were unable to locate them for the first moon," I responded. I knew she was going somewhere with this even if for the moment it escaped me.

"But you knew where they were during that first moon didn't you?"

So this was where she was going with this line of questioning. It was one thing for my parents and I to both know unspokenly that I had hidden my litter during that first moon but it was another thing entirely for my denials to be exposed so boldly as lies while surrounded as we were by other members of the Council. It was becoming clear to me now that Mrs Dorian's intent was not just to get her pound of flesh from me but to also make my parents squirm as well. I glanced a hastily at my mother, keeping my counsel to myself.

"Master Goodspeed? Please answer my question."

"Chairman, I don't see how this is relevant," interrupted Uncle John. "I move that Mistress Dorian confine her questions to the event for which Alan is before us for judgement."

"Ahh but I am," replied Mrs Dorian, sounding insufferably smug. "I'm attempting to establish that Master Goodspeed has previously been negligent in the command of his familiars and that such negligence led directly to today's incident."

"Alan... please answer the question," said my father.

I felt my shoulders drop in response to my father's words. "I... yes, I knew where they were during the first moon."

"And you deliberately withheld that knowledge from your parents with the intent to prevent the binding ritual from being performed?"

"Yes," I replied in a quiet voice, avoid the eyeless gazes of the Council's darkened hoods.

"Mistress Goodspeed?" asked Mrs Dorian, positively crowing.

"Truth and Truth," said my mother after a moment's hesitation. I could hear the pain in her voice.

"I put to you Council Members, that Master Goodspeed was negligent in the control of his familiars and that the direct consequence of this was the property destruction and the exposure of a creature of The Golden Court to a mundane," said Mrs Dorian, rising to her feet. "A fact further compounded before this very Council in respect of poor Master Jenkins!"

"Hey! He drew on us!"

"I move that Master Goodspeed be placed under a Geas of Agony compelling him to learn the Craft so that he may be better placed to prevent any such reoccurrence of today's events!" yelled Mrs Dorian, drowning out my further protests. A Geas of Agony was exactly what it said on the tin. I'd be wracked with unbearable pain if I didn't fulfil the conditions of the geas.

The sound of overlapping voices in argument from the members of the Council was brought to an abrupt end by my father banging his gavel on a small wooden block in front of him.

"Before I call for a seconder for Mistress Dorian's proposal, does anyone else wish to speak?" asked my father, scanning the podium. A raised finger from him silenced me.

"Excuse me Chairman, if I may ask a question of Master Goodspeed?" asked an accented male voice that I didn't recognise. His seat was that of Old Warlock Hargrove's who had died a few months previously. He had no blood kin to take his place and I tried to recall the Chapter represented by the newcomers Cambridge Blue cloak, the greener hue to it making him stand out from the other assorted more traditional blues.

"The Chair recognises Master Bonvitesse," said my father with a wave of his hand.

So the accent was French. He definitely didn't learn his English here as there was a sound to it that wasn't English-English if you know what I mean.

"Did you know they were planning to do this... experiment? Or otherwise indicate that they should test ideas in such a manner?"

"No."

"Truth," announced my mother with evident relief in her voice.

"Thank you Mistress Goodspeed," replied Master Bonvitesse with a nod to my mother. "Despite the comments of Mistress Dorian, I am satisfied your son's recollection tallies with the earlier testimony provided by Miss Bradbury that Alan had no hand in this matter. I do have one more question though..."

"You may proceed," said my father with a nod.

"Did it work?" asked Master Bonvitesse with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"Did it duplicate the cartoon with all the water spouting out of the toilets?"

"Ummm...no," I replied, a crimson blush spreading across my face. "I don't know what they used for explosives but it destroyed all four cubicles and ripped the water pipes out of what was left of the wall. And I mean destroyed the cubicles. And the other fixtures and fittings. The largest piece of porcelain left that I could see was no more than a few centimetres long. Ironically, the only thing that seemed to survive anywhere near intact was the casing of the explosive which is why I ended up in the Headmaster's office."

"Truth."

"Thank you Chairman. I have no further questions. I seek to move that Master Goodspeed not be held accountable to this Council for the events of today."

"Does that proposal have a seconder?" asked my father looking along the horseshoe.

Uncle John raised a hand in response. "I second the proposal."

"Thank you John. Now, do we have a seconder for Mistress Dorian's proposal that Alan be placed under a Geas of Agony so as to learn to better control his familiars?" asked my father.

I tried my hardest not to laugh at the unseen expression of outrage that I felt Mrs Dorian wore when no one on the Council moved to second her proposal. Receiving no indications of anyone wishing to speak in support of Mrs Dorian my father continued.

"On that basis, I call for a vote that we accept Master Goodspeed's explanation of events. All in favour?"

I watched with relief as my father counted the raised hands. By my count I had ten members of the Council, excluding my father who as Chairman rarely voted except to use a casting vote in the event of deadlock.

"All against?"

I snorted quietly as Mrs Dorian raised her hand.

"Abstentions?"

I was a little surprised to see my mother raise her hand at this point. Whether it was to preserve her neutrality in the matter of her own son or whether she just couldn't bring herself to side with Mrs Dorian remained to be seen.

"On that basis, it is carried and it shall be entered into the records as soon as the clerk stops bouncing off the ceiling."

Uncle John gave me a thumbs up from his seat. Letting out a sigh of relief, I felt my legs buckle slightly as the tension flowed out of me.

"Mister Chairman! This is outrageous!" cried Mrs Dorian. "Surely the boy deserves punishment for his actions!"

I silently wished for a tornado to drop a house on her to no avail.

"Chairman, if I may?" asked the hooded figure of my Aunt Sophie. "While not agreeing with Mistress Dorian's earlier proposal it would seem to be appropriate that some form of sanction be applied in the circumstances."

A small groan escaped from my mouth at that suggestion. The hoods of the other Council members bobbed up and down.

"Agreed," said my father, a stern tone in his voice. "Does anyone have any suggestions… other than a Geas."

"Chairman?" asked Master Bonvitesse, raising a hand. "I realise that I am new this Council but may I ask why your son is not studying at the Institute with the rest of the children of age and possessing the Talent? I could understand if he had no talent for the Craft but clearly if he is able to sustain those creatures he has it."

"He has declined the opportunity to learn the Craft from a very early age Master Bonvitesse," said my father, his hand disappearing into his hood I assume to massage his temples again. "We hoped it was something that he might grow out of as he got older like his dislike of peas--"

"-- or his insistence on dressing up as a ballerina," interrupted Aunt Sophie with a gentle giggle. "He was so cute."

"Yes, thank you Sophie for bringing that up," replied my father. I felt my face burn with embarrassment and studied the markings on the floor intently, unable to look anyone in the hood.

"Anyway, I hoped it would be a phase but if anything it's got worse. He won't learn the Craft and he still won't eat his peas."

"And as for the ballerina outfit?" asked Master Bonvitesse, struggling to hide the amusement from his voice.

At this moment I was glad of the darkened state of the room as it meant no one could clearly see my blush.

"Anyway, I agree with him on the pea issue," laughed Master Bonvitesse. "But could you not have sent him to the Institute anyway?"

"No. He's my son and while I don't understand or agree with it, I respect his decision to be his own man."

I looked up to unexpectedly meet my father's gaze, as he pulled his hood back. The simple nod of respect he gave me meant as much to me as a hundred thousand words. He was acknowledging my freedom to choose my own life publicly for the first time. I felt my chest tighten as the implications of those words sunk in. Maybe there was a sliver of a chance that I could leave the Family but not leave my family, something I had assumed until now would be impossible.

"I understand," responded Master Bonvitesse in a slow, measured tone. "However, there have been unintentional consequences to his lack of control. I have heard that there is a Family run group for those who have the Talent but either are not suited to or choose not to attend, the Institute?”

Oh no, no, no… this is so not good.

“You mean the Corrective Craft Group?”

“Yes. Would not your son be suited to attending that? He can still avoid the Institute while learning how to better guide his familiars. They are going to be together for a long time after all.”

A smile crossed my father's face before he slowly pulled his hood back up. "I like your thinking Master Bonvitesse. Does this suggestion meet with the approval of the Council?”

“Daaaaad, please not the Misfits…”

‘The Misfits’ was what the kids with the Talent called the Corrective Craft Group, an assortment of the inept, the incorrigible and the awkward. The thought of spending three evenings a week studying remedial Magick with them made what little street cred I had in the town want to curl up and die. However, a chorus of ‘ayes’ drowned out anything further I had to say on the matter.

“Then it is agreed. Master Goodspeed you are ordered to attend the Corrective Craft Group for a period of six months after which this Council will review your progress and determine whether further corrective measures need to be applied.”

“But daaaaad–“

“This meeting is now closed,” announced my father banging his gavel on the desk.
 

~o~O~o~
 
"I feel a little bad that Uncle John has to wait for Jenkins' bubble to expire," I said, my first words to my parents since we’d left the Council. I was still a little pissed at having been sentenced to the Misfits but dad had made it clear that the matter wasn’t for further discussion so I’d spent the last ten minutes sulking. Resting my head against the cool window of the car I watched the streets of Ackholt glisten in the light rain that had cooled the air considerably from earlier in the day.

"He didn't seem to mind," said my father glancing back at me. "Someone had to do it and besides, he'd already said he'd stay and help clear up so that everything was ready for the netball league tomorrow night."

"Oh yeah. I'd forgotten they play Wednesday's."

I enjoyed most ball games with a passion but with my height, and by that I mean my real male height, I had an edge at games like basketball and netball. I wasn't good enough to consider playing professionally, not that there was any real money in playing basketball outside the US, but at a school level I was quite good. I'd made the difficult choice of giving up mixed netball when my schedule started to overload, opting to get my round ball fix through the school boys’ basketball team. I really did miss netball though.

"Alan..." asked my mother looking out her doors window as she spoke, her voice had a hint of something I couldn't quite place in it. “Why didn't you change into a girl when Sunflower defended you?"

Oh... shoot. It hadn't even occurred to me that in putting so much effort into looking like Alan that it might be suspicious if I stayed like Alan.

"Umm... well, I'm..."

"And what's wrong with your voice? It keeps creeping up in pitch."

"I'm..."

Fine? Can I get away with saying fine to my own personal human lie detector? I mean is it really a lie? I'm not freaking out about being a girl after all.

"I'm... not quite feeling myself," I answered, biting at the corner of my lip as I watched the sapphire ring on my mother's hand pulse slowly in affirmation of my statement.

"That throat still bothering you son? You still sound a bit hoarse," asked my father absently, his attention focused on checking his mirrors before turning the car into our road. "If you aren't going to let me help then the least you can do is take something for it when we get home. I don't want to have to listen to you coughing all night. I think we've still got some of that mundane cough syrup from the last time you were ill."

"Umm... yeah," I replied clearing my throat.

"You never answered my question, about why you didn't turn into a girl back at the Council," asked my mother.

"Ummm... because..."

A brief flash of colour caught my eye as I looked out of the car window.

"Wait... is that Mrs Gentry gardening in the dark?" I asked, squinting into the darkness.

"I think it is," said my father slowing as we approached the short concrete slope leading to our garage. "Do you think she's gone..." My father whistled a cuckoo sound to finish his words.

"Hush Jeff," chided my mother, gently slapping my father's arm. "She's a sweet old lady and she's a hell of a lot better neighbour than the Anderson's were."

"Mum, she's not wearing a coat," I said taking a good look at her. "She'll get wet and it's cold out there tonight."

The car bumped slightly as dad mounted the dropped kerb and coasted to a stop in front of the garage.

"Fine. Fine. I'll put the car away and go check on her," said my father, fumbling in the armrest storage space for the remote for the garage door. "I see her son's car in their drive, so if she seems out of it I'll speak to him. Okay?"

"You park the car. I'll go check on her," I said releasing my seatbelt. "She's my friend."

"I'll come with you. If she is... well, this could be a confusing and traumatic experience for her," said my mother, releasing her own seatbelt. "Just make sure your familiar doesn't come with us."

"She has a name," I huffed, turning to the pixie stretching out on the backseat next to me. I tried hard to project the image of her returning to the house with dad, hoping that once indoors she'd instinctively return to the others. "Sunflower, go inside with dad."

"Jeff, do you mind putting our cloaks away?" asked mum.

"What? Oh Yeah, that's fine Angelika," said my father looking up. "I think someone moved the garage remote from the car, so I've got to go inside and find it anyway."

That was my dad in a nut shell. Powerful and influential warlock to the world but, well a dad really behind the scenes - an embarrassingly bad dancer, a little awkward expressing emotions and always losing things but never admitting it. A favourite tactic of his was to put things in a quote 'safe place'. It was usually so safe we wouldn't find it again without one of them resorting to a Spell of Finding.

"Remember to take your cloak off before you leave the car," added my mother glaring at me as I was half-way out of the car. "I don't care if it's raining, there's no need to advertise the Family to a stranger and if she asks--"

"--we've been to a meeting of the Ackholt Civic Society," I intoned in a bored air. "I know the cover story."

"It was a presentation on crime and punishment if she asks," said my mother pointedly as she released the clasp on her cloak and exited from the opposite side of the vehicle.

I heard my mother fall into step behind me as we crossed from our drive to the neighbours. The small droplets of a light spring drizzle clung to my jacket and I pulled my upturned collar up around my neck as I hurried towards Mrs Gentry. Our house, like most of those in the road, was semi-detached with the driveway on the detached side paired with the drive of the adjacent property's detached side, creating rows of spaced out triangles. The front area to Mrs Gentry's house still in its original configuration, unlike many of the properties who had paved over the garden, and was dominated by a rectangle of lawn surrounded by a border of flower beds. In the eighteen months Mr and Mrs Gentry had lived in the house she'd thrown her life into creating a beautiful English country garden look.

"Why are you walking funnily?" asked my mother. "It's almost like you are walking like a g--"

I hurriedly glanced over my shoulder to see my mother shaking her head, the observation she had been trying to form had been lost due to the perception filter. The fact she had come so close to articulating it however, told me that I was running out of time. Quickening my pace I stepped over the border that lined the lawn side of Mrs Gentry's drive onto the small crazy paving path.

"Mrs Gentry?" I called out as we approached her.

Kneeling down next to her, I could see that she had been planting some flowers in preparation for the summer and she had her array of gardening tools neatly laid out next to her. She looked up at me, wiping some wet hair from where it had stuck to her forehead, her milky blue eyes struggling to focus on me for a moment.

"Mrs Gentry? Are you okay?"

Mrs Gentry blinked a couple of times before her face brightened with a smile.

"Hello Alan," she replied. "I'd hope to run into you. What brings you over? Is there a problem with the recycling again? Only I told George to be more careful with where he put our wheelie bin this time."

"No it's fine," I said returning her smile. "I came to check you were okay, being out here this late without a coat an' all."

She blinked a few times, her face creasing in puzzlement.

"Late dear?" she asked, looking up at the partially cloud obscured stars. "What time is it?"

"It's gone ten Agnes," said my mother from behind me. "How long have you been out here?"

"Not... I... I don't know," her head canted slightly in thought. "I don't even remember coming out here. It... it just seemed the right thing to do, to be gardening, I'm not sure why though."

"Why don't we gather up your things and we'll go inside? I'll go and nudge George to get you a towel and put the kettle on," said my mother.

Mrs Gentry nodded slowly in response. I couldn't help but smile. A cup of tea. The ultimate English solution to all ills.

"Alan, please could you help pick up all her gardening things?"

"Sure mum," I said gathering up lose flower pots and placing them on a plastic tray. "It won't take long."

My mother nodded, favouring Mrs Gentry with a sad smile as she stepped past us and heading for the house. She mimed the words 'I'll speak to her son' to me as she hurried towards their house.

"Thank you Alan," said Mrs Gentry, her voice hitching slightly with emotion. "I... I don't know what to say. I must seem so foolish."

I struggled to find the appropriate words. What do you say to someone potentially looking at the on-set of dementia? It's okay? Because with what little I know about the subject, okay seems to be the last thing it would be. Frankly if she wanted to scream at the moon right now at the thought of what was happened to her I would understand. I looked away briefly trying to get control of my thoughts and pulled my suit jacket closer together with my free hand in response to a tingle of goosebumps from the cold night air and the coating of rain running across my hands.

"The one thing I do know for sure is that you aren't foolish," I said, fighting the lump in my throat. "All that time we spent talking over the last year has proven that to me. I love listening to you talk about all the places you've been and the things you've done... and your wonderful garden."

She jumped a little as I reached out and placed my hand on hers in a gesture of support. Her hand was like ice and I wondered how she hadn't noticed how cold she was. The metal of her wedding band felt unnaturally warm in comparison to her skin. I couldn't help but wonder how Mr Gentry was going to take this news that his wife seemed to be losing it. He seemed so withdrawn at times as it was.

She met my gaze, holding it for a second a sad smile on her face.

"You've been a real friend Alan when I haven't had anyone else to turn too. I've treasured the time we've spent talking. I owe you so much..."

"Hey, hey... hush. Don't talk like that you're not going anywhere yet," I replied.

"You don't know how often I've longed for death," Mrs Gentry whispered. "To be free of this prison of a body. Don't get old Alan, particularly before your time."

"Please... don't say that," I replied, my voice softened to match her own whispered tones. "Let's go inside eh? I'm sure that George is wondering what's happened to you."

She smiled sadly at me and squeezed my hand in her hand sandwich.

"I think he's known for some time something was wrong. I just don't think he's known how to articulate it. I'm actually glad this is happening now you know. This is the year of his diamond wedding anniversary. I'd have felt such a fraud pretending I remembered his wedding."

I rested my free hand on top of hers, patting our hand sandwich gently. "C'mon, let's get in the warm and dry..."

Nodding in acceptance she extended a hand and as carefully as possible I assisted her getting on to feet. Quickly scooping up her gardening tools into the tray I offered her an extended elbow and she threaded her arm through mine.

"Knock, knock," I called as we carefully made our way into house through the open front door.

"In the kitchen!" called my mother. "There's a pot brewed."

"You can put those on the side in the kitchen," said Mrs Gentry, gesturing to a wooden door at the end of the hallway.

The door was slightly ajar when we reached it, so I gently pushed it open with my foot. Inside the small kitchen-come-dining-room I found my mother seated a square wooden table, a contented smile on her face as she savoured the warmth from a steaming hot mug in her hands.

"Alan, this is Aaron Gentry. Aaron, this is my son Alan."

Aaron Gentry rose to his feet as we approached the table and pulled out a chair for his mother, wrapping her in a blanket as he did so. Aaron was a tall, slim man, immaculately turned out in a smart but casual linen suit. His short blonde hair was messily styled giving him a rakish charm and when glanced over his mother's head at me and smiled I felt myself flush with warmth. Oh yeah, as a girl I'm definitely playing for the home team. It's one of those wonderful intangibles to the transformation that remind me that humans are more than just the sum of their intellect. Assuming this was me of course and not some side effect of being a pixie momma.

"You sit down and warm up mother," said Aaron, patting his mother's hand. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

Mrs Gentry mumbled a reply that I couldn't quite make out and sat with her head bowed staring at her hands resting in her lap.

"Just put those down anywhere on the kitchen counter," said Aaron with a wave of his hand at the trays I was carrying. "How do you like your tea Alan?"

"White with two if that's no bother?" I replied, dusting some loose earth of my hands after placing the gardening tray down.

"None at all Alan. As I was explaining to your mother... sorry, as I was explaining to Angelika..." he said favouring my mother with a smile. "I'd just brewed a pot anyway so an extra couple of guests is no trouble."

"Ohhhh... that's so good," I moaned, accepting the warming mug in my cold hands. I gently sipped from the mug, letting the warm liquid suffuse through my cold body. "What's that flavour to it? It's quite wonderful."

"Aaron was saying he has it blended especially for him in London," said my mother taking a sip from her own mug.

"I'd be happy to get a couple of packets put aside for you if you like it."

"Thank you. I'm sure Jeff would love it as well," said my mother, favouring Aaron with a wide smile. "I was always more of a coffee drinker but I have to say I've become a convert to tea since moving to England."

"You're not English?" asked Aaron with a surprised tone in his voice. "Scottish? Welsh?"

"Nein. Ich bin Deutscher."

"Huh. I would never have guessed. You have no trace of an accent."

"Thank you, though I've been speaking English regularly since my teens and lived here for over twenty years now."

"So what brought you to England? Your husband?"

I placed my mug carefully on the table and stiffled a yawn. My mother could wax lyrically for hours on how she met my father.

"We met at boarding school. It was love at first sight," said my mother, sighing slightly as her eyes shut and a faraway expression crossed her face. "We've been together since we were fourteen. Never been apart for more than one night since we married," said my mother, before hastily adding. "Which wasn't at fourteen, married that is. We married after we got our degrees."

"Are you okay Mrs Gentry?" I asked, turning to her. "Only you don't seem to have touched your tea."

"Sorry but I find that the asphodel in the tea gives me indigestion."

My mother nodded, covering her mouth to hide a yawn. "I know what you mean. I have a similar issue with garlic."

"Same here," I mumbled around a large yawn.

"You need to get to bed earlier young man," said my mother. "Though the asphodel in the tea isn't helping. If you mix it with wormwood it forms the base for a..."

I watched an expression of alarm spread across my mother's face as I fought another yawn.

"Alan... get your fathe--"

My mother's mug slipped from her hand, clattering against the wooden table top and spilling its contents in a rapidly expanding puddle.

"Runnnnnnn..." said my mother, her speech slow and slurred. Her eyes fell closed and after a few seconds of her head bobbling she slumped forward across the table.

"Mum? No..." I mumbled, blinking in an attempt to focus. Rising to my feet I stumbled a few steps towards the kitchen door before pitching forward onto the cold and hard tiled floor. The last thing I saw before my eyes finally closed was the pistol holster under Aaron's jacket as he knelt down in front of me and pulled some rope from his jacket pocket.
 

~o~O~o~
 
"--you have finished transforming you will come find me. I've given the kid a good dose of the happy juice so he shouldn't put up much of a struggle but try and make it a quiet kill okay? I need to report in on our progress and the last thing I need to deal with is the local council's noise abatement team."

"As my Master wills it, so shall it be done."

I heard a door close as my eyes fluttered open to reveal nothing but whiteness. It took a few moments for my vision to focus enough to start picking out texture in the whiteness and as my head rolled slightly a bulbless light fixture came in view. The sounds of movement just out of the range of my vision confirmed that I wasn't alone and from the earlier conversation at least one of the voices I'd heard earlier was still in the room with me. I wasn't sure that I wanted to meet them though given the use of the phrase 'quiet kill'.

Oddly despite my predicament I felt very calm to the degree that I almost felt emotionally numb. I found it hard to concentrate on anything and I felt my mind start to drift. I giggled to myself, feeling a little light headed as the edges of my vision began to blur. My eyelids drooped closed as the welcoming comfort of nothingness embraced me once more. A grunt of pain from someone nearby caused my eyes to jerk open again and with a lot of effort I managed to roll onto my side to get a better view.

"Ahhh... good you're awake," said Agnes Gentry, kneeling a short distance from me. Her face was flushed red and her breathing ragged.

"What happened?" I asked, my dry throat reducing my voice to little more than a soft whisper. "How did I get here?"

"Some disorientation is to be expected," replied Agnes through gritted teeth. I noticed her hands clawing at the carpeted floor I was lying on.

"I remember we were drinking... tea? Something happened after... it was drugged?"

"Yes, it was."

"Why can't I get up?" I asked, giggling as I tried to rise but instead fell back against the floor. "And why do I feel so good about it?"

"It's what they call 'happy juice' that is doing it to you," said Agnes. "That combined with a heavy dose of the sleeping draught in the tea should stop you escaping if you came round before they were ready. You'll find in addition to your muscles being very relaxed you'll feel very light headed and have problems getting to... enthusiastic... about anything."

I tried to flex various muscles in my arms and legs only to be rewarded with small, barely controlled movements in response. Thankfully I wasn't in any pain, I just felt numb all over. The numbness in my body muted my sense of touch giving everything a fairly dreamlike quality. It was like I was watching a 3D movie. It looked real but you couldn't feel anything you when you tried to reach out and touch it, although there was the added benefit that real life wasn't making me feel queasey like a 3D movie did. I kind of wished it was a movie so that at least I'd know what genre it was and what it held in store for me. Was it a comedy? A horror movie? An action-adventure? Or a fantasy movie? Did it have a really happy ending? Whatever it was, given the only other occupant in the room as far as I could see was an octogenarian I was really, really hoping this wasn't going to be a porn movie.

"Where's my mother?" I asked, trying to move my head enough to look around the room.

"She's safe for the moment."

"But probably not for the longer term," I replied, catching the inference. "Why are you doing this to us? We've never done anything to you."

"I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," I giggled. "Just because you don't like it doesn't not make it a choice..."

"You've been a real friend Alan when I haven't had anyone else to turn too. I've treasured the time we've spent talking. I owe you so much," she replied with a grunt. I tried to ignore her as she pulled a strip of dry skin from her arm.

"My iPhone is in my suit pocket. You could call my father and ask him to bring help..."

I tried to point to the pocket but my arm just flopped around. The numbness was interfering with fine motor control, much like the feeling when you wake up after lying awkwardly on an arm. I found myself giggling from the sensation of pins and needles.

Agnes let out an almost feral grunt of anguish and as she clawed at the carpet I noticed her nails breaking off from her bloodied fingers.

"I wish I could Alan," she panted in-between growls of pain. "The trouble is I'm just as much a prisoner as you are."

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as she ripped at her blouse, sending buttons rattling around the room. While I wasn't adverse to a free show, there were some sights that I wasn't in a hurry to experience. Naked octogenarians being one of them.

"What are you doing?"

"Changing."

Something heavy and wet hit the ground close by, splashing my face. I cracked open an eye to see a chunk of wrinkly flesh lying on the ground. Glancing upwards I saw Agnes ripping the bloodied skin from her torso to reveal fresh skin beneath. Where the old skin had been removed I could see that Agnes’ aged body was gone, replaced by a much younger female form.

"What are you?" I giggled, still struggling to put any urgency in my voice. I had a horrible feeling I was going to die but not end up being too bothered about it when it happened. At this rate my tombstone would read 'Here lies Alan Lewis Goodspeed. Age 17. He died. Meh.'

"A metamorph. What your people once called a changeling. They intend for me to replace you.”

“Pffft,” I exclaimed, suppressing another giggle. “We both know that while a changeling can fool a mundane, they can’t fool a Warlock or Witch for long. Those with the Talent have second sight.”

“True… unless I take your essence into mine.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Bone marrow.”

“Where are you going to get a surgeon for that procedure at this time of night?”

“There’s no need for any surgeon,” she replied, the nails extending from her hand like talons. “If it’s any consolation you will probably pass out from the blood loss before I start sucking the marrow out of your bones.”

Oddly enough it wasn’t any consolation though on the plus side at least I knew what sort of movie I was in now. It was in a horror movie... with a cliff hanger. I couldn't help but wonder if it was too late to hold out for the octogenarian porn option?
 

~o~O~o~
 

End of Chapter 1

 

 

Alan Goodspeed is an ordinary teenage boy with all the hopes and dreams of any other teenage boy. Except for when he was a teenage girl. And then there was the whole pixie parenthood thing. That's fairly normal... right?

 

Fair warning, this is Chapter 2 in a series that I've not finished yet. That being said, for those who do decide to proceed, it's all plotted and I do intend to finish this, even if it is at the normal Jemima pace of things and will be woven around producing chapters of 'We are Family'. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this second chapter! Fair warning, it is a little darker than the first chapter in places (see tags) but like any story it needs dark to sustain the light. And of course *big hugs* to everyone who took the time to kudos and comment on chapter one. It was genuinely appreciated. Thank you.
 

Previously in Chapter 1

 
"What are you?" I giggled, still struggling to put any urgency in my voice. I had a horrible feeling I was going to die but not end up being too bothered about it when it happened. At this rate my tombstone would read 'Here lies Alan Lewis Goodspeed. Age 17. He died. Meh.'

"A metamorph. What your people once called a changeling. They intend for me to replace you.”

“Pffft,” I exclaimed, suppressing another giggle. “We both know that while a changeling can fool a mundane, they can’t fool a Warlock or Witch for long. Those with the Talent have second sight.”

“True… unless I take your essence into mine.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Bone marrow.”

“Where are you going to get a surgeon for that procedure at this time of night?”

“There’s no need for any surgeon,” she replied, the nails extending from her hand like talons. “If it’s any consolation you will probably pass out from the blood loss before I start sucking the marrow out of your bones.”

Oddly enough it wasn’t any consolation though on the plus side at least I knew what sort of movie I was in now. It was in a horror movie... with a cliff hanger. I couldn't help but wonder if it was too late to hold out for the octogenarian porn option?
 
 

~o~O~o~
 
Chapter 2

Why do these things always happen to me?

I’m a pretty good guy on the whole, when I am a guy that is. It’s not like I’m a bad girl either. If my life had story tags it would be a ‘good boy to good girl’ kind of story. I care about people and try to be kind. I even sort my recycling properly. And what do I get for a reward? I’m about to be eaten alive by my changeling neighbour. All I can say is hope she realises how difficult it’s going to be to get the stains my blood leaves out of the carpet. I know it’s a bit passive-aggressive but the happy juice in my system is keeping me from getting anymore worked up about it.

*sigh* Why me?

Actually, that’s a good point. *giggle* Why me? I mean I know I should be freaking out big time right now but the happy juice is kind of making everything seem less urgent… calmer… and it’s actually giving me a chance to think things through a bit more easily rather than following my natural urges to start screaming and never stop. Still, there’s got to be a way out of this. I just wish I knew what it was.

I glance over at Agnes and immediately wish I hadn’t. Using her extended talons, she carefully slides them under the skin along her jaw line and with a horrible, wet ripping sound begins to lift her skin from her face. It’s almost like something out of the 1960’s Mission Impossible TV show disguises as she pulls off Agnes’ aged face and grey hair and casually discards it on the floor to reveal a much younger looking woman beneath it. A much younger woman who doesn’t look like me. Actually, even with all the blood over her face and hair that is masking her appearance a little, you’d have to be blind to think we even looked remotely alike let alone that she resembled Agnes — even a younger Agnes — in any way.

“Ahhhhh…. That feels soooooo wonderful.”

There’s a slight accent to her voice. It’s a little sing-songy. Not Scandinavian sing-songy but definitely European sounding. She tilts her head back like some sort of sun worshiper enjoying the first light of dawn and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is that of her breathing as she takes several lung clearing deep breaths.

“Who… who are you?”

The smile she flashes briefly before it clouds over is young and full of life but at the same time tinged with melancholy.

“Danique… my name, my real name, is Danique. Danique Goed. I’m sorry we get to finally meet under such circumstances Alan.”

Retracting her talons she reached over and squeezed my arm in an incongruously touching gesture from the woman who is going to kill me.

“I meant it when I said earlier that I had been grateful for your company these last few months. It wasn’t easy being Agnes and you… you made it easier than you will ever know. Being able to speak to someone so much closer to my real age meant a lot to me, even if I was under orders not to reveal my true nature... or to warn you of the danger you and your family faced.”

“You mean danger beyond that of having the marrow sucked from my bones?”

“Yes…” she replied, turning away from me. “What they will make me do when I’ve replaced you… you wouldn’t want to be around to see it any more than I want to do it. They will use me to destroy your House from the inside. So much blood will be spilt.”

“You keep saying ‘they’ and acting like you have no choice Ag… Danique,” I said, trying to reach out with numb fingers to grasp her hand. “Who are they? How are they making you do this to me? There is no one else here in this room but us… please, call my father…”

“The easiest question to answer is how they are making me do this to you,” said Danqiue, holding her blood stained but newly youthful hand up to show that Agnes’ wedding ring was still firmly attached to her finger. “I know you have no Talent Alan but have you ever heard of the ‘Ring of Servitude’?”

“No,” I replied with a happy juice inspired giggle. “Does it do the housework for you or something?”

“I wish it did,” said Danique, flexing the talons from her fingertips. “It’s one of a number of artefacts developed on the orders of the English Witchfinder General during the witch hunts of the 1640s. As I’m sure you know, whilst a mundane has great difficulty spotting a witch or warlock who isn’t actively casting magick, those with the Talent can see it in others through their auras. This ring and others like it, gave the Witchfinders an accurate way of hunting those with the Talent.”

“The Hounds…” I whispered, childhood nightmares being recalled unbidden.

I may have rebelled against my heritage and resisted going to the Institute with all the other good little warlocks and witches but I had heard the stories of our collective past at my grandfather’s knee. Witches and warlocks enslaved in the service of the mundane Witchfinders and forced to root out others in the Family. In all the tales I heard the nature of the enslaving artefacts always varied but the end result was the same whether it was mothers betraying children or lover betraying lover. The Hound would be forced to watch as each of the people they identified was hanged, hunting others until they had in the eyes of the Witchfinders paid their debt to God. Then and only then, would their time come at the gallows. For many of the Hounds, their death could not come soon enough, with tales of them thanking the hangman when the time came for them to die. The thought of being made to betray my own chil– my pixies– in such a way made my eyes sting with unshed tears. There were many sorts of monsters in the world but the worst weren’t always the ones from mythology.

“I see you’ve heard of them,” said Danique with a sad smile. “Then you know something of my fate.”

“But… there hasn’t been any Hound’s for hundreds of years. The Great Houses gathered up all the artefacts and destroyed them in the 18th Century. The Hounds are just stories now, ways of keeping errant Family members in line. Y’know, ‘wooooo… behave or the Witchfinders will come for you and make you a Hound’. They’re both as much history now as the black death or…”

I was going to say the bogeyman, but as I know they were real it undermined my argument somewhat to deny their existence.

“Or… other stuff form the past that’s no longer around like... kipper ties?”

At least I hope they aren’t still around. For all I know hipsters wear them ‘ironically’, thereby demonstrating they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘ironically’.

I watched Danique try to say something, her lips twitching and flexing, but the only sounds that she could make were unintelligible.

“The ring?” I asked, noticing the pleading look in her eyes.

“Yes… I tried to say something about…” she said, pausing as her lips contorted soundlessly. “About that which they don’t want me to. What you just saw is what happens when I try.”

“Can you say it without talking about it?” I asked, hoping that it made more sense to her than it sounded to me now that I’d verbalised it.

“I… I could tell you a story… legend says that the fabled artificer John of Sheffield made the artefacts by which the Hounds were controlled. Like all of those with the Talent he had tried to hide from the Witchfinders. Unfortunately, he didn’t hide well enough and they caught him. It is said that he was brought before the Witchfinder General himself where John was offered a deal, for his skill as an artificer was known even to the Witchfinders. The deal offered was that if John would forge artefacts that would enable the mundane Witchfinders to find those with the Talent, then he and his family would be spared.”

“He was a fool to even think about making that deal with a man like the Witchfinder General,” I giggled, rolling my eyes at the forced burst of happiness.

“You’d be surprised at how many people would do the most reprehensible things to others in order to save their own life or that of their family,” said Danique, staring at the ring. “Anyway, John set to work on forging the artefacts, hoping that an opportunity would arise for his family to escape if he took as long as he could to make them. The flaw in this plan was that John had failed to take into account that the Witchfinder General was a famously impatient man. When John told him that it would take at least a month to forge the artefacts, the Witchfinder General told him that if that were the case his family would not live to see out the week.”

“Driven by love and desperation, John worked the metal and enchantments night and day for five days. During the day, the Witchfinder’s finest blacksmiths worked gruelling shifts in an attempt to keep up with John but come the night only John would be left working. His only company would be the ringing of metal-on-metal, the constant hiss of air from the bellows and the crackling of the bonfires that lit the darkness to enable him to continue his work. On the fifth and final night, John stopped and announced to the Witchfinder General that the artefacts, his greatest works, were finished save for the final sealing of the enchantments under the first rays of the morning sun. In exchange for his work he asked for his family to be freed as he had been promised. ‘But they are free’ replied the Witchfinder General as he placed an arm around John’s shoulders and pointed to the bonfires that ringed the forge. ‘I’ve been so impressed with your work that I’ve been setting one free from their sins each night as a reward’. Realising his folly, John lashed out at the Witchfinder General gouging out one of his eyes before he was killed. As the Witchfinders were unable to incant the final enchantments when the sun rose, the artefacts set with a number of flaws. Flaws like the requirement that the Ring of Servitude be willingly accepted.”

“So… you’re saying that the ring makes you a Hound?” I asked, looking again at the non-descript golden band on Danique’s finger.

“I’m… so much more due to my metamorphic nature. I’m not just a tracker but through the Ring of Mastery, they intend to make me an assassin. I can assume 3 or 4 different appearances in the course of a year. You see the other ring gives its mundane wearer complete control over whoever wears a linked Ring of Servitude. It enables them to see through the eyes of those they control and instruct them as required.”

“I’m sorry. But I still don’t understand why you accepted the ring in the first place?”

“Because although you have to accept the ring voluntarily, you don’t have to know what it is you are accepting… and I was a stupid woman in love,” replied Danique, a sad smile crossing her face.

“Changelings can fall in love?”

I wished I hadn’t said it the moment the words left my lips from the pained look Danique gave me.

“Of course. Birds do it, bees do it… all intelligent life does it. Metamorphs aren’t evil. We’re not even creatures of the Golden Court. We’re an offshoot of humanity. Linneaus called us ‘Homo Mutato’, the ‘Changing Man’ in his catalogues. I grew up in Amsterdam and other than missing the odd school day a couple of times a year due to my need to shed my skin, I was like any other girl. I had a house, a family... even a pet rabbit.”

“You… you’re saying that you’re human?”

“Is it so surprising given you come from a family able to wield magick that there are humans who can shed their skins like snakes? Like some mammals lay eggs, so we evolved the ability to shed our outer skin 2 or 3 times a year. Unlike a snake though we can change our new skins appearance. How does that make us any less human, or you any more human, by virtue of us being different? You sound like a warlock.”

And she was right. It could have just as easily been my mother talking about my pixies. Danique’s differences had led me to classify her as different. To deny her in my mind the most basic of things. A home life. A childhood. Love. Wasn’t it the cry of every conquistador, every empire builder, and every bigot? To quantify those that were different in ways and terms that removed the common bonds of humanity to make them something else, something to be feared... or persecuted. I couldn’t help but wonder what Homo Neanderthalensis first thought of Homo Sapiens. Would they have recognised us as also being humans despite the differences in our appearance?

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Thank you Alan. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“So how… why did you accept the ring?”

“I was 24 and had recently taken a job with a large multi-national company based in Amsterdam as a junior lawyer. I’d just returned from a year of travelling the world and moved out of my parent’s house. That’s the house of my biological parents I should add as we aren’t the child stealers of legend. Anyway, I met a man through mutual friends at a bar. His name was Pieter and he worked for another law firm in the city. He was handsome, funny, charming and best of all he seemed to like me. We’d been dating for about six months and were getting really serious. Serious to the degree that I knew I had to tell him about myself soon. On our anniversary he surprised me by whisking me off to Paris for a romantic weekend.”

Danique blotted a single tear that had cleared a track down her blood stained cheek with the back of her hand.

“It… it was at dinner that night that he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I remember sobbing hysterically while repeating ‘ja’ over and over in answer to his proposal as he slipped the ring onto my finger. Then… then I don’t really remember much. Snatches of conversation, brief images of scenes and people until I regained my thoughts again on the floor of a small hotel in Brighton. I remember seeing a terrified old woman tied up on the bed in front of me and I remember the first and only time I met the wearer of the controlling ring in person. I couldn’t believe it was him at first. He should have been dead for centuries but there he was, looking just as the legends say.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say… the ring won’t let me. He instructed me never to reveal his identity. It was weird seeing a childhood nightmare in human form standing before me. A man of the past in modern clothes. That wasn’t the only contradiction in him either. He… he…”

I watched Danique wipe at more tears this time, smearing the blood on her face to reveal clear batches only to cover them up with more blood with the next wipe.

“He… he kissed Agnes on top of her head, like you would a small child, and he thanked her. He thanked her for living a good life. He thanked her for being a pure child of Adam, untainted by the Talent or knowledge of the Craft. He thanked her for her sacrifice. And then he walked to the door, only stopping to put his hand on my head like you would a faithful dog. In the same tone of voice you might use to tell someone the time of day he told me to take Agnes’ form, ensuring I took her very essence from her bone marrow into my being when I did so, and then if she was still alive at the end of the process I was to kill her.”

I felt some of my own tears silently running down my face at the thought of the way poor Agnes had died. Terrified and alone. It made my stomach churn a little at the thought. No one deserved to die that way.

“And I’m sorry I have to do this but the ring is reminding me that a timescale was set in my commands for dealing with you.”

With a flick of her wrist she raked her talons across my stomach, thin lines of red visible through my ripped clothing. I giggled in response to the searing pain.

Yeah, giggled.

It seemed by accident of wanting to keep me quiet, Danique’s masters had robbed me of the ability to summon by one asset, my pixies, to help me. Yes, I could feel sorrow but the happy juice quickly replaced it with a feeling of almost euphoric happiness. I couldn’t project alarm through the empathic link even under physical pain, so there was no way I could trigger a defensive response from Sunflower or Canada. Oddly though, part of me was glad that this was the case. Did I really want to endanger my chil–the pixies–in such a way? I couldn’t see a way out of this without someone dying. I would rather die than make my pixies, my… my babies… killers. I couldn’t summon them to help but I’m not sure I wanted to anyway. What a mess. Or to put it another way, my canoe seemed to be in the river but lacking an oar.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated again, before proceeding to suck my blood from the end of her talons. I hoped I was a poor vintage.

“I need your blood to start the transformation. While I can copy your form from a visual impression, blood enables a more perfect copy. If it’s any small consolation I look no more forward to becoming male than I did becoming Agnes.”

Two thoughts came to mind. One that I wish she’d stop constantly apologising to me and two, boy was she in for a shock when she started to change given my current female state under the glamour.

“Why Agnes? And why me?” I asked, trying to find a way to stall for as much time as I could.

The very end of my fingertips and toes had started to tingle in earnest suggesting there was a limit to the time the happy juice would keep me immobile. I just had to live long enough to exploit it and hope the mysterious ‘they’ hadn’t been intelligent enough to set Danique’s operational timeframe to the time it took for the happy juice to expire.

“Why Agnes? Because she was a mundane who had recently moved next door to the head of House Goodspeed. They have a particular grievance against your family line because of… of…”

I watched Danique struggle again trying to articulate words that never came out. With a sad shrug, she stopped and continued speaking.

“They knew she had already been vetted by the Family when she first moved to Ackholt and wasn’t under any suspicion. The timing of Agnes’ visit to Brighton to see her sister was perfect for their timetable so the decision was made to take her then. As for why you, well you were the only mundane in your family. I have no Talent so I couldn’t replace someone with the Talent, which ruled out others in your family.”

Ohhhh… now that’s got to be a bad joke. I’m going to die because I chose to reject the use of my Talent, which the mysterious ‘they’ have interpreted as my not having a Talent. Great. Peachy. Wonderful. I’m going to go to heaven hearing my mother’s “I told you so” ringing in my ears. Unless…

“Would it change anything if I told you that I had the Talent?” I asked, a hopeful note creeping into my voice. Maybe I could reason myself out of this mess.

“Please tell me that you aren’t lying?” she begged, grasping my arms firmly in her hands. I winced in pain as her sharp but partially retracted talons dug into my flesh. “You can free us both with your Craft!”

“I’m telling the truth but… but I might as well not be,” I replied, a moan dying on my lips as it changed into a giggle. “I have the Talent but know only the most basic ABC’s of the Craft. I couldn’t even cast a primary school level spell.”

“Why?” cried a visibly distraught Danique, her grip tightening on my arms. “Why would you not know your Craft?”

“There was an… incident... I witnessed when I was younger…” I said, my voice trailing off as I bit my lip to hold back the memory. Even now it had the capacity to reduce me to tears.

“There must be something you can do? I don’t want to do this, be this… puppet. I want to be me again. Can’t you try to do something? Even a badly cast spell might attract some attention!”

“I’m sorry but even if I wanted too, I just don’t have the knowledge to do so. I always said I would live or die by my choice. I guess that turned out to be true.”

“At least you get to die,” snapped Danique. “I would rather die than live through what is ahead of me. Damn you, Alan Goodspeed. Damn you!”

“Trust me, I don’t want to die,” I said with a giggle.

Yeah, that really should have been said more grumpily. It seemed my emotions were still zigging when they should be zagging. Danique let out a grunt of pain as her features rippled, her skin taking on a paler colour closer to my own.

“It’s started,” she hissed between clenched but reforming teeth. “What… it’s not changing…”

A confused look on Danique’s face suggested to me that she’d noticed the lack of some very specific changes as her face started to mirror that of girl me.

“Surprise?” I asked, letting a genuine giggle escape this time.

“You’re a… but how… that’s not possible…”

Concentrating on my right hand, I found that I could move my fingers into a clumsy approximation of a fist, in part thanks to Danique’s unintentional stimulation of my arm muscles with the points of her talons. The confused look on Danique’s, well actually I guess my, face at the changes she was undergoing told me that this was probably ‘the’ moment. That moment in a Hollywood film where things look their bleakest and then the action hero says a killer one liner before escaping and shifting the film into the third act. This was ‘the’ moment. This was my moment.

And I couldn’t think of a killer one liner. I’d make sure that they changed that in the movie of my life.

Clumsily and with a great deal of body twisting, I swung my arm upwards, my loosely clenched fist slapped hard against the underside of Danique’s jaw summoning just enough force to rock her backwards onto the floor. With a cry that Serena Williams would be proud of I pushed myself up and towards the door. Behind me I heard Danique snarl and knew she wouldn’t be stopped for long, the instructions from her ring master probably covering what to do in the event I tried to escape. Focusing on the door and freedom, I made it half a step before the rope tied around my numb legs pulled tight and my legs buckled under me causing me to crash to the floor.

A floor which oddly smelt of wildflowers and grass and tickled my nose as it waved on a soft breeze. I really needed to find out what carpet freshener she used.

“Let’s get her up. She hasn’t got all day,” said a voice from somewhere behind me. A voice with a strong Cornish accent. A voice that wasn’t mine or Danique’s or Danique’s copy of mine.

I felt two strong arms grasp me on each side and hoist me to my feet, causing my long hair to fall across my face. Another surprise was that my legs seemed to have found some of their strength again and I could see that they were free of the rope that had bound me. Carefully placing my weight on one leg I realised that my helpers were more bracing than carrying me.

“Did my father send yo–“

Any further words I might have said died in my throat as I cleared my hair from eyes. Instead of standing in the spare bedroom of Agnes and George Gentry, I appeared to be standing in a field overlooking a grassy plain. In front of me stood an imposing golden fabric tent, a row of banners gently fluttering in the wind in front of it. Each banner seemed to represent something or someone unknown to me.

“Queen Joan awaits an audience with you, Mistress Goodspeed.”

I crooked my head to get a better look at the voice to my left. I’m not sure what I expected to find but it mostly definitely wasn’t a tall blue skinned amazon, her athletic body marked with white painted Celtic tribal markings all over with the exception of her mane of long flowing white hair. Her torso and upper thighs were covered by leather armour and a large sword hung from her belt. In the hand not supporting me she held a large round shield. She made quite an imposing sight. A sight made all the more imposing by the gossamer like pixie wings protruding from her back at shoulder blade height. Turning my head the other way, I saw a similarly attired blue woman supporting me.

“Queen Joan?” I asked. The name seemed to be familiar to me but I found I couldn’t place it.

“Aye, her majesty will see you now.”

“Queen Joan of where?” I asked, leaning against the women as we slowly started walking towards the golden tent.

“Of everywhere. Though to her people she is known as Queen Joan the Wad.”

“Wait… Queen Joan the Wad? The Queen Joan who is Queen of all the Pixies?”

“Yes, which other Queen Joan do you know of?” asked my Cornish voiced rescuer, the hint of amusement dancing in her voice.

“I’m not in Ackholt anymore am I?”

“Yes and No. You’re still in Ackholt as well as being here. Here is Buckland St Mary in Somerset at the same time as being somewhere else that isn’t.”

“Well, that seems fine then.”

And then I passed out because it seemed the right thing to do in the circumstances.
 

~o~O~o~
 
“–will help but I really hope this one isn’t going to make a habit of this. We don’t have time to wait for her to wake up, as she must return soon. Use the water.”

My eyes shot open just in time to see a crystal pitcher of water being upended over my head. Coughing and spluttering, I rolled to my side gulping down much needed deep waterless breaths.

“Ah good, welcome back little one,” said a smirking blue face as it leant down to my field of vision. “If you would like to collect yourself quickly your audience with your Queen awaits.”

Slowly moving to an upright sitting position I saw that I was in some sort of anti-room in the golden tent. To one end of the room I could see through the tent flaps as they wafted on a light breeze to the grassy field outside and to the other end of the room stood two more tall blue women standing with crossed spears blocking entry to whatever was beyond. Accepting an offered hand I rose unsteadily to my feet, finding that I still needed assistance to remain standing.

“I have a lot of questions,” I said, leaning heavily against my companions as they guided me towards the guarded entrance.

“I’m not surprised. However, the one thing you don’t have right now is time. I’m sure the Queen will explain what she can though.”

In response to a curt nod from my more talkative companion, the guards uncrossed their spears and pulled back the flaps to let us through to the next room. In comparison to the well-lit ante-chamber, the next room was much darker with the only light source coming from a ring of small braziers dotted around the outside of the room that did less to illuminate than create a monstrous shadow puppet show against the golden canvas walls of the tent. At one end of the room were two golden thrones, identical in every way, seated next to each other on a small dais.

At the sound of our entrance an older blue woman who was wearing an ornately embroidered golden robe banged a long staff three times against the floor of the dais.

“All rise in the presence of Queen Joan I, co-regent of the pixies, Lady of the moors, the forests and the gardens, Lady of the dance and Keeper of the Golden Torch!” she proclaimed. As my legs were starting to ache I felt exceedingly grateful that I had no need to adjust my position.

Given the blue furred nature of my pixies and the blue skins of my new more humanoid companions, it would be fair to say that I expected Queen Joan to be similarly hued. It therefore came as an immense surprise when a woman with a deep golden tan and a mane of brilliant golden hair entered the chamber. If it wasn’t for the fact that she literally glowed, throwing a deep golden light across the room, and wore a crown encrusted with a myriad of gemstones I would have pegged her for nothing more than a well-tanned glamour model.

“Well met, Alan Goodspeed, scion of the Houses of Goodspeed and Grimm. We greet thee as one mother to another and proclaim to all who ask that as our daughter-in-spirit she is well beloved by our most royal self.”

Taking the hint as my companions pushed gently down on my shoulders, I shakily bent down to one knee to kiss the offered ring covered hand.

“Your majesty, you do me great honour,” I replied. I might not know what was going on here but it seemed a safe bet to say nice things to a queen, just in case she was an ‘orf wiv his head’ type of monarch as opposed to the ‘my government and I’ sort.

“No, you do us the honour Alan. Please sit with our most royal selves,” she replied, gesturing to a plump padded bench nearby. Royalty, the only way you could refer to yourself in the third person and not get committed to an institution.

“We are sure that you have many questions you would wish to ask of us.”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Then perhaps let us start with an easy one?” she asked.

“Where am I?”

“Excellent question. It leads to so many others. Such as why you are here. You should know that physically your body is in Ackholt still and once this meeting is concluded we will return you to it. Be assured that in Ackholt only a few seconds will have passed when you return. We regret having to meet in such a way but we are unable to meet in person at this point in time so we had your astral form summoned to us. We are on the astral plane at a place modelled on Buckland St Mary in Somerset as it was fifteen hundred years ago at the time of our peoples’ greatest victory. Given what you will face, we thought it fitting to show you the very place from which we defeated our mortal enemy.”

“Who?”

“The Fey. To be more precise faeries.”

“Wait… like Tinkerbelle faeries?”

I’ve seen Peter Pan and think I could handle that kind of threat. It certainly seems like I’d have a better chance against them as opposed to being eaten alive by a changeling.

“The humans’ ability to rewrite history never ceases to surprise me,” she replied with a dismissive way of her hand. “No. Ferocious carnivorous flying swarms that would devour a human caught alone in the woods in minutes, the flesh stripped from the bone before his remains could hit the ground. Tricksters leading humans to their deaths on the moors and in the marshes by offering false lights for no reason other than they could. Kidnappers who lure children away from their parents never to return. These are the creatures of darkness not Disney.”

“But this is history surely? Given that most of them left with the rest of the Golden Court?”

Yeah, there is this whole other history of the world you aren’t taught in regular school but that those in the Family are raised with, whether we like it or not in my case. Honestly, I could think of a few bestselling fiction authors who would give their right arms or a few other right things for the real history of the world. That being said, if I had a choice I’d live in ignorance like the rest of the mundane. It’s much better to live an A J P Taylor version of world history that makes sense than it is to know the Lovecraft / Stoker / Shelly version. Suffice to say when I was told the real story behind the assassination of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval as a small child it gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards. As part of this other ‘history’ every child with the Talent knows that the aristocracy of the Golden Court left our realm in the 5th Century, though nobody knows where to or why. Oh, there are lots of theories but I think at the time my ancestors were just glad that the Golden Court had gone and weren’t keen to question why in too much detail in case they came back.

“History? Not anymore. The Golden Court is planning to return from its exile in that other realm. We will need all our people and the allied races who stood against the Golden Court last time if we are to stop their advance forces establishing a foothold in this realm. Failure would see the return of the dark times.”

“So the attack on me is from the agents of the Golden Court?”

“Oh no, of course not,” replied the Queen, patting my hand affectionately. I felt like a small child who had just asked a silly question that amused an adult. “They do not consider you a sufficient threat to warrant that sort of attention. At least not yet anyway. As far as they are concerned you are just another human with the Talent. No, the attack on you is a human matter. It is of no consequence.”

“Of no consequence? I was about to be eaten alive!”

“We will deal with that in a moment my child,” she replied, placing a finger against my lips. “Please do not become distressed over the matter. Rest assured that we will not let our daughter-in-spirit come to any harm.”

“I… I don’t want to die…”

“Then you must learn to let go of human concerns. The humans played no role in our war against the forces of the mad Queen Mab last time and we foresee no role for them this time,” she said, placing an arm around me so that my head came to rest against her shoulder.

“But I am human.”

“Looks can be deceiving as you should know. Human? Once you were my dear,” she replied, tenderly stroking my hair. “Now though you are Pyskie, our daughter-in-spirit.”

“Pixie?”

“No Pys-kie,” she replied, emphasising the syllables. “Those who were once the human guardians of the pixies. The pixies are children of the wild magick. Did you not think it would have any effect on you?”

“I’m no Pyskie. I’m still human. I’m still Alan Goodspeed,” I said, flicking a strand of my long blonde hair out of my eyes.

“As were all the Pyskie once,” said the Queen, pointing to one of the blue skinned women in the room. “Aelfwyn for example was once known as Aelfgar. She was born in 425AD by your calendar, the second son of a blacksmith in a small Cornish village.”

“But she looks like at most she is in her mid-twenties.”

“Another blessing of being one of the Pyskie. You will have a life span on a par with that of the Elves. In normal circumstances Aelfwyn could expect to see another millennia of life easily.”

“I don’t want to be a Pyskie. I don’t want to be a warlock. I just want to be me. I just want to have a normal life.”

“And what of your children, our daughter-in-spirit?”

“I can have a normal life and still care for them, love them.”

“As every mother should,” she replied with an approving nod. “Yet without our assistance you will most certainly not see out the night. Unless of course you intend to use your Talent?”

“No… not that I could without knowledge of the Craft anyway.”

The Talent was just the ability to use magick. I had that and could do nothing about it. It was genetic. However, the Craft was the knowledge of how to use magick and that was what I had rejected, refusing to learn it.

“Suppose we could give you the knowledge of the Craft at the click of our fingers?”

“I would not use it.”

“Then your only other option is to embrace your Pyskie side. Pyskie’s do not need the Craft for physically they are stronger, more dexterous, and faster than a normal human... or a changeling.”

“I am not a Pyskie.”

“So what other options are left to you?”

“You could summon help for me from the Family?” I asked hopefully.

“We could but we will not. Such an intervention by us would not go unnoticed by the Golden Court.”

“So?”

“And by doing so it would alert them to your existence, our daughter-in-spirit. Do you honestly believe that you could protect your children against an Elf or a Troll?”

For Elves think less Legolas, and more Bruce Lee. Skilled in unarmed and armed combat with lightning fast reflexes. They couldn’t just kill you with a bow, they could kill you with a piece of paper given the chance. As for Trolls, think gamma radiated comic book characters on steroids with a taste for human flesh. As dangerous as they were during the night, they were even more dangerous during the day when their skin hardened to become as tough as stone. Against either of these creatures I didn’t stand a chance but luckily most of them had left with the Golden Court.

“No… but you could though.”

“Yes we could but to do so would cost us the coming war before it even began. Our husband and co-regent, King Jack, has a portion of our forces in your realm but not enough to win an outright confrontation with the forces of the Golden Court. We still need more time to organise the remainder of our forces and those of our allies, many of whom such as Brownies, Bluecaps, Pucas and Hobs are not by their nature warriors or of a warrior mentality. Our husband seeks to rally those of a warrior nature who have no love for the Golden Court to our aid but we simply do not have enough warriors now.”

“So where does that leave me?” I asked, fairly certain the answer was still in a canoe afloat on increasingly smelly water but lacking paddles.

“The same place you were before. If you do not wish to use your Talent then you must embrace your Pyskie nature.”

“I choose neither,” I replied, my contrary nature bristling at the forced options being put before me. I refused to believe that these were my only choices. That my continued survival was dependent on giving up something of myself.

“Then we will see you in the next life,” said the Queen, her voice heavy with sadness. “For you cannot triumph over a changeling alone.”

“You don–“

“My Queen,” interrupted one of the blue skinned Pyskies. “It is time.”

“We are sorry our daughter-in-spirit, but it is time for you to return to your realm,” said the Queen, gently cupping my face with a hand. “We wish that we could have spent more time with you for you are truly dearer to ourselves than you realise.”

“How do I do that? Return I mean?” I asked, as I was being helped onto unsteady feet by my former companions once more. “Do I click my heels together three times and say ‘there is no place like home’?”

“If that works for you then yes. However, it is more traditionally done by releasing the astral tether that holds you to this place and letting the spiritual anchor of your body pull you back to your own realm.”

“And if I don’t return?” I asked.

“Then time will continue to pass but at an equal rate here and in the physical plane. Your physical form will be consumed by the changeling, who will take your place while your spirit will forever be trapped on the astral plane unable to return or pass onto the next life. Meanwhile, your children will die of starvation, assuming that the changeling does not kill them first.”

When she put it like that, it didn’t seem much of a choice.

“Take a deep calming breath, close your eyes and feel the tether,” said the Queen placing a hand on lightly on my chest. “Breath slowly our daughter-in-spirit. Feel the tether.”

I closed my eyes as instructed and slowed my breathing as much as I could, taking in deep breaths and slowly exhaling through my mouth. Focusing on the sound of my breathing I tried to let go of the world around me and focus on my mysterious unseen tether.

“Can you feel it our daughter-in-spirit?”

I could feel it alright. I could feel a previously unnoticed soreness from the hours I had been walking around braless and the bruising from where I had fallen face first against the floor. I was fairly certain that was going to leave a mark. I could also feel where my underwear was riding and if that wasn’t enough I could feel how hot my multiple sock layered feet were. What I couldn’t feel, Obi Wan, was the force.

I shook my head, opening my eyes to look at the Queen.

“There is no shame our daughter-in-spirit,” she replied, reaching out to straighten my tie. “Very few can do it first time as most have difficulty letting go of the physical illusion around you.”

“So what do I do? You said I didn’t have much time left.”

“Aelfwyn,” said the Queen gesturing to one of my two companions. “Let Arden bear her weight while you help our daughter-in-spirit return to her realm.”

“As you command, my Queen.”

“We ask once more our daughter-in-spirit, will you accept your true nature?” asked the Queen. I shook my head in reply.

“So be it. While we cannot help you we can take steps to prevent your children from coming to any harm,” said the Queen. Reaching into a pouch hanging from her belt she sprinkled some sort of dust over my head.

“What did you do?”

“Fear not, we did nothing to you save for keeping your children out of harm’s way. We will ask you one more time our daughter-in-spirit, will you accept your true nature?”

“No. As the great philosopher said, ‘I yam what I yam’. I’ll live or die by that,” I replied with more bravado than I felt.

“Then we wish you well, our daughter-in-spirit. We will make you this offer once more today and it is our fondest hope that you are in a more receptive frame of mind on that occasion. You may proceed Aelfwyn,” said the Queen, with a click of her fingers. I felt a weird pain in my head much akin to an ice cream headache and let out a small grunt of discomfort.

“Mistress Goodspeed?” asked Aelfwyn, calling my attention back to my surroundings. “I will momentarily distract you which should be sufficient to release your tether to this plane. Are you ready?”

“I guess,” I replied, my voice not entirely hiding my scepticism over whether this would work.

“Look! A troll!” shouted Aelfwyn, pointing off into the distance. I glanced in that direction momentarily before turning back to her.

“I think you’re going to have to do better than tha–“

And then she punched me in the face.

Hard.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Opening my eyes, I found myself staring at the pattern of the spare bedroom carpet back at Agnes’ house. Reaching up to rub my sore jaw, I vowed that next time I met Aelfwyn I’d return the favour to her.

Reaching up…

Wiggling my fingers I realised that I had regained feeling in them and motor control had returned. While my head felt like it as full of cotton wool, my body seemed to be responding just fine and I rolled onto my back. I started to sit up only to be knocked back down by a snarling Danique, her taloned hand extended above me like a fleshy Sword of Damocles.

“Damn it!” I cursed, reaching out to lock my fingers in hers so as to force her taloned hand back. “Fight it.”

“Who are you girl?” said my newly formed twin. “What happened to Alan?”

Glancing down between us I noticed the glamour also seemed to have gone, revealing my current physical form for the first time to Danique. The physical form that she now wore.

“It’s me but it’s complicated,” I replied in understatement worthy of its own Guinness Book of Records entry.

“Before… that was a glamour?”

“Yes,” I grunted, the muscles in my arms stinging in pain as her superior strength started to press down on me. “As I said… it’s… complicated.”

“Then you really have the Talent?” she asked, hope creeping into her voice. It seemed she needed a physical demonstration to believe my earlier statement.

“Yes… but… I… have… no… knowledge… of… the… Craft…”

Her talons were inching closer and closer to me and I knew even using all my strength to resist that I couldn’t hold out for long. As my arm started to shake under the pressure, I felt a tear run down my cheek at the thought of all that I had yet to do in life, at the loss of my family and my chil–the pixies... my babies.

No.

They could take everything else from me but I wouldn’t let them hurt my babies.

With a scream I pushed with all my might against Danique’s hand, channelling all my will as well as my strength into one last desperate attempt to break free. As my fingers locked tighter against Danique’s I felt the warmth of the Ring of Servitude against my skin. A warmth that quickly rose to a burning sensation.

“What are you doing?” screamed Danique, her hand pulling back from me as sparks erupted in the air around it. Still despite this I kept my own fingers firmly locked against hers, not wanting to give her the chance to come back at me.

“I won’t let you hurt them,” I hissed, the light show around her hands intensifying.

As I pushed Danique’s hand further back my eyes briefly locked with hers and I saw the mixture of confusion, fear and hope in them. Yes, hope. The hope that I might be able to free her from her entrapment. Shifting my grip slightly, I tried to trap the ring between two of my fingers and slide it off her hand. For a moment it moved and I thought I might yet be able to free her. However, a searing heat that caused both of us to scream in pain locked the ring back into place on her finger.

“Try… try again,” whispered Danique through gritted teeth, the pain she was feeling evident on her face. “You moved it. Try again.”

Squeezing the burning metal between my fingers again I tried once more to slide it off her fingers. Just as I was rewarded my another slight movement I felt Danique’s hand press down against mine hard, forcing my grip on the ring to loosen as her razor sharp talons moved closer towards me.

“Damn it,” I hissed, “You have to fight it. Try and stop doing that or I’ll never get it off.”

“It’s not me…” replied, Danique her eyes wide with fear.

“Of course it’s yo–“

Anything further I might have said died on my lips as I saw a ghostly third hand pressing down on the back of Danique’s. Tilting my head to get a better look beyond her I saw a smartly dressed handsome man. Yet at the same time there was a brittleness to him that made him seem like some sort of male clothing model. Handsome but at the same time… plastic. Soulless.

“Who?”

“My… my master,” whispered Danique. “He’s using the ring to channel his presence.”

Turning my attention to the ring, I noticed that it had started to glow a deep red and as I once more tried to press my fingers against it the sensation changed from that of hard burning metal to something more akin to hot sticky marshmallow. It slipped out of my pincer like grasp each time I pressed against it.

As the tips of the talons started to brush against my clothes I pressed back with renewed vigour, trying to focus my very being into pushing Danique off of me. Once more the air around our locked hands seemed to spark but this time I felt something else, a tickling sensation in the back of my head that seemed to emanate from the Ring. I felt my whole body shudder as the tingling ran up and down my spine and then my world seemed to explode as image after image flashed through my mind. Images of Agnes’ life. Images of Danique’s life. Images of…

I screamed as something pressed back in my mind blocking the flow of new images. As I looked upwards at the figure behind Danique I noticed him shimmer and blur for a moment. Gone was the handsome smartly dressed man and in his place was a figure wearing the armour and clothing of a Civil War New Model Army cavalryman. Behind his lobster-pot helmet’s three barred visor I could see a face that might once have been called handsome were it not for the long jagged scar running up from the cheek and across the left eye. A left eye with a yellow animal like iris that was in stark contrast to his normal blue-grey right eye.

“So… a wolf in sheep’s clothing are you boy?” hissed the voice.

The accent had a strong East Anglian sound, with ‘you’ sounding like ‘yer’ and ‘boy’ sounding like ‘boi’.The accent seemed to come and go giving his voice an odd quality as it flipped between ‘BBC’ English and East Anglian.

“Like that bastard ancestor of yours, you hide your true nature from the world. Only this time ol’ Matty’s ready for you.”

With a flick of his eyes at my hand still entwined with Danique’s, I watched in horror as the squishy metal of the ring started to separate and part of it flow across to my own hand, wrapping itself around my finger like some sort of metal serpent.

“It seems that I’ll have you under the ring as well.”

“No! I… won’t… accept… it…”

“You’ll accept it boy, or I’ll kill your mother. Do you really want to be responsible for your ma’s death as well as your own? Accept the ring boy and you’ll both live, you have my word.”

Renewing his pressure on Danique’s hand I screamed as I felt the points of her talons start to break the surface of my skin and slowly sink into my flesh, coming to rest against the bones of my rib cage. Feeling the splash of something on my face, I peeked up at Danique to see that despite the snarl that possessed her face, the tears running from her eyes told another story.

“Accept the ring!” hissed the figure again.

“No-ooooooo!” I replied, my words again ending in a scream as the first of Danique’s talons pierced the flesh between my ribs, sinking deeper into me.

My eyes met Danique’s for what I thought would be one final time as the rest of her talons pushed deeper into my body and I watched a tear run down her nose and fall towards me.

And then stop, suspended in mid-air.

“So, our daughter-in-spirit you persist in denying your true self?” whispered a disembodied barely audible voice.

“Help me… please” I sobbed. The pain radiating from my chest was becoming unbearable and I was fairly certain one of Danique’s talons had punctured a lung.

“We are sorry but we cannot intervene directly our daughter-in-spirit for the reasons that we explained,” replied the Queen, her voice tinged with sadness. “It seems however that we have made a most terrible miscalculation for which we are truly sorry. However, you are the only one who can save yourself now. You are at a crossroads. Choose the Craft. Choose your true Pyskie nature. Choose to die. Choose to become a slave to the Witchfinders. These are the only paths open to you now. Whatever choice you make my daughter-in-spirit, you must choose wisely for your decision will have far greater repercussions than you may at first realise. You may yet be the first casualty of the coming war.”

“Help me…”

“Choose wisely my daughter. Know that I love you more than you will ever know.”

The tear splashed against my face as with a rush, the sounds around me returned. The grunting of Danique as she struggled both against her controller and the insane gloating noises coming from our ghostly companion.

I had a choice to make and no time with which to think about properly. It felt like I was being pressured on some game show - ‘we asked one hundred people what Alan would do in this situation and they said...’ kind of thing. Well, there was no way I was going to let Danique be made to kill me and by extension my babies. No way, no how was accepting the Ring of Servitude and the half-life of an existence that went with it. Those were both big crosses on my imaginary game show board. I dreaded to think would my new ghostly master would do with his control of my pixies through me. So, that left embracing the Craft which I had spent most of my life rejecting or take a leap of faith into the unknown and accept being a Pyskie with whatever that entailed.

It was no choice at all really.

“Accept the ring,” hissed the ghostly figure above me as I felt a talon pressing against my heart. “Accept the ring before it is too late.”

“Go. To. Hell!” I screamed, pushing back with the last of my strength.

“Been there. It couldn’t hold as pure a soul as mine!”

At first nothing happened but then slowly, inch-by-inch, Danique’s talons slid free from my body. I think the look of surprise on Danique’s face probably mirrored my own as I was watched blue skin spread out from under my sleeves up towards the tips of my fingers. As the blue skin came into contact with the squishy band of gold on my finger, it caused the metal to bubble and evaporate leaving a trail of golden sparkles in the air.

“No! Kill it! Kill it now!”

“Let her go!” I shouted, pushing Danique further off me as I started to rise to my knees but still keeping our fingers interlocked.

Focussing on the fading tickling sensation in the back of my mind I pressed hard against it, feeling the residual connection from the Ring of Servitude. I could ‘see’ a thread running from Danique’s ring to the hand of the ghostly figure who I assumed was the holder of the Ring of Mastery and tried to will the connection broken.

“No! I know not what you are foul creature but I defy you!”

A surge of feedback from the link rocked me backwards but I still fought to keep my fingers locked with Danique’s to maintain the connection now that my own ring was gone. I called out to Danique for assistance only then noticing for the first time why she had been so silent. With her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back I wondered if she was even breathing for a moment but the residual link to the ring confirmed she was alive. I could only feel pity for her as the unseen battle of wills unfolding mentally tossed her around like a ragdoll.

“My… name… is… Alan… Goodspeed,” I grunted, pushing again at the fraying mental connection between the rings. “And I will not let you harm this woman!”

“No!” screamed the ghostly figure as the connection between the two rings finally broke. “She’s mine!”

Catching Danique easily in my now much stronger blue arms, I stuck my tongue out at the fading apparition.

“You can’t have her.”

“This does not end here bo–“

And then as silently as it had appeared the figure was gone.

“Alan?” whispered a faint voice muffled by my shoulder where her head had come to rest. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Ewww… well not on me,” I laughed, pushing Danique back in my arms to open some space between her.

And it was Danique. Free from the control of the ring, her features were rippling and returning back to those of the young woman I had seen earlier, Danique’s true form.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and get out of here,” I said, wiping some of the blood covering her face clear with my sleeve. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one night.”

I finally realised what the cotton wool feeling was in my head as it cleared. The Queen had placed some sort of filter on my empathic link to my babi– my pixies– following my return that had acted like the happy juice to stop me from alerting them to my situation. Whereas with the happy juice this had been an unintentional consequence, I knew the Queen had done so to protect my chil–my pixies from harm. While I understood why she had done this given that I had been conflicted about involving them in this myself, I made a mental note that royalty or not we would have words should we ever meet again given the danger it had placed me in. Not that I hoped we would be meeting again anytime soon. I wanted to be free of that craziness just as much as I wanted to be free of the Family’s craziness.

“Tikka?”

“Hello Sunflower,” I answered before looking up at the pixie hovering above me. “Please get my father and bring him here.”

“Tikka!” replied Sunflower, disappearing in a swirl of light. The connection between Sunflower and myself seemed oddly simple to use for once and I knew instinctively she had understood my request.

“I’m thinking there are a few things you were holding out on me about little girl blue,” said Danique, her voice heavy with tiredness. “For a start should I be calling you Alan or Alan-nah?”

“Alan. It’s Alan. Really,” I added at her raised eyebrow.

“Now let’s get you to your feet and your modesty better covered before my father arrives eh?” I said, gesturing to her torn blouse. Sliding my own torn and blood stained jacket off, I placed it around Danique’s shoulders.

“There, that should help,” I said, as she pulled it tight around her.

“Alan! Your shirt!”

Looking down at my now baggy shirt, I noticed the blood stains across the chest.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” sobbed Danique, covering the lower part of her face in her hands.

“Ummm… I think it’s okay,” I replied, lifting my shirt to look at the skin underneath. Running my fingers over the blood patches I found that I couldn’t even find a scar to show where Danique’s talons had penetrated my body.

“Alan?”

“Huh… I think my Pyskie transformation must have healed the damage.”

“You really are amazing Alan Goodspeed,” said Danique, relief flooding into her voice as she pulled me into a comforting hug. “If it wasn’t for you…”

In reply I squeezed her back, not needing any words. Danique started to speak again but I cut her words short by pressing a finger against her lips.

“It’s been a crazy night. I don’t know about you but all I want to do right now is go to bed.”

“Is that a proposition?” asked Danique with a smile. “Only I don’t normally swing that way but in your case Alan…nah I might make an exception.”

“What? No, I mean it wasn’t…” I yelped, pulling back from her. I wasn’t sure what colour blue people went when they blushed but I was pretty sure that I was doing it.

“Very funny,” I huffed, as Danique shook with laughter. “Oh, Ha… ha…”

Anything that Danique might have said was interrupted by the arrival of my father in a swirl of light accompanied by Sonnet, Canada and Sunflower.

“Al… Alan?” he asked with a frown as he looked over me.

“In the blue flesh,” I replied gesturing at my body.

“What? Who is that?” he asked, noticing Danique for the first time. “Why does she look like she showered in Ribena? What’s going on Alan? Is… is that human flesh on the floor?”

“Tikka, momma pretty!” exclaimed Sonnet as she swooped around me.

“Thank you sweetheart,” I said, rolling a sleeve up to reveal more of my blue skinned arm. “This is going to be a bitch to colour co-ordinate with though.”

“Alan! Language!” snapped my father, in what I’m sure what was a parental Pavlovian response more than conscious thought given the situation he found himself in.

“Sorry dad.”

“Where’s your mother? Where’s Agnes Gentry? Why are you blue? Will someone tell me what’s going on? And why am I standing in lumps of meat?”

“Mom!” I cried, slapping my forehead. “Girls! Find Grandma! Protect!”

In a chorus of ‘tikkas!’ the girls disappeared in little swirls of light.

“Where’s your mother Alan?” repeated my father. “Wh–“

The sounds of shots ringing out as a hail of bullets exploded through the bedroom door interrupted the conversation and I felt myself being pulled heavily to the ground by my father as items on the dresser behind where I had been standing shattered.

Kicking the door open, Aaron Gentry slowly entered the room training his pistol on each of us. In his other hand he held his mobile phone and I could hear a faint buzzing sound of someone speaking on the other end.

“Yessir,” said Aaron, bringing the phone back to his ear. “The changeling and the blue freak are here as you said sir. Also Jeffrey Goodspeed is here. Uh-huh… yessir… understood sir.”

“Message from the boss for you freak,” said Aaron, aiming his weapon at me. “See you in hell.”

Like in some dream I was dimly conscious of Danique and my father screaming as Aaron fired his weapon twice at me. The first shot went high to my right as Danique tackled Aaron. I could only watch in horror as the second shot fired into her torso causing her whole body to jerk. A third shot followed quickly into her body and Aaron pushed the limp form of Danique away from him. As her body hit the ground limply, he trained his gun back on me.

“Goodbye freak!” he yelled as he pulled the trigger.

I’m not sure who was the most surprised of us at the empty click noise from his gun but I was fairly certain though that he was the most surprised of us when my new wings ripped open the back of my shirt. As he turned and ran, I launched myself off the ground after him my new wings turning it into the sort of leap that the average superhero would be proud of. Emerging from the room, I watched as Aaron ran straight into the room on the opposite side of the hallway and leapt through the window into the night beyond.

Cursing the lack of double glazing which would have slowed his exit considerably, I swooped through the shattered glass and broken frame of the window into the night. As my eyes quickly, perhaps even unnaturally so, adjusted to the darkness outside I spotted Aaron ungainly climb-fall over the fence into the neighbour’s garden.

With the sort of bellow that Brian Blessed would be proud of, I dived towards Aaron hitting him with enough momentum to carry the two of us through a further set of wooden fence panelling and a small garden gnome infested rockery into the next garden. Despite being at the bottom of our tangled pile Aaron reacted first and hit me with a pistol butt to my face. As I rolled off him I heard the click sound that a thousand movies told me was a fresh magazine being inserted into the pistols grip.

Clearly in pain from our garden remodelling, Aaron let out a raspy chuckle-cough as he levelled the pistol at me.

“My fence!”

Distracted by Mr Parkinson’s distress at our impromptu remodelling of his garden, I leapt at Aaron grappling for his gun. Whereas before my transformation Aaron might have had the physical edge, my new form gave me the advantage and I quickly turned the gun away from me so that it was pointing between the two of us.

“You… will… not… stop... us!” grunted Aaron as we fought for control of the gun. “If it’s not me… it will be someone else.”

“I’ll… stop… you. My Family will stop you.”

“Like you stopped me killing Danique?” he chuckle-coughed again.

“You don’t know she’s dead!” I cried, pressing the gun down towards him. “My father is healing her as we speak.”

“Trust me boy… I know dead… and she was dead… before she hit the floor.”

“No! You lie!”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a swirl of light and two pink fluffy bunny slippers appear.

“A-- Alan?” asked the new arrival.

“Yes it’s me, Aunt Sophie.”

“Uh… okay. Roger, would you go back indoors and get your wand and bring Margaret with you?” asked Aunt Sophie. “Alan, you need to move a little to the side so I can see the gun. Don’t worry, I’ve got the situation.”

“He has a gun,” I repeated, no longer actively pushing it back into Aaron but using my strength to hold it in position.

“I know. Your father said. Don’t worry I’m prepared. You don’t have to let go of the gun, just move back enough so I can see it and render it inert. Turning the bullets into chalk should do it.”

“How is Danique?” I asked, risking a glance at Aunt Sophie.

“Your father didn’t say.”

She didn’t need to say any more. The way she briefly closed her eyes and looked away told me all I needed to know.

“See boy. When I make them dead, their dead,” chuckled Aaron. “Fitting really that I ended her given I was the one that captured her in the first place.”

“You… you’re… you’re…”

“Pieter,” he replied, his voice taking on a Dutch accent before he broke into another fit of chuckle-coughing.

“No…” I whispered, my voice trailing off.

“Alan, let us handle matters from here on,” said Aunt Sophie softly.

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“He’ll be taken to Mount Tartarus.”

Mount Tartarus. It wasn’t actually the mythical Tartarus but instead a combined court and prison located in the Bavarian Alps where the Great Houses sent those who could not be dealt with through the mundane courts. The majority of its population were witches and warlocks who had turned to the Black Craft but there were some creatures of the Golden Court and a few others held there. From what I understood it was all frightfully civilised these days, a far cry from the situation when it was first built in the 17th Century.

“What will happen to him?”

“If found guilty by the Board of Magistrates, which I think we can take as a given, he will be sentenced to spend the remainder of his life there or until such time as they deem he is sufficiently rehabilitated and can be released back into the world. Most likely the former.”

“Will someone get this boy off of me and get me a doctor?” said Aaron, his face creased in a dismissive sneer as he looked me.

“No…”

“Alan… move back so I can do what I need too.”

“You heard her. Be a good boy and do as you are told,” he said, breaking up into another bout of chuckle-coughing. “Go bury your little friend. Don’t worry, your time in the ground will come soon enough.”

“No.”

A single shot rang out in the stillness of the night.

“Alan!”

Slowly rising to my feet, I tossed the smoking gun away from me.

“Alan?”

“It went off. Accidentally. Probably.”

“He’s dead,” said Aunt Sophie, crouching down to check his pulse.

“Yes. I’m sure he is,” I said turning towards the direction of my house. “He knows dead after all.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
"Then put your little hand in mine, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb, Babe, I got you babe, I got you babe..."

I groggily reached out and slapped at the front of my iPhone sending it into snooze. As I rolled back into bed a chorus of sleepy squeaks protested as the bed shifted under me.

"I know guys, I know..." I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "I guess five more minutes wouldn't hurt. It's not like today is going to be any different from yesterday, or the day before..."

It had been a week since what we had taken to euphemistically taken to calling 'the incident'. The real elephant in the room was Aaron/Pieter's death, which no-one was prepared to talk about my role in.

The local paper mentioned the tragic death of Mrs Gentry due to a faulty gas fire leading to carbon monoxide poisoning. I'd assumed that it was simply a matter of placing a glamour on the body of Danique and then having our own coroner rubber stamp the story. Easy enough given that the paramedics who responded to the 999 call placed was also a Family member. The paper said Mrs Gentry's body would be cremated according to the wishes of her family, or I guess that should be in accordance with the wishes of The Family to ensure no one could follow up on it. Mr Gentry it turned out was fine, just drugged and asleep in his bedroom, and a couple of days ago he moved out of town to live with his real son. It turns out Aaron had used some sort of potion on Mr Gentry to make him think he was his son. It struck me as another oddity that a group of people so dedicated to tracking down witches and warlocks seemed so ready to use magick artefacts against us. Perhaps they rationalised it in some way but to be honest, I didn’t really care enough to think too hard about it.

In typical Family style, they had already put in a generous offer for the Gentry's house which had been accepted. All nice and neat with no loose ends. Organised crime could probably learn a thing or two from us.

Dad had avoided me as much as he could beyond checking me out to make sure I was physically fine on the night. Mum was just quiet. Uncle John had found her still in the Gentry’s kitchen, the sleeping draught had kept her unconscious during everything that happened but otherwise she was unharmed. When she looked at me it was with an air of great sadness and several times it looked like she'd been crying about something. I think I would have preferred her to scream and shout at me because at least that would be normal.

I’d tried to mention my weird eyed spectral assailant but the Family Council had been less than willing to believe me. Given all the weird things that existed in our world it was almost laughable that they refused to accept the return of the Witchfinders. I couldn’t help but recall the rhyme taught to little warlocks and witches:

“Say your prayers before you sleep,

Or else into your dreams he will creep,

And spirit you away from your comfortable bed,

To a place where the hangman’s noose lays upon your head,

And from his gibbet you will swing,

While to hell One Eyed Matty doth your soul to bring.”

They did however at least accept that Aaron was working for somebody, the remains of Danique’s Ring of Servitude convinced them of that. They just couldn’t agree if it was the Witchfinders, another House, practitioners of the Black Craft or some random mundane group.

I hadn't mentioned my trip to see Queen Joan or the coming of the Golden Court because if they couldn’t accept the truth in front of them it seemed unlikely they would accept the truth hidden from them. Besides, Queen Joan had said that the return of the Golden Court wasn’t a human matter. I was also worried that Mrs Dorian might use such talk as an excuse for having me packed off to the Institute. I was certain that my dad knew that there was more to what happened than I was saying but he had declined to press me on the matter beyond the most half-hearted attempt at questioning. Given the Vow of Obligation I was under it wouldn’t have taken long to get the truth out of me.

On top of that, I was still suspended from school and under what more or less amounted to house arrest by The Family for, air quote, 'my protection'. It had been made very clear to me that all talk of the ‘Witchfinders' returning was forbidden until such time as the Family Council could come establish the truth and that was fine with me. So I spent most of my time in my room with the girls, who had become a little clingy following 'the incident', which in turn meant I had spent the entire week in girl form. In fact, not once had I changed back since ‘the incident’. A new record for girl me. Well, girl Pyskie form me. It seemed my default look with the girls now was as a Pyskie, which was going to be interesting if I underwent a forced change in public. At least going from human boy to human girl meant that most people didn’t pay too much attention to me other than to stare at my ill-fitting clothes. Being blue and having wings was a whole new kettle of aquatic chordates.

Feeling playful, I turned to Sonnet who had been sleeping on my pillow and nuzzled into her soft fur causing her to let out a warm purr and roll into me. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite as soft and soothing as pixie fur. It makes kitten fur feel like sandpaper in comparison. Of course that sets the others off and soon I'm covered in thirteen other little furry bodies all wanting to get in on the fun. I couldn't help but start giggling as Rainbow crawled under my camisole pyjama top tickling my tummy as her fur rubbed against me. They thought that was hilarious and pretty soon I was crying with laughter as fourteen furry bodies and tiny hands started tickling me. During the last week my empathic link with my pixies was pretty much back to where it had been before but the love that my litter... my babies... was projecting was just so intense that I was almost ready to forget about my troubles and just be this girl, this mother, when a knock on my bedroom door pulled me back to the real world.

"Alan? Are you decent?" called my mother.

"I guess," I panted between gasping for breath as the ticklefest abated. I carefully sat up, making sure that no one was knocked over or fell off the bed as my mother entered the room and pushed the door closed behind her.

"Alan, I thought... I thought we might talk."

She seemed almost hesitant, like she was scared of something. I briefly meet her eyes and noticed how red they were before she turned away.

"I'll clear a space mum," I replied, smoothing down the end of the duvet and clearing it of pixies. I scooted up against my headboard, tucking my legs under me and taking the opportunity to flex my wings. That was the other reason for the camisole top. It stopped comfortably below my shoulder blades which was where my new wings joined my body.

"What's up?"

"You."

"I...." My jaw worked silently as I tried to find the words to articulate my confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Alan... you really can't see it can you?"

"I... I don't understand. Is... is this about Aaron?"

"Yes. No. Maybe," she said, waving her hands in frustration. “You’ve changed Alan… beyond all… this.”

Taking ‘this’ to mean my new skin colour, I pulled one of my pillows tight to my stomach and took a deep breath.

"I'm still me mum."

"Truth," she whispered sadly, placing a hand on my leg. I noticed the ring on her finger briefly pulse. "But who are you now? Girl? Boy? Something else?”

I shrugged my shoulders in response. “I don’t try and pigeon hole myself as anything. I’m just… me.”

“My son was… is… a gentle soul. Obstinate, contrary and just plain like his mother at times but he was always a gentle soul. This… ‘incident’… I have trouble seeing my son in it.”

“He killed her mum. He killed a young woman with hopes and dreams. He deserved what I did to him.”

Smiling sadly, my mother nodded her head.

“It’s okay. I knew it when I looked in your eyes that night. I saw remorse over Aaron’s death but no regret."

“And she died saving me. Me? Why? I’m no-one. Why?”

“Because she felt you were someone worth saving. Because in those moments free of the ring she was finally able to show the person she truly was? Whatever the reason, I give thanks to her each night for saving you Alan.”

“I’m not special.”

"You are more special to your father and I, than you know sweetie. Just know that if you do feel the need to talk to someone other than your dad or me we can arrange for you to see someone."

"I'm not crazy.”

"I know that. I'm just saying that if you want to, we can arrange for someone for you to talk to okay?"

"I'll think about it," I sighed.

"Thank you," she sniffled.

I gripped the pillow tighter, resting my chin on top of it.

"What did you mean when you said about changes being beyond my skin colour?" I asked.

"You can't see it can you?"

"You know I've no knowledge of the Craft.”

"You know that auras are rainbow coloured right?"

"D'uh," I snorted. "You spent enough time hammering the colour wheel into us as kids. I also remember that each colour has a meaning sort of like a Green Lantern's ring but not."

"Almost. And less of the lip young man."

"Sorry," I mumbled, staring down at my feet. "Though you probably mean 'young lady' in the circumstances."

My mother frowned for a moment, as if she wanted to say something in response before continuing.

"As I was saying... normal auras are rainbow coloured but in addition there are two other colours, which are spots rather than bands. Experience can change our auras, as can physical or emotional trauma. The colours tint or shade in response. Blue doesn’t become yellow but the shade of blue can change. Your… transformation,” she said gesturing at my body. “In your case... it's your red aura that was affected."

"What about my red aura?"

"Well red auras are different in males from females. Men tend towards shades of red like crimson, while women tend towards tints of red like amaranth. We think that your… transformation… was the reason your aura changed, effectively lightening your shade of red."

“But I’ve changed gender regularly for six months since I bonded with my litter. No one said anything about changes to my aura then.”

“Because there wasn’t anything significant. Yes, in your girl form your red aura tinted but as soon as you became Alan again it reverted to normal. Now though… now it’s… changed.”

"Changed?" I asked, a lump forming in my throat as I recalled basic colour theory. I had a really bad feeling about where this was going. "You mean that I'm now a tint not a shade?"

"If it were only that simple," she sniffled. "You were never a deep shade in the first place Alan. Yet the lightest tint of red you will ever find in a woman's aura is a pale red, at most a very red rose and never a pink rose for example."

"And mine is?"

Turning away from me for a second, she pulled a screwed up tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.

"Come. Let me show you," she sniffled. She moved over to the full length mirror on my wardrobe.

Still hugging my pillow tight, I uncurled my legs and nervously took my place beside my mother. My wings fluttered nervously in tune with my stomach as I nodded my assent to her. She placed her hand on my shoulder and I saw her ring briefly glow as she focussed her Talent.

"Videre!" she exclaimed.

I watched as the space around my reflection rippled and the faint rainbow of my aura appeared becoming brighter as my mother concentrated. A normal aura was red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. Mine was all that except the red was most definitely a pink colour. Maybe a French Rose? If it wasn't so horrifying I might even laugh at the way the colour wheel information unwillingly hammered into me as a pre-teen came back so quickly.

"What does this mean?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from my reflected aura.

"No one knows for sure. The consensus of opinion seems to be that the feminine side of your personality will be more dominant in the shorter term. Some of the Elders think that it may pass with time and your natural shade of red will reassert itself."

"But you're not so sure are you?" I asked, noting the way she avoided making eye contact with me in the mirror.

"I... I spoke to your Aunt Sophie. She noticed some... other... changes to your aura."

"What changes?"

"May I?" asked my mother, holding her hand up to show the sapphire ring of her Craft. “I want to revert you back to your Alan again.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes and waited.

"Discute!"

I felt my skin tingle briefly, rippling out from where my mother touched my shoulder. Only once the feeling had receded did I dare to open my eyes. Reflected in the mirror in front of me was a tall, slightly plain, teenage girl standing in front of a woman who could only be her mother given the strong family resemblance that was as clear in this form as it was in my 'pixie momma' form. Turning slightly I could see my wings were now gone at least.

I dropped the pillow I had been clutching to my chest and tugged at my slightly lose camisole top. Glancing down I noticed that what I seemed to be smaller in the bust but there was still the unmistakable signs of womanhood there still that would probably have me labelled as a late bloomer for my age... if I was a girl. I seemed to have picked up some of my old height, gaining three or four more inches, and had even regained some of my old muscle definition. I was no Miss World but I was on the right side of athletic without being freakishly muscled which I was grateful for. I was momentarily surprised to see that my long wavy blonde hair had remained instead of my shorter male haircut although I guess I shouldn't have been so shocked as apart from a familiar feeling in my underwear there was very little to indicate that I was physically male in this form. Modestly endowed bean pole of a girl? Yup, plenty of evidence for that. Red blood English boy... not so much evidence while fully clothed. From the feel of things much evidence for it while naked either.

"This... this is my male form?" I asked, turning wide eyed to face my mother.

"Yes," whispered my mother as she dabbed at the tears running down her cheek. "Until your aura sorts itself out this is the closest you can get to your real self."

"No..."

"We'll find a way to reverse this Alan," said my mother, pulling me into an embrace. "Your father consulted the Goodspeed House library without any luck and left for Munich earlier today to speak to your Grandpa to see if House Grimm has anything in its records about your sort of transformation."

"Opa knows?" I asked, using the German term he preferred me to call him by. "What did he say about what I did?"

"You know your Opa. He attaches no blame to you. Family comes first and the fact we are both alive and well is the most important thing to him."

I frowned and turned to face my mother.

"Yeah, I know Opa. I also know that's not all he would have to say on the matter."

Grandpa Grimm was an old school warlock. So old school you probably wrote on a slate in chalk in his lessons. I heard him hammering the same message into my brother and sister every time we visited. Never let your guard down. Always assume that everyone is your enemy. Trust no one who isn't Family. Trust no one who isn't blood kin. Never stop at gingerbread houses.

I may have made one of those up.

"I didn't lie when I said he didn't blame you," replied my mother, wiping fresh tears from her eyes. "He blames me. I... I let my guard down with the Gentry's and... and almost lost you... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry Alan. I let you down."

I watched in stunned silence as my mother stopped speaking to bury her face in her hands. I'd expected many things from this conversation but I wasn't expecting that.

"Your Opa is right to blame me. I knew the lessons. I nearly... I should have..."

Dropping to her knees, my watched my mother's whole body convulsed in great body heaving sobs. I felt my jaw work silently as my mouth tried to find the words my brain couldn't.

"Mum no... don't do this to yourself," I pleaded, wrapping my arms around her drawing her close to me. "Nobody, and I mean nobody, suspected the Gentry's of being Trojan Horses. Things could have gone much, much worse. We're all okay."

"But for how much longer?" she sniffled. "Whoever they are they know we are here. Who knows what exactly they relayed about Ackholt? How many more like the Gentry's are planted here?"

"We're pretty entrenched here mum. A lot of the town is either Family or blood family and there can't have been that many people that moved to the town in the last year or so. Dad can get the Family to check on that."

"If these are the Witchfinders they aren't to be underestimated. That's another of your Opa's lessons," she said, wiping at her red rimmed eyes.

“You believe me?” I said, struggling to hide the surprise from my voice. “You believe me that it is the return of the Witchfinders?”

“You’re my son Alan. Of course I believe you,” she replied, before raising her hand to show me her ring. “Plus, I know when you are lying.”

I snorted with laughter at that, noting the small smile on my mother’s face.

"Opa fought the Witchfinders in the last Great Magick War didn't he?" I asked.

My mother nodded in response, wiping away her tears. She gently touched my arm to let me know to let her up.

"He was just a kid wasn't he?" I asked as she climbed to her feet and sat down again on my bed.

"You Opa was 14 when the Great Magick War broke out in '55. His father, my opa, had only just got House Grimm back on its feet after the Second World War and our numbers were quite depleted of warlocks and witches with experience. We'd pushed the Witchfinders almost to extinction in the late 1890’s but they'd used the time offered by the wars of the early 20th Century to regroup. They knew that many of the Great Houses were weakened following the turmoil caused by the two world wars so they gambled everything on a full frontal assault on House Grimm and the other major European Houses."

"But they failed though."

"Yes... though it was a close run thing and we lost many members of the Family but when the dust settled they were all gone. The Great Houses announced every last Witchfinder was dead. Since then for fifty years we’ve had no reason to doubt that."

“Until now.”

“Until now,” replied my mother. “I’d hoped that neither of us would ever live to see another Magick War. Now I’m not so sure and unlike last time with the discord between the Great Houses of Europe I don’t know if we could survive such a war.”

"I’m sure it won’t come to that again,” I said hugging my mother. "Thanks to Opa, House Grimm is stronger now. It's had two generations to rebuild after all, and then there is its alliance with House Goodspeed. The Great Magick War never reached England or its Great Houses, so we’re strong in numbers. Dad won't let House Grimm fight alone against the Witchfinders."

"Maybe..."

I released my mother from my embrace, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Maybe? What else is there that you aren't telling me?"

"Nothing," she replied quickly, wiping at her eyes as she stood. Her voice took on a more familiar tone as she addressed me. "You should get dressed. You’re going to a meeting of the Corrective Craft Group later and it will do you good to get out of the house."

"I'm freed from house arrest?" I asked, my voice filled with hope.

"It's not house arrest Alan, it's for your own protection,” she said with a sigh. Yep, mum was back.

“Anyway, the Council have said as long as you are accompanied they see no problem with you leaving the house. Aunt Sophie and Uncle John will be accompanying us for protection."

"Great," I moaned. "When are you fitting me with the ankle bracelet?"

"I don't like it any more than you do Alan but I won't risk losing you again."

"But muuuuumm..."

"No buts Alan," she replied, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. "Be ready to go in forty-five minutes or you can stay indoors or all day. I'll apply a glamour to make you look like your old self."

"Yes mum," I replied, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
 

~o~O~o~
 
An hour later, because regardless of how I looked I still had a teenage boy’s inability to be on time anywhere, the newly glamoured old me stepped out of our car in the grounds of a country house just outside Ackholt. Another of the Family’s holdings, this had once been the country seat of an ancestor of mine before my family (without the capital ‘F’) had fallen on hard times several centuries ago. Now the House and the surrounding lands were held by a Family owned trust after being brought off of an aging rock star who had acquired it as some sort of tax avoidance scheme in the 70’s and it was used by the Family as a retreat of sorts for those who needed to get away from the pace of the modern world for a bit. It was also where the Craft training classes were held, including the meetings of the Corrective Craft Group.

The air was still cold and thick with moisture and I didn’t resist as Uncle John quickly spirited me into the warmth of the building. Aunt Sophie and my mother were a few paces behind talking in hushed whispers that I could only assume meant they were talking about me. Entering the impressive wood panelled lobby, I was steered towards the sexily dressed smiling young receptionist. She had the perfect figure, curving in all the right places and well-endowed enough that I was feeling a trifle neglected by the boob fairy. Her make-up was flawless and looked professionally applied. Part of me lusted over her and part of my felt deeply insecure just standing near her. I had no idea what she was on to smile that intensely but it was clearly good stuff.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Godspeede House,” she said in her lilting musical voice. “How may I help you?”

I was pretty sure that her ‘good morning’ could cause Captains to dash their ships against the rocks it was that enchanting.

“We’re friends of the Family,” replied Uncle John, producing a piece of cloth with his Chapter symbol on it.

“Why little Johnny,” excitedly squeaked the woman who looked far too young to be calling anyone over the age of 18 ‘little’ anything. “It’s been ages since I saw you last. How’s your mother doing?”

“She’s doing fine, thank you.”

“And your father? Still the same handsome devil he was in his youth? You get your looks from him you know.”

“Thank you, people say that. My father’s well too.”

“Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again. Please tell them both that Constance asked after them,” she said, pulling a bag of knitting out from its hiding place under the desk. The child’s jumper with a cute animal on it didn’t look to me like the sort of thing that a woman in a satin blouse should be knitting.

“Of course,” replied Uncle John as he leant down to kiss Constance on the cheek. “You must drop by and see them sometime.”

“I will do that thank you,” she said smiling. “Corrective Craft Group is down the hall to the left, Master Goodspeed.”

Taking our leave of her we headed down another echoey wood panelled corridor.

“Well, well… old Granny Constance eh?” chuckled Uncle John as we walked. “I wondered what she was up to these days. I’ve seen few with her strength of Talent and it’s nice to see her still keeping her hand in.”

Granny? Oh… I mentally slapped my forehead at that.

“Why was she wearing a glamour?” I asked. Perhaps the question should be ‘who isn’t wearing a glamour?’ I thought as I looked down at my own illusion.

“It’s to present a consistent face to the public and allow us to put anyone on reception duty. She’s not wearing the glamour per se, rather the chair is enchanted to project that glamour on anyone who sits in it.”

“So she’s not really 21 and hot?”

“With the draft coming through those main doors?” laughed Uncle John. “She’s 93 and probably wearing five jumpers to keep the cold out under that glamour.”

Great. First it’s fake octogenarians who were really twenty-something’s and now it’s fake twenty-something’s who were really nonagenarians. At this rate I’d never meet a nice girl my age who was really my age.

“Here we are,” said Uncle John coming to a halt outside a room with a colourfully painted sign welcoming me to Corrective Craft Group. “This building is secure so we’ve agreed to give you some space with the Misf–with the Group.”

“You mean the Misfits,” I said, throwing my hands heavenwards. “Let’s not beat about the bush here.”

“I meant the Group,” said Uncle John, emphasising the word ‘group’. “If you need any of us we’ll be in the coffee room down the hall.”

“Yay me.”

“In you go Alan,” said Uncle John, giving me a forceful nudge into the room.

I’m not sure what I expected the Misfits to be like, but on entering the room I was fairly certain that however bad I imagined it to be this was worse.

The walls were covered with regularly spaced motivational posters showing insufferably smug looking people achieving things accompanied by trite fortune cookie slogans. In the centre of the spartanly furnished room was a circle of a dozen chairs, about half of which were occupied by assorted teenagers whom I could only assume were the members of the Misfits.

Taking a deep breath I walked towards a small trestle table that had a large hot water filled urn on it and an assortment of biscuits on a platter. Scanning the biscuit platter I made a note of the last couple of Jammie Dodgers as I pulled out a tired looking Styrofoam cup from the dispenser and filled it with hot water. Forget the Witchfinders, these people were truly evil. Styrofoam — mankinds way of saying ‘suck it mother nature’ given the sun would go supernova long before these things biodegraded.

“Hi! You must be our newest member! My name’s–“

“Sally,” I interrupted, pointing to the label stuck on her baggy sweater dress.

“Oh you!” she said, playfully swatting at my arm.

“Oh me!” I sarcastically mimicked, though from her expression I think it was lost on her.

“And you are?” she asked, spiriting a clipboard out of nowhere.

“Roberts.”

“Is that you first or last name?” she asked, raising the top sheet to check the ones below.

“Last.”

“Hmmmm. I don’t see a Mr Roberts here… what’s your first name?”

“Dread Pirate. It could be under listed under ‘D’ or ‘P’ I suppose?”

“I don’t see a ‘dread pirate’ anywhere,” she said, flicking through the sheets on the clipboard.

“Maybe I’m in the wrong class then. How about I go back to reception and–“

“ALAN LEWIS GOODSPEED!” bellowed my mother from the doorway, cutting me off in mid-sentence. I swear that woman has bat hearing.

“Or it could be filed under that I guess?” I asked, noting Sally’s cocked eyebrow and cross expression.

“Take a seat Mr Goodspeed,” she snapped, slapping my name label on with far more force than I felt warranted. Grabbing the last two Jammie Dodgers she stormed off back to the seated circle leaving me to face a bleak future filled with Garibaldis and custard creams.

Foregoing any biscuit based succour, I took my cup of hot water and took a seat as far away from the other inmates as I could in the circle. Just being in the room was killing my street cred, let alone actually being associated with anyone through social interaction.

“Okay, I think as many of us are here as are going to be,” announced Sally from her seat at the notional head of the circle. I suppressed the urge to point out to her that circles didn’t really have heads.

“I’d like you all to join me in welcoming our newest member of the Corrective Craft Group’s ‘Untamed Familiars Club’. Let’s give it up for Alan Goodspeed!”

First rule of Untamed Familiars Club. There is no Untamed Familiars Club. Anyone asks you remember that right?

I wondered if it was too late to get a pass for the bathroom. Maybe I could use it to slip free of my 'protectors' and run away to join the Foreign Legion. I had an awful lot I wanted to forget after all.
 

~o~O~o~
 
End of Chapter 2

 

 

Alan Goodspeed is an ordinary teenage boy with all the hopes and dreams of any other teenage boy. Except for when he was a teenage girl. And then there was the whole pixie parenthood thing. That's fairly normal... right?

 

Fair warning, this is Chapter 3 in a series that I've not finished yet. That being said, for those who do decide to proceed, it's all plotted and I do intend to finish this, even if it is at the normal Jemima pace of things and will be woven around producing chapters of 'We are Family'. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this third chapter! I would particularly like to thank Melanie E. for her encouragement.This chapter should be less dark than the previous chapter and certainly we see the return of the lighter Alan after a bit of plot (see tags) but like any story it needs dark to sustain the light. And of course *big hugs* to everyone who took the time to kudos and comment on chapter one. It was genuinely appreciated. Thank you.I'm still overwhelmed by how popular this story has been.
 
Previously in Chapter 2…
 
“Okay, I think as many of us are here as are going to be,” announced Sally from her seat at the notional head of the circle. I suppressed the urge to point out to her that circles didn’t really have heads.

“I’d like you all to join me in welcoming our newest member of the Corrective Craft Group’s ‘Untamed Familiars Club’. Let’s give it up for Alan Goodspeed!”

First rule of Untamed Familiars Club. There is no Untamed Familiars Club. Anyone asks you remember that right?

I wondered if it was too late to get a pass for the bathroom. Maybe I could use it to slip free of my 'protectors' and run away to join the Foreign Legion. I had an awful lot I wanted to forget after all.

And now… Chapter 3
 
Electorate of Bavaria: The Year of Our Lord, Sixteen Hundred and Forty-Nine
 
Captain Alan Godespeed, Sir Alexander Tyneford’s Regiment of Horse
 
I disliked subterfuge but given the nature of our quarry and the merry dance that he had led us across Europe, I felt we had no choice if we were to catch him. Nodding to the two men sitting opposite me in the darkened booth, I released the clasp on my heavy woollen riding cloak. It had kept me warm during the long months of our pursuit but it would only serve to hinder me now in the final end game. While the roaring fireplace had warmed the room there was still a cold chill seeping in from outside and I hoped that I would be able to return to its warmth soon.

I nodded to a second group of my men as I scanned the tavern, my eyes only briefly alighting on our quarry. There was no mistaking him, the jagged scar and eye patch easily identified him as he sat at a table in discussion with a group of simply dressed men. Men who were in my employee, a few gold coins were all that was needed to bait the trap. These men cared not that the coin was an English Unite but just for the gold it was pressed from. As much as it pained me to profit from the sins of man, I found myself leaning forward in anticipation as their conversation came to an end.

“Barkellner! Ein weiteres getrá¤nk fá¼r unsere englischen freund!“ shouted one of the men with his hand raised to the barman, the signal loud enough to be heard throughout the tavern and hopefully outside it too.

My hopes were rewarded a few moments later as the door to the tavern was thrown open and led by my junior officer, Cornet William Brown, three of my men entered. They seemed to shine in the dimness of the tavern, the candle and lamplight reflecting off their distinctive polished lobster-tailed pot helmets and their left handed bridle gauntlets.

“Matthew Hopkins, I order ye to surrender in the name of Parliament and the Commonwealth!” demanded Cornet Brown, drawing his sword.

For a moment silence reined throughout the tavern, the sight of English New Model Army cavalry troopers surprising all present. Then with a bellowing roar, Hopkins overturned the table scattering the men seated around it in all directions and momentarily regaining the advantage over my troopers. Pulling a cocked dog lock pistol from his belt, he fired a shot that sent one of my men tumbling to the ground.

“HOPKINS!” I shouted over the sound of the pistol shot.

As the smoke from the pistol cleared, I jumped from my seat causing my riding cloak to fall away as I drew my sword. I could already see the other members of my troop fanning out, their own swords drawn.

“Godespeed!” he spat, noticing me for the first time. “I had hoped that ye had given up on this mad quest of yours. Be gone with you! Thy Commonwealth has no more authority over me here than you do. Be gone back to England with ye.”

“And let a ne’er do well such as thee go free? No, thou shall run no more but instead return with me to England to stand trial for thy crimes.”

“Crimes? What crimes does thou speake of?”

“The murder of over 300 people.”

“People? No. Witches... Yes. Each one undergoing trial in keeping with the law. I challenge thee to find one who swung from my gallows who did not deserve it.”

“One? I will give thee two for a start. Faith Prudence Godespeed. She was twelve days away from her fifth birthday when thou hung her,” I growled, tightening the grip on my sword. “Her mother, and my wife, Verity Anne Godespeed.”

“Ahhh,” said Hopkins with a sad smile. “This I understand. Revenge.”

“Not revenge. Justice.”

“Call it what thou will, it does not matter.”

“It does to me. It does to each of my men, all of whom lost someone the day you came to Ackholt.”

“So this is to be an execution?” asked Hopkins fidgeting slightly as he took in the angry faces of the soldiers around him for the first time.

“Not unless ye make it so. You will return with us to England for trial and I shall take great pleasure in watching thee swing from the hangman’s noose.”

“I think that I will decline your kind offer,” said Hopkins, reaching into his jacket.

What he withdrew made even members of my troop, hardened veterans of the English Civil War to a man, gasp out loud. The object was a withered hand and given its size it could have belonged at best to a petite woman, possibly even a child. On its ring finger it wore the simple ring worn by all witches to focus their Talent.

“Displodo!” bellowed Hopkins before throwing the hand to the ground in front of my men and myself.

The clear stone in the ring briefly pulsed blue before the tavern filled with a deafening roar of sound and burst of blinding light. Through the spots of light that danced across my vision I saw Hopkins charge through the doorway scattering reeling members of the troop and disappear into the night.

“See to the men and then follow me,” I shouted over the ringing in my ears as I grabbed my dazed Lieutenant by the collar of his leather coat. Sprinting out in the darkness I set out after Hopkins, his fleeing form still visible in the distance.
 

~o~O~o~
 
“Goddess protect me,” I whispered, placing my hand against the bark of a nearby tree. “And if it is not too much to ask, may God also watch over me this night too.”

The forest was pitch black, with occasional shafts of dappled moonlight visible through the tree canopy high above providing what little illumination there was. A few times I had seen brief flashes of things pacing me that I could hope were only wolves or bears. I had seen no sign of either my men or Hopkins for several hours now. As I had gone deeper into the forest I had felt its mood change and more and more I would come across trees and hollows that seemed to radiate malice. These areas I avoided as best I could and when I had no choice but to traverse them, I did so warily but also quickly. I would have turned back to the tavern but had found myself so turned around in the forest that I knew I had no hope of retracing my steps until daylight. Tightening my grip on the hilt of my sword, I once more resumed my pursuit.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Emerging blinking from the darkness of the trees, I entered a moonlit clearing that left me feeling a sense of deep unease. I would have worked my way around it if it were not for the figure sitting with his back against a tree stump in the centre of the clearing. Cocking my own pistol, I approached him carrying my sword in my other hand. Hopkins had shown himself to be nothing if not devious in the months that we had been pursuing him and I was leaving nothing to chance.

“Hopkins,” I warned as I approached. “Be still or I will shoot ye.”

I kicked his pistol away from where it rested next to him and slid my sword back into its scabbard. Around the edges of the clearing I could see several indistinct figures moving but whatever they were they never came close enough to the treeline for me to see them clearly.

“It’s against my better judgement but we will wait here until first light,” I said knowing for all my unease in this place it at least offered clear sight lines and a better chance to defend myself should this be something more than just wolves.

“I am sorry about your family,” said Hopkins, still staring down at the ground from his position resting against the tree stump.

I grunted in response, words of apology insufficient to quench the anger I felt at what had been taken from me.

“Did you know I trained as a solicitor?” he asked, his voice carrying on the chilled breeze around the clearing. “Had my businesses not failed I would never have even walked this road. It was when I was facing financial ruination that I overheard two women talking about their dealings with a man they likened to the devil. It was then that I recalled the words of my father, a Puritan minister, and with my legal training and knowledge of the little used Witchcrafte Acte of 1604 I realised I could earn a comfortable living as a Witchfinder in the chaos of war. A magistrate would pay up to 20 shillings per witch on a good day. Per witch. Think about that… I was lucky to earn 3 pennies a day doing manual work and here was a way of earning up to 240 pennies from each witch found guilty by a magistrate.”

“So that’s all it was about? The money?” I hissed.

“At the start, yes.”

“The blood of innocents was worth so little to you?”

“So little? I forget that you are a moneyed man Captain. To one with nothing, 20 shillings was a king’s ransom and it was there for the taking. I styled myself as the Witchfinder General to make it sound like Parliament had approved me, even copied the style of dress of the New Model Army. While the law did not allow me to gain a confession by torture, it was easy enough to gain a confession through simple acts like depriving the accused of sleep or keeping them walking for hours. If necessary, a little bit of trickery could let you prick the skin of the witch without drawing blood using a stage dagger with a retractable blade. If I was really lucky, the accused would give up the names of ‘other’ accomplices in the hope of sparing her life, turning 20 shillings into 40, 60 or more. I made more than 300 pounds in two years work.”

“Hanging is too good for the likes of thee, Hopkins,” I said, fighting the urge to just shoot him and end this now. “But I will still gain great pleasure in watching ye swing.”

“No one died at my hands directly Captain. Each and every one was convicted by a magistrate and executed by a hangman. I just collected my fee for finding them. At the start anyway…”

“At the start?”

“I believed in witches no more than I believed in God at the start. It was all about the money. That all changed though in the village of Market Appleby about six months into my career as the Witchfinder General. A neighbour dispute had led to accusations being made against a woman of being a witch, accusations that I took advantage of, figuring that by the time I was finished I could find 2 or 3 more convictions from others with axes to grind. When we went to arrest her, she screamed something and one of my men was turned to stone. Turned. To. Stone. It was then that I realised that not only were witches real but that God had a plan for me. That I was to be his instrument in finding the witches and bringing them to justice. Of course, real witches were hard to find and it took money and time to do so, requiring me to continue my less legitimate Witchfinder activities in tandem with my real quest. Given that I was doing God’s work was it not unreasonable to suggest that I should benefit from material comforts while doing so?”

I felt my pistol jiggle in my hand as my whole body shook with rage. Yet despite my evident anger Hopkins remained oddly unmoved.

“The more I learnt about real witches, the easier it became to find them but it was still a painfully slow process. I despaired that my true work would end uncompleted and then one day, I heard of the artificer John of Sheffield. The tools he made for me allowed my Witchfinders to find even more witches though the cost was high. He took my left eye in payment.”

“No more than you deserved.”

“Possibly,” he said with a sigh. “I should have continued on to greatness with my works but the trouble was that I remained weak and I would still continue with my less legitimate witchfinder activities. I’d like to say that it was just for the money but if I’m honest, it was as much for the respect people gave me, motivated I know in large part by fear but never the less still respect. My father was anything but an easy man and I never measured up to the standards he set of me. After seeing the scorn and distain of people when I failed as a solicitor it gave me great personal satisfaction to be treated with so much fear and respect as Witchfinder General.”

“Petty jealousy and greed do not excuse the mass murder of innocents.”

“Maybe… but who knows really how many of those I found were truly innocents? Besides, I would have thought one such as you would have had more sympathy for my… legitimate… work.”

“What? Why?”

“Because your reputation as an honest, God fearing soldier in the cause of Parliament is second to none. And then there is your fight against the very evil of witchcraft. Are you not the Captain Godespeed whose men fought and killed a Black Annis, the blue-grey skinned old witch with iron claws and a taste for human flesh that preyed on the wounded after battles? The same man who killed a warlock in the employee of Royalists during the Battle of Naseby? No, we should not be enemies but brothers united in the cause of righteousness.”

“The warlock was a practitioner of the Dark Craft and intended to use his Talent for unspeakable evil. His death was necessary though I took no joy from it. As for the Black Annis… it was a vile creature, a remnant from the time of the Golden Court.”

“I wish we had met under better circumstances. We could have achieved so much together.”

“No. I would never have been able to work with one so evil as thee.”

A noise from just beyond the treeline drew my attention, and I raised my pistol towards it.

“On your feet if you value your life, Hopkins.”

“I will need your help then Captain.”

“Why?”

“I cannot seem to move,” whispered the voice, once more carried on the breeze around the clearing. I looked down at Hopkins unmoving form more carefully this time, noticing for the first time the large gash that had split open his stomach and had ended his life.

“I realised when I entered the forest I was not alone but I never realised that I was being herded here until it was too late. Just before I entered this clearing I was attacked and I barely made it to this spot. Why it hasn’t yet come to finish me off I cannot fathom.”

“Because it does not need to,” I replied, realising that Hopkins was not aware that his physical form had died.

It was then that I recognised what this clearing was. It was a magical trap, known to many as a Devil’s Hollow, though it had no link to the Christian devil. Those that died within it would find their spirits caught in the service of the supernatural entity bound to it, unable to pass on to the next world. Hopkins body may be dead but his spirit still inhabited it unaware of his passing. More worryingly, wherever there was a Devil’s Hollow there were previous victims turned into creatures of nightmare whose task it was to bait the trap and feed the controlling entity.

A roar from the edge of the clearing drew my attention as a creature half-man, half-beast burst forth. I fired my pistol at it, hitting it squarely in the chest causing it to collapse to the ground. It lay there writhing in agony but making now further attempt to move towards me, blood being coughed up from its snout. As I discarded my now useless pistol and drew my sword, more howls could be heard from the edges of the clearing.

“For God’s sake man! Help me up!” called out Hopkins voice.

“I’m sorry. It’s too late for you,” I said, unbuttoning my jacket coat enough to reach inside it.

“What?! You can’t leave me here with those things!”

“Have you not noticed that you could see that creature even though your body is facing away from it?” I asked.

“I… what? I don’t understand…”

Twin howls screamed out as two monstrous shapes burst forth from the treeline.

“Retardo!” I yelled, drawing my wand from my jacket. A burst of light brought the movement of both creatures first to little more than a crawl then to a complete halt.

“You’re… one of them?!?” screamed Hopkins voice. “That means your wife was a… I was right! Your reputation is a lie! You’re one of them! Damn you! Damn you Godespeed!”

More creatures emerged from the treeline this time, spread out so as to make it harder for me to stop them. I immobilised one with a burst of magic from my wand before turning and sprinting away from the remaining creatures. As I disappeared into the tree line, I heard Hopkins voice cursing my name and begging me not to leave him to the mercy of the creatures in alternate breathes.

Crashing through the blackness of the forest I gave up any attempt to hide myself knowing that my only hope was to put enough distance between myself and the hollow so that it would not be worth the creatures’ efforts to take me back there before I died.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Leaning heavily against a tree, I gulped down air. I had been running for what felt like days using only the handful of memorised spells I had whenever the sound of something came too near. While none of those spells had been fatal they had served enough to deter all but the bravest of creatures from coming close to me.

“If… if I’d wanted… to have… run this much… I’d have… joined a… regiment of foote,” I muttered out loud, gasping for breath.

When I finally felt able to breathe again I started to take in my surroundings for the first time. While around me the forest was dark it lacked the same sense of menace as it had earlier. Actually, mostly dark for squinting into the darkness I could make out a faint golden light through the trees. I felt my heart quicken at the thought of something as simple as a woodsman’s hut. Could it offer hope of salvation? A howl in the distant darkness reminded me that I really had no choice in the matter.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Running through the forest I found myself having to change direction several times as if the source of the light had moved though whether that was an illusion due to the obstacles I had to work around or really the case I couldn’t be sure. However, slowly the light went from being a small dot in the distance to actually taking shape and form. As I had hoped it seemed to be a wooden hut, with the source of the light coming from the windows.

I started to slow to a jog as I approached the hut to better gain an appreciation of my surroundings. Something felt… wrong. Not threatening but wrong. It took me a few moments to realise that it was brightness of the light, which was far brighter than a few candles from a simple woodsman’s hut.

As I started to draw my wand from its pocket in my jacket, I heard a growl from behind me. Turning I just managed to bring the metal bridle gauntlet up in time to block the creatures attack as both of us crashed to the ground. I could see now that this creature was some sort of wolf-man cross, its elongated snout and sharp teeth locked firmly around the gauntlet; only the metal and thick padded leather jacket stopping it from having bitten deep into my arm. In my first piece of good fortune all night, its hands were more wolf paws than hand claws and it was clear that its mouth was its main attack. However, the pressure of its teeth as it pressed deep into the leather indicated that these would be sufficient to bite clean through to the bone if it got the chance.

Unable to reach into my pocket for my wand, I tugged at my dagger trying to slide it free from its scabbard on my belt. Just as the metal on my gauntlet started to crack under the pressure I felt the dagger slide free and thrust it up into the side of the creature. As it howled in pain I lashed out with my fist, knocking the creature off me. Clambering to my feet I drew my sword while the creature clumsily pulled my dagger free from its side. Turning to me its eyes briefly darted to my sword before meeting mine. In that instance we both knew what would happen it if attacked me and we both knew that it would still do so none the less. With a last howl it leapt for me, colliding with me like a ton of bricks. As we fell to the ground it snapped its mighty jaws at me once before its head came to a rest on my chest, revealing the bloodied blade of my sword projecting from its back. Pushing the now still creature off of me I lay on the ground drawing ragged breath.

“Hello,” said a woman’s soft voice, shortly followed by a smiling face as it moved into my field of vision. “You must be Alan. I’m Joan.”

It was then that I realised that the source of the light from the woodsman’s hut wasn’t from candles or lanterns. It was from the golden skinned woman looking down at me who literally glowed with light.
 

~o~O~o~
 
“Are you sure that this is a suitable vessel?” hissed the hooded figure as he looked down at the still form of Matthew Hopkins. “It seems very… fragile.”

To underline the point he poked with a partially transparent boot at Hopkins’ guts where they had spilled forth from the stomach wound.

“I’m fairly sure those things are supposed to be inside it. And do they always smell like that?” he asked, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

“The rituals would repair it and provide the form with the sort of strength and resilience that you are more used to my Lord,” replied the woman he had been addressing, her long dirty black hair obscuring much of her face allowing only small patches of grey-blue skin to be visible underneath. “As for the smell… my experience has been that humans smell even worse when alive. That being said when boiled in a stew with a nice selection of root vegetables the smell is more… appealing.”

“It’s hideously ugly. Is that normal?”

“You are an elf my Lord. All humans are ugly in comparison.”

“And this is the only suitable vessel available?”

“Yes my Lord. It has died in the appropriate setting with the necessary charms in place. However, if you want to wait another 50 years for another suitable vessel to be brought here…”

“And this is the only way that I can cross back into this realm?” he asked, the distain evident in his voice.

“The wards guarding this realm are still too strong to allow for one such as yourself to physically cross over without suffering serious ill effect my Lord.”

“And what of this vessel if I were to do as you ask?”

“It would be reanimated, its memories intact and its body repaired. It would be stronger, quicker and tougher than a normal human and have a life span akin to your own.”

“And what of me?”

“Your physical body would remain unharmed in the other realm while you spirit was housed with the vessel. This vessel itself would not have access to any of your memories directly and would still think of itself as the human it was before but you would be able to influence its actions to a sufficient degree so that you could prepare the ground for the return of the Golden Court. I do not believe it would be too difficult for one such as yourself to turn this vessels hatred of our shared enemy to include those creatures of the Seditious Court as well. Over time, should it live long enough you should also be able to exercise greater control in guiding this vessels actions until you reach the point of total control.”

“And when this realm is once more reopened to our return?”

“Then your spirit would return to its true body.”

“Then do it,” said the hooded figure. “And tell your sisters that the Golden Court will not forget their service when the time has come for our return. I also give you my personal word of honour that the Golden Court will grant the boon that you have requested.”

“I look forward to celebrating a mighty feast in Queen Mabs’ name come that day.”

“As do I. Who knows, I may even try some of that human flesh you and your kin are so partial to on that day.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
As the first rays of the dawn fell across the bed I found myself stirring, a habit from my time in the service of Parliament and the Commonwealth. This time however, instead of my sleeping bundle resting on the hard ground, I luxuriated in the feeling of fresh clean sheets and soft comfortable bedding. A smile crossed my face as I thought of the previous night, mingled with a little guilt, as this had been the first time I had lain with a woman since the death of my dear wife.

In many ways Joan had reminded me of her; in the way she fussed over the cuts and bruises from my chase through the forest and even in the food she had served me. If I had not known better I would have sworn that it was my wife’s own vegetable stew she had fed me. I would have been content had that itself been the end to the evening but she had led me to her bedroom insisting that she had to massage in some liniment to ease my aches and pains. Part of me knew that I should have drawn the line there and questioned her about her true nature but another part of me…

Another part of me longed to be with someone who cared for me. The death of Hopkins at a hand other than mine or the hangman’s had left me feeling empty, uncertain. Now that my burning need for justice and yes, revenge, was quenched I felt... nothing… and I had a powerful need to feel something positive after carrying so much grief and rage bottled up for so long. The love we made that night was tender and slow and at times we just lay holding each other in silence, both keeping our own counsel as we contemplated whatever thoughts we had. Now that the morning had come I felt hope for the first time in a long time as to what the day might bring me.

As I rolled over in the bed I noticed a folded piece of paper with my name written on it sitting on a small dresser across the room. Untangling myself from the soft sheets, I pulled on my breeches and quietly padded across the room to the dresser. Glancing at the start of the note I read that there was food for breakfast in the other room. Reading the note as I wandered into the next room of the small hut, I reached into the wicker bread basket on the table only to feel the touch of skin-on-skin rather than that of skin-on-bread. Peering over the letter in my hand I was rewarded by the happy giggle of a small child no more than a couple of weeks old swaddled in a blue blanket. As its little hand grasped at my finger I looked around the empty room for a moment before returning back to the note.

‘…bread and cheese are in the kitchen for your breakfast. I have also mended your clothes as best I can. You will find all you need for your journey home in the pack by the door, though the journey may be shorter than you expect.

Your men will arrive shortly after you read this letter and if you head north from this hut you will find yourself no more than an hour’s ride from Calais. While for you only a night has passed you will find that for your men you have been missing for several months. However, being Ackholt men I’m sure that they will be understanding as to your explanation.

Finally, I enjoyed our time together and will always treasure the memory. I hope that you may be able to forgive me for our actions and bear no ill will towards our son. Raise him as you would any child of your blood and tell him not of how he was conceived.

With love

Joan

PS. I hope you don’t mind but I borrowed your coin and sword.’

Placing the letter on the table I reached into the basket to lift the baby… my son… from it. As I held him in my arms, he smiled a smile full of trust and love up at me. I could see my nose in his and his ears definitely reminded me of my fathers, though his complexion was much more tanned than mine. Still, a lifetime growing up in the English countryside would take that from him. It seemed that I now had an heir to carry forth the Godespeed name.

A happy little giggle escaped from my son as a loud knock sounded at the door.

“Oh boy…”
 

~o~O~o~
 
The Present

Taking a deep breath, I bounced the ball once before rolling left past an imaginary defender. Racing towards the basket I made the jump listening to the thud of the ball hitting the backboard before rebounding to skitter across the rim of the basket and...

Bounce clear.

Slowing my momentum I came to a soft palm out stop against the wall at the back of the hall, the mocking sound of the basketball echoing as it bounced across the court before rolling away.

Perfect.

Even here on the basketball court I couldn’t shake my run of poor luck. That shot would have gone in clean 9 out of 10 times before all this weirdness in my life started. Now I’m lucky to get it in 1 in 10 times. My timing and judgement are shot to pieces and my body just feels… off. Maybe it’s the loss of 5 inches of height, maybe it’s the fact I’m like 95% girl under this glamour or maybe it’s just this is my life now.

I let out a squeal of frustration, slapping the wall. I need to get out from all this now more than ever. I wonder if anyone would notice if I ran away and joined the Harlem Globetrotters? I can see it now, Alan ‘Pixie’ Goodspeed, legendary Globetrotter. I’d tour the world playing exhibition games and urging kids to ‘just say no’ to magick. It sounded a wonderful idea. There’s just no way I’d get loose from my ‘protectors’ given everything that has happened in the last fortnight.

Yeah, can you believe it? It’s been a week since I attended my first ‘Untamed Familiars Club’ session here at Godespeed House. It feels much longer but that’s probably because a punishment that was supposed to last only a few hours a week has turned into pretty much a 24/7 thing. For once it wasn’t my fault, though my bad luck continues to run true to form and I’m suffering the consequences of it. This time the blame falls squarely, if not a little unfairly, with Warlock Arthur Haverstock.

I’d never met Arthur but I’d heard a few gossipy whisperings about him. Arthur was a bit of a celebrity in Ackholt but this had nothing to do with his ability as a warlock. Far from it as by all accounts he was a pretty mediocre warlock at best. Nor was it for his exploits in the ordinary world. Arthur was a slightly overweight, middle aged, middle management accountant working for a medium sized accountancy firm. No, the celebrity status he enjoyed had to do with his wife. Technically his second wife as the previous Mrs Haverstock, who had been a witch, had died two years earlier leaving Arthur to raise twin teenage girls. Anyway, seven months ago Arthur won an all-expenses paid Mediterranean cruise package for one.

He was expected to come back with a tan.

Instead, he came back with a beautiful wife who was twenty years younger than him. And no tan.

Amongst the other middle aged men of Ackholt with their equally as middle aged wives, Arthur became a celebrity, the guest of a hundred dinner parties. Everyone wanted to meet the beautiful young woman that Arthur had married to try and find out what it was that drew her to a man who if you were to describe him in a colour would be called ‘grey’. It turned out all those people who whispered behind Arthur’s back that it was too true to be good and that she was after his money were half right.

It was too good to be true but she didn’t want his money. What she wanted was his Family.

Or rather, the inside access to who was who within the Family he could offer her and he gave her everything she wanted. After all, she was a mundane married into the Family so it would have been strange for her not to have questions. Unfortunately, Arthur never managed to work out the difference between curiosity and soft interrogation. Nor was he suspicious when the new Mrs Haverstock suggested the twins spend some time away from the Institute so that she could get to know them.

Luckily for the Family, and as it turned out unluckily for me, Arthur was on the outer edges of the Family so didn’t have access to its inner circle secrets and gossip. There were some things he just didn’t know and some things he added 2 + 2 together and came up with 5. One of those it turns out was Arthur’s mistaken belief that because I wasn’t at the Institute and because I didn’t practice the Craft, I didn’t have the Talent.

We know how that mistaken belief worked out.

I’m sure Arthur would have unwittingly kept feeding them more information on the Family too if it wasn’t for my father, who before he left for Germany ordered that detailed follow-up checks be conducted on every new arrival over the last year in Ackholt in the light of the Agnes Gentry ‘incident’. I know there were some who thought he was overreacting and that the initial screening process was fine, one incident apart. However, those doubters were proven wrong the moment Mr & Mrs Haverstock and the twins vanished shortly after the checks started into her background.

Arthur Haverstock’s body was found floating in the River Ack two days later.

Uncle John was present when the ritual that summoned Arthur’s spirit back from the afterlife long enough to question him was held, which is how I know all this. Yet again the Family Council was preaching the mantra of silence in respect of possible Witchfinder involvement in order to ‘avoid causing panic’ while it established the ‘full facts’ of recent matters. Personally, I thought the Council’s Great Seal should be redesigned to show an ostrich with its head in the sand. It seemed more appropriate than what was currently on it.

What the Family Council couldn’t hide from was the disappearance of the Haverstock twins, which with the recent attempt on my life seemed to demonstrate that there was a very real threat to the Family children. I had a horrible feeling that the Witchfinders had gained two new Hounds with the disappearance of the twins.

So it was ordered that all those children of the Family who were not at the Institute should be educated at Godespeed House for safety until the facts of the recent incidents could be established to the Council’s satisfaction. Using the Craft and some contacts in government through House Pendragon, one of the great English Houses, they had the Godespeed Free School established and approved in a day. I know from Uncle John that the evil Mrs Dorian had made another attempt to have me sent to the Institute, this time ‘for my safety’, but as there were a couple of other children who were unable to attend the Institute for various reasons it was decided that at this point there was no justification for it, particularly given the Council had so recently passed judgement on me.

In sending the children of the Family to Godespeed Free School you had to take into consideration that there were in effect three sorts of children in Ackholt. The largest group was the ‘mundane’, the normal children without the Talent. Within the mundane however, there were two sub-groupings.

The first, and largest group, was those with no ‘Talented’ parents who were ignorant of the Family and mostly thought magick was spelt without a ‘k’. Basically, ordinary people. None of these children were sent to the Godespeed Free School as it was felt that they weren’t at risk.

The second, and smaller, group of mundane was those with one ‘Talented’ and one ‘Mundane’ parent who had no Talent of their own. They were treated like an extension of the Family, absent from its inner circle but still having a place. It was accepted that any warlock or witch who married a mundane had a roughly 1 in 3 chance of mundane offspring and it was fairly uncommon for someone from the Family to marry outside as a result, though not unheard of. The Family bore them no ill will due to their status in the genetic lottery of the Talent and they were considered at enough of a risk given their proximity to a Family member to be brought to Godespeed for ‘their’ safety. Personally, I thought it had more to do with the safety of the Family member but maybe I’m just a little jaundiced when it comes to the motives of the Family.

The second largest group in Ackholt was the Talented, those children born of one or two Talented parents into the Family and for whom ‘the blood ran true’. Some Family scholars suggested that the Talent trait played some role in promulgating its inheritance as the rate of occurrence where there were two Talented parents was virtually 100%. Very rarely a Talented child would be born to two mundane’s who had some Talented blood in the distant branches of their family tree and they would be welcomed into the Family once discovered. The majority of the Talented children were at the Institute but those few who were in Ackholt were considered at the greatest risk following the recent ‘incidents’.

The final group was the smallest and the most socially isolated of the groups, the children of two Talented parents who were themselves born without the Talent. You think I’m a social outcast? Try being the ‘Talentless’ child of a witch and warlock and not have everyone in the Family look at you with a mixture of embarrassment and ‘there but for the grace of god’ pity. It’s very un-politically correct and publicly discouraged from being said but the Family still behind closed doors called them the ‘Forsaken’. The most bigoted of the Family tend to treat a Forsaken offspring as if the absence of Talent is contagious and keep their own ‘Talented’ children as far away from them as much as they can. There are stories of desperate warlocks and witches trying, and failing, to magically imbue their Forsaken children with the Talent. You see the Forsaken are not mundane, rather they are the opposite of the Talented. They are an absence of magick, anti-magick if you will. No spell will work on them, no magick object works for them. There are even fantastically accounts from the middle ages of Forsaken sucking the magick out of Talented children. The stories represent the prejudices of simpler times and no one has ever proven there to be any basis to the stories but they only serve to further fuel the distrust of the Forsaken amongst the Family.

You’d think that they would be perfect company for me, kindred spirits of a sort, but far from it. As far as most of the Forsaken are concerned I’m either one of the Talented regardless of my choices or a fool who has the thing they desperately want but chooses to reject it. I’ve taken a few lumps in my time from them until I got big and strong enough to give them back. That being said I could say the same thing about the Talented children.

I may love* my family (*in principle and with a significant sibling exception) but I truly hate the Family at the same time for all its flawed, petty, superior-than-thou crap.

So, here I was an unwilling student at the Godespeed Free School, part of a group of 11 children of various ages with the Talent who were for some reason or other not at the Institute. There were a further 14 mundane children and 6 of the ‘Forsaken’ here who were kept largely separate from myself and the other Talented. I was in some ways grateful for the lessons given I was currently suspended from school. However, as they were running an Institute approved curriculum there were a couple of hours of Craft teaching classes each day that I refused to attend. Those I tended to spend studying in the small reference library or working out in the gym like now. At least this was the last period of the day and I could go home soon.

Retrieving the ball I lined up at the three point line and took what should be a better than even money shot for me. The moment it left my hand I realise it is a little overthrown but not by much. The arc of the ball looked good overall. It was going in I was certain. It hit the backboard where the basket joined and as the ball lightly skipped backward it was still going in. It’s…

Huh. The hoop just fell of the backboard. That’s not something you see every day.

I watch helplessly as the ball sailed through the air where the open top of the hoop would have been. As the hoop crashed to the ground it was quickly followed by the backboard as it came adrift from its bolts on the wall. As the whole thing tumbled to the ground with enough noise to wake the dead, and that’s not something to say lightly in Ackholt, I slumped to the ground with my head in my hands.

I just cannot catch a break.

A nervous cough from behind me indicated that I wasn’t alone.

“Hey, Tracey,” I said out loud. I hadn’t seen her come in but this had all the hallmarks of her being here.

“Um… sorry?”

“It’s not your fault Tracy… I guess,” I say with a sigh as I look up at the new voice in the room. Above me I heard the gentle tinkling sounds of two of my pixies appearing.

“I’m getting better with them. Honest. It’s just…”

Her words peter out into a few sniffles as she wiped her nose with the back of the baggy oversized sleeve of her homemade woollen jumper.

*sigh* As much as I want to be angry about it, I just can’t.

Getting to my feet I reach out to hug her. I felt her flinch for a second before grabbing me tightly and burying her face into my sweatshirt. It broke my heart a little that her first reaction to someone reaching out to comfort her was to pull back as it was telling of her experiences after these sorts of incidents to date. As I gently wrapped my arms around her she let rip with tears that were as much about the need for human contact as they were an expression of distress at what happened to the basketball equipment.

“Tikka?”

I nodded my head towards the broken backboard and Sky, aka Savitskaya, swooped off towards the pile of debris. Sky was the most technologically curious of my pixies and liked to understand how things worked, like some sort of mini flying engineer. Most of the time the things she dismantled still worked when she reassembled them. Well, except for our toaster which somehow seems to be receiving news and current affairs broadcasts from 1980’s BBC Radio 4 now rather than making toast but hey, who wasn’t interested in hearing how that whole Cold War thing worked out?

“Off! Off! Ours!” squeaked a little voice from the debris, leading to the second pixie, Sunflower, to let out a loud cat like hiss and move to a supporting position next to Sky.

From amongst the broken pieces emerged a handful of small humanoid figures, each one roughly the same size as my pixies at fifteen or so centimetres in height. They wore bright primary coloured miniature overalls, except for what I assumed were the girl ones who wore equally as colourful 1950’s style dresses, and they were each topped with a Viking style helmet with curly ram like horns. Oddly, it turned the helmets accessorised well with 1950’s dresses. In each of their b-movie style mad scientist gloved hands they held small tools and one of them was dragging a canvas sack filled with screws and bolts.

Gremlins.

A gremlin when properly bound in accordance with the rituals as a familiar and domesticated enslaved was a powerful tool for a witch or a warlock. They granted access to a form of wild magick related to technology which was very different from much of the wild nature magick possessed by the other creatures of the Golden Court. Even when correctly bound though they remained a group of creatures that only the strongest willed practitioners of the Craft could effectively harness. The experience of most young adults bound to gremlins was of a steep learning curve over the first two years before eventually establishing mastery. That degree of mastery was the make or break for a how effectively a witch or warlock could channel the wild magick.

Tracy Fairborn was most definitely a break rather than a make, though it wasn’t really her fault. When the clan of baby gremlins had been found, the Family had chosen her to be the recipient of them. She was probably the most naturally gifted of my generation in the Family and certainly had the required degree of willpower to control the gremlins. The result would have been a very powerful witch who after the requisite couple of years wrestling for control of them would be a formidable opponent.

The problem was that the binding rituals needed to be performed to the letter of the grimoire specifications and once started could not be stopped. Tracy’s ritual took place in a field in the middle of August with the correct astrological and ley line alignment. Unfortunately, Tracy had hay fever and a couple of sneezes and a few clogged up mispronounced words later and her binding ceremony was completed but flawed. She could channel the wild magic through her new ‘familiars’ but had absolutely no control over them and it was deemed unlikely that even with years of practice would she ever have anything beyond the most cursory control over them. She went from being touted as being one of the most promising witches of our generation to being suspended from the Institute due to repeated incidents caused by her clan of gremlins. The Institute was well prepared to put up with problems while students learned to master their familiars but even it drew the line at her untamed miscreants. In short, she was a walking disaster.

I couldn’t help feel a degree of affinity for her.

She had confessed to me over the last week that she had not asked for the bonding and had some misgivings about the binding ritual. Whereas I was an unwilling participant in my bonding having being pushed into the nest of pixies by my brother she had felt pressurised to go ahead with the bonding given the weight of Family expectation on her. Yes, she willingly entered in the binding ritual, which was a strike against her in my book, but she treated her gremlins well even in their improperly binded state.

That’s assuming ‘binded’ was a proper word. Meh. English is a living language after all.

Anyway, it would be fair to say that right here, right now she was rapidly becoming the closest thing I had to a friend amongst the children of the Family. A flash of light from the direction of the wrecked basketball equipment pulled my mind back to the present.

“Sunflower! Stop that!” I admonished as a gremlin floated into the air trapped in a golden sphere of light.

That was another problem. Pixies being predominantly helpful to man didn’t get on with the more capricious gremlins.

“Sky! Stop trying to eat that gremlin! You don’t know where it’s been! Spit it out! Now!” I shouted as Sky guiltily let go of the gremlin she had in her mouth. The gremlin scowled at Sky as it rubbed at its torn sleeve, little cat like pixie teeth marks dotted along it.

“Sunflower… what did I say?” I growled as I watched her wielding one of the bolts from the backboard above her head like a mallet.

“Tikka?”

“Tikka,” I repeated, pointing for her to put it down. With a sulky scowl she threw away the bolt and went back to staring down her gremlin opposite number. I wasn’t worried that anything would happen to my girls as each one was individually more than a match for a half dozen gremlins.

“How do you do it?” asked Tracy in a sniffly voice.

“Do what?”

“You never completed the binding ritual yet you can control them.”

“I… I don’t really think of it as control. It’s more… it’s more than I ask them to do things and sometimes, and I stress sometimes, they decide to do it.”

“Do you… do you think you could show me how you do it?” she asked, a hopeful note in her voice.

Oh boy. That the frequency of them doing what I asked had increased following my Pyskie incident wasn’t something I was really prepared to share with anyone at this point but if I said no I’d come off like a complete bastard.

“I… I don’t know if I can help,” I said, noting the big expectant eyes looking up at me and willing myself not to weaken. “I… I…”

Damn it. I was still basically in what was left of my male human form, in so much as it was just about technically male, which meant that I was still enough of a red blooded English boy under this glamour of my old self. An attractive, lost looking girl making those big helpless eyes at me… Must. Fight. Weakening. Resolve.

“I… don’t know if I can help… but…”

I let out a loud exhale as I looked once more into her eyes.

“But I’m willing to give it a try.”

I hereby do find the boy hormones of one Alan Lewis Goodspeed guilty of the charge of cowardice in the face of battle. In mitigation, they would like to make the case that they don’t get out much these days.

A loud squeal from Tracy indicated her happiness at my words and I nearly choked as she locked her arms around me in a bear hug.

“Ummm… Alan,” she asked from where she had her face buried in my chest.

“Yes?”

“Why do these feel like breasts?” she asked pulling back slightly too tentatively poke one of my glamour hidden breasts.

“I’ve no idea,” I reply, hastily disentangling myself from her. “So… uh, do you want to get together tomorrow and talk about your little problems?”

Must misdirect. The secret to all deception is misdirection.

“Um… okay,” she replied, canting her head slightly as she looked at me like a jeweller appraising a precious stone. “Is… is that… a… glamour?”

Freaking great. She would have to be one of the strongest witches of my generation. The conflict between her sense of touch and sight has enabled her to push at the perception filter that the glamour cloaked me in.

“I… I-I-I…”

“Hey, what the… what happened to the basketball hoop?” shouted a new voice from the entrance to the hall.

“Uh… what?” asked Tracy, shaking her head slightly as the distraction from the new entrants to the hall let the thought about my glamour slip from her minds grasp. “What were we saying?”

It’s a terrible thing to admit but I was mentally making little fist pumps in celebration at the perception filter kicking in.

“That I would try to help you with your gremlins tomorrow.”

“Umm… yes, I… guess that was it?” she replied, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Yes, yes, that was it.”

“Hello?” called the voice again, getting closer. “What is going on here? What happened to the hoop? Is this her fault again?”

“It was the gremlins,” I said turning to the newcomer. “And it’s not her fault.”

I felt the colour drain from my face as I got a decent look at the newcomer. Oh, my luck really is running bad today. Alexander ‘Xander’ Dorian and what must be two members of his goon squad. It had been a few years since I’d last had the misfortune to run across him but he’d been a general sod to me until I broke his nose when we were 13 years old. Unfortunately for me the puberty fairy had seen fit to turn him into the physical equal for my old self. It was just a pity I wasn’t my old self right now, glamour induced appearances to the contrary.

“We’ll it didn’t fall down on its own did it?” he snarled approaching us.

“I said it was the gremlins.”

“So it was her fault then.”

“I’m sorry, did I stutter? I said it was the gremlins,” I replied with more bravado than I felt.

“Her gremlins. And don’t push your luck girl,” said Xander as he came to a halt in front of me.

Girl. Damn. And the hits just kept on coming. Xander and his goon squad were, for want of a better term, members of the Forsaken. Which meant that magick didn’t affect them. They literally couldn’t see my glamour.

“Alan? We should go,” said Tracy, tugging at my sleeve. “It’s not worth it.”

“Alan?” laughed Xander. “More like Alan-nah.”

“I’m really sorry about the basketball stuff but we don’t want trouble,” said Tracy, nervously looking to the two other people with Xander. “Alan lets go. Please.”

“Why do you keep calling her Alan?” asked one of the good squad. I think her name was Ursa… Ursula... something like that.

“Because that’s Alan…” said Tracy, gesturing towards me.

Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

“Alan Goodspeed,” she finished.

She said it.

“Alan… Alan Goodspeed?” said Xander, giving the sort of smile that you don’t normally see outside of Shark Week. “Oh, this is too good to be true.”

“Actually, I can sort of see it now,” said Ursula, giving me an intense look. “She… he… definitely takes after her mother.”

The third member of the trio who had been silent so far grunted in affirmation to her comment. If Xander looked intimidating, this guy was like a walking commercial for steroids. I couldn’t remember his name for the life of me though I’d played against him a couple times in the inter-school rugby league. Whoever he was, he was a bit of a non-event personality wise. I’d met more interesting bricks.

“My, my, my little Alan… nah. How you’ve changed,” mocked Xander.

“Alan… what are they talking about?” asked Tracy.

“So the little witchy doesn’t know, does she Alan-nah?” laughed Xander, gesturing around me. “Some sort of glamour? Trying to hide your true self perhaps?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, squaring up as best I could to Xander. I really missed those five inches of height about now. 5’ 11” just wasn’t cutting it against these goons.

“No, I guess it doesn’t matter,” replied Xander. The look he gave me making it clear that he felt pretty much felt as if I was something he’d stepped in. “It just proves the point. Your breed are all liars. You even lie to each other.”

“I’m not like them.”

“Really? Then why don’t you tell her the truth Alan-nah?”

I silently met his stare, not willing to answer his question. That was one of the things I really hated about Xander, underneath that brutish exterior he could be quite perceptive. We’d even been friends once up until we were seven years old. Xander and I had been half of a group that called ourselves the ‘Musketeers’. Now we were the only ones left, though the consequences of that life changing night forever left its mark on the direction of our lives. Whereas I just wanted to escape the Family, Xander wanted to strike back at it in anger. In many ways he was a mirror to my life, the person I could have been had I let my anger consume me.

“I thought so. You’re as duplicitous as the rest of them. I had thought you were different once... but I can see now that you’re not...”

I felt myself bristle at Xander’s words. I wasn’t like the Family. I felt my fists clench as I took a step forward.

“You take that back.”

“You make me girly boy.”

“Alan… let’s go,” said Tracy, pulling at my arm again. “It’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, why don’t you make like a tree and leave?” said Xander, slowly stepping back from me. “After all… I don’t hit girls.”

“Alan! No!” yelled Tracy, pulling me back as I tried to lunge at Xander. Another reminder of my changed stature. “Chill. He’s not worth it.”

“Tikka?”

I looked up to see a concerned Sunflower swoop through the air above the goon squad. A ‘weakness’ of the Forsaken was that they couldn’t see the creatures of the Golden Court, such as my pixies. Oh, they knew they existed intellectually but just as Xander couldn’t see my glamour, he couldn’t see the pixies. Unfortunately, the same also held true in reverse and creatures of the Golden Court couldn’t see the Forsaken.

“Tikka?” asked Sunflower again. She could sense my worry through the empathic link but couldn’t see the source of my concern.

“Shoo! Be on your way little girl,” taunted Xander, waving me towards the doors to the hall.

Slipping free of Tracy’s grasp I lunged for Xander only be knocked to the ground my punch from Ursula.

“I said I didn’t hit girls,” said Xander. “I said nothing about her. Ursula, why don’t you teach little Alannah here a little lesson in respect.”

“Quiesco!” shouted Tracy, her ring pulsing.

Ursula hesitated for a moment as Xander sparkled with light and then as quickly as it had appeared the light disappeared.

“For-sak-en,” he laughed, pointing to himself, emphasising each syllable. “Your magick doesn’t work against me. Russell… if you please.”

“I know that!” shouted Tracy as the man mountain evidently called Russell pinned her arms behind her. “It was never about the spell affecting you.”

“Then why cast it?”

“Because for a brief moment the effect area of the spell provided a silhouette of non-magic in a field of magic… something creatures of the Golden Court would be able to see.”

“Tikka!” roared Sunflower as she charged into Xander’s midriff, briefly lifting him off his feet and sending him skidding along the polished floor of the hall.

“Familiars!” yelled Ursula, her head turning this way and that as she warily searched the air around her for any sign of my pixies.

“Relax,” wheezed Xander from where he came to a halt. “It was a one shot deal. Whatever it was only saw me due to the absence of magic for a brief moment. As long as she doesn’t cast another spell it can’t see us any more than we can see it.”

“You okay?” asked Ursula.

“Fine. Didn’t feel like a gremlin though,” wheezed Xander as he gulped down air.

“It was a pixie,” I said, climbing to my feet. “My pixie.”

“Get Alannah,” ordered Xander.

Shifting into my Pyskie form I leapt up from the ground, my wings carrying me over Ursula’s head and down to the ground behind her.

“Where did she go?” shouted Ursula, panic in her voice. “I didn’t hear her cast any spell! And even if she had of it shouldn’t have worked on us!”

“You can’t see me? Why can’t y--”

Anything more I would have said was cut off by a spinning roundhouse kick from Ursula that knocked me to the floor.

“Nope… but I can hear you.”

I knew my smart mouth would be the death of me one day. I rolled out of the way of a blind stomp from Ursula and pushed myself off the ground. Hovering above Ursula, I took my first good look at her since shifting to Pyskie form. While I could still see her she seemed less distinct than before, almost like I was looking at her through thinly frosted glass. But she should be normal looking shouldn’t she? I wasn’t a creature of the Golden Court so I should be able to see her. I was a human. A human with the Talent but still a human.

“Tikka?”

I turned to see a concerned Sunflower and Sky hovering next to me. I repressed a squeal of frustration. This would have been long over had I been able to call upon the girls to help me but it was useless if they couldn’t see the forsaken. And then it hit me in a classic light bulb above the head moment.

“I’ll need Canada,” I whispered. “Wait for my signal.”

“Did you hear that?” asked Xander, who had by now joined the others with Tracy. “It sounded like someone whispering.”

“Where is she?” asked Ursula leaning nose-to-nose with Tracy.

“Here I stand,” I said aloud as I touched down behind Ursula, making sure I stayed far enough out of kicking distance. Another roundhouse kick lashing out from her in my direction testified to the wisdom of that decision.

Shifting my position with a short hop, I came to a stop close behind Russell. “Look around… but you won’t see me…”

I dodged the punch that he swung in the air behind him. As he turned I repaid it with a swift kick between the legs that caused him to sag to his knees in pain. It was the sort of kick that had this been a comedy film might have been accompanied by the sounds of two small round objects hitting the floor.

“She’s not invisible… not if you concentrate!” shouted Xander, squinting hard in my direction as I grabbed the now freed Tracy.

“Do you know an illumination spell?” I asked as I pulled her towards the door. For a second she fought against me, a mixture of fear and confusion in her eyes.

“Tracy, it’s me. Do you know an illumination spell?” I repeated shaking her. In reply she nodded dumbly.

“Then use it now to light up the hall!” I yelled, pulling her to one side as Ursula lunged at where she had been moments before. I blocked the next punch aimed at Tracy and pushed back at Ursula, sending her staggering backwards. Yay for my increased Pyskie strength.

“You’re right. I can sort of see it,” cried Ursula. “If I concentrate hard enough I can see a blue blur.”

Ohhh… that is so going to be my superhero name I thought with a smile.

“Illuminare!” shouted Tracy, the room filling with a bright golden light.

“Now!” I cried, watching as three pixies charged at what to them would have been patches of darkness in a room full of light. Each one of the Forsaken slammed into the walls of the hall with enough force that when they slid to the ground none of them got up, although there was some weak moaning coming from them. As the girls swooped back towards me, I high fived each one in turn.

“Who da man!” I exclaimed throwing my arms wide in celebration.

“Um… probably not you… Alannah,” said a hesitant voice from behind me. “The wings are… a nice touch.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine as Tracy reached out and lightly ran her finger down the edge of one of my gossamer like wings. Actually, a surprisingly good shiver if you catch my drift.

“Please don’t do that,” I gasped, turning around to face her.

“I’m sorry, did it hurt?”

“I’m no… it just…”

“Are you blushing?”

“No! I mean no,” I said deepening my voice for the second ‘no’.

“Sooooooooooo…”

“Soooooooooooo?” I replied.

“So when are you going to tell me why you are a blue girl with wings?”

“The glamour?” I asked, hurriedly looking down at myself.

“It’s still there and I can sort of see it but also sort of not see it. I think your flying antics overloaded the perception filter in terms of my perception.”

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed. So the blue girl thing?” she asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time. We’ll get a coffee in the old visitor’s tea rooms,” she said fixing me with a look that suggested this wasn’t a matter for disagreement.

“Ummm… what are we going to do with these three?”

“That’s a good question. It’s not like we can lock them in the basement or something right?” said Tracy with a laugh. A laugh that was met by a thoughtful silence from me.

“Right?” she repeated, the humour fading from her voice at my continuing silence. “Alan?”

“I’m thinking.”

I had a pet hamster once. He seemed happy enough in his cage. I think there was some disused exercise equipment down in the basement the three Forsaken could use. We could maybe borrow one of the water coolers and put down some newspaper for them to use. I wasn’t convinced Russell was housetrained anyway so he’d probably feel right at home.

“Alan!”

“Okay, okay! So what do you suggest we do?”

“They started it… so maybe we should speak to one of the Family? I’m sure they’d understand.”

“Did they start it? My pixie’s threw the first punch as it were. Even if the Family did understand for you they probably wouldn’t for me. Xander is the nephew of Councilwoman Dorian. As much as she might despise Xander for being Forsaken she won’t hesitate to use this as a chance to send me to the Institute,” I said with a sigh.

“So what? We run away and wait for them to visit their vengeance upon us at a time of their choosing? C’mon Alan,” said Tracy, the frustration evident in her body language. “It’s not like I can even cast a memory spell on them!”

“Even if you could I wouldn’t let you!” I said, grasping Tracy’s arms. “I only asked you to use that illumination spell because it didn’t affect them directly and we had no other choice that would have ended the fight without one or more of us getting seriously hurt. You do not use a spell that directly affects anyone without their consent while I’m around do you hear me?”

“Whoa! Where do you get off telling me what I can or can’t do?” snapped Tracy, shrugging free of my grip. “What is it with you and the Family anyway?”

“I…”

“What can you possibly have against the Craft given all the good it can do?” screamed Tracy, her face so close to mine that I could feel her spittle on my face. “You think I wouldn’t give my right arm to be back at the Institute? I had a future in the Family before all this happened! A good future! I was going to become a doctor using my Talent to help heal people! I’d be lucky to even be let in a hospital during visiting hours now! I lost all of that! All of it! I have nothing to look forward too except for being known as a walking disaster! Things break down around me all the time thanks to my Gremlins! Yet despite all of that I still don’t hate the Craft or my Talent! What could the Family have possibly done to you that’s worse than what they did to me?!?”

I slapped my hands over my ears, the sounds of Tracy’s shouting merging with that of a voice I last heard in person as a child. For a moment I was back there in the forest staring into the equally terrified face of a young Xander.

“Alan?”

“Panic… attack…” I gasped, stumbling for the hall doors. “Need… air…”
 

~o~O~o~
 
“How are you feeling?” asked a concerned Tracy, passing a steaming hot cup of tea to me. The visitors’ tea rooms had been closed to the public along with the rest of the house since the free school had been set up and was currently doubling up as the school refectory.

Still, the tea was nice. Not just a big urn of hot brown liquid there was actually a range of individual sachet teas and coffees. It wasn’t Starbucks but it was nice. Taking a sip, I slid back in my seat letting the warm liquid infuse me. The tea rooms were fairly quiet this late in the afternoon allowing us to find a quiet table away from others to talk. Even though I was still glamoured up, I had shifted back to my human girl form. I still couldn’t shift back to my approximation of a human male form on my own.

“Better now thanks,” I replied sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I… overacted.”

“Me too. I’ve got… issues.”

“Pfft!” I snorted. “My issues have issues bigger than your issues.”

Tracy laughed softly at my joke.

“Friends?” she asked.

“Friends… it’s been a long time since I could say that of one of the Family.”

“If it helps don’t think of me as one of the Family. Think of me as a Misfit… just like you.”

“Yay Misfits,” I replied, with mock enthusiasm. “We need t-shirts or something.”

“Yeah… though yours need little wing slots in the back,” she said gesturing at my shoulders. “What was that whole blue thing anyway?”

“Uh… I’m a Pyskie.”

“Pixie?”

“No, Pyskie. It’s complicated.”

“I bet. So is it always like this with you? Being attacked by the Forsaken… turning blue… turning into a girl…”

“It never used to be but lately… lately it has been though it’s more a case of being attacked by ‘insert opponent of the week’s name here’ than just being the Forsaken.”

“You think we’ll get into trouble for what happened?”

“You… probably not. Me… not so sure. I’m sure Uncle John will do the best he can to settle this matter quietly.”

Though while there was at least a chance he’d understand and not report me, well maybe anyway, he’d probably feel duty bound to tell my mother.

Urrrgggh.

I wonder if I could ask for transportation as punishment for my crimes against the Family? Australia seemed a lot nicer now than it did two hundred years ago. Well, maybe not Darwin. I understand they have big spiders. I’d happily serve my time in Sydney or Melbourne though.

“You think Xander is going to cause us problems?”

“Probably but if he does we’ll see him coming. If he has a problem with you he’ll tell you to your face.”

“You almost sound like you admire him.”

“Once we were friends. I can’t… I won’t… believe that none of the good guy I knew is in there anymore.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So do I, So do I...”

Taking another sip of my tea, we both lapsed into a moment of companionable silence.

“Don’t even think it,” I said with a scowl as a faint noise came from my chair.

Looking down I saw a guilty looking gremlin with a small screwdriver in its hands. Gremlins were basically cowards so if you caught one doing something it was fairly easy to stop them assuming you caught them before they had done too much harm and you weren’t like in the air or somewhere else where physics was an issue.

“Hey Tracy, Alan!” called a voice in greeting. “Is it okay if I join you guys?”

“Hey George!” answered Tracy. “No problem with me. Alannah?”

“Fine with me,” I said, shooting Tracy with a look that a Basilisk would have been proud of. While she might not be seeing the glamour everyone else still was.

Placing his tray on the table, George spun the chair around and straddled it in that sort of effortlessly cool guy way. Like Tracy, George had been one of the Family’s high flyers and had been regularly talked of as a future member of the Family Council for his Solomon-like insight and pureness of heart. Puberty had only served to give him ruggedly handsome good looks and the sort of swagger that Harrison Ford brought to the screen as Indiana Jones. I remembered my sister talking about how he was considered the most desirable boy at the Institute, always fashionably dressed and exuding an uber-coolness.

At least until last year. Now he dressed like an unfashionable grandfather.

“Still rocking the tweed I see,” said Tracy, a hint of gentle amusement to her voice as she indicated towards his pre-war style tweed suit. And by pre-war I meant pre-Great War not WW2, with its stiff starched white collared shirt.

“Yeah,” replied George with a rueful smile. “But I’m making progress.”

To demonstrate the point he undid the button on his tweed jacket and opened it to show his shirt and bow tie beneath.

“No waistcoat!” exclaimed Tracy.

“No waistcoat,” agreed George with an infectious grin that even made me want to smile a little. “And I’ve managed to convince Mr Goodfellow to let me keep jeans now, though he does keep ironing creases down the centre like they are trousers but y’know from tiny acorns...”

“Not bad for what seven months?”

“Nearer nine but yeah, we’re really beginning to make progress now.”

“I understand that there are many in the Family and some on the Council that are critical of you for not taking a firmer line with Mr Goodfellow,” I said, speaking for the first time since George’s arrival. “It’s not like you’re bound to him, he’s merely a Hob in your service. You could easily dismiss him by offering him a new piece of clothing and resume your studies at the Institute.”

George canted his head slightly staring at me as if he had only just noticed me before replying.

“A scorned Hob or Brownie can sometimes become a Boggart, a mischievous or malevolent spirit. Given that all Mr Goodfellow is trying to do is help me and the running of the mill, it seems silly to dismiss him like that. Thanks to his efforts the restoration of the old White Mill has been progressing in leaps and bounds. That I have to spend a little while looking like a reject from Downton Abbey is surely a small price to pay.”

I could only nod in agreement.

“Besides, it was old Mr Emerson’s dying wish that I look after Mr Goodfellow,” said George with an air of finality that seemed to end all discussion on the matter. I could see why the Family Council had been courting him so earnestly before this had happened and part of me wouldn’t have been surprised if my father still had plans for him.

Even George’s involvement with Mr Goodfellow came from a noble act that was so typical of him. There had been a fire out at the old White Mill just outside of Ackholt and George, who had been on a woodlore course nearby, had rushed to the scene to help. He rescued old Mr Emerson from the burning timber framed White Mill at great personal risk. Mr Emerson had been trying to rescue a small stool from the kitchen of the windmill and in an effort to stop the already badly burnt man from going in again George had himself gone in and rescued the stool, suffering some minor burns in the process. Mr Emerson died at the scene as the Fire and Rescue Service fought to contain the blaze but before he died he bequeathed the stool and the windmill to George.

The stool however was no ordinary stool.

It was the stool that belonged to a kindly Hob named Mr Goodfellow and when George took possession of the windmill and the stool he took possession of the shy Mr Goodfellow’s services. Mr Goodfellow had kept the windmill neat and tidy in exchange for food and lodgings at the mill but he also acted as valet to Mr Emerson. As the new master of the mill, George inherited that service. Unfortunately for George, Mr Goodfellow had no concept of human fashions or the concept of changing fashion and before long George found his wardrobe being replaced piece by piece by the sort of outfit that an Edwardian gentleman would have felt at home with.

George could have abandoned the Hob and returned to the Institute but his sense of honour had led him to stay and oversee the restoration of the Hob’s home, the White Mill. While this work was being undertaken, Mr Goodfellow had assumed his role as valet to his new master which I had a feeling was another reason why George with his tweed suit, pressed shirt, bow tie and immaculately polished shoes that you could literally see your reflection in was home from the Institute right now. He looked like he’d stepped out of a steampunk cosplay.

“But enough about me,” said George favouring me with a bright smile. “How about we talk about why you keep changing appearance every time I blink?”

“Uh…”

“Boy,” said George closing one eye.

“Girl,” he added, switching the closed and open eyes.

“Alan,” he said going back to the first eye.

“Alannah?” he said, turning his head slightly to Tracy. She sort of shrugs in response.

“Uhhh… I’m not sure what you mean?” I ask, trying to buy time to plan an exit strategy.

“I have a very well developed third eye when it comes to glamours,” replied George. “I’m assuming this has something to do with your pixies?”

With a sigh I glance heavenwards for a moment before turning to George.

“Ummm… it’s complicated?”

“You keep saying that,” said Tracy. “Maybe you should start at the beginning?”

“I guess it’s as good a place as any,” said George taking a bite from the sausage roll on his plate. “And time is the one thing we all have right now given schools still in session for another half hour.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
Splashing some cold water on my face, I took the chance to look at my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. It seemed odd to see my old glamour induced face staring back at me given I knew the reality underneath. Part of me wondered if there was even any point at maintaining the pretence of the glamour given I was currently incarcerated amongst the Family. After all, regardless of how I looked I knew that I was still me. There were even times that maintaining the glamour was inconvenient. Given I was physically female I’d been uncomfortable with the thought of using the male bathrooms but I was at the same time unable to use the female ones because of the glamour. As a compromise I’d found an old unisex staff toilet in an older part of the building. I didn’t think anyone would mind after all as I was ‘family’, a direct descendent of the original owners of Godespeed House. Still, it would have been nice of they’d kept it nicer I thought, wrinkling my nose at the musty smell in the room.

My discussions with George and Tracy had gone surprisingly well given they were ‘Family’ and they seemed pretty accepting of my situation in the circumstances even if for them the Family was a force largely for good and they couldn’t understand my dislike of it. Not that I could tell them the real reasons why I felt that way. Even the thought of it made me feel ill. I splashed more cold water on my face as I fought to calm my breathing. Maybe Xander had the right idea. Maybe I should just give into the rage. It would easier. No, I chided myself. That wasn’t who I was. Alan or Alannah I was better than that. Though thinking about it, when did people start calling me Alannah? Was that something I did? Or is it just a thing now? Who knew, I certainly didn’t. Maybe this was my life now.

What I did know was that once the Family ended the Godespeed Free School Tracy, George and I would probably drift apart back to our respective social circles, or lack of in my case, but for now it felt nice to have a couple of… acquaintances? Friends? Whatever we were, as long as they stayed away from the Craft around me I felt we could at least hang out during the school day.

Pulling some blue paper towels with the consistency of cardboard from the dispenser, I gingerly patted my face dry. With a muttered affirmation of ‘once more into the breach’ I open the door to the toilet and stepped out…

…onto a lush green field.

“Please tell me you’re not going to faint this time?”

I spun around to see a grinning Aelfwyn behind me. The thought of our last encounter sprung to mind.

“You bitch! You punched me!” I snarled lunging for her, only for her to side step my charge like a matador.

“Ole!” she giggled as I collapsed in heap on the ground.

“Children!” called out a second sterner voice. “Behave! This will not do in our most royal presence.”

Emerging from her golden tent flanked my two guards was Queen Joan, who seemed to be trying her hardest not to laugh behind the fan she kept snapping open and shut. Even in the bright light of day her golden glow still coloured the area around her.

“Yes your majesty,” replied a contrite sounding Aelfwyn, dropping her head in a respectful curtsey. “I offer my most humble apologies for any offence I may have caused you.”

“Alannah…” warned the Queen, as I scrambled my knees. “There are many things we will tolerate for our most dear daughter-in-spirit but an unseemly fight with one of our royal bodyguard in our most august presence is not one of those.”

While Queen Joan had not proven to be an ‘orf wiv ‘er head type monarch I didn’t feel like pushing it at this point.

“As for you Aelfwyn, we would suggest that you may wish to be more… circumspect in the presence of our most dear daughter-in-spirit,” giggled the Queen as she gestured with her fan to a Pyskie guard to help me to my feet. “We suspect Alannah is the sort to bear a grudge.”

Damn skippy I was.

“I apologise for any offence caused Alannah,” said Aelfwyn, emphasising the ‘nah’ syllable of my apparent new name as she extended a hand to me. Accepting her hand I pulled her into what may have looked to the casual observer as a forgiving hug.

“This is still so on…” I whispered. “I’m going to take you to the house. The house of pain.”

“Never doubted it pink skin,” she whispered back, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Bring it on if you think you can. I eat little girls scared of their own wings like you for breakfast.”

“I accept your apology,” I said aloud for public consumption breaking the hug, both of us trying to squeeze the life out of the others hand as we parted. In response the Queen rolled her eyes.

“Walk with us Alannah,” instructed the Queen as she looped an arm through mine. “We have much to discuss and as always, too little time in which to do it.”

“Is this the same place as last time?” I asked as we walked out onto a lush green meadow. “Only I don’t remember all those tents.”

Ahead of us were neat rows of brightly coloured conical tents that matched the image of Native American tepees that Hollywood had given to me. The long militarily precise lines stretched off across the grassy plains in front of us giving the impression of a sizable force.

“We are assembling our remaining Pyskie forces on this other plain in earnest,” replied the Queen. “We have received most troubling news from your realm by way of our co-regent King Jack who commands our forces there. It appears more of the forces of the Golden Court have crossed into your realm than we had originally thought.”

“So I guess you’re worried that they will force the fight earlier than you wanted?”

“That is our concern, yes. Our forces in your realm are not yet ready to fight a significant engagement.”

“And this affects me… how?” I asked, turning to look at the Queen. “Last time you told me you wouldn’t get involved in human affairs and I nearly got eaten.”

“We apologise for our miscalculation in that matter,” said the Queen giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “While the business between the Family and the Witchfinders have no bearing on the coming war with the Golden Court we had miscalculated the strength of your opponent. The enchanted object was not something we had allowed for. However, did we not offer you a way to survive?”

“By turning blue and sprouting wings,” I grumbled. “And oh yeah, becoming a girl.”

“We are most perplexed at the way in which you fight your true self Alannah. The kingfisher does not think it is a raven. It knows it is a kingfisher.”

“You do realise that made no sense right?” I asked. I was beginning to worry if she started talking in these odd eastern sounding riddles that I’d end up waxing her chariot as part of my training. In response the Queen just shrugged and smiled.

“As lovely as it is to see you, I’m guessing I’m not here for an afternoon constitutional,” I said with a sigh.

“So much suspicion in one so young,” tutted the Queen as we approached the row of tepees in front of us.

“Wait… so you really did want to just spend time with me?”

“You are our daughter-in-spirit, why would we not want to spend time with you?”

“Oh,” I replied, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

“But you are right,” said the Queen with a sheepish smile. “This is about more than spending time with you. This is about your birth right.”

“My Queen,” announced a tall amazon like Pyskie warrior with a curtsey as we approached the first tepee.

“And your Princess,” said Queen Joan gesturing towards me.

“Whoa… I’m a what now?”

“Forgive me Princess,” added the warrior quickly. “I meant no offence but I was confused by your attire.”

“Hmmm... we can see why you would be,” said the Queen stopping to take a good look at me. “Still, it is but a simple matter to resolve.”

With a wave of her hand, I felt a tingling sensation creep over my clothes, starting with my trainers and slowly rising upwards.

“Hey! Those were expensive!” I cried as the rubber and leather of my trainers reformed into an elegant scarlet coloured 3 inch heeled court shoe. I had to wonder if I clicked the heels together three times and said there’s no place like home would it send me back to Ackholt?

“Oh no…”

As the tingling rose, the fabric of my jeans unravelled and was quickly replaced by a scarlet and pink poufy skirt decorated with silk ribbons. A skirt that quickly morphed into the bottom of a dress as the tingling rose higher.

“Oh this is just peach–“

The rest of my words were cut off by a startled ‘eep!’ as my t-shirt reformatted into a corset that guaranteed me an appearance on Sesame Street if they ever needed to illustrate the words ‘lift and separate’.

Finally, I felt my long blonde hair being whipped up by invisible hands into what I was fairly certain was a simple yet elegant style even though I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to ask what had morphed into the chop sticks that were holding it all up.

“Was this all really neces… why… no how, am I wearing make-up?” I asked tasting the sticky lip gloss on my lips.

“Magick of course,” replied the Queen favouring me with the look reserved for a dear but dim relative.

“Of course,” I replied rolling my eyes.

“May I say Princess you are quite beautiful even for one wearing her pink skin,” said the soldier, curtseying to me as she spoke.

“What-ev-er,” I sighed.

“And since when have I been a princess?” I whispered to the Queen. In response she just patted by hand.

By now a small congregation of Pyskie’s had gathered around us, each curtseying in the Queen’s presence and embarrassingly, mine. Around them I could see small pixie forms fluttering in the air.

“Not even one blue guy?” I asked, scanning the crowd in what even I accepted was a forlorn hope.

“All Pyskie are female Alannah,” replied the Queen patting my hand reassuringly. “Just like the pixies. You know that.”

“Peachy. Just… peachy.”

“Now hush if you will. There is something that we must do,” said the Queen.

“People of the Pyskie,” she called, raising her voice so it carried in a way that suggested she had experience of being heard in noisier environments than this. “Our most loyal subjects. Today we present to you our daughter-in-spirit, Princess Alannah. While she is still but a youth in years we have no doubt that when the time comes she shall lead our forces in battle with honour and distinguish.”

Wait… I’ll do what now?!?

“All hail Princess Alannah!” cried a voice from the crowd of Pyskie warriors. Soon the tented rows were resounding with the same cry all around us.

I turned my head to speak to the Queen only to be confronted by the sight of a pixie floating in the air between us. In its hands it held one end of a floral garland that was being lowered over my head.

“You’re not one of mine are you?” I asked in my best baby talk voice as it settled on my outstretched palm. Maybe it was because of their empathic nature but like with dogs and babies it was less about what you said and more about the tone of voice you used with pixies when you spoke to them. Anyway, the fur pattern was all wrong for one of mine for a start and there was an absence of the empathic connection I felt in the presence of my own children.

“Of course not,” it replied, giggling as I almost dropped it in shock. The voice wasn’t quite the same high pitched mogwai-esque cutesy voice as my pixies and the eyes held an altogether different level of intelligence.

“What did you say?” I whispered in a low voice.

“Tikka?” it replied innocently.

Then favouring me with a cheeky grin, it gracefully alighted from my hand only stopping to kiss me lightly on the cheek before soaring off into the air above the crowd.

“Did you…” I asked the Queen, before she cut me off with a stern glance. Turning back to the crowd of Pyskie she quietened the chants with a gesture.

“Our most beloved and royal daughter-in-spirit has much to do in the mortal realm so we cannot keep her here long,” said the Queen to the obvious disappointment of the crowd. Colour me popular I guess.

“However, we have no doubt that you will see her again before too many nights have passed.”

A small cheer went up around the camp in response to the Queen’s words. It wasn’t a sentiment that I shared.

“Come Alannah, we must return you to your realm,” said the Queen, once more looping her arm through mine and steering me back towards her golden tent.

“That pixie spoke to me,” I muttered, more to myself than the Queen. “Not just mimicking words or like a small child learning to speak. It spoke to me.”

“Yes, she was one of the ‘Old Ones’. It is very rare for them to speak to anyone. Even our most royal selves are rarely graced with such an appearance from an ‘Old One’,” said the Queen, the surprise evident in her voice. “We have cared for the pixies since the time of the early human civilisations and in all those years the conversations we have had with the ‘Old Ones’ could be fitted on the back of one of the human’s postcards. That an ‘Old One’ choose to place the garland on your head is a good, if unexpected, omen.”

“Uh… when you say early human civilisations?”

“About 14,000 years ago.”

“Just how old are you?”

“Older. Our people pre-dated the emergence of most of the creatures of the Golden Court. Our co-regent and we honour the legacy of the Great Dragons that walked the Earth while mankind struggled to walk upright. We personally remember what your people call the Aurignacian culture.”

“Who were they?”

“Nice people on the whole.”

“You’re not going to tell me how old you are, are you?”

“You should know better than to ask a lady her age,” said the Queen with a smile.

“So what does the pixie speaking to me mean then?” I asked, resigned to not getting a straight answer out of the Queen.

“We are not sure.”

“Wait… I thought you had all the answers?”

“Far from it our daughter-in-spirit,” said the Queen as we came to a halt outside her tent. “We have just become very adept at making it seem as if we do. We have had a long time to practice our bluffing skills after all.”

“Remind me never to play poker against you.”

“Pity. We do so love games of skill mixed with chance.”

“So why did you bring me here anyway?” I asked, picking at the elaborate silk decoration on my dress. “Other than to put me in this froufrou dress like your own personal Barbie doll?”

“Why to introduce you to your people of course our daughter-in-spirit. You are Pyskie now regardless of whether or not you choose to wear your pink skin like now.”

“Oh… okay?”

“And to give you this,” said the Queen.

On cue one of her royal bodyguard withdrew a velvet wrapped bundle from where it had been resting next to the Queen’s Golden Tent and passed it to me. I felt my arms sag a little under its weight. Whatever this puppy was, it was it was heavy.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to peer through the folds of velvet as I gingerly held it at arm’s length.

“A gift. Something to keep you safe. Though please do be careful of your fingers, the blade is exceptionally sharp.”

“Wait… it’s some sort of weapon?” I asked.

“Yes. To be precise a sixteenth century English mortuary sword. It doesn’t look a day over 1649 by the way.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“We thought that part was obvious our daughter-in-spirit. Keep thyself safe from harm and should the occasion demand, smite our enemies most vile.”

“Oookay… I’d like to go home now,” I said placing the velvet package carefully on the ground. “Please.”

“You know what to do our daughter-in-spirit,” said the Queen as she embraced me in a hug. She kissed both of my cheeks before turning and walking back to her tent. “Take a deep calming breath, close your eyes and feel the tether. Do not worry, we shall see each other again soon enough Alannah.”

Yeah. That was what I was worried about. Keeping a wary eye on where Aelfwyn was I moved a little away from the tent and closed my eyes.

“Feel the tether. Feel the tether,” I muttered under my breath. Unfortunately, all I could feel was the rustle of silk and the constriction of my bodice.

“Oh… this is just sooooo peachy,” I hissed. There was no way I was asking for help after what happened last time. Maybe I just needed to distract myself. Somehow. How you even did that I didn’t know.

“Having trouble,” asked a honey toned voice from beside me. Squinting between semi-closed eye lids I saw Aelfwyn’s smiling face as she twisted on the spot like some errant child. “Only the time by which you should be back in your realm is fast approaching. Do you need my help perhaps?”

“Everything is fine. Or at least it was until you interrupted me,” I replied. “So why don’t you do us all a favour and piss off?”

“Sorry. I’ll just stand here quietly.”

“Do you think I’m some sort of idiot? You’ll punch me again the moment you think I can’t do it.”

“How about if I give you my word that I won’t punch you? For this visit anyway.”

“I’m supposed to take your word?” I asked, not even trying to hide the incredulity from my voice. “Next you’ll be trying to sell me a bridge in Brooklyn.”

“Ah, with a human that may be the case,” replied Aelfwyn, a hurt expression on her face. “However, a Pyskie’s word to one of her own in is unbreakable. Feel the truth to my words.”

In response I felt… something… in my head. An acknowledgement of the truth of her words. Closing my eyes I tried once more in vain to feel the tether.

“You won’t punch me?” I asked warily. “If I admit that I’m having problems finding the tether… you promise that you will distract me through some other way than punching me?”

“You have my word that no part of my body shall come into contact with yours for the purposes of returning you to your realm,” replied Aelfwyn.

In hindsight I would come to kick myself for not having paid more attention the smugness in her voice.

“Okay then.”

“Close your eyes Princess.”

“And then you’ll distract me?” I asked closing my eyes.

“Yes. And then you will return to your realm.”

“And you will keep your promise?”

“Yes my princess. No part of my body shall come in contact with yours.”

“Okay. Let’s do it,” I said taking a deep breath.

“Alright then… pucker-up buttercup.”

“Wait… wha–“ I asked, opening my eyes just in time to see the flat circular underside of a frying pan coming towards my face. As it connected with my nose I staggered backwards and…

… crashed through the partly open door of the unisex staff toilets into the corridor outside. The sound of the broken lock rattling across the floor was the only noise other than my cursing as I tentatively touched my sore nose. The silence of the hall was broken moments later by the dull thud of a velvet wrapped package landing on the floor of the corridor having been launched through the open toilet doorway.

“It’s so on bitch,” I muttered between small gasps of pain as I prodded my sore nose. A small trickle of blood on my fingertips indicated that she’d at least hit me hard enough to draw blood. “She better not have broken my nose.”

Great. Now I needed to go to see the school nurse. I pulled a piece of silk from a bow on my shoulders and pressed it against the underside of my nose to staunch the bleeding.

Wait… silk bow? Looking down I saw that not only was the glamour gone but I was still wearing the scarlet silk froufrou gown that wouldn’t have been out of place on a wedding cake.

“Oh this is just… peachy,” I grumbled. It was so peachy I was thinking of opening a peach schnapps concession.

“And where the hell did she get that frying pan anyway? More importantly, where is the school nurses office from here?” I asked the empty corridor.

A noise from the far end of the corridor attracted my attention. The dimly lit, darkness shrouded, end of the corridor. Checking through the windows it seemed that darkness had fallen, though given this was only April it wasn’t necessarily that late. I’d have checked my watch except it was now a lovely set of bangles.

The noise sounded again. It almost sounded like… a howl? I should probably investigate.

“Forget that.”

I turned towards the other end of the corridor only to come face-to-face with a large wolf. A large snarling wolf with lots of large sharp wolf teeth dripping lots of hungry looking wolf saliva on the tiles of the corridor floor.

“Nice doggy?” I asked taking a step backwards. The wolf matched my step with a step forward of its own.

“You don’t want to eat me. You’d probably get diabetes given this dress,” I added helpfully.

In response the wolf just growled.

“Who’s a cute wolfie then? Yes, you is. You’se a cute wolfie,” I said trying the baby talk approach. If anything the wolf looked less pleased than before.

The gentle patter of paws announced the arrival of a second equally as grumpy looking wolf behind the first. Given that the wild wolf had been extinct in England for 500 years it was something of a surprise to find not one but two wolves. Even more surprising to find them indoors in a country house. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was something I could attribute to global warming. Melting ice caps, weird weather, indoor wolves…

I took another step backwards as the wolf’s plural advanced a step closer.

“Sonnnnnnet,” I sang in as non-threatening a voice as I could. “Come to momma.”

“Tikka?” asked Sonnet, appearing in front of me in a swirl of light. Swooping down she landed in my arms, letting out a soft purr.

“Sonnet… momma needs Lunar.”

“Tikka.”

A gentle chiming noise accompanied by a swirl of light heralded the arrival of Lunar. Of all my pixies, Lunar had the greatest affinity with the animals and in particular nocturnal ones. If anyone was going to stop Alannah Snacks ending up on the menu it would be her.

“Lunar sweetie can you help momma with the tw–three wolves,” I asked correcting myself as another wolf joined the pack advancing towards me. “Find out what they want.”

Making sure I kept facing them I took a hurried couple of steps backwards as the wolves advanced. I might not know a lot about country house wolves but I was pretty certain turning my back on them was a bad idea.

“Tikka momma,” replied Lunar as she flew down to the nearest wolf.

I watched as she buzzed around it, swooping over and under it, all the time making little clicking noises before coming to a hover in front of the wolf’s face.

“Tikka?” she asked the wolf.

“Lunar!” I yelled as the wolf’s jaws snapped closed in the air where she had been hovering swallowing her whole. Letting out a growl-wheeze that Muttley would have been proud of I could almost swear the wolf was grinning at me.

“Sonnet, call for reinforcements. I’m going to have a wolf fur coat made!”

The look the wolf shot back made it clear it was banking of having an Alannah skin coat. A sentiment it underlined with a ferocious bark that made me involuntarily step backwards. The wolf tried to make a second bark but that unexpectedly turned into more of a wolf belch.

“Tikka?” called Sunflower and Canada as they appeared in the air in front of me.

“Bad doggie!” I yelled pointing at the wolf that had swallowed my pixie whole. “It ate Lunar!”

“Tikka?” asked a voice from beside me. I turned to see a saliva covered pixie appear in a swirl of light next to me.

“Lunar!” I cried in relief as I hugged her. “And ewwwwww….”

Carefully releasing her from the hug I dabbed at the pixie sized wolf saliva mark on my dress with one of my silk bows.

“Momma… not doggie,” said Lunar floating up in front of my face.

“Not doggie? No sweetie, it’s not a doggie it’s a wolf.”

“Momma… not wolf.”

“Then what is it sweetie?”

Lunar pursed her lips in thought for a moment before with a snap of her fingers a plastic wristband appeared in her hands.

“What’s this?” I asked as she passed it to me.

“Tikka.”

“Team Jacob?” I said reading the writing on the wristband. “What does… oh.”

“Tikka.”

“New plan. RUN!” I yelled, turning on my heels as I sprinted away from the wolves into the dark corridor. Diving through the first unlocked door I came to, I slammed it shut leaning heavily against it. The door shook as a wolf body crashed into the other side of it and for a moment I thought it might even open. Fumbling with the key in the lock I was relieved to hear it click closed.

“Help me block it!” I shouted to the pixies. “Use one of those bookcases! Wedge it against the door.”

“We will find it, we will drag it, bring the bookcase and block, block, block,” sang my pixies as they slid a bookcase that was considerably taller than me against the door. “We will push it, we will wedge it, and the doggies it will stop, stop, stop.”

Great. They’d been watching Bagpuss reruns, I thought with a groan. This is what I get for limiting their Disney Channel time. Reruns of 1970s children’s animation. Still, it could be worse I guess. Say what you like about the mice on the mouse organ but at least they were helpful and efficient. Surprisingly so for a 1970s labour organisation actually given the prevalence of industrial action in the real world of the time. And helpful was definitely what my girls were as they wedged one of those old fashioned dark wood library stacks from the days when no one worried about libraries having high shelves, against the door. They’d have to be were-elephants to shift that.

Were-elephants. I was really hoping that wasn’t a thing.

Slumping against the wall I took the opportunity to look around as I caught my breath. I was in one of the libraries in Godespeed House, though from the looks of it this wasn’t one of the ones that was open to the public or used by the Free School. Thick leather bound volumes lined the shelves of the tall stacks that stretched for the length of several basketball courts easily. What light there was in the room was provided through an clear class octagonal dome above the room and from small pools of amber light thrown out from lamps dotted around the room on small reading desks.

“Tikka?” asked Sunflower as she landed on my shoulder.

“We need to find another way out of here before they find another way in,” I said, listening to the sound of the wolves clawing at the blocked doorway. “I’m guessing there must be another door or a secret passage or something in a house of this age.”

“Tikka!”

With Sunflower and Canada scouting ahead and Sonnet with Lunar resting on my shoulders, we set off down the long row of stacks. Before long the sounds of the wolves at the door had receded and the only noise that could be heard was the creaking of wood and the sound of my shoes on the tiled floor.

“Tikka! Not grandma!” said Canada as she flew back to me from where she had been exploring.

‘Not grandma’ was the girls’ expression for any old woman who wasn’t my mother. Not that my mother was an old woman being in her early 40s I mentally added. You never knew who was listening to your thoughts these days, so it was best to be safe.

“Show me,” I asked, jogging after Canada as she turned and headed back down the line of stacks.

Before too long the stacks came to an end and I found myself standing in front of a large octagonal shaped counter, the hollow inside of which was filled with tables piled high with various leather bound books. Picking one up I checked the spine label noting that it was ‘Merlin Argyle’s Big Book of Burping Spells’. Another book identified itself as ‘William Tucker’s Guide to the Great Family Houses of England’.

“It’s the old Great Library of House Goodspeed,” I said in a hushed voice, looking at the rows of stacks leading away from the octagonal centre. “This was supposed to have been destroyed by fire when I was little.”

I remembered how angry Opa Grimm had been when it happened. We were supposed to be transferring the Goodspeed House library to Munich to form a combined library between the two Houses, a centre of magickal excellence. In the end only a handful of books were sent to Munich and a new House Library was established in the back of the town library.

Someone had to have transferred the entire old library here. It certainly wasn’t the Family Council as dad had nearly lost his position of Chairman over it. Aunt Sophie and Uncle John had also been in hot water as the keepers of the library.

Wait… Aunt Sophie was my father’s sister. Uncle John was his best friend. This wasn’t organised by the Family Council, this was organised by my father and his closest friends. It had to be.

“What are you up to dad?” I asked aloud. “Does mum know about it? And who knows this is here?”

A noise from the centre of the octagon counter made me jump and for a second I thought Team Jacob was back. Grabbing one of the desk reading lamps I swivelled it towards the counter and the source of the noise. In the dimly lit environs of the library I had missed seeing a body slumped over one of the librarian’s desks.

“Hello?” I called, grasping a copy of ‘Harriet Hargrove’s Wonderful World of Warts’ as a weapon. “Who’s there?”

I mentally kicked myself for leaving behind whatever the weapon was wrapped up in that velvet cloth. It would have probably come in very handy right now.

“Alan?” asked a weak voice. “Alan Goodspeed is that you?”

“Yes…” I answered slowly advancing on the still form. “Who is that?”

“Granny Constance.”

With a relieved sigh I put down the book and approached the stirring form of old Granny Constance. Seeing her more clearly as I drew close to her I noticed her usual immaculately neat look was gone with her hair all askew and her tweed skirt suit marked with dirt and a few rips.

“What happened? Are you alright?” I asked helping her into a sitting position.

“I was attacked on my way here,” replied Granny, her voice sounding very frail in comparison to its normal strength. “Three of them ambushed me but I managed to fight them off and make my way here. Very few people know about it so I thought I’d be safe.”

“Well, you’re safe now and as soon as you feel up to it we’ll get you out of here,” I said glancing around the octagonal area. “I’m not sure how long we can wait here though. Do you feel up to moving?”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go,” said Granny after clearing her throat a couple of times.

“Great. Granny, is there another exit other than that one?” I asked pointing back in the direction I had come from.

“Yes… a secret entrance on the far side over there and another main entrance door down there,” said Granny pointing off to the left and then further down the way I had been heading.

“Canada, Sunflower, Lunar… please scout ahead and check the routes to the doors are clear.”

A chorus of ‘tikkas’ answered me as they flew off down the stacks.

“Sonnet, can you check the barricade is still in place?” I asked.

“Tikka!”

“So you know about this library?” I said to Granny as I examined the books scattered across the counter. There was an assortment of books ranging from centuries old first editions to books printed in the last few years. Picking up a polished silver bound copy of 'Winston Bourne's Magical Metals' I couldn't help but notice that wolf saliva really stained well from the mark on my dress. If I was really lucky this froufrou dress was ruined I thought happily.

“Yes, *cough* your father appointed me custodian*cough* when it was smuggled here.”

So it was dad. So why was he hiding the Great Library of House Goodspeed from my grandfather? It seemed the oddest thing to do given the closeness of our ties to House Grimm.

Wait… I can see my Alannah reflection so that meant the glamour was down... did she say…

“My father?”

“It’s *cough* alright Alan… or should that be Alannah?” said Granny with an amused smile. “I know all about your ‘problem’.”

“Oh.”

“You’re father wanted to *cough* see if there was a *cough* cure for your *cough* pixie form,” said Granny, her increasingly gravelly voice interrupted by repeated coughing bouts.

“Are you okay Granny?” I asked. “Only your voice sounds really husky.”

She certainly didn’t sound okay. Frankly, she’d have a profitable career as a Barry White impersonator if her voice got much deeper.

“I normally have quite a reedy voice,” replied Granny. “This husky voice is probably all the better for speaking to you with.”

“Tikka. Safe momma,” announced Sonnet as she flew back into the octagonal counter area.

“Are you ready?” I asked Granny. “And which way do you suggest going?”

“The other main door *cough* is the best route. The corridor it opens onto leads directly towards the main occupied part of the building.

Taking her ever present glasses off her nose she let them drop on the small chain that was around her neck. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful her eyes were freed from the prison of her half-moon glasses.

“What’s the matter dear?” asked Granny. “Only you’re staring at me like you’ve never seen me before.”

“Sorry, it’s just… with the glasses gone… granny, I never realised what large eyes you had.”

“Well, it’s all the *cough* better for seeing a handsome man like you with,” said Granny as she rose unsteadily to her feet. I linked an arm through hers to study her.

“Tikka!”

“Shush Sonnet and keep an eye out for trouble,” I said to my pixie as I braced Granny’s weight as she stumbled slightly.

“They really did a number on you didn’t they,” I said with a frown as I looked at the blood stained tears in her tweed jacket. “As soon as we’re out of here, we’ll get you to a hospital and get those wounds cleaned up.”

“Thank you Alannah,” said Granny, patting my hand with hers as we slowly made our way out of the octagonal area. “And may I say that’s a lovely gown you’re wearing. Red really is your colour.”

“Alan’s fine really,” I replied, doing my best to try not to comment my own feelings on the scarlet monstrosity of a gown I was wearing.

“I think you *cough* shouldn’t rule out Alannah as a name though. It suits you.”

Yay me. Alannah suits me. That’s just… peachy.

“Are you cold?” I asked noticing her shivering. “Only this gown has a small cape attached that I could lend you.”

“It’s fine. Really,” said Granny, patting my hand again reassuringly. I noticed she had what my mother insisted on calling pianists hands — long, slender fingers.

“Do you play the piano?” I asked, the words escaping my lips before my brain could stop them.

“I used to,” replied Granny. “Why do you ask out of curiosity? It seems an odd question to ask in the circumstances.”

“Uh… I just wondered.”

“You’re a terrible liar Alannah,” chuckled Granny. “Out *cough* out with it.”

“Uh… I couldn’t help but notice how long your fingers were and I wondered if you played the piano.”

And actually getting another look at her hands, there seemed surprisingly hairy. That being said, I wasn’t convinced that wasn’t natural. People seemed to turn more into hobbits as they got older. They become shorter and hairier.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said my fingers *cough* were long before,” said Granny. “If they are then it’s all the better for hugging you with.”

Awwww…. Soooooo sweet.

“Tikka!”

“Not now Sonnet.”

“Do you think you would recognise your attackers?” I asked Granny.

“I’m not *cough* sure. It was dark and they moved very quickly. The House has some CCTV installed in the corrifffir.”

“Corrifffir?”

“Sorry,” said Granny, with a pronounced lisp as she cleared her throat. “I meant to say the Hooooouuss…”

“Granny? Are you okay? You’re squeezing my arm,” I moaned as her fingers dug into me.

“Houusssfff.”

“TIKKA!”

“What is it Sonnet?” I hissed. In response Sonnet kept making some sort of fang gesture with a hand.

“What are you on about? Can’t you see that Granny Constance needs our help? We need to… OW!”

I screamed in pain as Granny’s vice-like grip seemed to squeeze my arm down to the bone. Wriggling my arm free from her grasp I turned to her.

“That really hurt! Why did you do tha…”

My words died as I took in the changes that had happened to Granny Constance for the first time. About the only positive thing I could think of was that at least it didn’t look like she was turning into a were-elephant. I had enough problems as it was without importing new ones.

“Granny… what big teeth you have,” I whimpered as her face elongated to form a wolf like snout.

“All the better to eat you with,” she growled in response, clearly having a better grasp of her new mouth now. The feral smile that crossed her new face was very un-granny like.

“This is usually where they run,” she added helpfully. I didn’t need to be told twice.

“SONNET!” I screamed as I sprinted in the direction of the doors.

The silence of the library was shattered by a howl from Granny that nearly made me lose control of my bodily functions. It looked like Alannah snacks were back on the menu. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the last changes take hold of Granny and her start to run after me with her new legs. There was no way that I could outrun her at the speed at which she was closing. Diving to the ground she leapt clear over me, landing with a scramble of claws. I rolled to my left as she lunged again at me, springing to my feet to block a raking attack with an old book.

Throwing the book at her I resumed my sprint for the door, only to hear the closing patter of claws after a few steps. With a howl she lunged again and I slipped falling to the ground as I tried to clamber out of the way. Closing my eyes I hoped at least death would be quick this time.

“Tikka momma?”

Cracking open an eye I saw Sonnet hovering above me. Behind her was the form of wolf-granny trapped in a golden sphere of light, much akin to the one that had encased Jenkins two weeks earlier.

“Oh thank god…”

Pushing the sphere carefully away I pulled myself to my feet and brushed my dress down. Some of these marks would be impossible to get out I thought happily.

“Okay, let’s get the others and–“

Any further words were cut off by a blood curdling howl from within the sphere as wolf-granny ripped at its surface, managing to get the tips of her fingers threw it. A series of cracks that ran from that spot suggested several possible fault lines from which the sphere might crack asunder.

“Old plan,” I said turning to Sonnet and the rest of the girls that had gathered around me. “Run away!”

I ran as if the very devil was behind me the sound of cracking from the sphere becoming ever louder. Reaching the double doors to the library, I grasped the handles throwing them open and then…

And then…

And then started to backpedal furiously. Standing in front of me was a figure in full plate armour. He towered above me, easily standing 7 foot tall and in his hands he held the biggest sword I had ever seen. The most fearsome part of the warrior wasn’t his sword though. Or the assortment of other smaller armoured figures behind him. No, the fearsome part was his helmet. The curved solid steel visor had no gaps save for two triangular eye slots and a terrifying jagged mouth cut into it. All of this was illuminated by a demonic glowing golden light from within that gave the impression of a Halloween pumpkin come to life.

“Alannah Goodspeed… It is time. I have come for you,” said the warrior, his deep voice rumbling around the library with the finality of death.

In the circumstances I did the only thing I could think of. I passed out.
 

~o~O~o~
 
End of Chapter 3

 

 

Alan Goodspeed is an ordinary teenage boy with all the hopes and dreams of any other teenage boy. Except for when he was a teenage girl. And then there was the whole pixie parenthood thing. That's fairly normal... right?

 

Fair warning This is Chapter 4 in a series that I've not finished yet. That being said, for those who do decide to proceed, it's all plotted and I do intend to finish this, even if it is at the normal Jemima pace of things and will be woven around producing chapters of other stuff. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this fourth chapter! I would particularly like to thank everyone for their kind comments and encouragement. It's really appreciated. And of course *big hugs* to everyone who took the time to kudos and comment on the last chapter. This chapter was slightly delayed due to catching a cold this week that really disrupted my ability to think clearly enough to write for a while. So without further ado:
 
Previously in Chapter 3…
 
Reaching the double doors to the library, I grasped the handles throwing them open and then…

And then…

And then started to backpedal furiously. Standing in front of me was a figure in full plate armour. He towered above me, easily standing 7 foot tall and in his hands he held the biggest sword I had ever seen. The most fearsome part of the warrior wasn’t his sword though. Or the assortment of other smaller armoured figures behind him. No, the fearsome part was his helmet. The curved solid steel visor had no gaps save for two triangular eye slots and a terrifying jagged mouth cut into it. All of this was illuminated by a demonic glowing golden light from within that gave the impression of a Halloween pumpkin come to life.

“Alannah Goodspeed… It is time. I have come for you,” said the warrior, his deep voice rumbling around the library with the finality of death.

In the circumstances I did the only thing I could think of. I passed out.
 
 
And now Chapter 4…
 
Owwww… my head.

It wasn’t an OMFG my head’s been split open but there was a dull throbbing from my forehead as if I’d head butted a wall or something. I guess in the circumstances I couldn’t really complain. I did pass out after all. That reminded me, mental note to self — as a girl I seem to pass out like the heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Please stop doing it.

I cracked open an eye to sneak a peek at my surroundings. I appeared to still be (a) alive (b) in the library and (c) alone. All things considered I probably couldn’t complain about that outcome from having faced off against some sort of demonic knight. At least that’s how I’d retell the encounter to others when asked. I’d tell how I’d faced down death and stood my ground bravely. I mean I did sort of face off against him… well, for the few seconds before I passed out anyway and I totally didn’t move from my ground, clearly someone else moved me while I was unconscious so I can still claim to have stood my ground bravely-ish… right?

Ahh… screw it. If I had a coat of arms it would be a chicken-trussed on a field of fries.

Reaching behind my head I found that whoever had moved me had thoughtfully placed some sort of cloth bundle under my head. Huh. Considerate demonic knights? Was that even a thing? And where were my girls? Concentrating on the empathic link all I felt back was… giggling?

“Sonnet?” I whisper-hissed.

Nothing. Not even a ‘tikka’. Ohhhhhh… someone was going to be sooooooo grounded soon. The loss of Disney XD was going to be the least of her problems if she didn’t respond soon. An Old Testament style grounding was on the cards.

“Sonnet!” I whispered a little louder. “Sonn--“

Anything further I would have said was interrupted by the sound of clanking metal accompanied by soft voices. I opted for the better part of valour and closed my eyes again.

“…look at her! Not only is she scared of her own wings but at the first sign of danger what does she do?!? She passes out! And she doesn’t even have the sword! It’d be like being led into battle by a… by a… by a tortoise!”

If I wasn’t lying on the floor faking being unconscious after having actually fainted I think I’d have been offended by that comment from whoever this unidentified woman was. I hadn’t heard from the voice of doom yet which I wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or a good thing. Still, at least no one was trying to eat or hit me so oddly this was probably the best first encounter I’d had in two weeks. And I still (so far) wasn’t dead yet… so yay me.

“The Queen speaks highly of her potential,” said a different female voice.

“Potential? Potential Darwin Award material sure but potential princess material? No way! The Queen did everything short of hanging a sign around her neck saying ‘this-is-a-red-riding-hood-costume-if-you-don’t-believe-me-look-at-the-hooded-scarlet-cloak-oh-and-by-the-way-remember-the-big-bad-wolf-that-ate-granny?’ and guess what, she left the sword lying around and very nearly died! And then when she meets us… she faints!”

“To be fair they did say she was prone to the fainting thing,” said the second voice. “Should we splash some water on her or something?”

“Do you have any water on you?” asked the first voice.

“Well, no. My canteen is in the van. You?” replied the second voice.

“Same here.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I could urinate on her if it helps?” said a deep male voice.

“Ewwwww!” squealed both female voices before the first voice added. “Why would you even suggest that?”

My own mental ‘ewwwwwww’ added to that of the two female voices. I wasn’t sure if this counted as mortal danger but it wasn’t high on my list of things to experience that was for sure. And where were my pixies in all this? Being pee’d on by demonic knights sounded exactly like the sort of thing that they should be protecting me from. If it wasn’t, I’d sure as hell be adding it to that list of things that momma doesn’t like that Pell kept.

“Well, partly to hear you two squeal like school girls and partly to see if it would encourage the faker to admit she’s been awake for at least most of this conversation.”

“What do you mean she’s awake?” asked the second female voice. “She looks the same as she did when we carried her here.”

“Two reasons. One, she’s moved her left arm under the cloak you put under her head and two, she held her breath when I threatened to urinate on her.”

Ooooo… busted.

“Um… hey guys,” I said, cautiously opening first one eye then the other. The sight that greeted me caused me to let out a relieved sigh.

“Princess,” said the first woman, her blue Pyskie skin and white hair now visible where her helmet had been removed. “It is good to see that you are unharmed. I am Tate.”

As she curtseyed I noticed now what I had originally taken to be a shield on her back was actually armour covering her wings like the rest of her body. That, and the vicious looking axe in her hand, gave the impression of someone you didn’t want to mess with.

Huh. What do you know? It seems my ‘subjects’ were seriously kick ass.

“Princess,” said the second woman. Like the first she carried a fearsome looking hand weapon though in her case it was a Mjolnir like war hammer. Unlike Tate her plate armour was engraved with intricate rune patterns. “My name is Felice.”

Accepting a hand from each I was gently lifted to my feet.

“I’m guessing you know my name then,” I said, sheepishly ducking my head to avoid looking them in the eyes.

It’s one thing to be cowardly but an altogether different proposition to be caught being cowardly. Well, unless you make like the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz and own it. Probably not an option for a princess, however unwillingly I found myself one.

“Of course Princess Alannah,” replied Tate. “I would like apologise for anything that I may have said that caused offence.”

“It’s fine,” I replied. “Really.”

Well, maybe not fine but y’know noblesse oblige and all that. I really hated people that walked around with a sense of self-entitlement and if I had to be royalty was I determined to be more of the ‘bicycling monarchy’ sort than the ‘pomp and circumstance’ sort. Royalty for my money was about service rather than entitlement. I may not want to be a Pyskie princess but I was going to try my hardest not to be a stuck up Pyskie princess.

“Good. Now perhaps it is time for us to become acquainted,” said a deep rumbling voice from behind me.

It was the sort of voice that made James Earl Jones sound a bit girly. Deep, resonant and masculine with a little bit of an accent I couldn’t quite place. I turned to come face-to-chest with a towering wall of flesh and steel. He gave the definite impression that the sculpting in his armour wasn’t the lust filled fantasy of a sexually repressed blacksmith but rather a reflection of what was actually under the steel and chainmail. As ideal male physiques went, the armour was perfect apart from a small dent in the chest plate that was about my head height. As the rest of the armour was polished so perfectly that the armour shone I could only assume such an imperfection was recent.

Letting out a small whimper I slowly panned my head upwards from his chest to see the demonic pumpkin-like visor gazing down at me, its glowing triangular eye holes and jagged mouth seemingly beckoning me to hell itself.

“Grab her! She’s passing out again!” yelled Tate as I felt my legs buckle. “And for Goddess’s sake take that helmet off will you! You’re scaring the poor child.”

As my vision started to grey out I saw the armoured figure pull off his helmet to reveal a handsome golden skinned man who glowed with a warm amber light. Unlike Queen Joan’s long spun gold hair his golden hair was styled in a fashionably short razor cut with black tips. And yeah, it definitely looked like it involved styling and product but it really worked for him giving him a sort of rakish appearance. It might have been my light-headedness from impending unconsciousness but I could have sworn he looked familiar.

“Sorry Princess,” said Tate. “You have a task for tonight, so we’re a bit pressed for time.”

Before I could ponder the meaning to her words I felt a stinging open handed slap across my face that left my ears ringing.

“HEY!” I shrieked, reaching up to cup my cheek and shaking myself free of the Felice’s grasp.

“Annnnnnd… she’s back,” said Tate, rather too smugly for my liking.

“I’ll give you something back,” I hissed, shaking a fist at her in warning.

“*AHEM* the King…” said Felice, gesturing with her head from Tate to the armoured male figure.

“What? Oh… OH!” replied Tate, before curtseying to the ‘King’.

“Princess Alannah Louise Goodspeed, Heir to the Sundered Thrones, may I introduce you to his most royal funkaliciousness King Jack o’ the Lantern, co-regent of the Pixies; Lord of moors, forests and the gardens; Lord of Tupelo, Memphis and Las Vegas; Keeper of the Shoes of Azure Leather; and Guardian of the Golden Light,” intoned Felice.

I’m the heir to what now? I know my ears are still ringing from the slap but did she just say I was heir to the Thunder Dome? Though actually the ‘two men enter, one man leaves’ thing would be kind of easy to carry off bloodlessly if I was one of the contestants and was allowed to change it to ‘two men enter, one man and one woman leaves’.

Looking at my two Pyskie companions I could see that I was expected to say something.

“Um… it’s a pleasure to meet you your royal… funkaliciousness…”

Is funkaliciousness even a word?

“Thank you, thank you very much. I’m sure it is a pleasure for you,” he replied, lifting up my hand to lightly kiss it. “May I say that you look very beautiful princess?”

I shivered as his lips brushed my skin, goosebumps spreading from the back of my hand all the way up my arm.

“Umm… I guess?” I said with a shiver.

“In which case, you look very beautiful princess.”

“Ummm… thank you.”

Oooooo… he was teasing me. Yet I didn’t mind. There was just something about this guy. A sort of personal magnetism that made you feel like you were the only boy-transformed-into-a-girl in the world.

“So you’re Queen Joan’s co-regent and… husband?”

“Got it in one little lady,” replied King Jack, adding a clicking sound at the end as he pointed at me forming his fingers into a horizontal ‘L-shape’. “Though there’s more than enough King Jack left to go around if you know what I mean and King Jack likes to go around.”

If Queen Joan was regal class, King Jack was… something else. The only reason these two could have for being together was an arranged royal marriage. Well, either that or he was hiding a foot long that Subway would be proud of under that armoured codpiece.

Okay, deep breath. Ignore the very handsome golden man and focus on what got me into this mess.

“So what was with the whole demonic knight scaring the crap out of me thing?” I asked, pointing to his armoured helmet.

“It puts fear into my enemies,” he said, a slightly defensive tone to his voice.

“Helllloooooo?” I said waving my hands over myself. “Scared witless and not your enemy.”

“See, I told you it would scare her,” said Tate in a voice that reminded me of a small child proven right after an argument. All it lacked was a ‘neh-nah’.

“Tate did have a point Your Funkaliciousness,” added Felice. “Given that time is of the essence it perhaps wasn’t the most opportune moment to overwhelm the poor child with your magnificence.”

Felice exuded the same sort of obsequiousness that a career civil servant had in the presence of their elected masters, running the fine line between being a kiss ass and strangling them with a reel of government red tape.

“Well, I apologise if you’re all shook up,” said the King, punctuating his apology with a respectful bow. “A fool such as I should have known better.”

That was a trifle… unexpected. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I first thought. What was it that dad always said? You shouldn’t judge people on first impressions. Maybe dad was right.

“Oh… well thank you.”

“And if you’d like to stop by my chambers tonight, I could think of some ways in which I could make it up to you,” said the King, wiggling his eye brows suggestively in a way that Roger Moore would have been proud of.

On second thoughts you know nothing dad.

“I think I’ll pass on the offer but thank you.”

“Your loss princess because King Jack’s a big hunk o’ love and let me tell you, there ain’t nothing that King Jack won’t do to give a lady satisfaction. And King Jack he ain’t had no complaints.”

Oh phul-eeze. It was all I could do from sticking two fingers down my throat and miming being sick. And what’s up with this third person royalty thing anyway. There was no way Alannah was doing that.

“Sooooooo…” I said, pointedly ignoring the come on and gesturing to the small assemblage of armoured Pyskies that had filed into the area around us. “Who are these?”

“My elite bodyguard and let me tell you King Jack’s body is certainly worth guarding. You won’t find a more perfectly perfect male physique than King Jack’s outside of a Michelangelo sculpture. And being impossibly handsome is just one of King Jack’s many virtues.”

We won’t mention that they had to remove his modesty and humility to make room for his impossible handsomeness because they clearly weren’t amongst his virtues.

“As for guardians of this magnificent body, they are as you would expect nothing less than the most drop dead gorgeous collection of amazons you will ever meet.”

And girl was that statement true. It was like the King was being guarded by those models that were in the Robert Palmer music video, ‘Addicted to Love’. Well, that’s assuming the models in the video were blue, winged, armour clad and were wearing a lot less make-up.

“My bodyguard leave a trail of broken hearts and broken bones in their wake. Heartbreakers one and all,” said the King before adding with a full on leer. “Though they pale in comparison to your beauty, princess.”

“Hey! I’m right here!” squealed Tate. “I’ll remember this when you’re feeling lonesome tonight.”

“Now Tate,” whined the King. “I know that you can be a hard headed woman but please don’t be cruel.”

“Cruel?!? I’ll show you cruel,” hissed Tate. “Let’s see if you’re feeling so clever when a part of you is far less golden than now and far bluer. How about that eh?”

“Taaaaaaaate… Baby, don’t make me beg. C’mon… let me be your teddy bear… y’know you want to.”

So that’s how it was with the King’s elite bodyguard. It seemed a lot more than guarding that magnificent muscled body that looked like it had been etched from marble was going on than the title bodyguard would suggest.

Wait… did I just think that?

“The King has a degree of personal magnetism that you will find hard to resist outside of your Pyskie form,” whispered Felice as she gently lifted my jaw closed with the tips of her fingers. “If you shift to Pyskie form you’ll find it doesn’t affect you.”

“But Tate…”

“Is… how would you say it in your idiom? Ahh…. Tate is taking one for the team,” said Felice. “More than once on most nights actually.”

“Wait… what?”

“The King and the Queen have been on separate plains of reality since the 1670s. The King has… needs. Needs that Tate… satisfies?”

“And the Queen knows this?”

“Yes. She even approved Tate.”

“Wait… so Tate is some sort of courtesan?”

“I’d suggest you never use that word in her presence Princess. If you value your wings that is.”

“I’m sorry,” I added hastily, trying to speak around the foot clearly wedged in my mouth. “I intended no offence. Y’know in Firefly Inara is one of my favourite characters…. After Simon and Kaylee because that’s an ‘awwwwww’ thing and y’know Jayne… because *tscha* Jayne… and obviously Mal… and River just for the kick ass awkwardness… and then who wouldn’t love Wash and Zoe…”

“Not helping,” replied Felice, amusement evident in the sing-songy tone of her voice.

“Sorry. Again. Sorry.”

“You caused me no offence Princess and I’m sure Tate doesn’t need to know of your misspeaking.”

“Thank you,” I answered gratefully. “Thank you… though…”

“Though?”

“I’m curious how she can…”

“How she can put up with him?” asked Felice with a cheeky smile. “Let’s just say that God choose to balance the shortcomings in the King’s personality with rather longer ones elsewhere…”

Oh?

Oh!!

“And what… she’s been playing hide the sausage with him since the 1670s?”

I at least had the good grace to blush when I asked that question. My imagination was working overtime on what size exactly the sausage in question was. I’m betting it wasn’t a cocktail sausage.

Wait… I did it again didn’t I?

“Pretty much though we did lose him for a few years in the 1950s and 60s but other than that, yes. Personally, rather her than me though.”

“Yeah,” I replied, watching him go through the usual motions of male apology to Tate while she stood with her back to him, her arms folded. I don’t know why he went to the trouble personally. Clearly that bitch wasn’t worthy of him. Now, on the other hand I wouldn’t… no, bad thought! Bad!

“Happening again?” asked Felice. I just nodded my head in reply, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

“You could just shift to Pyskie form?”

I shook my head in reply. I was a Goodspeed and we were stubborn people. I can beat this. I was greater than the sum of my hormones. Or should that be wo-mones? Either way, mind over matter. As long as I avoided focusing on his bronzed golden skin and the armour that invited you to peel it off to view the rippling muscles and perfect set of abs underneath and… *groan* not again.

“Well don’t say I didn’t warn you. It takes a few minutes to take hold but once he’s under your skin you’ll find your body starting to react strongly to him like a drug. I’ve seen him turn hundreds of human girls into screaming teen groupies before. If you shift to Pyskie form it will purge that reaction from your system.”

“Why doesn’t Queen Joan have this effect on me?” I said, with a tone of voice even I would admit was whiney.

“Were you in male or female form when you met her?”

“Uhhh… female under a male glamour.”

“Then there is your answer.”

“Sorry?”

“You do know you’re a straight girl, right?” said Felice, reaching out to reassuringly touch my arm. “If you were a lesbian or bisexual in female form then the Queen would have affected you. I would therefore suggest from your reaction to the King, that in female form you are a very straight girl.”

Oh, that’s just… peachy. I knew I was straight in female form but very straight? Not even a little bi? Urrgh. Kill me now.

“Tikka?” giggled a voice from behind me.

“And where have you been Sonnet?” I asked, instinctively adopting that motherly grump of disapproval. I still didn’t dare to open my eyes either in case I got a case of the King Jacks.

“Tikka.”

“And that’s supposed to be an excuse?”

“Umm… tikka?”

“And what about the others?” I asked with a snort of disapproval.

“Tikka! Tikka!”

“To be fair princess, your daughters have been very helpful in enabling us to contain ‘not grandma’ and make sure she didn’t hurt herself or anyone else.”

“Ummm… how is Granny Constance?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

In my defence I’ve had a stressful day followed by a panic filled evening. That one or two small details may have escaped my attention, such as the werewolf formerly known as Granny Constance, should not be held against me.

“Still a werewolf if that’s what you’re asking.”

“She’s not roaming the library is she?” I asked, cracking open an eye to glance around the immediate vicinity.

“Between your pixies and ours we have her safely contained for now. I’ll be conducting the banishing ritual at dawn. If we’re lucky there will be enough of her left to salvage… something.”

“I could call upon the Family for help,” I offered. “They might not like it but they may be able to provide some experience in the matter? At the very least, they could lend their magick?”

I was reluctant to do it because admitting I needed help from the Family was basically handing them something to use against me but I couldn’t let a sweet old lady die just because of my pride.

“Thank you princess but you will find that you do not have anyone with more experience at banishment rites than we do given our long life spans. More importantly, the Family cannot know of our presence. I know that this business with the weres is a human matter but if the Golden Court was to become aware that our forces were nearby, they would mobilise their own against us.”

“I could hide your involvement?”

“Unfortunately, your pixies alone are not sufficient to contain the creature. No, this will come down to our experience and the strength of will and Talent of the possessed.”

“Uncle John said Granny Constance was one of the most powerful witches he knew of,” I added hopefully.

“Then there may yet be hope for her.”

“And if there isn’t enough of her left?” I asked. I had a horrible feeling I knew the answer to that question.

“Then she will be rendered unto God.”

Oh. That sounded very… final.

“Can… can I see her?”

“Of course princess,” said Felice, slipping her arm through mine. “Allow me to be your guide.”

Felice steered me through a maze of stacks until we came to what had once been a small reading section, the desks now moved to create a small clearing. A large opaque golden orb dominated the clearing with a dimly visible figure inside that could just be seen clawing at the inner lining.

“Wow,” I whispered as I gazed at the scene before me.

“Yes,” replied Felice, squeezing my arm. “Wow.”

It wasn’t the orb that caused my wow, I had seen more modest versions before after all. No, it was the figures floating in the air above it that took my breath away. There were easily at least a hundred pixies dancing in the air above the orb, maybe more. As they swooped and looped around it was impossible to accurately gauge exactly how many there were.

“It’s amazing… I’ve never seen so many in one place.”

“It’s a sight I never tire of even after 1500 years,” replied Felice, her voice heavy with a touch of reverence. “They are filled with so much joy and life.”

“Momma!” called Pell, swooping down to hug me. “Momma, play!”

“Maybe later sweetie,” I said returning the hug.

“If you want to change out of your pink skin and join them princess it will do no harm to the containment spell,” said Felice as what I assumed was one of her own pixies landed on her shoulder.

“That’s okay I nee–“

I was interrupted by another one of my litter dropping on top of my head.

“Tikka! Giddy-up momma!” squealed the pixie as she picked up handfuls of my long blonde hair and held it like reins.

“Snowflake,” I hissed, feeling my face flush with colour.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Felice moved a hand to cover her mouth in what I could only assume was an attempt to mask a traitorous giggle.

“Giddy-up momma horsey!” squealed Snowflake, gently kicking at my ears with her heels.

“Sweetie, we’re not at home now,” I said, singing the words to her as I tried to remove her from my head. “Ow. Watch the hair will you?”

“Momma!” sang out a chorus of voices.

Looking up I saw the rest of my litter swooping down from the giggling ring of pixies to envelope me in hugs. The feelings of love that they broadcast were so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep my eyes from misting up as I returned 13 tiny little hugs (and didn’t return one insistent giddy-up).

“So, ummm, the banishing ritual… do you think it will work?” I asked as casually as one could when covered in 13 small furry pixies while the 14th kept digging imaginary spurs into my ears.

“I have experience of conducting a few in the past. Given the number of pixies with us some of the older ones may well provide their assistance,” replied Felice.

“So you channel their wild magick like a familiar?” I asked, pondering just how euphemistically the word ‘assistance’ was being used in this case.

It was the sort of word that when used by the Family in the context of creatures of the Golden Court could be used interchangeably with the word ‘compelled’, for there was no choice involved. However, the way that Felice’s nose wrinkled in disgust gave testament to the fact that it wasn’t the case.

“No, of course not princess. You are not alone in viewing your litter as your children. We accept only that which is freely offered. It is the Pyskie way. The human witches and warlocks take from the creatures of the Golden Court much like the humans do Mother Nature, thoughtlessly and without care for the cost of doing so, but we of the Pyskie understand that all life is interconnected. It is that same understanding that allows us when in Pyskie form to manipulate ‘pure’ magick directly from the wellspring that all living creatures are part of rather than as the human’s do through the filter of their ‘familiars’.”

“Wait… you access the wellspring directly?” I asked.

I may have rebelled against the Family but there was a time once when I didn’t. One of the earliest lessons they teach little warlocks and witches was the story of the wellspring. Supposedly it was a tree, a great yew tree in fact, that had existed since the birth of the world. It was supposed to be the link between the creator and all life. No one, not even the Golden Court, knew where the tree was but that didn’t stop people searching for it. Supposedly even the smallest part of the tree could amplify the possessors Talent to incredible levels.

As you can imagine accessing the wellspring directly was a Holy Grail type objective for many witches and warlocks just as possessing a part of the tree was for the Golden Court. The closest any witch or warlock had come to it was the use of familiars. There were tales of illegal alchemical attempts to infuse the wellspring connected essence of animals and other creatures into witches and warlocks but that never ended well. For an example of this see: Weres, Wolf and Pires, Vam.

“Despite our human origins our Pyskie state is more than human. It is this that allows us to tap into the wellspring. The stronger our human Talent was, the stronger that link to the wellspring.”

Now that was a frightening thought. I’d been tested as a child by both House Goodspeed and by House Grimm and by all accounts I had an exceptional gift, greater even that that of my siblings or parents. In human terms I had the potential to be not just powerful but a legendary practitioner of the Craft. The sort that gets books written about their exploits. Direct access to the wellspring of pure magick with my level of Talent… the words of Pitt the Elder came to mind, ‘Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it’. I’d seen that first hand as a child and wasn’t about to go down that road however well-intentioned the paving of it was.

And then there was the Family.

I shuddered to think what the Family would do if they knew that my Pyskie form could access the wellspring directly. Given what they had done to Tracy Fairborn it seemed certain at the very least that they would be hunting down litters of pixies to bond their chosen witches and warlocks to so as to create more good little soldiers for the cause. I couldn’t help but think that it was a good thing that humans were so disconnected from the wellspring.

Thankful I had neither the knowledge of the Craft nor inclination to use it to make my potential come true. I just needed the Pyskie to understand this and let me get out of this whole royalty / coming war thing and let me get on with my life as normally as anyone subject to a pixie bonding was able to.

“Is the banishment ritual complex?” I asked, turning my attention back to Felice.

“It is challenging. It will depend on the physical and magickal strength of ‘not grandma’ if it has any chance of succeeding.”

I really hoped for once that my luck would hold and Granny Constance was saveable. God knows I could really use a break right now. I seemed to be responsible for the deaths of more old people than old age. The Witchfinders had killed Agnes to get close to me and I suspected that Granny Constance wasn’t just a random were attack. Weres weren’t creatures of the Golden Court, and only a witch or warlock could become a were-something due to its nature. The animal avatar needed to feed off the host’s Talent when it wasn’t dominant, something that it couldn’t do with a mundane.

During the day when the avatar’s influence was weakened it was still enough to prevent the possessed from seeking help but when the sun set the avatar was in complete control. The ability to shift to wolf form was dependant on the phases of the moon but suffice to say that when an unsuspecting lover said of their partner that they were an animal in bed they weren’t always wrong. So, with that in mind what were the odds that a little old lady would be randomly attacked by a were? I think that question pretty much answered itself. This had the hallmark of a targeted hit all over it. The real question, the only one that really mattered, was am I the mark? I had a feeling I needed to find that out pretty quickly.

“Wait… if you’re conducting the ritual yourself… does that makes you a cleric?” I asked.

I stopped as Felice pointed to the runes inscribed on her armour. That and the war hammer suddenly made sense. A cleric was basically a witch or warlock that had trained in a specialist version of the Craft. They had originally been a tool of the Church, the title cleric invented to distinguish them from the witches and warlocks that the Church was simultaneously and hypocritically persecuting. Raised as monks, they were fed a diet of Faith and Craft and over time they had evolved a very distinct form of the Craft. They were able to turn the undead, exorcise the possessed, that sort of thing. Their focus took the form not of a ring or a wand but of a symbol of their faith — the cross, the ankh, even runes. It was rare to find one now, the Reformation and the Age of Enlightenment had reduced their numbers until only a handful of monasteries remained that could train one. Some, but by no means all, Family Houses employed a cleric for their specialisms but most Houses had a few witches and warlocks who dabbled as amateur clerics focussing on those areas of the Craft. I knew that Opa Grimm had a several trained clerics working for the Family full-time as opposed to House Goodspeed who only had a couple of part-time amateur clerics.

“Yes my princess. I was inducted as a child during the reign of Pope Anastasius II and would serve the Church for 20 years until I found my own pixie children.”

I have no idea when that was but the name sounded old. Like Roman early church old.

“Where you there at the defeat of the Golden Court?” I asked.

Even with the small bit of information imparted by the Queen my knowledge of what actually happened to lead the Golden Court to leave our world was still largely lacking. If the Golden Court were truly returning and I couldn’t get out of this princess gig then I needed to know what happened. I had a feeling my life might just depend on it.

“No. I missed it by the smallest span of time as I did not become a Pyskie until the early sixth century. Perhaps I was fortunate in this as there are very few Pyskie alive today who were at the Battle of Buckland St Mary, not because of the length of time as 1500 years in well within our lifespans, but because of the casualties we took in driving the Fey from this realm.”

“Which is why we are so hesitant about showing our hand now,” intoned the deep male voice of the King.

“You were there? At Buckland St Mary?” I asked. If Queen Joan was, King Jack had to be.

“I was. At the head of 2,000 of the finest warriors I will ever lead into battle. By the end of the battle that evening I led just 52 warriors from the field. The Golden Court led none from the field at the end and left closer to 5,000 behind including 60 of note. Two of Queen Mab’s own sons were amongst that number.”

“The Golden Court had underestimated us and allowed Queen Joan to dictate the timing and location of the battle,” added Tate in a quiet voice. “Yet despite this were it not for the deaths of her sons and the loss of her much favoured third son, the Golden Court still had more than enough forces in reserve to have finished us in a second engagement.”

I watched as the King wrapped Tate in a surprisingly tender embrace, wiping away her tears.

“Queen Mab has seven sons… had seven sons,” said Felice, picking up the thread of the story. “Her eldest two, Princes Oak and Hawthorn, died in the battle but it was the loss of her youngest son, Prince Rowan that drove the Queen into a black grief that saw her accept defeat and withdraw the Golden Court from this realm.”

“Rowan didn’t die in the battle?” I asked, uncertain as to the use of the word “loss”.

“No. We had all assumed he had but when we buried the dead he was not amongst them,” said Tate in a low voice. “Yet I know he was there because I saw him in the battle.”

“So what happened to him?”

“No one knows for sure,” said Felice. “There are rumours that he fled wounded from the battle and upon learning of the withdrawal of the Golden Court from this realm and of the wards erected by Queen Joan to prevent its return or others to follow it, he fled the British Isles for new lands.”

“Actually, there are more than rumours,” said the King. “I met him a century after the battle in what is now Germany.”

“What?” exclaimed a shocked Tate, struggling free from the King’s embrace.

“This is only known to Queen Joan and now the three of you. If Queen Mab were to know of this she would throw her forces at the wards in such numbers they would not be able to hold, caring not for the losses to her forces would sustain in breaking them. And then this realm would fall quickly to the might of the Golden Court for we are not yet strong enough to oppose her.”

“So where is he?” I asked.

“I do not know where he is now but back then Prince Rowan took the name Caorthann, the Irish name for the tree he was named for, and had settled in a small village in the Black Forest. When I met him he had undergone a profound change in his attitudes to humanity, having experienced first-hand the kindness of humans in nursing his wounds after the battle. Unable to follow the Golden Court into exile he decided to spend time amongst the humans and had by the time I met him, taken a human wife.”

“Something that would have appalled Queen Mab,” said Felice.

“Yes,” said the King. “Which is why he begged me not to reveal that he still lived to the Golden Court. His human wife was pregnant with their child at the time. In return for my silence he promised never to return to these isles and to keep his existence hidden. To my knowledge he has kept his word.”

“So wait… that means her title isn’t just hyperbole. There really is a human line that does uni–“

Felice’s words petered out under the sharp glare emanating from the King towards her.

“A human line that what?” I asked.

“Nothing,” replied Felice, staring intently at her shoes. “An idle thought that has no consequence princess.”

No consequence my ass. As much as I was a princess to the Seditious Court, and oddly I don’t seem to remember applying for that position, it seemed there was another human prince or princess to the Golden Court running around out there. I just hoped the poor dumb schmuck had better luck than I did though knowing my luck it was probably Xander and we were destined to duel it out on Mount Doom or something. Mind you, if it was Xander at would be quite comical actually given he wouldn’t be able to see his own subjects. Not that I didn’t wish I couldn’t see mine at times given their propensity for hitting me.

“Your Funkaliciousness,” announced a new Pyskie as she approached us. Kneeling in front of the King she held out a familiar velvet wrapped bundle.

“You can keep that,” I said, moving away from the bundle.

I was 17 years old and had already killed my first person. I know in some cultures this would be celebrated as a rite of passage to manhood. I would be a ‘made man’ for want of a better term. I however had no intention of celebrating such an act and even less intention of adding a second death to that list. A small part of something precious died in me that night and I didn’t want to lose anything further.

“It is yours by birth right,” said the King, carefully drawing a long blade from the bundle.

As he turned the blade over in his hand I noticed the precious metals covering the basket hilt gleam in the reflection of his own internally generated warm light.

“The sword hilt is iron. However, the Queen had it coated with gold, silver and copper melted down from 16th Century coins. The blade itself is of the finest metal and has one edge coated in silver that you will find helpful against creatures such as weres.”

Yeah, it would have been really helpful if the Queen had highlighted that fact. A word, a text… maybe a link to a youtube tutorial… otherwise how was I supposed to know the stupid sword was for fighting werewolves?

“It is perfectly balanced for you despite its size thanks to modifications made by the finest Gnomish blacksmiths. It has also been enchanted as a singing sword fit for a princess. It will sing of your purity of heart in peace so as to inspire the good character of your subjects and in battle it will sing of your bravery to drive your warriors to victory. If you were to select a champion or the sword were to be held by a warrior of the Seditious Court, it would whisper to them a song of victory and glory everlasting so as to inspire them to greatness whenever they hold the sword and fight in your name.”

“And it’s singing to you now?” I asked the King, straining against the silence of the library and the sound of giggling pixies to hear anything.

“Carmina Burana. O Fortuna,” he said looking pleased with himself.

“And does it sing the same song to everyone?”

“Let’s find out,” said Tate, taking the sword from the King. “Ooohhh… Wagner. Ride of the Valkyries. Felice?”

“Julia Ward Howe. Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“Figures with a religious girl like you,” replied Tate, mock rolling her eyes.

“Princess?” asked Felice, offering me the sword. “Are you not curious to hear the song that the singing sword finds in your heart?”

Curious? Hell yeah. Who wouldn’t be in such circumstances? It would be like having your own personal theme tune. Whatever mine was, I was hoping it was seriously kick ass.

“Only to hear the song,” I said gingerly grasping the offered hilt. “Don’t see this as accepting the sword or anything, okay?”

“Of course princess,” replied Felice with a maddening hint of obsequiousness.

“I’m serious. Let’s get this over with.”

As my grasp closed around the hilt and Felice released her grip of the blade I felt a hair raising tingling on the back of my neck. A tingling that quickly turned into a gentle humming behind my ears and then burst into a full orchestral score. Drums. Keyboard. Guitar… it certainly wasn’t classical which suited me fine. Who wanted the sort of soundtrack you got from an upmarket action movie? No mine was definitely… pop. In fact as the vocal track started it was definitely familiar.

♬ ‘…Not a word from your lips… you just took for granted that I want to skinny dip…’ ♬

Wait a minute… I recognise that song. It’s… oh… that’s just peachy.

“Princess?” asked Tate expectantly.

“Uh… something classical and uhhh… inspiring. I’m not a big classical music fan,” I said trying to pass the sword back to the King as the ‘na-na-nas’ started in my head. “It’ll come to me.”

Yeah, it’ll come to me after I google inspirational music and pretend it was that.

“Lots of big classical stuff going on,” I said gesturing to the sword and then my ears. Could I improvise the name of a classical music song in my moment of crisis? Nope.

I couldn’t help but notice that while I was speaking Felice was swaying slightly to herself and appeared to be mumbling something under her breath. I was fairly certain I saw her mouth the words ‘cherry wine’ before her face lit up like she’d just discovered that she had the winning lottery numbers on a double rollover week.

“OMG!” squee’d Felice as she wrapped me in a hug. “Everyone! She’s pure of heart!”

“Well, fuck me… seriously?” asked Tate. In response Felice just squee’d more.

“Whoa. Everyone! Rejoice! The princess is a virgin!” called out Tate to the crowd of Pyskie’s that had gathered a short distance from us.

“And frankly that’s probably rarer than meeting a Troll in this day and age,” murmured Tate sotto voce to the King.

All it took was for my mother to be here and for me to be only wearing my boxers and I’m fairly certain I’ve had this as a nightmare. I’d just been outted as a virgin in front of a bunch of complete strangers who just happened to be all gorgeous women. I think my poor, battered, often absent, masculine ego was just about ready to throw in the towel right now.

“What? No? Why… why would you even say that?” I called out, trying to prise myself free from Felice. “I’ve done lots of girls! Really! I’m a bad boy! Honest!”

“If that’s the case your virgin-ness, why did the sword sing Jermaine Stewart’s ‘We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off?’?” asked Tate smugly.

“How should I know? It’s your people’s freaking swo-- no, wait… you could hear that? How come you could hear that and I couldn’t hear yours?” I stammered.

“Umm… ‘it will sing of your purity of heart in peace so as to inspire the good character of your subjects and in battle it will sing of your bravery to drive your warriors to victory’ remember? And as for us, ‘if you were to select a champion or the sword were to be held by a warrior of the Seditious Court, it would whisper to them a song of victory and glory everlasting’. Emphasis on the ‘whisper’. I apologise your virgin-ness if we appear to have forgotten to mention that it wouldn’t sing to just you. Oopsie. Our bad.”

Oh great. This is really, really… peachy.

And no way, no how did that bitch not do that to me deliberately. This is game on. Tate is so going down to China Town. There would be revenging.

“I apologise for my earlier remarks Princess,” said the King, bowing respectfully to me. “I had not appreciated that you were of such pure heart.”

“What? No! Don’t apologise… it’s not…” I said, feeling my face burning in what I had no doubt was a similar shade of crimson to my dress. “Maybe it’s just referring to my female state? Wait… yes, that’s it. Because I obviously haven’t y’know… done ‘it’ in this form.”

Advantage Alan.

“Ummm… actually, the sword sings about both your forms your virgin-ness,” said Tate. “If you had been deflowered in either form it would have changed the song.”

Game, set and match sword.

“Well it’s wrong. What does it know? It’s just rusty metal… right? Am I right? Anyway, I can prove it to you. I’ve done ‘it’ lots of times. Let’s.. umm... do ‘it’… right now. On that desk over there. The King can drizzle me in uh… his… golden love… syrup and uh… butter my muffin? He could toast… my… teacake?”

Yeah… wasn’t really sure where I was going there. It turns out I can’t talk dirty to save my life. Or it seems to save my reputation which just goes to show how screwed up a world we live in when I’m trying to prove I’m not a virgin. Oh, and it appears I just propositioned the King for heterosexual sex with me as the girl. *groan* That damned personal magnetism of his again. This is just so… so…

Peachy.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

“Hush Princess. It would be wrong for your first time to be so… tawdry,” said the King, softly pressing a finger against my lips. “Your first time should be special.”

“Awwwwww,” squealed Felice again as she hugged me tighter.

“Will you stop doing that!” I hissed as I once more struggled to free myself from her grasp.

“Forgive me princess,” said Felice, releasing me. “It just fills this jaundiced heart with joy to find one such as yourself in today’s world.”

“It’s not that unusual,” I muttered, more to myself than Felice.

“Tscha!” snorted Tate. “Pound for pound you’re probably worth more than gold if we sold you to some rich Arab, particularly with those extra few pounds of puppy fat you’re carrying there.”

“Probably not helping here,” whispered Felice behind her hand to Tate.

“So uhhmm… princess. Have you asked the sword for your battle song?” asked Tate.

Ohhh… she’s just baiting me now.

“Yeah right.”

“No, seriously princess,” said Felice. “Remember the song to inspire in battle?”

“So how do I make it do that?” I asked, looking at the hilt for a hint of an Apple style iPod control without luck.

“You could ask the sword your virgin-ness,” said Tate.

“Oh… OH! Okay!”

Well this had potential. My battle song. The sword couldn’t really go wrong there could it? Battle song seemed fairly defining as a category.

“Sword… uh… play my battle song. Please?” I asked holding it out before me and willing it to play something inspiring and even masculine. I always like the theme to the movie Glory. That would be pretty kick ass. Right now, I’d even take the Magnificent Seven theme. Hell, the 60s Batman theme would be a step up from proclaiming my purity to the world.

And the song that I will lead my armies into battle with — or not lead them into battle with if I had my way — is…

Drums… that’s good… annnnnd… it’s turned into a pop song? What sort of battle song is a pop song? I guess I should at least be glad it’s not Waterloo by Abba. It’s actually familiar. I think I own it… female singer…

Oh. Oh, no.

Sara Bareilles. Brave.

♬ ‘…Honestly I wanna see you be brave…’ ♬

Great. Freaking sarcasm from a sword.

“Can I get this thing melted down?” I asked.

“Princess!” gasped Felice. “It’s an enchanted blade. That would be unthinkable.”

♬ ‘….Maybe one of these days you can let the light in, Show me how big your brave is…’ ♬

“How about having it repurposed? Maybe made into some nice garden rake? I mean who uses swords anymore anyway? No one, that’s who.”

“Princess! This is your ancestor’s sword,” replied Tate, an almost reverential tone to her voice. “This is the weapon of a Pyskie princess. Not as clumsy or random as a gun. This is an elegant weapon for a more civilised age. For over 5000 years, the Pyskie have been the guardians of peace and justice in this realm.”

I watched as Tate and Felice shared a quick fist bump. A deeply suspicious fist bump for my mind.

Waaaaaait a cotton picking minute now… I’ve heard that speech before somewhere… did they just quote Star Wars to me?!?

“Well this isn’t really a civilised age is it? Even if it was, as I said who would use a sword in this day and age? And for the record you are hardly Jedi knights.”

Yeah, so you can take your midichlorians and shove them where the sun don’t shine.

“If you were to face an elf you would soon see the value of your sword princess,” said Felice, her face set in a stern expression.

I mean seriously? I know elves are all ‘I know kung-fu’ and there is no way in hell I’d ever want to fight one but surely a gun would make more sense. No way, no how do I ever want to get close enough to an elf to be able to use a sword.

“Well that’s stupid. An elf would carve me up in seconds that close. No, the answer is guns. They got really big in the 18th Century. Look them up. That’s what you need to defeat the Golden Court. I doubt they have guns in this ‘other’ realm they’ve been hiding in.”

“You are mistaken princess if you think a gun will save you against an elf but this isn’t just about killing,” said the King, addressing me with the tone of voice a teacher might use for a child that kept missing the obvious. “Anyone can kill. No, it’s about honour as well. Facing your opponent in single combat with only your skill with the blade and the blessings of the goddess to see you to victory.”

Oh this is just peachy. It seems that I’m the Princess of the Luddites.

“Well that’s kinda stupid surely? They have trolls. Sword proof trolls.”

Yeah, skin like granite in daylight remember.

“Yes they have trolls but these aren’t just ordinary swords,” said the King drawing his own blade. “Every single one of us here carries an enchanted blade that is capable of cutting through the armour of one of the human’s tanks.”

“But–“

“This matter is not up for further discussion,” said the King raising his hand. “Nor is the matter of your accepting the sword up for further discussion.”

“Now listen here yo–“

“This conversation is over. Ealhwyn, please make the necessary arrangements for our departure,” said the King turning to one of the Pyskie’s gathered a short distance from us.

“Felice, you will need to brief the princess on her task.”

“Hey, I’m tal–“

“Princess, I’m sure it has been an immense pleasure beyond your wildest dreams for you to meet me,” said the King, taking my hand in his and brushing his lips across the back of it in a courtly chaste kiss. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head now little lady, you’ll get to see me again.”

He said something else after that but I was distracted by the sparkling golden light around him and the music that filled my ears.

♬…Blinded by the light, revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night, blinded by the light…♬

*Sigh* Our babies will be sooooooooo beautiful…

“She’s gone again,” I heard Tate say as she waved a hand in front of my unseeing eyes. “Felice, could you sheath the sword? I hated this song first time around in the 70s.”

I think three of each would be good. They’d have their father’s gorgeous looks, his dazzling smile, his sparkling eyes…

“She’s revved up alright. Feel her pulse,” said Felice as she removed the sword from my unresisting grasp.

And of course they’d have to be lots and lots and lots of practicing before we started making babies. Just to be sure that we were doing it right you understand… *sigh*

“Forced shift?” said Tate as she carefully checked my pulse.

“Probably for the best.”

“On three?”

In my blissful haze I felt a slight buffeting as the two Pyskies wrapped me in an embrace.

“One. Two. Three. Shift.”

I felt my whole body convulse as all the air was expelled from my lungs and something flowed into me, filling my whole being. Normally, the shift from human to Pyskie was something that barely even registered. A gentle all over tingling. This however was a shock. Not painful but definitely unsettling.

“Wha… what did you do?” I gasped as the air rushed back into my lungs.

“Detoxed the King out of your system,” said Tate as the two Pyskies released me. “If you shift back to human now you will find you aren’t in his thrall anymore.”

I pictured the King in my mind and was relieved to note the absence of any desire to procreate with him. That being said as I looked towards the door he had left the library through I couldn’t help but feel a little empty. As if something important was gone from the room. Maybe it was just the absence of the golden light the King generated but since he’d left the colours in the library seemed a little more muted than before.

“So what happens now?” I asked, shifting back to my human female state.

I still couldn’t shift to my male state on my own for some reason that no one seemed to understand. Aunt Sophie had even suggested that maybe I had been resisting the change to male using my raw Talent subconsciously which was one of the stupidest suggestions I’d ever heard.

“Felice and a couple of our detachment will stay to oversee the banishment ritual. The rest will regroup with the King.”

“And what about me?”

“You’ll go home princess,” said Felice.

“And what about the wolves?”

“They’ve already left. When they couldn’t break down the door they left the building, probably assuming that the old woman would finish you off.”

“And that’s it? Sorry you nearly ended up as Alannah Snacks but we’ll be going?”

“No one can know of our presence here princess,” said Felice. “We are in no position to engage the Golden Court yet.”

“You keep saying that,” I squealed in frustration. “Just how many warriors do you actually have in this realm?”

I noticed the glance shared between Felice and Tate.

“Oh my god… it’s a bad number isn’t it.”

Please, please may it be at least a four figure number.

“You have to remember princess that our presence here was never intended to be as an army. The Queen withdrew our forces to the realm of á†lfhá¡m during the early stages of human industrialisation when she felt that our time here in Middangeard was drawing to an end. Those that remained were left as watchmen under the King’s banner, intended to deal with any trouble from the scattered remnants of the Golden Court that were left behind when Queen Mab departed this realm for á‰sageard,” said Felice.

Great. Now it appears I’ve got to Wikipedia the crap out of Anglo-Saxon realms to work out what half of that meant. Only I could get involved in an adventure that has a homework component.

“So what are we talking? A legion?”

That would still be okay, right? A legion was like five thousand soldiers if memory served.

“Uhhh… smaller than that. More of a symbolic number for the Pyskie.”

“Exactly how small a number are we talking here?”

“Fifty-Two,” said Felice. She at least had the decency to look embarrassed about it.

“FIFTY-TWO?!?”

“Plus the King,” added Tate helpfully.

“Right, so fifty-three really,” said Felice. “Plus obviously yourself. So that’s fifty-four.”

“Well, fifty-one given we’re going to detail two warriors to pick her up again every time she passed out,” muttered Tate.

“So how many of the Golden Court’s forces are in our realm? Whatever you called it?”

“Middangeard. And they only have a modest force here right now. We estimate it to be about five hundred.”

Modest?!? We’re outnumbered 10-to-1. We are so fu… dged.

Wait, did I say ‘we’? I clearly meant ‘they’. No way, no how that I’m getting in the middle of someone else’s war. It’s not like I’m running for Prime Minister and I’m looking for a small war to pad out the middle sections of my autobiography to cover the crushing failures of my domestic policy after all.

“Pffft! Only five hundred? Silly me for worrying,” I laughed, trying to keep the creeping edge of hysteria from my voice.

“That’s the spirit princess,” said Felice cheerfully. “It’s not like we’re facing the full ten thousand we believe that Queen Mab has under her banner waiting to cross over when the five hundred have lowered the wards keeping her in á‰sageard. Besides, we expect further reinforcements from the Queen Joan’s forces soon.”

“How soon is soon?”

Today would be a good start…

“The Queen expects to make the crossing to Middangeard in a matter of weeks with two thousand Pyskie warriors plus whatever forces you are able to persuade our allies to bring to the field locally.”

TWO THOUSAND?!?! Oh god… I’m going to die horribly to a soundtrack of ‘If I die young’ by The Band Perry.

“Ummm… I’d like to abdicate please?”

“Ohhhhh… you kidder,” said Tate as she pinched my cheeks. “Besides you can’t. Royalty is in your very precious blood.”

“I don’t think I can do this…”

“You’ll be fine,” said Felice. “Once you’ve faced down your first troll in single combat you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about.”

“I was always more of a lover than a fighter…”

“Not according to the sword you weren’t your virgin-ness,” giggled Tate.

I’m sooooooo going to get my Pyskie subjects to build a tower I can send Tate too. Her and that other bitch…

“You don’t happen to know a Pyskie named Aelfwyn do you?”

“Why yes princess. She’s my sister,” replied a grinning Tate.

Great. That’s just peachy. My two most troubling subjects are related. That being said, something didn’t seem to ring true about it.

“Your sister? What are the odds of two members of the same family finding pixie nests?”

“When I say sister I mean my spiritual sister. The sister of my heart.”

“Spiritual sister?”

“I didn’t get to choose my blood relations but I do get to choose my family. Aelfwyn has been like a sister to me so she is the sister I choose to have.”

I could see in the words she didn’t speak and the expression on her face that there was more to it than she was saying, some sort of trauma in her past relating to her blood family. Something that time couldn’t heal just dull.

“I have full confidence in you princess,” said Felice, rubbing my arm in a show of support. “And if you do die I’m sure you will go out in a death worthy of a princess.”

“I think I’m going to need a lie down,” I said, slumping heavily into a nearby chair. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to die. I just want to live a quiet normal life.”

“Define normal,” said Tate as she lifted Snowflake from my head.

“No trolls. No country house wolves. No coming wars. No princess-ing.”

“You can run away from all of those bar one. You are a princess of the Pyskie. There is no avoiding it,” said Tate.

“We’ll I’m going to tr–“

I was cut off by a double clicking sound from a radio clipped on the back of Tate’s weapon’s belt that I hadn’t noticed before.

“The King has left the building,” she announced as she clicked the radio once in response. “And it’s time for you to go too princess.”

“What about Granny Constance?”

“We can do nothing until dawn, when the animal avatar will be in flux.”

“Can you… can you let me…”

“Know what happens to her? Yes,” said Felice. “I will leave a black stone for you if she dies or a white stone if she lives.”

“Or you could maybe text me? I could give you my mobile number?”

“…”

“Or I could do that,” agreed Felice, pulling a small hidden smartphone from her belt.

Yeah, they won’t embrace guns but they will use a walkie-talkie thingy and a smart phone. Can you say hy-po-crites?

“Well I guess I should say thanks for coming to my rescue anyway,” I said.

“You’re welcome your virgin-ness,” said Tate. “Though to be honest we weren’t here to rescue you.”

“Then why were you here?”

“We’re here with a task for you from Queen Joan.”

Great. It seems that I wasn’t saved. I was accidentally saved. That’s just sooooooo typical of the way my luck is running right now.

“The Queen has decreed that you shall act as the emissary of the Seditious Court in Middangeard,” said Felice. “The Golden Court does not know of your existence princess and even if they did it would be as nothing more than a human witch, someone their forces would not be concerned with. The Queen believes that this gives us the opportunity to use you as an emissary to build alliances with unaligned forces in this realm.”

“Hello? Have you forgotten I’m seventeen! What do I know about diplomacy?”

“The Queen thought of that princess. Tate and I have been assigned to assist you in your mission. We will brief you on the task at hand and provide tutoring for you in the art of diplomacy.”

“Ummm… won’t your presence tip off the Golden Court thereby defeating the point of my stealth emissary-ness?”

“That’s easily solved princess,” replied Tate with a wave of her hand.

I watched as her appearance rippled to be replaced by that of a delicately featured raven haired girl somewhere in her late teens to early twenties, looking much like I imagined Joan of Arc did in her armour. The smug look on her face was however disturbed by the crash of metal behind her.

“Ooops! I like totally forgot about my wing armour y’know?” she giggled.

“I on the other hand didn’t,” said the dirty blonde haired girl with the pixie haircut holding two pieces of armour in her hands. “Don’t worry, we have a supply of normal clothes as well princess.”

“Just think of us as your new BFFs!” squealed Tate clapping her hands.

“Or not, as the case may be,” said Felice noticing my expression. “She’s watched a lot of American High School dramas. Don’t disillusion her. This is sort of a dream come true for her.”

“Yeah well, how am I going to explain you?”

“Ve could be exchange stuuu-dents from Sveden?” said Tate in the sort of Swedish accent that would make the Swedish Chef cringe.

“Or not, as the case may be,” said Felice quickly. Clearly my face was being very expressive again. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Riiiiiiiight.”

“Besides, your first mission is an easy one princess,” said Felice, handing me a small strip of rolled up paper. “We need you to make contact with the most organised of the unaligned Faerie groups. Don’t worry, they will make the first contact. You just need to give them this message to initiate the dialogue once they do.”

“And how am I to do that?”

“I’m sorry about this princess,” said Felice. “But you understand, orders are orders.”

“Sorry about what?” I asked as I started to unroll the strip of paper.

This had the sort of ominous edge to it that most of my dealings with the Pyskie seemed to take on sooner or later. My sixth sense was metaphorically waving its arms madly screaming ‘Danger Will Robinson! Danger!’

“It’s time for the Goodspeed children to go home,” announced Felice with a clap of her hands.

“Tikka!” said Sonnet, kissing me on the cheek before disappearing in a swirl of light. Once the last of my pixies had disappeared Felice nodded to Tate.

“You need to wrap the message around your tooth when you place it under your pillow tonight. The tooth fairy will read the message when it collects your tooth,” said Felice.

“But I haven’t lost any teeth, so how would that work?” I asked. By this point my sixth sense was metaphorically hyperventilating into a metaphorical paper bag.

“We have orders for that. Suffice to say our solution while extreme isn’t permanent.”

“Whoa! What do you mean extreme?” I asked, taking a step back from Felice. In reply Felice pointed to my left, just outside the range of my vision. Turning my head, I saw Tate standing there, an evil looking smile on her lips.

“Batter up!”

The last thing I saw was an armour clad fist coming towards me.
 

~o~O~o~
 
“Hey… Alannah, are you okay?”

I groggily opened by eyes to see Tracy’s concerned face looking down at me. As awareness started to come back to me I noticed I was slouched on a sofa in the school’s makeshift common room.

“Ohhh… that’s a nasty looking bruise on your face,” said Tracy, wincing in sympathy.

I gingerly touched my sore cheek while my tongue explored my mouth and did a quick headcount... well, toothcount. It was all going so well until I found that one of my molars was missing.

“That bitch hit me!”

My shout quickly turned into a whimper as the throbbing in my jaw started.

“George, could you get the first aid kit?” called Tracy. I noticed then that George had been hovering in the doorway to the common room. He nodded his head in reply and quickly left for the nurse’s office.

“So?” asked Tracy, expectantly as she sat down on the sofa next to me.

“So what?”

“This clearly isn’t just a random thing. This is more of your adventures isn’t it?” she squealed bouncing up and down. “Who was it this time?”

“What makes you think this wasn’t just a random attack?”

“This note,” she said, holding up an envelope with the ‘Princess Alannah Goodspeed’ written on the front in elaborate copper plate script. “And that potion.”

I looked in the direction that Tracy had pointed towards to see a pixie hovering in the air clutching a glass potion bottle. She was wearing a white apron with a tiny watch hanging from it. The contrast with her blue fur gave her a very nurse-like look. She wasn’t one of mine though, the fur pattern was all wrong. I think she was the one I saw with Felice.

“Tikka-Takk!”

I accepted the proffered potion and carefully turned it over in my hand. It was one of those fancy 19th Century style apothecary bottles. On the front was a label with more of the elaborate copper plate script on it.

“Drink me,” I said, reading the label aloud. “Well… that’s original.”

Whatever this potion did I had a feeling it wasn’t about to make me shrink. That being said it was given to me by a pixie so I was pretty confident that it wouldn’t do me any harm.

“I think there is more writing on the back,” said Tracy.

“Let’s have a look. Ahhh… ‘Dr Culpepper’s Tooth Serum. We guarantee you’ll grow a new tooth in 24 hours or less.¹’. Well, that would be useful.”

Still didn’t make up for the pain of having one of my teeth knocked out though. Ah well, the sooner it’s drunk the sooner I get my tooth back. Removing the glass stopper, I tipped the contents into my mouth in one gulp.

“Hmmm… fruity flavoured,” I said to a shocked Tracy as I put the potion bottle down. “That was unexpected. I thought it was going to taste medicine bad in that way of only yucky tasting medicine working.”

“I can’t believe you just drank that… anyway there’s something written here in small print on the label,” said Tracy, examining the discarded potion bottle.

“What does it say?”

“¹ Dr Culpepper’s Tooth Serum guarantees to grow you a new tooth in 24 hours or less or your money back!^{2 3}”

“Well that’s good right? Nothing wrong in having confidence in their product.”

“Ummm… There are more footnotes.”

“² Dr Culpepper cannot guarantee that the new tooth will be a human tooth.”

Oh that’s just peachy. How the hell am I going to explain a narwhale tusk or something?

“³ Side effects include: very occasionally none at all; a rash; headaches; your skin peeling off like slices of salami; death; nausea; death; hiccups; death; uncontrolled vomiting; death; diarrhoea; all your teeth falling out; death; the new tooth exploding, death; your existing teeth exploding; and the possibility of death. PS: Our lawyers insist we mention there is a chance of death.”

“Well let’s hope contraindication roulette goes in my favour hey?” I said with more bravado than I was feeling right now. If it wasn’t for the fact that it had been given to me by a pixie I’d probably be looking to make myself sick to get rid of it from my system.

“We can hope,” said Tracy as she edged back from me slightly. “You will give me a warning if you feel any of your teeth wanting to explode?”

“Trust me, you’ll know if I feel that my teeth are going to explode. The screaming will be a significant clue.”

“Soooo… should I be bowing or something ‘princess’?” asked Tracy.

“She’s a princess now?” said George as he returned with the first aid kit. “That’s got to be some sort of record. You were a guy a couple of months ago and now you’re a princess?”

“It’s complicated. Not that anyone gave me a choice about it,” I grumbled.

“Nice dress by the way,” said George as he opened the first aid kit. “It’s a bit… formal though isn’t it for school?”

I groaned as I remembered I was still wearing the froufrou nightmare the Queen had given me. Was it too much to hope that it morphed back into my clothes while I was out?

“You weren’t wearing that two hours ago,” said Tracy, pulling down a torn piece of the hem from where it had got tangled up in the many, many layers of petticoats underneath.

There was probably enough silk under the dress that I could safely jump from an aeroplane and act as my own parachute. That’s a thought… maybe I could run away and join a stunt sky diving team. I have my own wings after all if it all goes a bit ‘pete tong’. Alannah the Aerial Angel. It has a ring to it.

“So, the edited highlights?” asked George as he gently dabbed at my bruised cheek with something anti-septic smelling.

“Indoor country house werewolves which I guess is Family stuff? Pixie stuff I can’t talk about… princess stuff I don’t want to talk about… oh, and it seems I’ve got a meeting with the tooth fairy tonight.”

“Hence the tooth.”

“Hence the tooth,” I agreed.

“Are we going to have to alert someone about the weres?” asked George as he dipped a cotton bud into the antiseptic.

“No, they are gone for now.”

“But telling the Family would help strengthen your case about the Witchfinders.”

“Not without proof it wouldn’t. The Family Council wants to keep its head in the sand and ignore everything going on around it… or should I say, around me.”

“You need to tell someone. Next time the weres might not come back for just you.”

I glanced heavenwards for a second pondering George’s words.

“Okay, okay… I’ll speak to mum tonight. She can decide whether to tell the other Council members okay?”

“Good call,” said George as he dabbed with the cotton bud at my lip. “I could remove most of the bruising with the Craft you know.”

I felt myself wince as the cotton bud touched my bottom lip which knowing my luck signalled a split lip in addition to all my other problems.

“As much as it is cutting off my nose to spite my face, I’m going to decline. I drank the potion because my tooth was removed with the express intention of it being returned,” I said. “Everything else after that I can wait to heal normally.”

“Fine. Just make sure that no one kisses your lips too hard for a few days or you’ll know about it. The left side of your bottom lip has quite a nasty cut on it.”

“Trust me, that’s not going to be a problem.”

“If you stopped hiding behind that glamour of yours then maybe you’d have more people looking to kiss you. You are quite pretty, even with the cuts and bruises.”

“Well, the glamour is gone so I’m not hiding now but I don’t see anyone queuing up to kiss me,” I said gesturing to myself and then the empty room.

An odd look crossed George’s face that I couldn’t quite read before suddenly morphing into a lopsided smile.

“We can’t have that then can we?” said George. “So, I’m going to kiss you.”

A small gasp escaped from Tracy as George leaned forward to kiss me. I recoiled slightly but my head quickly came to rest against the back of the couch. My whole world seemed to revolve around George’s lips as I watched them in a mixture of horror and something else I couldn’t quite place. At the last moment, George lightly touched my chin and tilted my head enough that his lips pressed against the uninjured side of my mouth rather than full on. The kiss was soft but with a hint of strength and chaste in that it was closed mouth. A part of me couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be properly kissed by George.

“Was that okay?” murmured George under his breath as his lips pulled away from mine.

Internally I was torn between laughing it off and engaging him in a very masculine conversation about sports or grabbing him by his shirt collar and bringing him back for a real kiss. If I had to guess that probably counted as ‘okay’.

“It wasn’t… awful,” I whispered back in response before feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

And it most definitely wasn’t awful. I just wasn’t really sure what it was as I reached up and touched my tingling lips. Would I like him to do it again? I… maybe… it wouldn’t be the worst thing… would it?

“I don’t know, you’ve only been a girl for a couple of months and you’re already a princess who has kissed the hottest boy in school!” giggled Tracy, causing me to blush even more.

“So you think I’m the hottest boy in school?” asked George, puffing his chest up like a proud peacock.

“You know damn well you are,” laughed Tracy as she slapped his arm. “Not that the school has much in the way of competition at the moment.”

“You can only beat the opponent before you,” said a grinning George. “And that doesn’t change the fact you think I’m hot.”

“What about you Alannah? Do you think he’s hot?” asked Tracy.

Her face looked like it would split in two if her smile was any wider. In contrast, I felt my skin burn so hotly that I was fairly certain I was about to set the furniture on fire.

“Now, now Tracy,” said George, gesturing to me. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“Sorry, I’m only teasing,” said Tracy.

“Let’s get you home eh?” said George as he slowly pulled me to my feet. “We can take my car if you want?”

“You’ve got a car?” asked Tracy.

“Yup, passed me test the week after my 17th birthday. First time and not a single lesson either.”

“So what are you driving? Some clapped out old wreck?”

“A 1967 English racing green Jaguar E-Type Series 1 Coupe.”

“How could you afford that?” I asked, feeling on safer ground talking about old cars than I did the effect of George’s kiss on me.

“I can’t. It came with Mr Goodfellow and the mill. One previous careful owner and only 2,000 miles on the clock.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, what she said,” said Tracy with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’m assuming that’s all good?”

“Let’s go find out shall we?” said a grinning George.

“I call shotgun!” yelled Tracy as she bounced up and down on the spot.

Bitch!

“Fine. I guess it’s only appropriate for royalty to travel in the back of the car,” I said with a mock dismissive wave. “Carry on Parker.”

“Yes milady,” intoned George in a passable imitation. “F.A.B.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
As George’s car pulled away, I stretched my legs to try and work the kinks out. Whoever marketed that car as a four-seater needed to be done under the Trades Description Act. I’d seen wider parcel shelves in cars.

True to form for my luck, the lights were on in the house so that ruled out the easy way of getting home. I just had to hope I could make it past mum without her noticing the froufrou monstrosity. If not, I’d just have to take it like a man.

Yeah, maybe not the best metaphor… though knowing my luck it was probably a simile.

“Alan is that you?” called my mother’s voice from the kitchen as I closed the front door.

“Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a moment?”

“If it’s okay I’d like to just drop some stuff off in my room?”

Like the monstrosity I was wearing.

“This won’t take long Alan.”

“Muuuuuuuum…”

“Now Alan,” called my mother, using the voice of maternal doom. A voice that said that if I disobeyed not only would there be consequences for me but probably for my children and their children. Shoulders slumping, I followed the sound of my mother’s voice to the kitchen.

“Ahhh… good Alan. I wanted to speak to yo–“

The rest of my mother’s words died unspoken as she got a full look at me. She canted her head first one way and then the other before she spoke, her words formed with a deliberateness when she spoke.

“I… I’m fairly certain that you weren’t wearing that dress when you left for school this morning.”

“Yeah… surprise?”

“Somewhat… and my god, what happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, covering my split lip with my palm. “It’s worse than it looks.”

“Is this to do with whatever happened between you and that boy today?”

“What?”

“I got a call from your Uncle John.”

Oh… the Xander business. And I’m guessing I’m the one that is going to carry the can for this. Fantastic.

“It’s not what Uncle John said mum!”

“Oh? So Xander didn’t try and start a fight with you and you never came to the aid of Tracy Freeborn?” said mum with an amused smile.

“I… wait… you believe me? You never believe me.”

“It might be more accurate to say I believe you when there are corroborating statements,” she said, motioning for me to step closer for a hug. “I am proud of you... of the person you are. I probably don’t say that enough.”

*blink* *blink*

So this is what going mad feels like? It’s oddly more comforting than I thought. Certainly less hard work involved. I’d always thought I’d have to take up one of the arts to really go mad.

“Ummm… thanks?”

“Your dad is proud of you too you know.”

Yeah… two sets of parental praise in a minute? This is where she tells me I’m adopted or something.

“Where is dad anyway?”

“He called today to say he expected to be in Munich at the House Grimm library for a few more days. He still hasn’t found a cure for you but he thinks there might be a few possible trails. You know what your father is like with books,” said mum, rolling her eyes for effect.

Yeah. I knew how he was with books alright. He has a whole secret library for goodness sake hidden in Godespeed House. The million dollar question though was should I push my luck and mention the secret library? Did mum even know about it? Maybe this was one of those moments where discretion was the better part of valour?

“Now go change out of that awful dress and when you’ve washed up you can tell me all about why you would even dream of wearing it.”

Dream? More of a nightmare.

“Okay mum,” I said grabbing my book bag. “I’ll be down shortly.”

“Good boy.”

It was only when I got to the top of the stairs that I realised she kissed me on the cheek before I left. If this was what Stepford Parents were like, you could sign me up.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Throwing my book bag on my bed, I swore under my breath as I noticed the sword resting against my wardrobe door.

“Tikka!” called Sonnet as I entered the room, swooping around me.

“She knocked out one of my teeth!” I hissed pointing to my jaw. “Pell, add that to the list of things that I don’t like. That and being urinated on by demonic knights.”

“Tikka?” asked Pell as she tugged at the corner of a journal book that was only slightly smaller than she was.

“No, not teeth… people hitting me!”

“Tikka... hugs?” asked Rainbow.

“No, it’s not something that hugs ca–“

Actually, screw it. I could really do with a hug right now. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to be a princess on a secret diplomatic mission. Which has an oddly familiar ring to it now I think about it. I don’t want to fight anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to kill anyone. So what do I do?

“Sonnet… hide the sword at the back of my wardrobe, okay?” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to change and head down for dinner.”

And really hope that at the stroke of midnight my clothes change back. God, I really loved those trainers. I’d just broken them in so they were comfortable while still keeping that new look.

Unzipping the back of my dress I slid out of it before grabbing a set of jeans and a sweat top from where they were lying on the floor. A few moments later I was pulling on a battered pair of old trainers and feeling far less princess-y.

“That is so much better having changed,” I sighed looking at myself in my full length mirror.

“Tikka… change for dinner?” asked Sonnet.

“Tikka… Downton Abbey!” answered Pell, with an emphatic nod. “Tikka, dress! Tikka!”

“What? Wait… noooooooooo!”

In a swirl of light my clothes transformed from something comfortable and modern to a floaty floral dress right out of the pages of a Ralph Lauren collection. Tugging at the string of pearls that nearly hung down to my waist, I watched as my litter gathered expectantly around me.

“Tikka?” asked Sonnet.

“Pretty momma!” called out a chorus of small pixie voices.

“It’s… uhm… lovely,” I said gazing into each of their eyes. The level of eagerness to please that shone back stopped dead the idea of trying to explain how this wasn’t the outfit I wanted to wear. I just had to face it.

Fate was determined to stop me from ever wearing trainers again.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Ackholt Woods — 1am

Clicking the torch twice towards the woods, the hooded figure pulled their heavy woollen cloak closer against the damp night air. Stamping their feet to keep warm, the figure didn’t have to wait long for a single point of light to flash back from the treeline.

“You’re late,” said the similarly hooded newcomer as he emerged from the treeline. “I was expecting you 30 minutes ago.”

“There were too many people about. I couldn’t risk being seen as it would lead to some awkward questions.”

“It may not matter soon.”

“Things are that bad?”

“Worse.”

“So what went wrong? Why haven’t you retrieved him?”

“He’s tricky.”

“We are talking about the same boy?”

“Apparently he has hidden depths.”

“Trust me, Alan doesn’t. I should know,” said the first figure with a derisory snort.

“He still eluded three weres. That’s not something to dismiss.”

“I heard. Oh he can run. I don’t doubt that. The little coward is yellow to his core.”

“Yet Father is convinced he is the one. His Talent makes him the weapon we need.”

“He was the weapon you needed seventeen years ago!”

“Look, I’ve apologised for that. I’ve scrutinised the spell in minute detail and I still don’t understand why it has lasted so long.”

“I’ve lost decades of my life due to your failure to understand what went wrong! It was only supposed to last for three months! Instead, I get twenty plus years of my real-self buried under this simpering fool. Would you tell me how I can get that back?”

“Father says he has a potion containing a few drops from the Fountain of Youth. Your youth can be returned. You will get the chance to live your life again as you wish it to be.”

“It better.”

“And you are finally beginning to gain more and more control of your mind. A year ago you struggled to hold control of your mind for an hour. Now you can control your mind for two or three hours. At this rate it should only be a matter of weeks before you are in complete control.”

“Hours. Not all the time. Hours. I’m only myself for a few hours every day! It’s like being a prisoner in my own head.”

“It will take time. Don’t forget the other you has lived for longer than you have in a real sense. The fake you has a fully formed personality… memories.”

“And what of the memories once this is over? What am I to do with those?”

“We have a potion that can remove those.”

“Good. I want this to all go away!”

“I can only say again how sorry I am. I never meant you any harm.”

“I know… so what happens now?”

“Father is sending me additional resources to capture Alan.”

“I still can’t believe you failed.”

“You underestimate him. Just look at the way he managed to subvert the binding ritual, the first time he outwitted us. No one expected that. We won’t make the mistake of underestimating his deviousness a third time.”

“You better not. Father will not be pleased if the idiot child eludes you again.”

“I won’t fail again,” said the figure with a shudder. “Father couldn’t show his true self to you all the time you were under the spell but he’s far worse than he ever was when we were kids. It hasn’t helped that things have not been going well since the Grand Coven was dissolved last week.”

“The Grand Coven’s gone?”

“Yes. The Chairman of House Elegast was assassinated a little over a week ago. The signs point to it being one of his own Family but there are accusations that another of the Great Houses was behind it. Mistrust now dominates the relations between the Great Houses and the Lesser Houses are already seeking allies to protect themselves against the coming war. The English Houses won’t be able to stand aloof from this for long. The smart money is on House Rasputin being the first to move against one of the other Great Houses.”

“As much as I hate to say this, Alan alleges that the Witchfinders have returned. Could it not be them that are behind the murder?”

“Father does not believe this to the case. He believes that whoever was behind the attack is trying to cover their tracks with a false trail.”

“And the dissolution of the Great Coven is what has forced father to move up his timetable for Alan?”

“Yes.”

“Then make sure you don’t screw up this time.”

“I will. There is something else but I don’t quite know how to say it…”

“I don’t have time for anything other than direct.”

“It’s the other you… one of our Elders suggests that there is a chance given how long the spell has run, that in a very literal sense, we’re talking about the other you being a real person.”

“Okay?”

“This other you isn’t part of the plan. If this other you learns of your existence... of their eventual fate… well… they may fight against you.”

“I’d like to see that. I’m the real person.”

“You need to take this seriously. The other you is far more experienced than you are and if they realise what is happening, more desperate.”

“You forget, I have both our memories. They have none of mine since I awakened.”

“No, you only have some of their memories. The spell hasn’t weakened enough to give you total access to their memories yet. They could with enough will power hide things from you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m the real one,” said the first figure turning back towards town. “Cheer up! We’re going to be in Father’s good books again and I’m going to get my life back. My son isn't going to elude you a third time. We’re home free!”

“Damn it, Angelika,” cursed the second figure. “I really wish you wouldn’t tempt fate like that.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
Next morning — Goodspeed Residence

I was half-way through my morning porridge when my iPhone chimed. An icon depicting a white speech bubble against a green background along with an unknown number appeared on the lock screen. However, while the number was unknown to me the message and its sender became instantly clear.

It was a picture of a black stone.
 

~o~O~o~
 
Godespeed Free School — later that morning
 
“How’s the tooth?” asked George as he fell into step next to me. “Here let me take your books.”

I nodded gratefully to him as he took my rucksack from me, using my free hand to cradle the side of my jaw. However, my physical pain was a welcome distraction from the emotional pain I felt. The death of Granny Constance weighed heavily on my mind yet I couldn’t tell anyone about it without revealing the presence of the Pyskies. Felice had promised that they would leave her body to be found later this morning so at least she would have a proper funeral.

“The tooth? It’s growing. More tender than anything, though I think most of the discomfort is from the new tooth emerging at an accelerated rate.”

“Well you are teething,” chuckled George before hastily adding. “But least that proves the potion is working. I confess to have had some doubt about that.”

“You and me both.”

“Guys,” said Tracy as she joined us. “How’s the tooth?”

“Growing,” George and I both said in unison. I felt myself blush as George turned to me and grinned.

“So any news from the tooth fairy?” asked Tracy.

“Not yet. Though I’m not entirely sure how this is supposed to work.”

“What no return note?” said Tracy.

“Nope. And they definitely took my tooth. I wrapped it in the note and put it under my pillow last night. When I awoke the tooth and note were gone and a coin was in its place. Oh, by the way, the going rate appears to be a  £1 for a tooth.”

“Better than I ever got,” grumbled Tracy.

“You and me both,” I replied. It seemed the tooth fairy paid well these days unlike when I was a kid.

“So when do you think you’ll hear from the tooth fairy?” asked Tracy.

“Maybe tonight? I really don’t know.”

“I think it might be sooner than that,” said George.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because someone keeps ‘psssst’-ing us from that doorway,” said George, pointing to a dark shrouded classroom.

“OMG! An adventure!” squealed Tracy. “Please, please, please let me come! Pleeeeeease!”

Urrrgh. It was like being accompanied by an overly energetic puppy. And there’s me not being a morning person in the mix as well.

“Well, I’d love to go on an adventure but I’m going to be late for maths if I don’t hurry,” I said glancing at my watch.

“Seriously?! You’d take maths over this?”

Ohhhh… any day of the week. If I had a choice. Which is sort of turns out that I don’t. Also, if I don’t go now am I likely to face Tate removing another tooth to recall the tooth fairy? Now that’s a horrible thought.

“Oh well… I guess I’ll catch up with you both at next lunch?” I asked.

“Oh no! Don’t think you’re going on an adventure without me!” warned Tracy. “I spend my days as a social pariah thanks to my gremlins. The thought of actually going on an adventure with the one person who has less good luck than me is too good to pass up!”

“And don’t think for a moment that I’d trust either of you to survive an adventure on your own,” said George. “So I’m coming too.”

Great. It’s turning into a regular Family outing. That being said it would be nice given some of the stuff I’ve come across these last few weeks to have some company. Plus, you never know maybe whatever I meet might want to eat one of them instead of me? What’s that old expression… I don’t need to be able to outrun the lion, just you?

“You aren’t any good at athletics are you?”

“George is county cross country champion and I used to be a good 1500 metre runner. Why?” asked Tracy.

Oh that’s just peachy. It turns out that both of them can probably outrun me. Alannah snacks for lions appear back on the menu. I really need to start hanging out with some out of shape people.

“Fine… but make sure you follow my lead okay?” I huffed.

“No problem,” they replied in unison, grinning like lunatics.

“Let’s see what our new friend wants then shall we?” I asked as I stepped into the darkened classroom and reached for the light switch.

“No lights,” hissed a voice.

Initially I couldn’t see anything but my eyes adjusted enough that I could finally see something swooped through the air a few feet in front of me. The light from the hallway through just enough illumination into the room that with effort I could see the figure fairly clearly as it came to a hoover at head height.

“Hey, how are youse doin’?” asked the tiny humanoid with a thick caricature of a New York accent.

It took me a couple of seconds to place the deep male voice with the small figure hovering in the air on tiny butterfly wings in front of us, as it seemed so at odds. It was probably the least androgynous faerie I could ever imagine. The intricately patterned wings seemed to form the shape of an ornate spade shape like you see on expensive card decks and this was rounded off by the sort of dark coloured men’s suit that Edward G Robinson would have thought was the height of fashion. Under one arm he held a closed violin case, the neck of which was pointing at me like it was an old fashioned tommy gun.

“Ey! Paisano! I’m talking to youse!”

“Uhhh… me?”

“Yeah, youse blondey. Youse the broad from the Seditious Court who’s lookin’ to meet with the boss right? We got ya note.”

George mimed the question ‘Seditious Court’ to me but I waved him off with a frown. The look he gave me back however indicated that we would be speaking about this later. So much for keeping all this courtly stuff secret.

“Uhhh… I am the emissary.”

“Yeah, you’re the broad.”

“How dare you! You will address a princess in a more respectful tone,” interrupted George, with a quick wink to me that the tiny goodfellas reject couldn’t see. “One does not address a member of the royal family as impertinently as you did.”

Maybe it was the suit that Mr Goodfellow had picked out for him but George seemed to have the whole authoritative butler from Downton Abbey thing going on. God it was sexy.

No! Bad girl! Bad!

The small figure produced a small unlit cigar from a suit pocket that it chewed on thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

“I apologise princess,” he said with a nod of his head. “I meant no disrespect to the Seditious Court.”

“None was taken Mr…?”

“Bayleaf. I run the Boss’s lower east side of England operation, specialising in calcium extraction and trading.”

“You’re the tooth fairy!” squealed Tracy, leaning in closer to get a better look at the miniature being. “OMG… he’s wearing tiny little spats! It’s soooooooooooo cute!”

Spats. A generation from now, will people be able to even recognise them? Never has an item of clothing crashed out of the fashion world as quickly as spats, well maybe with the exception of the kipper tie. The only reason I even know what Tracy is talking about is due to my love of old movies and that it’s the nickname of the villain in Some Like It Hot.

“Ey! Who youse callin’ a fairy ya crazy broad?”

“Oh… sorry,” said Tracy recoiling as Bayleaf puffed himself up a bit in front of her. “What are you then?”

“I ain’t no fairy. I’m a faerie.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Trust me toots, the —y vs. —ie ending makes all the difference.”

“Umm… okay? I’m uh, sorry?”

“That’s better. I’m technically on of the ferlies, an off-shoot of the fey but mostly I’m a Capo for the Boss.”

“That… doesn’t sound very friendly,” I said, looking at Bayleaf more critically. “Just what does being a ‘Capo’ involve?”

“I oversee the tooth racket for my patch, ensuring that the boss gets the goods for a fair price. Somethin’ that ain’t that easy in this day an’ age, I can tell ya. Youse ever tried negotiating with a parent over the cost of a tooth? Twenty years ago, ya’d be payin’ pennies now they’re all Gordon Gecko an’ we’re payin’ pounds.”

“Wait… you reveal yourself to the mundane?” asked Tracy. “So why doesn’t everyone know you are real?”

“What are youse stupid? Of course we don’ reveal ourselves to ‘em. We do it in their dreams.”

Well I guess that kinda made sense.

“That’s got to be costly for your operation,” said George. “If the parents artificially inflate the market price for the raw goods.”

“Eh, tell me about it. We got overheads. No one ever thinks about da overheads. I don’ just gotta pays the tooth fee. I gotta pay for da collectors, da sprinkling of fairy dust to enter the parents’ dreams, storage for the raw materials and then da processing to extract the damn calcium. An’ then we gotta negotiate a sale price for the pure calcium with the toothpaste companies. Youse thinks the bogeyman is scary? Try negotiatin’ wid a multi-national corporations!”

“Wait… you reveal yourself to corporations?” asked Tracy.

“What is it with youse about us revealing ourselves? Of course not, we use a glamour when we meet with da company reps,” said Bayleaf of me, before leering at Tracy. “Though if you wants me to reveal myself we could maybe meet up later and it could be arranged…”

“Moving on… let me get this straight they put bits of teeth in toothpaste?” I asked, trying to work out which of the two things repulsed me most. Tracy being hit on by a tooth fairy or the thought of bits of total stranger’s teeth being brushed across mine twice a day.

“Ya-huh! Where da youse think all dat enamel strengthening stuff they advertise comes from?”

I was really hoping the answer to that one was toxic chemicals not bits of other people’s teeth. The say hell is other people but they were wrong. Hell is clearly other people’s teeth.

“I think I may be sick,” I gasped, dry heaving a little at the thought.

“Well make sure ya do it away from me, capiche?” said Bayleaf. “This outfits Italian.”

Unlike him from the sound of that accent. He’d seen the Godfather too many times and eaten too much Goodfellas Pizza for my money.

“So your boss is like the head tooth fairy?” asked George.

“Amongst other things. You might know her by her more famous name though,” said Bayleaf. “She’s-“

The accent, the suit… it all suddenly made sense.

“She’s the Fairy Godmother,” I groaned, face palming.

So this is what the Pyskie meant by most organised of the unaligned Faerie groups. Organised as in Organised Crime.

“So youse ready to come wid me princess?” asked Bayleaf. “And are you bringin’ da entourage?”

“No I’m not ready but yes I’m coming and yes I’m bringing them,” I replied gesturing to George and Tracy. “So how does this work?”

“I’ll open a doorway to the bosses place. Nugget here will keep an eye on you so don’t try anything funny.”

“Nugget?”

A deep rumbling of stone against stone sounded from the hallway behind us. Turning slowly I found myself staring at a troll that was very impressive by human standards but a little small by troll standards. Smoothly polished stone skin with arms like tree trunks it stood easily, eight or nine feet tall. It had to stoop to fit in the hallway and it pretty much obscured all the light from the hallway, save for a faint silhouette, as it moved towards us.

The room was silent save for the sound of my uncontrollable hiccups.
 

~o~O~o~
 
End of chapter 4