church’s kitchen window, their high-pitched voices clear in the moisture-heavy air as they played hide-and-seek in the early dark. The boys, especially, had been glad to get out of the desk and into their admittedly more-cramped-than-a-troll’s-armpit quarters in the oak stump. More cramped, but vastly more suited to a winged person smaller than a Barbie doll.
A parental smile threatened Jenks’s attempt at a businesslike attitude as he stood on the spigot before the window and cleared his throat. Jumoke’s apprenticeship had begun, and Jenks was trying to impress on him the sensitivity needed in mixing up some pixy pow. It wouldn’t be napalm, which pixies had first used to get rid of weeds—then fairies when it was discovered to their delight that it would go boom under the right conditions. And it wouldn’t be C4, C3, or any other human explosive. It would be something completely different, thanks to the dual properties of stability and ignition that pixy dust contained.
“That’s it, Papa?” Jumoke said doubtfully as he penciled in the last of the ingredients on one of Ivy’s sticky notes. Unlike most of Cincinnati’s pixies, Jenks’s family could read. It was a skill Jenks taught himself shortly after reaching the city, then used it to claim a section of worthless land before the proposed flower boxes existing on a set of blueprints went in.
“That’s it,” he said, gazing at his son’s hair. It looked especially dark in the fluorescent light. For the first time, he saw it as perhaps an asset. It wouldn’t catch the sun as his own hair did, a decided advantage in sneaking around. Perhaps Jumoke was the reigning hide-and-seek champion for a reason.
Bis, newly awake and doing his sullen gargoyle thing atop the fridge, rustled his wings in disbelief. “There is no way that soap, fertilizer, lighter fluid, and pixy dust is going to blow that statue up. It’s solid rock!”
“Wanna bet a week’s worth of sentry duty?” Jenks asked. “I use it all the time. A pixy handful will blow surveillance lines and fry motherboards, QED. We’re just going to need a lot more.” Rising up, he eyed the rack of spelling equipment hanging over the center island counter. “Can you get that pot down for me?”
Jumoke made a small noise, and Bis’s pebbly gray skin went black. “Rachel’s spell pot?” the gargoyle squeaked in apparent fear.
Hands on his hips, Jenks hummed his wings faster. “The little one, yes. Jumoke, go see if you can find Ivy’s lighter fluid out by the grill. We need more propellant than we have dust.”
The young pixy darted out into the hallway, and Jenks frowned at the worried tint to his son’s aura now. Tink’s tit-ties, he could use Rachel’s spelling equipment. The woman wouldn’t mind. Hell, she’d never even know.
Ears pinned to his ugly skull, Bis hopped the short distance from the fridge to the center island counter, jumping up with his wings spread to pluck the small copper pot. It would hold about a cup of liquid and was Rachel’s favoritesize spell pot. She had two of them.
“Can I have the other one, too, please?” Jenks said dryly, and the kid’s tail wrapped around his feet, his ears going flatter. “I can’t touch anything but copper,” he complained. “And if I use the plastic ones, they’ll smell funny. Will you grow a pair and get the bowl?” he said, darting upward and smacking it to make it ping.
“Don’t blame me if Rachel yells at you for using her spell pots,” Bis muttered as he plucked it from the overhead rack and set it rocking next to the first. The draft from his wings blew Jenks back when Bis hopped to Ivy’s chair at the big farmhouse kitchen table, pulling first the phone book, then
Vixen’s Guide to Gathering Guys and Gals
down and onto the seat. The guide was the larger of the two.
“Don’t blame me if Ivy de-wings you for using her computer,” Jenks shot back as Bis settled onto the stack of books and shook the mouse to
A parental smile threatened Jenks’s attempt at a businesslike attitude as he stood on the spigot before the window and cleared his throat. Jumoke’s apprenticeship had begun, and Jenks was trying to impress on him the sensitivity needed in mixing up some pixy pow. It wouldn’t be napalm, which pixies had first used to get rid of weeds—then fairies when it was discovered to their delight that it would go boom under the right conditions. And it wouldn’t be C4, C3, or any other human explosive. It would be something completely different, thanks to the dual properties of stability and ignition that pixy dust contained.
“That’s it, Papa?” Jumoke said doubtfully as he penciled in the last of the ingredients on one of Ivy’s sticky notes. Unlike most of Cincinnati’s pixies, Jenks’s family could read. It was a skill Jenks taught himself shortly after reaching the city, then used it to claim a section of worthless land before the proposed flower boxes existing on a set of blueprints went in.
“That’s it,” he said, gazing at his son’s hair. It looked especially dark in the fluorescent light. For the first time, he saw it as perhaps an asset. It wouldn’t catch the sun as his own hair did, a decided advantage in sneaking around. Perhaps Jumoke was the reigning hide-and-seek champion for a reason.
Bis, newly awake and doing his sullen gargoyle thing atop the fridge, rustled his wings in disbelief. “There is no way that soap, fertilizer, lighter fluid, and pixy dust is going to blow that statue up. It’s solid rock!”
“Wanna bet a week’s worth of sentry duty?” Jenks asked. “I use it all the time. A pixy handful will blow surveillance lines and fry motherboards, QED. We’re just going to need a lot more.” Rising up, he eyed the rack of spelling equipment hanging over the center island counter. “Can you get that pot down for me?”
Jumoke made a small noise, and Bis’s pebbly gray skin went black. “Rachel’s spell pot?” the gargoyle squeaked in apparent fear.
Hands on his hips, Jenks hummed his wings faster. “The little one, yes. Jumoke, go see if you can find Ivy’s lighter fluid out by the grill. We need more propellant than we have dust.”
The young pixy darted out into the hallway, and Jenks frowned at the worried tint to his son’s aura now. Tink’s tit-ties, he could use Rachel’s spelling equipment. The woman wouldn’t mind. Hell, she’d never even know.
Ears pinned to his ugly skull, Bis hopped the short distance from the fridge to the center island counter, jumping up with his wings spread to pluck the small copper pot. It would hold about a cup of liquid and was Rachel’s favoritesize spell pot. She had two of them.
“Can I have the other one, too, please?” Jenks said dryly, and the kid’s tail wrapped around his feet, his ears going flatter. “I can’t touch anything but copper,” he complained. “And if I use the plastic ones, they’ll smell funny. Will you grow a pair and get the bowl?” he said, darting upward and smacking it to make it ping.
“Don’t blame me if Rachel yells at you for using her spell pots,” Bis muttered as he plucked it from the overhead rack and set it rocking next to the first. The draft from his wings blew Jenks back when Bis hopped to Ivy’s chair at the big farmhouse kitchen table, pulling first the phone book, then
Vixen’s Guide to Gathering Guys and Gals
down and onto the seat. The guide was the larger of the two.
“Don’t blame me if Ivy de-wings you for using her computer,” Jenks shot back as Bis settled onto the stack of books and shook the mouse to