“Don’t let them fool you,” Caerwen scolded. “They’re like jumping beans. It’s really a worm larvae inside them.”
“Ugh. Worms?”
“Not physical worms,” she clarified. Folded the lids together on the basket and set it aside. The basket thumped against the table once, twice, then settled down. “Magic misfiring. Shooting off randomly. We’ll let them go in the garden. See if they can hide from the birds.”
“No one can figure it out,” Effa said. “Aine tries, but even she can’t fix the magic. It’s the Carmag, causing the chaos. Anson Salas will tell you it’s Fee, going senile. But it’s been that way for centuries.”
She paused and stared at the various corners of the Alpha Suite, around the doors, windows, the nooks and crannies.
“What are you looking for?”
“Cameras…” She mouthed the word, then pointed with one finger. A small camera, mounted at the edge of the bookcase, was nearly invisible against the ceiling. Effa circled her finger—she was a meadow nymph, after all—and a green tendril sprouted from the wall. Leaves followed as the vine grew, twisting, twining, covering the camera until the blinking red light disappeared beneath the greenery.
Moments later, an orderly wearing blue scrubs stalked into the room. He glared at Effa’s innocent expression, and then at her hands, folded harmlessly in her lap.
“What have I told you?” he growled.
“An invasive species,” she murmured. “It keeps growing back.”
With an audible huff, the man opened a storage closet and dragged out a ladder. Excitement vibrated through the nymphs when he thumped the ladder open, settled the legs, then climbed to the camera, dragging and ripping the vines away until nothing vegetative remained.
With a silence worthy of a scolding parent, he collapsed the ladder, returned it to the closet. Scooped up the vine trimmings and pushed them into a trash bag. With a last glare toward Effa, he walked out, while the nymphs collapsed on the bed with a severe case of the giggles.
I glanced from Caerwen to Effa, back to Caerwen, and asked, “That happens often?”
“We don’t like spies, and they have cameras everywhere in the medical wing.”
“We’re here because Anson Salas offered sanctuary,” I pointed out.
Caerwen shrugged. “That doesn’t mean his dogs get to watch and listen to everything we say.”
Effa nudged Caerwen with a small elbow, and whispered, “We shouldn’t call them dogs while we’re still small enough to eat.” Then she hopped onto the upholstered chair. The seat dwarfed her, with her feet barely touching the floor.
“Is it safe for you to be here?”
“Absolutely,” they both said, nodding emphatically.
“And we’re only—” Effa gestured, making a half circle. “Here. In the compound. We’re not allowed to leave—”
“Not everyone in the Carmag likes nymphs,” Caerwen sniffed. “So we don’t go into Westvale proper. We have the garden, the medical wing. And the archive, where Laura stays, but it’s stuffy and smells of old books.”
“It’s a precaution,” the meadow nymph added, plucking at the daisies on her skirt while her cork-screw hair bobbed. “An edict, actually. The alpha insisted. Ever since that one incident, and it wasn’t even our fault.”
I studied their suspicious faces. “What incident was that?”
“Oh, it happened a long time ago. A few fire nymphs got frisky and, um, started chasing the males around.”
“A century ago,” Caerwen added sagely. “Ancient history, lady.”
“Ancient.” I fought my smile. “Who burned what?”
“The fire nymphs.” Effa pouted with her arms crossed. “Half the town, what was here back then, which wasn’t that much. But everyone said it was worse than burning San Francisco—which wasn’t even us, or the fire nymphs. San Francisco was a natural disaster and you can’t stop...”
Her eyes widened because… I burned things.
“Oh, No-ee,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean you were—”
“An unnatural disaster?”
