Since Gran had started her position at Drixworths Academy for Witchcraft and Wizardry, I'd started measuring my days in caffeine levels. And today was shaping up to be a level five. Possibly a six, but hey, the day was still young. Cradling my freshly refilled cup in my hands I leaned back, balancing on the rear two legs of the old kitchen chair on my front deck and resting my bare feet on the railing. The sky was awash with pinks and oranges; the colors clashing together in vivid imagery, like oil dropped into water.
"Are you even listening to me?" Gran's voice squawked through my phone.
"Yes," I reassured her, lying through my teeth. Gran had been gunning for the role of new headmistress at Drixworths since Izzy Higginbottom rather abruptly resigned. I say resigned, but I suspect the powers that be told her to leave voluntarily or be fired. When a rift had opened to another dimension in Whitefall Cove a couple of months ago, Izzy had not managed the situation well. In fact, her lies and cover-ups had made things worse. So when the vacancy for the position of headmistress was announced, Gran was all in. I'm not sure if it was a good thing or not that she didn't get the role—instead, they offered her a part-time teaching position. Advanced potions. That was six weeks ago, and I'd seen a slow decline in Drixworths enthusiasm for their new employee ever since.
First, it had been the grumbles about Gran's attire. She liked to dress in outfits not befitting an eighty-year-old woman. For Gran, crop tops, sequins, tutus, and fishnet stockings were the norm, not to mention her staple bedazzled Ugg boots. Then there had been the grumbles about class content. Gran had taught them a potion that would turn anyone who ingested it into a toad for twenty-four hours. Naturally, all the students had immediately gone home and slipped the potion to their parents. Gran was now on probation. Not that she seemed to care.
"Gran, I think you should follow the direction they have given you for the class. After all, that is what they're paying you for." And that direction had been textbook. No deviation. No ad-libbing.
"Hogwash." She scoffed. "They hired me for my experience. I want to teach these witches things they won't learn in any old spell book."
"You're asking for trouble." I idly watched a seagull come in to land on my gate post, watched it watching me, cocking its head to see if I had any food, then uttering a loud squawk before taking flight once more. Archie made a mreet mreet sound from his position on the deck next to my chair and I reached down to ruffle the fur behind his ear. "No hunting the wildlife remember?" I told him.
"What was that?" Gran asked.
"Nothing. I was talking to Archie. Look Gran, I don't think you should do the wide-eye potion—it's asking for trouble. Try to teach them something that will not lead to mischief and mayhem. Stick to the curriculum and the antidote to common poisons."
"But what witch or wizard wouldn't want the ability to not need sleep? Think how useful that would be—especially at exam time!"
"Gran—" I warned, but she cut me off. "Gotta go. I'll let you know how it goes." And she hung up.
Sighing, I drained my coffee and brought the chair back onto all four legs with a thunk. Mornings were my favorite time of day, coffee on the deck watching the sunrise. Except when Gran called with her next brilliant plan for class, shattering my peace and quiet. Hence the two cups of coffee already under my belt with the promise of more to come. Heading inside I washed my cup and left it on the sink to dry then headed upstairs to shower.
My assistant, Wendy, was opening The Dusty Attic bookstore today while I ran some errands and took the day off for my birthday. Tonight, my boyfriend, local Detective Jackson Ward, and I would celebrate with a sunset cruise, but this morning I’d been tasked with picking up a new oil filter for Gran's car. Jackson had volunteered to replace it for Gran, who ran her poor car ragged. The only fluid she put in it was fuel. Not oil. Not water. Not any other essential lubricant a car needs to keep its engine running. Jackson had noticed the clunking noise last time Gran had driven out to the lighthouse cottage to visit and had volunteered to do a mini service on her vehicle. I had no complaints about seeing Jackson in grease-stained jeans, an oily rag, and sweat running down his brow.
That particular vision lodged itself in my brain and stuck with me as I drove to Tiny's garage half an hour later. Tiny was anything but tiny. Despite being a fairy, she was a big unit, tall, wide, and intimidating. Take everything you imagine a fairy to be, then flip it. Pulling into the garage's parking lot I eyeballed Archie who was in his usual spot on the passenger seat.
"Stay in the car, okay?"
"Mreow." I wasn't sure if his response was a protest or agreement. "If you start poking around Tiny's garage you'll get grease in your fur and you know what that means. A bath. So keep your furry butt in the seat." Climbing out I stood with my hands on hips and squinted at the garage before me. The roller door was up, revealing the workshop inside. A yellow car was up on the hoist, a radio was blaring seventies tunes and a string of curses turned the air blue. Literally. When Tiny cussed, her breath came out blue, leaving little indigo clouds in the air. And she hates it. Which begs the question, why cuss then? But one thing I knew about Tiny was that she was one stubborn fairy and once she had her mind set on something, there was no changing it, so I figured she'd decided cussing was for her, blue breath and all.
Crossing to the workshop I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, "Tiny!"
There was a clunk, a curse, then Tiny stepped out from beneath the vehicle, a filthy rag pressed to her forehead. Spotting me, she narrowed her eyes and approached. "What?"
“Happy birthday,” I smiled. Tiny and I may share a birthday, but I’ve learned from past experience that she doesn’t appreciate having a birthday twin.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “What?” She repeated, ignoring my mention of her birthday.
Smile fading, I dug into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out the scrap of paper Jackson had written the part he needed on. Holding it out I asked, “do you have this in stock?"
Snatching the paper from me she squinted at it while I tilted my head back, looking up at her. She really was a giant. She had to be over seven feet tall. I wondered where she bought her clothes, or if she had to have them especially made. I usually saw her in coveralls, much like the filthy pair she was wearing today. Her wings were nowhere in sight and I figured they were tucked in the back, safe from the grease and oil in the workshop. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other I was now regretting my multiple cups of coffee start to the day as my bladder reached full capacity. I had two options. Hold it or use the garage's bathroom... although judging by the state of Tiny's garage I imagined the bathroom wouldn't meet any hygiene codes. But still, when a girl needed to go, beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Is it okay if I use your bathroom?" I asked. Tiny curled her hand into a fist, crushing the scrap of paper into a ball. "Does this look like a public restroom, huh?" She snapped, flinging the scrap of paper at my feet and pivoting on one heel she headed back into the workshop. For a giant fairy, she moved fast. Snatching up the paper, I hurried after her.
"But you have the oil filter, right?" I called, losing sight of her as I stepped from the bright sunlight into the dim recesses of the garage. I stopped, allowing my eyes to adjust, listening as Tiny rummaged around in the back—hopefully searching for the oil filter Jackson requested.
"Tiny! Where you at?" A voice yelled from behind me, making me jump. I hadn't heard anyone approach over the noise of the radio.
"Back." Came Tiny's response. A slim man in his forties walked past, nodded his head in greeting. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped, his jeans worn, his shirt fraying at the edges. I watched as he dug into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Okay, a wad was an exaggeration, but a few bills at least.
"You're late, Weaver," Tiny growled, snatching the notes from the man and counting them out in her big beefy hands. "You're twenty short."
"What? No way. There's a hundred there. I double-checked it myself." He protested, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed, as if realizing the futility of starting a fistfight with Tiny was a bad idea. Tiny held up four twenties and waved them in his face. "Forgot how to count did you moron?" She slapped the twenties against his forehead, and he winced. I felt awful for the way Tiny was belittling him.
"There was a hundred there and you know it." He protested. He pointed to a vehicle parked to the far left of the garage, draped in a tarp, "If you'll just let me have my truck I can get my produce to market and earn the money I owe you. We'll be all paid up in no time."
Tiny was already shaking her head. "Not how it works. No payment. No truck. Let me see." She tapped her lip and gazed up at the ceiling, deep in thought, "Minus this eighty, plus the fifty late fee, you still owe me..." she paused then fixed him with a smirk. "Twelve hundred and thirty dollars."
"What?" His voice went up several octaves. "My bill was a thousand! How can it be twelve hundred and thirty?"
"Interest." Tiny held up a meaty paw and counted off her fingers. "Late fees."
I could see the exact moment that the man called Weaver realized he was well and truly screwed. Defeat was written all over him, his entire body sagged with it, his eyes were dull with it and my heart went out to him. I could only surmise he'd had some mechanical emergency with his truck, Tiny had repaired it for him but wouldn't let him have it back until he'd paid up, in full. But he wasn't in a financial position to do that. In silence, he shuffled away.
Tiny stood with hands on hips, a smirk curling her lip. "Why don't you go ask your fox buddies for a loan?" She jeered, then under her breath, "Friggin shifters."
She swung her head my way and pinned me with her impossibly purple eyes. They were incredibly stunning but oh so cold. Tiny was not a fairy to be messed with and a shiver danced up my spine—but that could be because I badly need to pee. Clenching my knees I curled my lips into a smile and prompted, "Oil filter?"
"Right." She nodded, shoved the cash Weaver had given her down the front of her coveralls and returned to her search for the oil filter. The rear of the workshop housed shelves stuffed full of boxes and various car parts. From where I stood there appeared to be no order to her system, everything was a cluttered mess, but I figured Tiny had it set up exactly how she wanted it and I would keep any thoughts otherwise to myself. She rummaged some more, snagged a box smeared in grease from the back of the top shelf, and peered at it, holding it close to her face while she read the print that was mostly obscured by dirty fingerprints. With a nod to herself, she turned my way.
Yes! Reaching into my purse I was getting ready to pay for the filter when Tiny's phone rang and she changed direction, diverting to the small office leading off the workshop floor. I sagged in disappointment while my bladder screamed.
Deciding I'd take the chance and risk Tiny's wrath, I hurried toward the door next to the office, the one with a “ladies” sign stuck to it. Tiny's back was to me as she snatched up the phone and I slipped into the bathroom. Through the wall I heard her bark, "Tiny's Garage." I marveled that she got as much business as she did considering her overall demeanor but Jackson had told me she was one of the best mechanics in town.
Sliding down my jeans, I sat, unabashedly listening through the wall as I peed as silently as possible.
"Mathis, I told you already, not interested." A pause as the person on the other end of the phone, presumably Mathis, responded. "How much?" Tiny's voice held an element of surprise. "Well now, that is a very lucrative offer." Another pause. "But the answer is still no. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I told you I was interested but things have changed man. I got me something worth staying in Whitefall Cove for." My own brows rose at that. As far as I knew, Tiny lived alone in a ramshackle house directly across the street from her garage. The garage, and working on cars, was her life. Was it worth that much she'd never leave it? Possibly. I wondered if Mathis was offering to buy the garage from her—I could understand why she wouldn't sell, what would she do with herself if she didn't have the workshop and the enjoyment of tinkering on cars?
"Good luck with the race this weekend. I'll be watching. On tv." She clarified. Then hung up. And now I knew I was busted because I had to flush and Tiny may be a huge unit but she's not stupid. Deciding it best to rip this particular band-aid off fast, I flushed, washed my hands, vetoed the filthy hand towel hanging next to the basin, and wiped my hands on my jeans instead. I opened the door to find Tiny waiting for me. She wasn't pleased. Thrusting the oil filter against my chest so hard I staggered back, she glowered at me.
"Fifty." She snapped.
It was my turn to feel the same outrage Weaver had. Jackson had told me the filter would be thirty dollars, tops.
"Thirty." I counter-offered, not buying into Tiny's BS. Her brows pulled down, her lips thinned, and she loomed over me. I swallowed, my brief flash of bravado fleeing like a thief in the night. Before she could up the price to a hundred I squeaked, "Fifty it is," and held out a fifty-dollar note. She snatched it from me and shoved it down the front of her coveralls with the rest of her cash and I clutched the grimy oil filter box to my chest, stepped around her, and hurried out of the workshop without another word, almost running into Roxanne Mann as I did so.
"Slow down there," Roxanne held up both hands and took a hard step to the right to avoid colliding with me and the greasy box in my hands. As it was, my shirt was now smudged with a combination of grease and dust and my hands were filthy too.
"Sorry." I apologized, "I'd avoid Tiny today if I were you, she's in a bit of a mood."
Roxanne sneered, "Isn't she always?" and continued inside. It wasn't until I was in my car, the filter on the floor in the back, that it hit me as odd that Roxanne Mann would frequent Tiny's garage. Roxanne is Carson Singh's fiancee, and Carson is loaded. The guy probably wipes his butt with hundred-dollar bills he's that rich. Why then would his fiancee be taking her car to Tiny's garage when there are more top end garage's in Whitefall Cove? And cleaner ones.
Grabbing a tissue I scrubbed at my dirty hands but the grease had stuck. With a quick motion of my fingers, a wave of magic danced across my skin, taking the dirt and grime with it as the magic sparkled and died away. I upped my fantasy of Jackson in greasy jeans and sweat to now being topless to make up for the indignity of having to deal with Tiny. It was worth it.
