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  Horatia’s face fell, but she immediately dug back into her bag. It was my turn to make a pitch.

  “I’d like to make a bid for the spike.”

  This drew a stink-eye from the hooked-nose Belvin.

  “Great! Now we’re talking. So tell me, Magician, what memories do you have to trade?”

  “I have—”

  “You don’t want his dirty Magician memories, they’ll give you the gout as sure as the sun rises.”

  The Leprechaun tilted his head to one side. “Is that true?”

  Horatia butted in before I could respond. “It sure is—”

  “Not true,” I said, scrambling to get a few words in around the intractable sprite. “How long has it been since you were back in the mother country? I’ve got memories of a glorious trip through the lush hills and verdant pastures—”

  “Pass,” the Leprechaun said, dismissing me with his hand. “I’ve seen enough pastures and hills for a lifetime…”

  Horatia saw an opening, and she went for it. “Yes, no one wants your boring Magician memories, not when they could have this choice specimen,” she said, placing a large red marble on the table.

  The Leprechaun picked it up and gave it a strong sniff. “Do I smell… burnt oil? Oh my, is that ashen remains of a favorite vehicle destroyed by sheer stupidity?”

  “You have an excellent nose. It is indeed—someone placed a brick on the gas pedal of their favorite Porsche to run the engine and charge up a dead battery.”

  The Leprechaun smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the few rays of morning sun that peeked between the roof tops. “Now that has potential—it’s a decent starting point. What else you got?”

  Horatia clearly wasn’t prepared for that response. She must have gone to the deep end of the well too early.

  Where will she go from here?

  “It is a choice memory—can’t you feel the agony and self-flagellation?”

  The Leprechaun nodded and set the red marble down. “I can, and it’s a very nice start. A man, his Porsche, and a brick—but I’m going to need more if you want the spike.”

  Our host placed a hand on the crooked metal spike and turned to me. “What about you, Magician? Do you have a counter?”

  My brain was on tilt. My best plan had been the memories of the green isle; if that wasn’t going to work, what did that leave me? “Uh, yes, of course. I have the memories of my first failed Magick as a teenager. I’d—”

  The little man closed his eyes. “Tempting, but it would have been much better had the girls’ tops actually fallen off at the pool and not the old man’s bottoms.”

  “Terrible,” Horatia said. “Why settle for low-brow Magician memories when you can have what I’m offering.”

  “Which is?”

  The stout Belvin rustled through her fanny pack as I looked on, helpless. This wasn’t going the way I’d imagined. I hadn’t expected the seller would want humorous memories—I didn’t know what to offer.

  “Ah ha! Here it is. This is a fine memory to go with the one I’ve already offered. Think of this as a two-for.”

  The Leprechaun accepted the sparkly glass bead and held it up to the light. He squinted his eyes and stared at the swirling interior of the glass.

  Don’t like it, don’t like it…

  Our host burst into a fit of giggles. “This is perfect.”

  The Belvin rubbed her tiny fists in glee and reached for John Henry’s spike. “So we have a deal?”

  “We do indeed.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d come here ready to trade and had been snookered by a creepy and cantankerous house sprite. “Wait, I… I’ll offer—”

  “Give it up, Magician,” Horatia said, putting her grubby hands on the spike. “You’ve lost, I’ve won. You aren’t the only one with something important to end, you know.”

  The Belvin turned around and started walking her prize back to the truck.

  “Wait!” I shouted, chasing after her. “I’ll trade you the memory of my son’s birth!”

  Horatia stopped cold. “Go on.”

  Our host was still chuckling at himself as the next buyer arrived at his table. They were halfway through their transaction when he stopped them to share this latest memory. “So these two guys get in a ball pit: you know, like they have for kids. Then they dump a python in there. It bites his arm—twice! I mean, who does that!”

  The Belvin kept a sharp eye on our host and his latest buyer. “Hurry up, Magician. You’ve got two kids, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes…”

  “I want both their births,” Horatia said, clutching the spike to her chest and continuing to steal glances back at the Leprechaun.

  “I…”

  It was too much—I couldn’t give up both memories. Heck, I couldn’t really give up one. I was formed by those moments, and even the end of Mallory Lane wasn’t worth that price.

  The Leprechaun wrapped up with his latest customer and finished the story with a smile, and then, without skipping a beat, the buyer responded, “Yeah, that Idiots show was so funny. It’s amazing what those morons would do on television.”

  Television? You can’t trade television memories, they’re worthless—Horatia just cheated a Leprechaun on his home turf.

  Our host froze in place and stared daggers past his customer. “Television?”

  “Yeah, it’s an old show from back in the day. Everybody’s seen it, I’m surprised you—”

  Horatia pushed past me and made a break for her still-idling truck.

  Even I know better than to do that. You don’t cheat a Leprechaun and live to talk about it.

  30

  Done Deal

  Horatia tossed her cigar to the ground and swung her jiggling body up and into the monster truck. She gunned the throttle and swerved hard off the swale, taking a good chunk of sod with her.

  This is not going to end well.

  Belvins and Leprechauns didn’t get along—they hadn’t for hundreds of years—making this a beat down that had been a century in the making. The sprite’s truck hadn’t gone ten yards before the engine stalled and rolled to a stop. Horatia fought with the ignition, trying desperately to turn the engine over, while in front of her the hood shook, the metal buckling from some force beneath it.

  “You might want to cover your ears,” the Leprechaun said, crushing the fake memory bead with his fingers.

  The pickup’s steel peeled back like an overripe banana. A wailing screech of metal on metal shattered the relative calm of an early Florida morning.

  Whump.

  The frantic fairy spilled out of the truck and on to the pavement. The impact broke an already crooked nose and sent a stream of blood trickling down her face. Breathing hard, Horatia rolled over and scrambled for something in her fanny pack.

  I took a few steps back; a Magickal fairy battle was not what I’d signed up for this morning.

  Screech!

  Fan-blade fingers cut deep gouges in the engine mount, their razor-sharp digits tracing up thick cables and rubber hoses that formed the graceful arms of a feminine shape. A pinched and bird-like head rose above the engine’s broken remains, spark plugs sprouting like a glittering mohawk from its metallic scalp.

  Banshee…

  Sparks rained on the wet pavement from the Banshee’s spark plug hair, and pistons roared in the steel woman’s chest. Her curving metal lips wailed in tandem with them, the sound violent and otherworldly. With eyes wide, the Belvin crawled backward, trying to keep space between herself and the Banshee. Horatia shouted something and tossed another glass bead, but the metal woman’s scream was simply too loud. The glass bauble shattered, along with the rest of the monster truck’s windows.

  Horatia shouted at the Leprechaun, “You can have it back! You stupid fool, take it and be done with you.”

  Our host said nothing. He simply stared, his eyes a mixture of amusement and loathing.

  The steel woman wrapped those fan-blade fingers around Horatia
’s neck and pulled her up. Dangling above the asphalt, the Belvin looked pathetic and helpless. Like a petulant child, the sprite swung tiny balled-up fists at the steel beast, but never made contact. The banshee tossed her in the bed of the truck like a sack of last week’s garbage.

  “I’ll—” Horatia’s words were cut short by the monster’s wail. It returned to the engine mount, and standing like the captain of a ship, let loose another scream before driving the pickup into the morning mist.

  The Belvin was gone—and so was John Henry’s spike.

  For a few moments, no one said anything. Not a single patron moved from their spot, instead preferring to remain rooted in position, not wanting to upset the already disagreeable Leprechaun.

  Our host walked down to the street edge to examine the deep tire grooves Horatia’s truck had cut out of his grass. He shook his head and collected what sod he could from the street, then laid it back down gently where it had been. “I just put that sod down—stupid Belvin.”

  The Leprechaun passed me on his way back to the tiny register. “So, you want to make a deal or not?”

  “But the spike is—”

  He waved me off with his thin fingers. “You think I keep the real one here? That was just a railroad spike, no more, and no less.”

  “But the…”

  “The real one gets delivered after I know your memories aren’t fakes.”

  “Delivered?”

  The Leprechaun nodded. “You’ll have to sign for it. Now tell me, what do you have to offer.”

  I decided to change tactics. “What is it that you want?”

  The thin fairy chuckled and took a seat on his stool. “That’s a question I don’t get asked a whole lot. What do I want?” He rubbed his fingers over a baby smooth chin. “You know something?” he said, leaning against the narrow card table. “I’ve never been married.”

  “Okay…”

  “You married, Magician?”

  After seeing what happened to the last person to lie or cheat the Leprechaun, I had no interest in doing either. “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Sixteen years,” I said, the shock of it hitting me. Had Porter and I really been married sixteen years?

  Tempus Fugit.

  “Sixteen years, eh? Has it been a good marriage?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The Leprechaun tapped his fingers on the table. “Seems to me that’s a pretty easy question. Has it been a good marriage? You guys love each other, or do you live in separate houses? I’m not interested if that’s the case.” Our host brushed away imaginary dust with his fingers. “I’m interested in the real deal. Are you happy, Magician?”

  “Yes,” I said without further hesitation.

  Yes, we have our problems, but tell me a marriage that doesn’t. Does she make me happy? Yes, without question.

  “Excellent!” he said, rubbing his tiny hands together. “You want the spike? I’d like those sixteen years of marriage.”

  I had plenty of memories I was willing to give up, some gladly—memories of being bullied in school, of bad first dates, and of a thousand different inane injuries over the years—but the Leprechaun wasn’t interested in any of those. He’d gone right for the good stuff.

  The fairy tilted his head forward, anticipating my response. “I’d say it’s a fair deal.”

  “Maybe, maybe not—but it’s too rich for my blood,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment on my face. “No deal.”

  The Leprechaun produced a new metal spike from his pocket and placed it on the card table. “The power to end anything,” he said, running a slender finger over the weathered steel. “Anything… Surely sixteen years is a paltry price to pay for that kind of power?”

  I shook my head and turned away, walking toward the car. “You can keep it. Without those years I might as well willingly submit to the House.”

  The Leprechaun hopped down from his stool and chased after me. “Wait, what house? You don’t mean ‘the House,’ do you?”

  I kept walking, trying to keep up my downbeat demeanor just a little longer. “Depends. How many beings do you know double as property in South Tampa?”

  “Son,” he said, following me down the coquina driveway, the white shells popping and crackling under his feet. “You didn’t tell me you were in a deal with… it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said, unlocking the door to Porter’s car. “Good luck with your sale.”

  “Wait,” the tiny vendor said, placing a hand on my door. “One year.”

  It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  “One year…” I said, turning the words over in my mouth. “I don’t know…”

  “What’s one year out of sixteen? It’s nothing in the grand scheme of your lives together.”

  “How do I know you aren’t going to cherry pick a year’s worth of good memories from the last sixteen?”

  The Leprechaun’s face fell, and I knew right there that was exactly what he had been planning on doing.

  “Fine, one contiguous year of marriage—but I get to decide on the year.” The diminutive fairy insisted.

  Don’t do it, Gene. Get back in the car and go home. It’s too much to ask. You’ll find another way.

  “I’ll do it, but…” I said, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “But what?”

  “But only for the next year.”

  The Leprechaun waved me off with his hand. “Bah, you want me to trade for a year that hasn’t happened yet? How do I know you’ll even still be together? You could die tomorrow, you know. You did hear the Banshee’s wail…”

  He’s right. Stop now, get in your car, and go home.

  “That’s my offer,” I said, then closed my eyes and replayed the best parts of my marriage for the hard-driving fairy. Images of our honeymoon in the Black Hills of Montana, of camping beneath the twinkling stars, of laughing at our infant daughter tooting bubbles in the bath, and of our wedding night holding each other on a windswept balcony above the crashing waves.

  I opened my eyes to find the Leprechaun practically salivating. “Fine. We have a deal. I get the coming year, and in exchange you will receive John Henry’s spike.”

  He extended his tiny hand to shake. “It’ll be delivered soon, and you will have to sign for it.”

  31

  Magician's Pancakes

  I parked Porter’s car in the garage and stumbled into the kitchen.

  Coffee…

  A few seconds fiddling with the coffee maker resulted in tar that didn’t want to give back the spoon. I checked the clock and dumped the coffee to start over—Kris would be up soon, but Cathy could sleep until the end of the world if I didn’t wake her.

  I pulled a bowl from the shelf and set to work preparing something that resembled breakfast for the kids. Sometimes a simple, mundane task like making pancakes was great for clearing the mind and helping me compartmentalize. Successful parenting was all about being able to compartmentalize—in this moment, I was Dad, and that meant breakfast.

  It also meant finding a way to get Kris free and clear while I worked with Cathy. The last thing I needed was distraction or a mis-fired bit of Magicking.

  I had the griddle hot and was whisking the batter when my son climbed into his chair. That boy could talk a dog off a milk truck, and he was firing on all cylinders this morning.

  “Dad, I want ten pancakes.”

  “How about two?” I said, pouring the cold batter onto the griddle and sending the warm aroma of Magician’s Pancakes into the air.

  “Okay, then I’ll get two more.”

  “And how many will that be?”

  My son’s face contorted, his little mental processor churning through the basic addition. Somewhere along the way it got bored, and he settled on playing with a tiny truck he’d left on the table.

  “Kris?”

  “What?”

  I removed the pancakes from the griddle. “How many will that be?
”

  “Some!”

  “Close enough. Here you go,” I said, placing a steaming stack of coaster-sized pancakes on the plate in front of my little Isaac Newton.

  That’s it!

  While Kris stuffed pancakes in his mouth, I grabbed my phone and punched out a text to his teacher.

  Tabby, it’s Gene. Porter

  I stopped—I wasn’t sure how much to tell her about the events of last night. In the end, I went with the least amount of detail necessary.

  Porter took a hard fall last night, she’s fine, but I was wondering if you could watch Kris today, I have a daddy daughter day planned.

  I hit send on the text and looked up to find that, true to his word, my kindergartener had completed both pancakes.

  “More!”

  I waited.

  “Please!” he added.

  “You got it, kiddo. But first you need to wake up your sister.”

  The tiny tornado shot past me and down the hall, his feet slapping on the wood floors.

  Kris loved his sister, and he loved waking her up even more. Besides, better him than me.

  My phone chirped, and a message from Tabby splashed across the screen.

  Oh my, is she okay? I can watch him, no problem. I have a few old chemist friends coming over from my past life, but one of them has a daughter his age. Is that okay?

  I smiled and wrote her back—it was more than okay. The more ‘science weenies’ we had there the better.

  It’s perfect. Thanks!

  I clicked off the phone and flipped the pancakes I’d just poured. After last night I knew we were dealing with a dedicated Magician. There was someone out there with more than a smattering of Magickal talent—smart, powerful, but also crazy enough to try and summon Asaroth the Defiler.

  As such, the Magician—no matter how sane—would still be subject to the laws I was. In essence, steer clear of the science. That meant sending Kris to Tabby’s would let me take one more piece off the board and out of play.

  My son bounded back around the corner just in time to vacuum up the two pancakes I’d just made, then vanish into the family room. Cathy lumbered in past him and poured herself into her chair.