By Fairy Means or Foul: A Starfig Investigations Novel(37)

The Dishonorable Princess weighed anchor and we watched as the galleon’s sails caught wind that only the ship could feel and sailed off through the desert. Soon it disappeared over a dune.

“Do you really think there will be anything in your books?” I asked.

Quinn shrugged. “I really don’t know. I didn’t study phantasmalogy in school, but I knew a couple witches who were said to be able to trap and expel ghosts.”

“Huh.”

“Nothing in fairy magic that you know of?”

“No, but that doesn’t say much. I didn’t come to my father’s people until I was a teenager, so I didn’t even try using it until the Elder. Besides, I don’t seem to have a lot of fairy magic.”

“So all fairies have rudimentary magic and then each family has something specific to that lineage, right?”

“Close enough.”

We began walking toward the small outpost where we’d replenish our supplies. We could both use a hot meal and a couple large steins of water. By my calculations we were a half day’s journey to Rottingvale Quagmire. Best to start out at first light tomorrow morning. In the meantime, we wandered by a rickety sign proclaiming, “Hammershore Outpost: A Livable Community.”

I rolled my eyes. If you needed to announce it, chances are it wasn’t. Not that Lighthelm’s slogan proved any better—Lighthelm: Always Turned On. Seriously, they needed to hire someone to work on this shit. Dragons were much more to the point and chose kickass names for their domiciles.

“Why is the sign so high off the ground?” Quinn cricked his neck to get a better view. “They think we’re giants or something?”

“Exactly.”

He gave me the side-eye. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope.”

He swallowed audibly. “So . . .”

I shrugged, then started for the center of the outpost. I didn’t need to turn around to know Quinn followed, muttering about crazy PIs and their even crazier sidekicks. I grinned, but made sure I didn’t turn around so he could see it. He really was a funny human.

We followed a poorly cleared path through tall grasses until we saw several ramshackle buildings ahead. Fortunately, we’d just be passing through this livable community.

“Nice place,” Quinn deadpanned.

“It’s livable,” I added.

“That remains to be seen.”

We continued through what had to be the center of the outpost, looking for a watering hole. It didn’t take us long. Another sign announced, “The Watering Hole and Inn.”

“Creative folk.” I snorted, and then pushed through rickety swinging doors into a dimly lit saloon. An elderly cyclops barkeep shuffled down the counter toward us, setting down small pink doilies at each place along the way. Macramé hangings and weavings of cute Cerberus pups and adorable Pegasi foals littered every inch of wall space. Romance novels filled a large bookshelf near the bar. Not that I had a lot of time to look, but I did see a well-worn copy of Fifty Shades of Fae.

“What’s with the grandma couture?” Quinn whispered from the side of his mouth. I shushed him when the cyclops came out from the bar to greet us.

“You looking for a hot meal or just to quench your thirst?” The cyclops was at least twice my size. So, small for a giant. Scanning the room, I noticed we were by far the smallest creatures at the inn.

“Both.”

A group of giants sat at a nearby table taller than Quinn, their voices falling silent as we moved further into the interior. Unlike my fairy brethren, giants’ features were coarse, as if they were carved from a particularly soft stone that slowly wore away in the wind. The leaves—and in some cases whole branches—in their dreadlocked hair and beards gave them an unkempt, feral look, which probably served them well. The dainty gold-leaf tea cups in their hands undermined the impression just a bit. Not that I would tell them that.

Many sets of beady eyes silently watched our trek to the bar. Several giants clutched knitting needles the size of swords, their skeins of pastel-colored yarn forgotten as they followed our progress. Another table held an ogre and a motley-skinned troll hotly debating cross-stitch techniques, all but ignoring our presence.

I didn’t have to turn to Quinn to know he gawked at them. Giants and especially cyclopes hated cities, so were only seen in the most rural areas of the Elder. I’d had several dealings in the past with giants. While they looked fierce—and could be if attacked—the ones I met were more interested in being left alone than bothering anyone.

I nodded toward the different tables, then purposely turned away from them.

“Quinn, you need to look away,” I said under my breath. “They’ll see your staring as aggression.”

“They’re staring at us,” Quinn hissed from the side of his mouth again.

“Let them.” I marched up to the bar and hefted myself onto an oversized stool with the same pink doily motif as the coasters. Reaching down, I helped Quinn clamber onto another equally heinous seat. “We’d like whatever you’re serving today, and a big pitcher of water,” I said to the cyclops. “Also, whatever’s on tap, please.”

His eye went opaque, the pupil swirled a couple times, then he blinked and it went back to normal. Well, as normal as a one-eyed giant can look, anyway.