Fairy Tale: Winter's Bite

Chapter 3: Leverage (Part 2)

Joe clenched his jaw so his teeth wouldn't chatter and wrapped his bound hands into fists so his fingers wouldn't tremble. He had been able to talk himself out of trouble before. He even considered himself good at it. But how could he persuade these people to show mercy? They were trained, disciplined, organized, and brutal, and would undoubtedly do unthinkable things to extract what they wanted. 

Down he marched, deeper into the torch-lit earth. When he slowed to watch his step, he received a push; when he fell, he was lifted back to his feet with a harsh grip. Without his hands for balance or shoes to enhance his traction on the slippery, uneven slabs of rock, he had no choice but to stumble. He also added a few falls on purpose to slow the pace. He wasn't exactly looking forward to whatever the destination might be.

At a fork in the path, the guards stayed to the right and brought Joe to the back of a dead-end corridor. They pushed him into a rusty chair with arm and leg shackles.

"Is the medieval torture contraption really necessary?"

They made no answer.

While they secured his limbs, a variety of sharp objects turned angst into dread. They were hanging from the wall, placed in logical groups and ordered by the length of their blades. They ranged in size from too small to see to what would be cumbersome for a man to carry. Dead center, a horrifically old and scary longsword was on display and it was almost as tall as he was. 

The sweat, labored breathing, and light-headedness began at once. He closed his eyes and prayed to whoever might be listening. His mother's face came to mind. If she was truly there for him in spirit, as she had promised to be, she would give him the strength he lacked. 

Mom, I know I wasn't the best son in the world, but I need you to get me through this as painlessly as possible.

Joe opened his eyes and spiraled back to reality. He felt calmer than before, a necessity for clear thinking. If he knew what this was about, he could mentally prepare some plausible inaccuracies. He and Chris had not been born to a life of luxury and privilege, and he had never earned much money. He didn't even have wealthy friends, not close ones anyway. So money wasn't what they were after.

But what, then? Information? About what, though? The guards wore armor and held swords. No technology, no modern-day weapons. It was as if he and Chris and the children had been teleported to another time and place.

A faint buzzing sound crept into Joe's awareness. It continued to get louder until it was all he could hear. Then he saw something he did not anticipate—a big ugly black bug or butterfly. It flew erratically but with purpose, moving quickly, hovering in new locations every few seconds.

It zigged and zagged closer. He flinched when it landed on his forearm.

Without his glasses, Joe couldn't believe his eyes. Even if he'd had them, it wouldn't have mattered.

Impossible. . . 

"Let's get right to the point, shall we?" said the creature, a tiny woman with wings. Black was her motif from her slicked-back hair to her eyes—whose iris and pupil seemed to be one—to the spiderweb of scars that climbed down her face toward her queen-of-darkness dress. And even though she was only about three and a half inches tall, Joe didn't have any problem hearing her. Somehow, the low drone of her voice seemed to echo in his head.

Joe corrected the gape to his mouth. "Yeah, um, sure."

What the hell did I drink last night? Though he had valid reasons to—Christmas and the sad, nostalgic mood he was in—he didn't overdo it the night prior.

He vaguely recalled being drugged during his abduction. This is a side effect. A hallucination. There is no other explanation. . . .

"You tell me what I want to know, and then you and your family are free to go."

This could be a nightmare. But it's so damn real!

Joe tried to wake himself up . . . and couldn't. "What are you? A fairy or something?" he asked boldly, letting his curiosity outweigh his fear.

"I ask the questions! You supply adequate answers!" she hissed.

"Got it. I was just wondering."

"When was the last time you saw your father?"

"He abandoned us when my brother and I were kids. Very sad. Hard to cope. Mom always took it the hardest." Joe had always been good at making up stories on the spot.

"Don't lie to me! I saw the photograph. Care to try again?"

Joe looked away from what had to be a fairy, even if she didn't confirm that, and tried to piece together what he knew. The men in gray had obviously found the picture in his apartment. That much he had already guessed, but who were they? And where the hell was his father? 

Joe had never considered looking into Scott MacRae's disappearance. His mother was devastated, but she was never bitter or resentful, and barely spoke a word about it, almost as if she were protecting him for some reason. Joe, however, had had less faith. He had always made the assumption that his father led a double life—another woman, other children, all younger, cuter, needier—and just decided one day to end the charade and choose between the two.

Suddenly, the fairy pulled a glittery dagger from her dress and stabbed him in the arm. Joe screamed. The puncture from the tiny weapon was not likely to be fatal, but the burning sensation was unbearable.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Where is your father?"

"I don't know."

"When did you last see him?"

"I don't remember."

"Who are his friends?"

"Beats me."

The fairy whizzed up to his forehead and lifted her dagger above his right eye.

"Am I making myself perfectly clear?" She laid the blade against his eyelid and toyed with it.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "As much as I'd love to help, I haven't seen or heard from him since the summer after I graduated from college. That was several years ago. I left for medical school on the West Coast that August. He left my mother sometime that winter, and no one has heard from him since. He didn't even show up for my mother's funeral this past March, so your guess is as good as mine. He could be dead for all I know."

"Where did he say he was going?" the fairy probed further, unmoved by Joe's candor and clearly unconvinced that death got to Scott MacRae before she did.

"He never told anyone. One day he was just gone."

"Speculate."

"I have no idea! And apparently I didn't even know the guy that well. He never mentioned a single thing about you or any of this shit!"

Joe figured he'd lose an eye for that outburst, and he blinked as if that would somehow stymie the little stinger of a blade. But no stab came; instead, the fairy queen's weight lifted off his forehead.

His eyes reopened when he felt two points of pressure on his arm. The black-winged fairy had been joined by a second fairy, this one clad in a red-and-blue uniform with a strange sigil on his breastplate—a distorted star that looked three-dimensional on his portly chest.

"Do you need more time with this one, My Queen?"

"No, General, we're finished here. Bring in the angry one. He might be of more use to us."

Joe produced a short, dry laugh. "Yeah, good luck with that."

"Luck is pure folly at this point," the fairy queen uttered in a tone Joe would have expected from a storybook villain. Her words slithered right into his ears and gave his whole body a chill. "I have leverage. What more could I ask for?"

She gave a signal, and two of the human-sized guards in gray released Joe from the chair and escorted him out like a criminal. He felt some relief at this reprieve but feared what the word "leverage" might mean to her.

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