Pixie Twist Bundle

“Twizzie Twist,” the old Chinese man called my name. I looked up from the table outside of Beanzies, the pier’s coffee shop, with no clue what him calling my name was about to unleash on our little Californian fae town.

“Hey, Hop.” I waved at him to come sit with me. The wizard of St. Maurice’s pier shuffled my way. He wore Birkenstock sandals and rumpled khaki shorts with a faded aloha shirt that sported red Chinese dragons chasing each other through a mountainous landscape. An equally crumpled beige boonie hat, with the chin cord tight under his white goatee, covered his bald head like an ill-fitted lid on too small of a jar. The hat’s cloth flap covering the back of his neck fluttered in the afternoon ocean breeze. 

“You see my nephew today, right, little missy?” He held his hand out, palm up. I ignored his wiggling callused fingers.

“Yep.” I pulled my phone out of my purse. It was small, but Hop helped me add the enchantment we fae liked to use for extra dimensional storage. Magic was a little wonky in St. Maurice, so I welcomed his help.

“Not the phone!” Hop bounced his wrinkled hand. “Give me some twizzle-bits. I get dizzy after a teleport.”

I laughed. He knew I kept a big bag of licorice nibbles in my tiny handbag. This was his price for helping me with the magic. I was his sweets supplier whenever he saw me—which was often.

“You teleported down over three hours ago,” I said. “You’re not dizzy now.”

“Delayed effects. I need sweets.” He wiggled his fingers again and gave me a toothy smile.

I laughed and dribbled several into his palm. He tossed one into his mouth. 

“Chastain texted two hours ago from LA,” I confirmed with a glance at my phone. “His plane landed, and he was catching a taxi up here.”

“Handicap,” Hop grunted. “Make sure his house is handicap accessible.”

I had my own green-striped cane hanging from the table. I was young by fae standards, in my midfifties. With a bum leg. The left was shorter with a crooked foot. I wore a platform shoe, along with a leg brace, and I used the cane to help with balance. None of those helped with my gimpy wing when I popped down to pixie size. I always corkscrewed when I flew.

“I understand how important the right home is. No worries, Hoppy.”  

“You are the only one I let call me that name.” Hop poked his index finger at me, then winked. He stood and tossed another sweet into his mouth. “I like you, little missy. You do good for Number 87 nephew, please.”

“I’ve already lined up three homes for him to view.” I tapped the folio next to my latte. “Accessible homes are difficult, even in St. Maurice. We fae don’t move often.”

Hop patted his pocket, then his hat. “Where is my watch? What time you got?”

I pointed at his left hand clutching my licorice nibbles. He flipped his arm to look at the digital Timex with the plastic band. 

“Oh, two o’clock. Gotta run.” He turned and waved at several folks standing outside of the pier’s gift shop, next to the “Tour the Pier” poster. 

“Docent coming. Tour begin in one minute,” Hop called, then turned back to me. “You are my number one friend, Miss Twizzie. That why I have Number 87 nephew call you.”

I grinned, watching the old man limp toward the tourists. Funny how his limp came out only when he was giving a tour. Same with his accent. He liked to play up the ancient immigrant persona. His arrangement with the pier office said he was a volunteer docent, but he could accept gratuities. Why he felt the need to add the limp was beyond me. His knowledge of the pier was second to none. He had more stories about the construction, the life, the laughs, and even the near destruction of the landmark structure than anyone around. His stories were magical and deserved a reward. Those folks had no idea what a treat they were in for.

Amanda, head barista and manager of Beanzies, the coffee shop on the rustic old amusement pier, sat at the service window reading the latest surf magazine. The shop did most of their business through the order window. This was Southern California. We rarely got rain, and the temps almost never got below forty degrees. Outside cafés are everywhere out here.

I leaned on my cane, with my purse strap over my shoulder. Two steps took me to the service window, and I passed my ceramic mug back in.

“Client today?” Amanda took the cup, leaning on her aluminum crutches with the wrist cuffs. 

“Hoppy’s Number 87 nephew.” I rolled my eyes and leaned on my cane. “Computer guy moving down here from the Bay Area.”

“How many nephews does he actually have?” Amanda shook her head. “Never mind. That number will change anytime he tells a story.”

My phone chirped, and the smartwatch on my wrist vibrated. A glance at it showed a text from Nephew #87.

“Gotta run!” I waved. “He’s almost here.”

Fortunately, there was a small tenant and employee lot on the pier where I could park, right next to Hoppy’s slightly rusty beat-up old VW Microbus. Hoppy, leading four tourists, came the opposite way.

“In 1920, this”—he waved his arm to sweep the entire parking lot—“was where the amusement rides were.” He pulled a three-ring binder full of photos in plastic sleeves from inside his old canvas satchel, then flipped through the thick stack. The photo he settled on showed an old Ferris wheel next to an undulating set of wooden tracks. 

“See? Racing roller coaster. With two tracks, two cars go at once. Which one finish the race first?” He shrugged. “Now we have a new coaster. One track only. You always win the race that way.”

“Why did they move the rides to the other end?” A blonde female tourist looked toward the far west end of the pier where the rides now sat. She had a glamour on her. Definitely fae. Nondescript, touristy in shorts and a thin bright-red top. She’d donned a light jacket to match. The guy she was with was tall and dark-haired with a thin mustache. His sunglasses perched low on his nose to look at Hop’s photos.

“Thirty foot waves.” Hoppy’s arm, bent at the elbow, stood straight up, then slammed down on his book. “Crash! I’ll tell that story at the other end. Everyone wave to number one Realtor in St. Maurice. Say ‘Hi Miss Twizzie!’”

The tourists glanced my way. My cheeks reddened, and I waved back. “Enjoy your tour.” I popped the handle on my Prius and slid in, tucking my purse on the floor under my knees. Cane slid in the gap between the driver’s seat and the door, I pressed the wake-up button and buckled in. 

Traffic was light this early in the afternoon, so I made it to the office in under seven minutes. A black SUV stood idling in front of the tan stucco-and-brick building. The wooden sign next to the glass door read R. Gates and Associates Realty. I was one of the associates.

The driver stepped out and jogged to the sidewalk side of the SUV. He opened the rear door, and a metal lift platform unfolded. The man inside grasped the metal rims of his chair and rolled himself forward. He smiled and waited while the hydraulics lowered the chair to the sidewalk, then rolled into the shade made by the building.

I wasn’t sure what to make of Hoppy’s Number 87 nephew. He wore black jeans with a black mock neck long-sleeved shirt. His black hat looked like a newer version of the fedora type Indiana Jones might sport.

“Mister Li,” I said, stretching out my right hand, “I’m Twizzle Twist, your property agent.”

He took my hand with a firm grip. His brown eyes held mine. A smile tugged at his mouth. I sensed his magic. Fae magic but different.

“Pleased. Let me take care of Javier.” 

The driver’s eyes were on the tablet, and his fingers tapped several times. 

“Señor, your total.” 

My client slid the credit card through the reader slot, then tapped a spot on the screen. He scribbled his name with a finger, then passed a folded fifty-dollar bill to the driver.

“Gracias, Señor.” Javier tipped his head. “Anything else?”

“Thank you, no.” He nodded toward me. “I am in Miss Twist’s capable hands today.”

“You forgot to take your churro.” Javier passed a long paper sack to him. “My wife made these, por favor. She says to give one to all of my passengers. I have to eat any that are left.” He patted his ample belly and smiled.

“Thank her for me. I shall enjoy it this evening once my digestion settles.”

“Sí, Señor. Flying unsettles my belly too.”

“Thanks for getting a ride up from Los Angeles. My Prius might be a bit small.” I nodded toward his wheelchair. “Would you like me to get the agency’s town car, Mister Li?”

“Chaz, please.” His smile lit up his face, despite sitting in the shade of our building. A small rolling suitcase sat next to him, and a faded black messenger bag rested on his lap. “Your car will be fine. The gnomes are still mining the faerock here?”

“Of course. They’ll be another century or two with that deposit.” I popped the hatch and dropped the suitcase into my trunk. “I love our town, but that faerock interferes with magic.”

“Uncle told me about your… limp.” Chaz pointed at my cane. He tapped his own legs. “Kindred spirits.”

He pushed the rims of his wheels and glided toward my car. Before I could step around him, he had the door open and was sliding from his wheelchair into the passenger seat. He used his hands to pull his legs in. Two practiced flips with the levers and his chair collapsed.

“I can pop that in the trunk, with your bags,” I said.

“If you would be so kind.” 

“First up,” I said once I had the chair stowed and had buckled myself in, “the house on Rapier Place.”

“Interesting name for a street.”

“I suspect it’s one reason the owners built there.” I pushed the accelerator with my good foot. My little Prius had enough oomph to climb the hills around our little valley. “The couple is divorcing. She was an Olympic gold medal fencer. He’s an antique arms dealer.”

“Ah. Then Rapier does make sense.” Chaz’s voice was firm, yet quiet. “Quiet demon in the car. Or is this a real Prius?”

“It’s a fae version, with an Infernal engine.” I flashed him a quick smile. “Only a 1.5-level demon. You don’t have a demon for your chair?”

“Nope. Even during the day, I’ve got undead muscles. Not as good as when the sun goes down. I like to wheel myself around. And my chair doesn’t smell like brimstone if I speed up.”

“Well, like I said, my demon is only a 1.5. No big clouds of brimstone.”

“At least fae cars meet California’s smog standards.” He chuckled. “Brimstone is a magical gas, so it doesn’t register.” He waved the paper-wrapped churro. “May I interest you in a churro? Javier says his wife is a talented cook. My digestion won’t let me enjoy it.”

“Sure. Your uncle Hop didn’t mention his number eighty-seven nephew was a vamp.” I let my eyes shift to him for a second. He was definitely on the cute side. But he was also my client. No dating clients, I told myself. 

“Oh, I’m up to number eighty-seven?” Chaz chuckled. “Must be because I’m moving to his town.”

“How…” I bit my lip. “Sorry. I should know better than to pry.” 

He chuckled. “You’re not used to seeing the undead in a wheelchair? Bike accident. Took a tumble and slammed my back into a tree. I was mortal then, so the injury is permanent. The vamp I was dating at the time made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

My stomach flipped. He was dating. Figures. All the cute and nice guys were already dating. 

“So you…?”

“I took her gift of immortal undead life.” Chaz stared out the window. “I get my legs back when the sun goes down. The only problem is…”

“Daytime? No walking?” That wasn’t hard to figure out from the wheelchair. His body lost the extra abilities being undead gave him when the sun was up. 

“That, and… well, Sabine only dated fae mortals. I knew that when I took her gift. She helped me adapt to the being undead, then went to find another blood donor.”

“Oh, she didn’t go for synthetics?” Blood farms were all the rage for vamps. Most vamps found the synthetics tastier than just sucking on a donor’s neck.

“She likes the zing and the intimacy.” 

I felt his eyes on me. I fought the urge to look at him. Eyes on the road, Twiz. No dating clients. 

“Here we are.” I turned into the drive. It was fairly steep, but not bad. I punched the code into the pad and watched the metal gate roll to the side. A moment later, I pulled up to the front door on the circular drive.

“Home of Nancy Miller-Lloyd, owner of the Grape Riposte dinner club and lounge. Husband, Chester Lloyd, antique arms dealer. Did you look at the listing?”

“Of course.” Chaz held up his phone. “This is the one I’m most interested in. That’s why I asked to schedule it first. If I like what I see, we’ll make an immediate offer.”

“Let me get your chair.”

He again popped the chair open and moved into it with practiced east. 

“Mr. Lloyd’s son from a previous marriage uses a chair.” I pointed toward the front entrance. “Even though he mostly lives with his mother downtown, they had the home extensively modified to make it accessible. Pity their marriage didn’t last.”

I pressed the button on the intercom next to the main door. No one answered.

“She’s supposed to be away this week,” I said. “Mr. Lloyd has already moved to a home near Los Angeles. The listing agent said no staff is on site. Cleaning and cooking only when she’s in town.” I pulled my Realtor ID card out of my purse and shoved it into the lockbox on the door handle. The box popped open, and I used the key inside to unlock the door.

“Hello!” I always called whenever I entered a listing. One too many times of disturbing a resident or two. This was California, after all. “Realtor. Here to show the listing. Hello?”

No one answered, so I swung the door open. Posh yet stark décor greeted us. White-marble tile lined the floor of the entryway. The open-concept home was built into the side of the hill. We were on the upper level here.

“Interesting.” Chaz wheeled himself in and took a deep breath. 

This floor was an entertaining space. A two-story tall bank of windows looked out over the valley where St. Maurice nestled in the low mountains. The pier where Hoppy was probably finishing his tour jutted out into the crescent-shaped bay. The view was stunning. A wheelchair lift stood next to a chrome circular staircase leading down to the lower level.

Chaz didn’t seem interested in the view of the town and harbor. Instead, he rolled past the white-marble-topped wet bar and toward the door, into what should be an office or study.

I leaned on my cane and followed along. Chaz waved his hand in front of a well-concealed sensor. The door swung open.

“I thought I smelled blood.” He turned toward me. “Call the police. She’s dead.”