WICKED BLUE

Ray Wingate was not a happy man. Not in general and definitely not at this precise moment, ankle-deep in mud and looking over a pond that had no business existing in his back yard.

"See?" Wingate demanded.

His companion - a shorter, rounder, and generally more contented man by the name of Brant Knoll - nodded vigorously. "Truly amazing, sir!" Wingate's expression darkened. Knoll took an unconscious step back. "I mean - it-s unusual - remarkable, really, so far from the sea-"

"How long until it's fixed?"

Knoll blinked. His ears twitched, disturbing the nest of dark curls atop his head. "Fixed, sir?"

Wingate grit his teeth. "I want it gone."

"Oh." Knoll blinked at him, then at the pond. "Oh, but you can't! Mr. Wingate, they are protected by law!"

"Ponds?" Wingate exclaimed.

Knoll shook his head hard enough to send his velvety ears flopping. "Of course not!" He pointed to the other end of the pond, where a tall willow tree grazed the water with its branches. Something dark lurked there. Wingate squinted, trying to make out its shape. Suddenly, the dark thing bobbed up. Cold blue eyes met Wingate's, glare for glare.

"Merfolk!" Knoll announced happily. "I've heard they can take the sea with them. Always thought it was just a story." Knoll waved at the blue-eyed creature. A silver tail broke the water's surface briefly, making Knoll laugh in delight. Wingate resisted the urge to push the faun into the pond.

"I want it gone from my property," Wingate repeated, slowly and with emphasis on each word. "I don't care what you have to do, or how much it will cost. Just get. It. Done."

Knoll's smile disappeared. The faun drew to its full and inconsiderable height, furry chest puffing out. "The law is the law, Mr. Wingate. If you have a problem, I s-sugest you call a lawyer." Knoll stomped away the best he could, given the mud. His hooves clacked harshly against the stone stairs leading to the elevated patio. Wingate scowled after him; great. Barely moved in, already labeled as the neighborhood bigot.

"This is all your fault," Wingate told the pond.

The silver tail flipped into view again. Wingate was starting to suspect the gesture wasn't a greeting.

***

The rest of the day passed as days in Wicker manor did. Wingate consumed his breakfast of coffee and a cigarette over the sink, not trusting the one remaining chair in the dining room to support his weight. Its brethren had collapsed in various unusual ways over the past few days. Wingate had suffered some bruises and several splinters in rather unfortunate places but had managed to avoid death via impalement, which was all that counted in the end.

Wingate read the morning paper sitting on the living room floor. The sofa tried its best to lure him in with the promise of a plush seat and soft pillows, but Wingate resisted. The thing was yet to return the pair of pants it had swallowed - right off Wingate's person - so he wasn't buying the innocent act. He spent the next four hours sprawled over naked floorboards that had once borne a singularly bloodthirsty Persian rug, poring over old newspapers acquired from the local library.

Noon came and went. The sky was darkening when Wingate finally left his paper nest in search for food. The kitchen rumbled threateningly as soon as he set a foot inside. Wingate had nailed shut all the dangerous cabinets and most of the drawers, but the house was nothing if not persistent. The fridge froze solid at random intervals. The less said about the oven, the better.

Wingate opened the fridge, ever hopeful. Yesterday's Lo Mein stared at him mournfully from behind a wall of ice. Wingate closed the fridge and pulled out his cell. He will have to walk half a mile to the manor's front gate in order to get a signal. The house came with a landline, but the landline came with a persistent background noise that closely resembled the sound a cat would make while being skinned. Wingate preferred the walk, if by a margin.