Read Online Bloody Fabulous by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
Ads: Link
squabble. Queen Maeve is the one to call on to solve problems, arbitrate disagreements, and keep the peace. She also tracks down fairy folk who’ve gone missing or silent, and tries to keep our existence as secret as possible.
I tell her, “No officially approved banshee can ignore a summoning by an O’Neill. I’m not licensed, therefore I’m not required. Send Monnie. She’ll do it.”
“Your sister can’t go jaunting off to America to solve a problem you created,” she replies.
“Someone else, then,” I say. “Someone who’s licensed. ”
I don’t dwell on it, really I don’t, but it’s one thing to be told you’ve got a great talent and quite another to be denied the chance to use it because you won’t follow a silly rule or two.
Maeve’s expression turns crafty. “Go and meet this O’Neill, and when you come back you can tell us all about it on Wren Day.”
I haven’t been invited to a fairy holiday gathering for four years now. It’s not that I miss the carousing and the singing and the food, but it would be nice to dance with my cousins again, the earth tingling beneath our bare feet.
She pushes the paper back across the desk. “Meet him, find out what he wants, and politely decline it. And by all things sacred, no more lamenting on airplanes. At least wait until you get to baggage claim.”
I don’t have much choice here, so I pocket the information.
“Wear something nice!” Loman calls out, a parting zing. “You can’t look like a boy in front of a Great House.”
Just for that, I plan to wear the manliest things I own when I meet this John O’Neill.
Three days later I’m back in America. I telephone O’Neill from one of the last remaining payphones in Logan Airport and reach a voicemail. Around me, passengers scoop up their luggage and hurry outside into the blustery cold wind.
“If you’re looking for the girl who sang on Flight 112, call me back right now,” I say. “I won’t be here long.”
I figure he might need some proof that I’m not a prankster or crazy woman, so I sing a few notes and hang up.
The crew van has already left without me, meaning I’ll have to take the bus to the hotel. I’ve been awake for about eighteen hours. To kill time I silently note every single fashion faux pas around me, including ill-fitting pants, clashing ties, soiled jackets, and cheap brown shoes. Honestly, some men should not be let out of their houses.
The phone rings. O’Neill sounds convinced, if a little cautious, as he says, “Thank you for calling me. Where are you?”
“The airport,” I reply. “Just passing through.”
“I’m in Marblehead. This time of day, it’s about forty minutes away. Will you wait for me?”
“I can’t meet you now,” I tell him. Certainly not in my Air Killarney uniform, and not when I’m so dead tired that my eyeballs feel swollen. “How about four o’clock? There’s a pub in Revere called The Broken Mug. Near City Hall. Meet me there.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the only one with a silver comb in my hair,” I say.
Seven hours later, after a shamefully small amount of sleep, I put on black slacks and a reasonably feminine dark red blouse. This is the only blouse I own. Actually, Monnie owns it, but she let me borrow it. All personal vows aside, it’s probably best to blend in when I meet O’Neill. Hair as short as mine is easy to recognize, so I conjure a simple glamour to make it seem long and curly. I don’t have a coat but the cab ride is mercifully short and the pub is warm. It’s the kind of place long past its glory, if it ever had a glory to begin with, but the ale is good and the patrons mind their own business.
John O’Neill arrives at four o’clock sharp, wearing new black jeans, a blue sweater from Nautica, black boots and a vintage black leather coat. He’s even more handsome than I remember. In the brief moment it takes for him to scan the pub and spy me, I can pretend that he’s here
I tell her, “No officially approved banshee can ignore a summoning by an O’Neill. I’m not licensed, therefore I’m not required. Send Monnie. She’ll do it.”
“Your sister can’t go jaunting off to America to solve a problem you created,” she replies.
“Someone else, then,” I say. “Someone who’s licensed. ”
I don’t dwell on it, really I don’t, but it’s one thing to be told you’ve got a great talent and quite another to be denied the chance to use it because you won’t follow a silly rule or two.
Maeve’s expression turns crafty. “Go and meet this O’Neill, and when you come back you can tell us all about it on Wren Day.”
I haven’t been invited to a fairy holiday gathering for four years now. It’s not that I miss the carousing and the singing and the food, but it would be nice to dance with my cousins again, the earth tingling beneath our bare feet.
She pushes the paper back across the desk. “Meet him, find out what he wants, and politely decline it. And by all things sacred, no more lamenting on airplanes. At least wait until you get to baggage claim.”
I don’t have much choice here, so I pocket the information.
“Wear something nice!” Loman calls out, a parting zing. “You can’t look like a boy in front of a Great House.”
Just for that, I plan to wear the manliest things I own when I meet this John O’Neill.
Three days later I’m back in America. I telephone O’Neill from one of the last remaining payphones in Logan Airport and reach a voicemail. Around me, passengers scoop up their luggage and hurry outside into the blustery cold wind.
“If you’re looking for the girl who sang on Flight 112, call me back right now,” I say. “I won’t be here long.”
I figure he might need some proof that I’m not a prankster or crazy woman, so I sing a few notes and hang up.
The crew van has already left without me, meaning I’ll have to take the bus to the hotel. I’ve been awake for about eighteen hours. To kill time I silently note every single fashion faux pas around me, including ill-fitting pants, clashing ties, soiled jackets, and cheap brown shoes. Honestly, some men should not be let out of their houses.
The phone rings. O’Neill sounds convinced, if a little cautious, as he says, “Thank you for calling me. Where are you?”
“The airport,” I reply. “Just passing through.”
“I’m in Marblehead. This time of day, it’s about forty minutes away. Will you wait for me?”
“I can’t meet you now,” I tell him. Certainly not in my Air Killarney uniform, and not when I’m so dead tired that my eyeballs feel swollen. “How about four o’clock? There’s a pub in Revere called The Broken Mug. Near City Hall. Meet me there.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the only one with a silver comb in my hair,” I say.
Seven hours later, after a shamefully small amount of sleep, I put on black slacks and a reasonably feminine dark red blouse. This is the only blouse I own. Actually, Monnie owns it, but she let me borrow it. All personal vows aside, it’s probably best to blend in when I meet O’Neill. Hair as short as mine is easy to recognize, so I conjure a simple glamour to make it seem long and curly. I don’t have a coat but the cab ride is mercifully short and the pub is warm. It’s the kind of place long past its glory, if it ever had a glory to begin with, but the ale is good and the patrons mind their own business.
John O’Neill arrives at four o’clock sharp, wearing new black jeans, a blue sweater from Nautica, black boots and a vintage black leather coat. He’s even more handsome than I remember. In the brief moment it takes for him to scan the pub and spy me, I can pretend that he’s here
Similar Books
