“Hey, Astley!” Issie says, popping out from behind me. “Long time no see.”
He tilts his head. His blondish hair flops a bit onto his forehead. “I saw you this morning, Isabelle.”
She cringes at the use of her full name.
“It’s an expression, dude. Geesh.” She turns to me. “He is sweet but way behind the times.”
“I know.” I smile at Issie and then at Astley.
He’s closed the distance between us. “Spaghetti? Again?”
I nod.
“You could have dinner with me,” he offers.
“I would, but …”
His expression hardens just a little. Nobody else would notice it, but I do.
“But you have to feed him.” Astley nods, grabs a water bottle out of the refrigeration unit, and then takes my spaghetti and sauce out of my arms. “Well, then at least let me pay.”
I do because, since I am technically the queen to his king now, his money is half my money or something like that. I don’t know. All I know is there’s a bank account in Switzerland that has my name on it. Austin’s working at the counter, and he’s firing away eight thousand questions about training. As Astley pays, I read the flyers tacked up on the wall next to the checkout counter. There are old ones for spaghetti suppers. There are newer ones about grief.
MISSING LOVED ONES? JOIN US. If the mystery
and disappearances are getting you down, you aren’t
alone. Come join others who share in your sorrow and
long for answers. Don’t grieve alone.
I touch the yellow piece of paper without even realizing it. It’s only when skin meets paper that I know what I’m doing.
“Zara?” Astley’s voice is at my ear. His breath rustles softly against my hair, the skin of my earlobe.
“Yeah?”
“Nick isn’t dead anymore,” he whispers low, calm. His voice is like a heater rumbling to life in a car. It holds the promise of comfort and warmth. I’m not sure if that promise is because he is my king and I am pixie-bound to him in ways I don’t understand, or if it’s just because he is nice.
Either way, he is right about Nick. I swallow hard. “I know. I know he’s not dead.”
And then Issie says the words that I can’t say. “It just sometimes still feels like he is, right?”
Before I can respond Astley sniffs the air. “Zara …”
The way he says my name makes the tiny hairs on my arms bristle. I hand Issie the bag of food and step back from the wall, turning just as Frank comes in the door. He slams it open so hard that it hits the wall.
Austin curses behind us. “Dude, you’ve got to be more careful. The glass on that thing cracks.”
Frank glares at him. “Shut up.”
I don’t know if there’s something in his voice or his gaze, but the very talkative Austin actually stops talking, which is too bad, because he could have distracted him. I try to move in front of Issie and Astley, protecting them, but Astley makes the same move. We bump hips.
“Brilliant. You are so out of synch you collide,” Frank snarks.
He starts laughing. It’s a crazy person/pixie laugh, the kind that just rumbles through his chest and splurts out into the air, uncontrolled and revealing how wild he is inside.
“That’s one of them, isn’t it?” Austin says behind us. Austin wants to be a cop. He’s gone to the junior trooper program in Vassalboro with state troopers and everything. He’s pretty tough and calm in a crisis.
“Yep,” Issie answers while taking a step forward.
I direct my attention to Frank. “You could at least shut the door behind you.”
“My apologies.” He kicks it shut with his foot and then looks Astley up and down like he’s sizing up a piece of meat. “The question truly is: should I kill you now? It’s a shame the poison didn’t work, isn’t it? Good waste of time. And time is ticking, isn’t it? As your mother would say, Astley, ‘Always ticking. Always ticking.’“ He mimics Isla’s demented singsong voice as he says it.
“Oh, I do not think that is the question,” I say, stepping one more foot forward. “I think the question is should I kill you?”
“Crap. She’s a badass,” Austin says pretty admiringly, while both Issie and Astley say my name in a warning voice.
“So tough now. I miss the innocent, crying princess pining over her dead wolf.” Frank tsks at me and then leaps, showing teeth. He hits me right in the stomach with his foot, but I grab it at the ankle, pulling him down with me and then pushing him back. His body arches and hits the jars of penny candy even as my own body thumps to the ground. Glass smashes on the floor. Gummy worms and fireballs free themselves and splat or roll across the wooden floor. I feel bad about that. Poor Austin. Poor gummies.
“Zara!” Astley roars, but instead of helping me up, he flings himself toward Frank. Frank’s already standing and ready. He moves like he’s going to rip Astley’s neck out.
“No!” Everything that happened to Nick flashes back to me and I scream the word as I make a football-player tackle, hitting Frank midstomach. We both schlump into the edge of a row of shelves. The wood cracks and the shelf breaks, cans of corn and spinach topple onto us.
“Zara!” Astley yanks me backward by my legs. He must overestimate the amount of force needed, because I slide all the way across the snow-puddle-wet floor to the counter, bumping into Issie’s boots.
As I scramble back up, Astley and Frank begin to fight with fists. Astley’s obviously still weak. His blows aren’t as powerful as Frank’s. He’s faster, but not full form. If this turns out to be a battle of pixie kings, Frank is going to win. I start to rush back over there, but Issie grabs me by the arm.
“Get out of the way, Zara,” she says.
“But—”
She’s holding a gun. A gun! Where did she get a freaking gun?
Austin yells at Issie, “Aim at his head.”
Issie says, “Dude! Evil dude! Stop now or I’ll shoot.”
She looks at me for approval. For a second, I contemplate taking the gun out of her shaking hands. Astley roars in pain as Frank’s fist comes at him.
“Astley, get back!” I yell.
And he leaps away, not asking why, just trusting.
And Issie pulls the trigger.