The Fairyland Murders

I lay in my hospital bed while a nurse wearing rubber gloves took my vitals. My mind raced with questions as trepidation filled me. Those winged devils didn’t care about the kidnapping or murders of their Tooth Fairies—hell, they had plenty of others on standby—their only concern was keeping the magic pea out of Damien’s hazy hands.

I was Izzy’s only hope.

Which didn’t bode well for either of us at the moment.

“Mr. Reynolds,” the nurse said, “if you don’t calm down, we will have to sedate you.” She stomped her foot down on a smoldering piece of floor tile. “Last thing this hospital needs is another electrical fire.”

I grunted, not paying her much attention.

“. . . the one thirty years ago burned the maternity ward to the ground. . . .”

Thirty years? The same number of years since I was born, at the same hospital. Could it be a coincidence? I reached for the nurse’s arm but stopped in time. “Fire? Do you know when it happened? What the date was?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “How would I know? I was barely out of diapers thirty years ago.” She shoved a thermometer in my open mouth. “Nurse Connors was the only one on duty that night. No one even knows if she’s still alive. Rumor has it that she started the fire, which is why she vanished without a trace a few months later.”

A buzz of excitement rushed through me, sending another bolt of electricity from my fingers to the already scorched ground. “Sorry,” I quickly said. “Won’t happen again. I promise,” I lied, my face the picture of an earnest, blue-haired invalid.

“See that it doesn’t.” She snatched the thermometer from my lips, taking a good portion of skin with it, and then left the room. I watched her go with mixed feelings; not at Nurse Ratchet’s absence but at what possible clues to my identity an electrical fire over thirty years ago, at this very hospital, might hold.

The mysterious origins of Blue Reynolds vanished from my mind when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, seeing a number I didn’t recognize, which could’ve been from the concussion. Who knew how many brain cells I’d lost? I answered on the second ring. “Re . . . olds . . .” I choked out, my voice rusty. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Reynolds.”

“Good to hear you’re no worse for wear,” Douchey Damien declared with a girlish giggle. “We—Isabella, really—were worried about you. I, on the other hand, am much more apathetic.”

I gripped the phone, the plastic coating melting beneath my fingers. “If you hurt one feather on her, I’ll rip your heart out.”

He laughed again. “You are not in any shape or position to be making threats, Mr. Reynolds. I will kill your precious fairy if you don’t bring me what I want.”

“Ah,” he said, “so you do know. Isabella swore you didn’t, but who can trust a fairy?”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage inside me at the thought of Izzy at his mercy. “If you hurt her, I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

“Temper, temper,” he said. “Bring me the pea tonight, by midnight, and no one gets hurt . . . at least no one you care about.” He ended his threat by hanging up the phone, leaving me listening to dead air.

I glanced at the clock hanging from the white wall. It was a little past ten. I had two hours to come up with a plan that didn’t include destroying the entire fairy race. Not that I cared one way or the other about the winged devils. My only concern was one winged one. A pink-winged one. And Damien knew it. Hell, he was counting on it.

I grabbed the IV in my arm, tugging on it until the needle pulled free and blood started to spurt from the wound. Taking my finger, I generated a pulse of electrical heat, pressing the tip to the hole and cauterizing the wound instantly.

From there it was a relatively easy escape, if one ignored the last fifty feet, where I crawled the entire way down the hospital corridor.