Robots vs. Fairies(80)
Of the four critters, she’s most familiar with unicorns, having broken a few to ride in her days as a simple cowpoke. Feeling exposed as hell and raw as a chunk of meat, she sidles up to the kindest-looking stallion, cool and showing no fear.
“Hey, feller,” she murmurs, voice rusty from disuse. “How ’bout I loosen that cinch for you? Might be nice to take a full breath, don’t you think?”
His great head swings around, almost snakelike, to regard her, a king surveying a potato. Now, Nettie has a way with horses and horselike creatures, and the moment she’s tugged on his cinch, the beast gives a heaving harrumph and nuzzles her briefly. When she slides a hand into his saddlebags, he sighs in a magnanimous-type way and pretends to ignore the trespass. Her clever fingers find the likeliest fold of fabric and pull it out, where it impossibly unfolds again and again until it’s a sweeping, full-body cloak that drags the ground. She digs around the saddlebag until she finds a golden rope much like the one destined for the possum’s scrawny little neck and uses it to tie the billowy fabric around her waist. It’s somehow both heavy and soft, like wearing a winter blanket made of spiderwebs, and it moves with Nettie’s every step.
“Time to meet a posse in my pajamas,” Nettie tells the unicorn, who nods as if he understands how goddamn preposterous this is.
As she approaches the fire, she tries to figure out what’s going on.
“I don’t care if he’s fair of face. He fired a gun at me.” The first man, the leader.
“Ah, but it was dry. He didn’t actually shoot you. And you’re not allergic to iron anymore. And finally, if we’re discussing facts, you had previously asked to inspect the weapon in question. . . .” The second man, the doctor.
“And had removed all but the second bullet . . .” The third man, the trapper, while grinning.
“And then, when the gun didn’t fire, you took it back and shot him in the gut.” The fourth man, the one with the baby face, wincing as he says it. “Not that that’ll kill a shifter.”
“And shooting can’t hurt you either, after all,” adds the doc, adjusting his spectacles. “It would only tickle a little.”
The first man stands, and Nettie understands that he’s not the clever, kind, brave sort of leader. He’s the sort who leads by force and fear. The sort who drinks power, all sloppy, from someone else’s glass like it’s cheap whiskey.
“Just because bullets can’t kill me and iron ain’t a problem doesn’t mean I enjoy the sensation of being shot. I still say we string him up and cut out his heart. I’d like to put it in a bell jar.”
The doc rubs his stubbled cheeks. “How many hearts do you really need in bell jars? Isn’t your shelf nearly full? Let’s just take him back to Lincoln and let the humans sort out their petty little disputes. This is why they make their laws. And why we should keep to ours.”
“I don’t want to go back to Lincoln,” says the tenderfoot boy. “Let’s go back home. I get tired of playacting so much. My ears feel permanently crushed.”
“How poetic,” the trapper says, sneering.
“Well, he is young still, Rudebaugh,” murmurs the doc.
“I’m only a century younger than you!” the boy shouts, tossing up his hands in a cloud of glitter.
“We can’t go home, and we need to feed, so you’ll keep on playacting. I’d rather play at outlaws and feed on the humans’ fear than go back to the form we used to take, as wee sprites with sparkling wings who sup on milk and grant wishes.” The trapper dances his fingers through the air, leaving a trail of golden light and twinkling sparkles behind. As the others stare into space, looking wistful, he pulls a tin cup out of nowhere and pours himself a slug of coffee. “And we can’t have coffee back home, neither.”
“I still say we kill ’im.” The leader stands, knocks the cup to the ground, and walks to the tree. He flicks the golden noose with his hand, and they all watch it swing. Up on the branch, the possum hisses like it doesn’t cotton to the idea. “If I’m not having fun, why are we even here?”
“Because you’re on the outs with the Queen again, Bonney,” the doc says, all fussy.
“So let’s take back a fine new fur cape for her beautiful shoulders.”
The trapper claps his hands and crows. “Queen Mab in a possum cloak? Now that I’d pay to see.”
“Enough. Chasing that son of a bitch through town butt-naked was fun, but I’ve drunk my share of his fear, and I’m done playing around. Let’s do this.” The leader snaps his fingers, and the possum appears in his fist, dangling by the scruff of its neck. “Damn, you’re ugly.” He laughs, shaking it. In response, it shudders, sticks out its tongue, and plays dead. He drops it and gives it a nudge with his boot. “Skin him, Scurlock, so I can string him up for trying to shoot me.”
The doc purses his pretty mouth and waves a gloved hand, and the possum becomes a man, naked and unconscious in the dust. There’s nothing special about him to draw the eye—he’s just a feller like any other. Nettie had hoped maybe she’d recognize him, but she doesn’t, which makes it all the stranger that she does what she does, which is that she stands up behind the screen of brush, holds up her hands, pitches her voice low, and shouts, “Stop right there!”