Anywhere else, I might be ostracized. Or viewed with suspicion. Nobody would hire me. I wouldn't make friends. I …
I …
I laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh, but it was still there.
I took a stand right there in the middle of my shop. "I'm driving the Tragedy Trainwaytoo far from the station. I have family and friends who love me, and I love them, and we will find a way. We're Dead Enders. We always do."
My empty shop almost seemed to agree with me, as crazy as that sounded, and then I heard a sound.
Thesound.
I groaned.
The music box was back.
I Will Survivestarted to play at full volume.
This time my laughter was genuine, loud, and long.
Dang Fae artifacts.
I turned to see the music box, its wooden surfaces glowing with polished beauty, sitting on my counter next to the donuts, where it hadn't been just moments before. "Thank you for not giving me a headache. You don't know where a magical dagger might be, do you? Is there some kind of magical Fae objects' email chain?"
The music switched to a song I knew from Aunt Ruby and Uncle Mike.
I'm Sorry.
"Brenda Lee, really? That's before my time. But I guess you could be thousands of years old, so never mind." The music box came into my shop with one of Molly's groupies, and I'd had to put up with its musical commentary on my life ever since, except for the times it mysteriously vanished.
I sighed. "Okay. How about something more upbeat? The GYSTers are on their way."
Yes, I realized I was talking to a wooden box. The worst part was it didn't even seem weird to me anymore.
The box immediately shifted to Walk the Moon, and I sang along with "Shut Up and Dance" while I swept the already spotless floor. By the time Eleanor raced in, late as usual, I was almost in a good mood.
"Good morning," she sang out. "The GYST bus is only about five minutes behind me. I passed it on the way here." She put her purse in the drawer behind the counter and started humming along to the music box.
The Golden Years Swamp Tours bus was always filled with senior citizens wanting to take a day away from amusement park freneticism in Orlando. They did airboat tours—I'd pointed them to the Swamp Commandos—and a gentle, non-strenuous version of sightseeing that involved a lot of sitting. On the bus, in various restaurants and pubs, and so on. It was relaxing for the seniors, profitable for the GYST company, and a nice bonus to Dead End Pawn, since they came by every Monday.
Yes, it's my fault that there are people all over America and several foreign countries who own taxidermied baby alligators, Dead End Pawn mugs, T-shirts, and totes, Florida kitsch, and even the occasional magical object that slips by my notice.
We have a wide and eclectic inventory here in my shop. (But we never, ever sell vampire fangs. It's a matter of principle. I even posted a sign.)
My mind was more on Eleanor's cheerful expression than on the GYST bus, though. My best and only employee was in her sixties, looked like the grandma version of the girl next door, and was a ball of sunshine regularly—when she wasn't dragging me into secret spy missions—but this was over-the-top under the circumstances.
"Eleanor? Ah, are you okay? I didn't expect you here today, considering." I said cautiously.
She blinked, taking off her red wool coat and donning a fluffy white cardigan that went well with her navy blue sweater, black pleated pants, and sensible flats. "Considering what? My engagement? Oh, we're a good way from the wedding. I have plenty of time to do my job. And today is GYST day. I wouldn't leave you alone for that."
"No," I said, bewildered. If this was denial, it was world-class. "Considering the Fae queen who threatened to destroy Dead End if we don't return a magical object to her by Friday."
She laughed and then saw my face. "I—what?"
We spent the next four and a half minutes with questions (she and Bill had turned their phones off on the weekends to "enjoy life," so I had to tell her everything), explanations (she felt woozy about three minutes in, but rallied—Eleanor was made of strong stuff), and a quick phone call to Bill (he'd just heard and was planning to hop in his car and rescue her, with some vague plan to drive to Ohio until it was all over—she refused).
"Seriously, Eleanor," I said, after she hung up with Bill. "You should go home and do what you need to do to prepare."
She slashed a look at me that said generations of steel-spined Southern women were marching through her DNA. "My son and my grandson are out of town on a fishing trip, thankfully. I'll call Dave and see what he wants to do. And you and I and everybody else I love will get through this together. If that Fae queen shows up here, well, I still have my gun in my purse."
