delivered to my door via truck. The best part, though, was the smell. Not only did the sour, ever-present rot of human consumption strike me as pleasant, but it hid me from anyone who might be looking to find me. Bleach, and garbage and dirty diapers, and leaking corroded batteries—these were my saving grace, all these years of hiding.
But Deb wasn’t going to be satisfied with a half-rotted bucket of dark meat chicken from the freshest corner of the dump. I was going to have to sneak into town and find her something decent—something human—to eat. Even though she wasn’t human, she didn’t know that yet, and I wasn’t about to shock her by bringing her a basket of fairy food. There was plenty of time in the future for tasting the variety of rotten tomatoes and mushroom spores that were sure to delight her palette.
There was a sandwich shop about ten miles down the road. Ever since they’d started selling footlongs for $5 each, you could count on a dumpster full of fresh bread, and nightly toss-aways of buckets of meatballs. For her, though, I was going to go all-out.
I glamoured myself to look like the blonde, stocky street singer that was my favorite disguise, and walked into the sub shop, a tiny tinkling bell announcing my arrival.
An employee straightened her hairnet with her gloved hands, as I stared at the menu dumbfounded, realizing I had no idea what the girl—my wife—liked to eat.
Just to be safe, I ordered one of everything.
I regretted it almost instantly. The pleasant lady behind the counter with the thick Middle Eastern accent took her sweet time asking me what kind of bread, cheese, and dressing I wanted on every sandwich. When she asked me if I wanted lettuce and tomato on the BLT, I growled and flashed my tusks through the glamour for a split-second, hoping to speed her up. The questions ceased, but she grew so visibly nervous that I wished I hadn’t done it.
Waiting for the food was torture, and I began to pant. Was it the spell of some great charm master? I felt as though I couldn’t stand to be apart from Deb. To say I was worried about her well-being is an understatement. Even though I knew she was safe in my mansa, and more than likely asleep in exhaustion, I battled the impulse to run screaming out the door of the sub shop, sandwichless, to return to her side.
The sandwich maker finally rung me up, and as I handed her a business card I’d plucked from their fishbowl (Win a free lunch! Drop your card here!), glamoured to look a credit card, the simple woman’s facial expression changed. She grasped my hand, her tiny human fingernails digging into my skin. Her accent changed, as well.
“She’ll be fine, Harlow,” said the voice of Zelda, out of this strange woman’s mouth. “But do not dally around long, getting her to me. You come see Zelda soon, yes?” The woman winked—or, rather, Zelda winked through her—and dropped my hand.
I stared at the sandwich lady, in awe. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must have spaced out.” She handed me back the card, which I returned to the fishbowl without her noticing. “Have a nice day, sir,” she said, as she pushed a box filled with sandwiches across the metal countertop toward me.
Before the word “sir” had left her mouth, I had the food and was out the door, its tiny tinkling bell a distant memory.
Chapter Fourteen
Down in the Dumps
Deb
The sandwiches he brought back were good—just not what I’d expected.
“You thought I was going to drag in a billy goat, didn’t you?”
“Or a kid,” I said.
He stared at me a long moment. “You mean a child? Or a goat kid?” The corners of his eyes crinkled. Laugh lines. I was safe.
I shrugged. “Either one.” I took a big bite of the meatball sub he’d given me. After a minute, I added, “You know—whatever’s available, right?”
He laughed. “Right. Whereas the sub shop is only ten miles down the road …”
We both laughed. He passed me a two-liter of Big
But Deb wasn’t going to be satisfied with a half-rotted bucket of dark meat chicken from the freshest corner of the dump. I was going to have to sneak into town and find her something decent—something human—to eat. Even though she wasn’t human, she didn’t know that yet, and I wasn’t about to shock her by bringing her a basket of fairy food. There was plenty of time in the future for tasting the variety of rotten tomatoes and mushroom spores that were sure to delight her palette.
There was a sandwich shop about ten miles down the road. Ever since they’d started selling footlongs for $5 each, you could count on a dumpster full of fresh bread, and nightly toss-aways of buckets of meatballs. For her, though, I was going to go all-out.
I glamoured myself to look like the blonde, stocky street singer that was my favorite disguise, and walked into the sub shop, a tiny tinkling bell announcing my arrival.
An employee straightened her hairnet with her gloved hands, as I stared at the menu dumbfounded, realizing I had no idea what the girl—my wife—liked to eat.
Just to be safe, I ordered one of everything.
I regretted it almost instantly. The pleasant lady behind the counter with the thick Middle Eastern accent took her sweet time asking me what kind of bread, cheese, and dressing I wanted on every sandwich. When she asked me if I wanted lettuce and tomato on the BLT, I growled and flashed my tusks through the glamour for a split-second, hoping to speed her up. The questions ceased, but she grew so visibly nervous that I wished I hadn’t done it.
Waiting for the food was torture, and I began to pant. Was it the spell of some great charm master? I felt as though I couldn’t stand to be apart from Deb. To say I was worried about her well-being is an understatement. Even though I knew she was safe in my mansa, and more than likely asleep in exhaustion, I battled the impulse to run screaming out the door of the sub shop, sandwichless, to return to her side.
The sandwich maker finally rung me up, and as I handed her a business card I’d plucked from their fishbowl (Win a free lunch! Drop your card here!), glamoured to look a credit card, the simple woman’s facial expression changed. She grasped my hand, her tiny human fingernails digging into my skin. Her accent changed, as well.
“She’ll be fine, Harlow,” said the voice of Zelda, out of this strange woman’s mouth. “But do not dally around long, getting her to me. You come see Zelda soon, yes?” The woman winked—or, rather, Zelda winked through her—and dropped my hand.
I stared at the sandwich lady, in awe. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must have spaced out.” She handed me back the card, which I returned to the fishbowl without her noticing. “Have a nice day, sir,” she said, as she pushed a box filled with sandwiches across the metal countertop toward me.
Before the word “sir” had left her mouth, I had the food and was out the door, its tiny tinkling bell a distant memory.
Chapter Fourteen
Down in the Dumps
Deb
The sandwiches he brought back were good—just not what I’d expected.
“You thought I was going to drag in a billy goat, didn’t you?”
“Or a kid,” I said.
He stared at me a long moment. “You mean a child? Or a goat kid?” The corners of his eyes crinkled. Laugh lines. I was safe.
I shrugged. “Either one.” I took a big bite of the meatball sub he’d given me. After a minute, I added, “You know—whatever’s available, right?”
He laughed. “Right. Whereas the sub shop is only ten miles down the road …”
We both laughed. He passed me a two-liter of Big
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