Pixified



  Pixified

  A Roane Publishing Free Read

  by Sheryl Winters

  www.RoanePublishing.com

  © Copyright 2014 Sheryl Winters

  Cover Artist: Rebecca Hart

  Editor: Rebecca Hart

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sweat drips down my back. It gums up my hair, trickling down my chest and under my arms. Stale air rises from the asphalt, grating against my nose and the tip of my tongue. Inside is air conditioning, creamy chocolate ice-cream cakes that melt in my mouth, and a chair. I really need that chair.

  Tessa jiggles the lock again. The key is stuck halfway inside it as if she’s jammed one of those tiny sweet gummy treats she loves so much inside it.

  “Do we need to get a locksmith?”

  Her prim shirt and jeans are stuck to her stick thin body. “I had one out here Wednesday, and he said there was nothing wrong with my door, and yet, it’s jammed three times this week.” Her chestnut brown hair is plastered to her forehead like a blob of stubborn and willful piece of dark chocolate. She pushes it away with a sigh. When we left over an hour ago, she was the picture of casual perfection, her carefully ironed pink shirt tucked in neatly, the starched jeans neatly rolled up, and just touching her sensible shoes. I have no idea how she manages to eat so many sweets and yet stay so skinny.

  “The last few weeks have been terrible, one thing after another. Someone bewitched the Sweets-n-Treats sign to read Hot Dogs & More, the cash register blew up, and then there was that curdled milk incident. If things don’t settle down soon, I’m going to explode like a bag of sour cherry pops rock thrown into water.”

  I wave my hand against my forehead for a bit of cool relief. If I don’t get inside soon, I’m going to melt on the sidewalk. My sweet Wulfar will find me there, a desiccated corpse, all dried up from lack of ice water. I should change to my Tiger form. At least I could handle the heat.

  “Braden said…I mean a friend of Michael’s say it's cursed, but I think I just have bad luck.” She jerks at the door, letting loose an uncharacteristic primal grunt, “Stupid thing, if you don’t let me inside, I’m going to break you apart and burn you in my back yard!” Tessa slams her hand on the door.

  The door springs inward at her curse. Unprepared, Tessa staggers inside, her shopping bags fall to the floor.

  I’m picking up her purse when a small creature flutters past us.

  Tessa slams the door, grumbling and cursing under her breath.

  I grab the creature and shove it back inside.

  “What was that?”

  The tiny being hovers near us. A woman, part human, part something else. Bright, mischievous, electric-blue eyes peek out at me, and gossamer wings spread out on either side of her back. “Gizzerblt,” she screeches, before taking flight and heading off toward the kitchen.

  The lines underneath Tessa’s amber colored eyes tighten considerably, “Was that a pixie?”

  It’s times like this I pity my cousin. As one of the rare, untalented people in our world, I often forget she can’t protect herself the way the rest of us can. Living among the talented must be hell for her. I pull my shirt out from the back of my jeans in case an emergency change is needed. There’s a good chance I’m going to need to get furry on this one. “I’m sure it’s already gone.”

  A deluge of sound presses in on my sensitive ears.

  “Or perhaps not.” I’m about to say more when I get a good look at Tessa’s shop. A congealed mass of something slides down the kitchen walls and it reeks of chocolate, sugar, curdled milk, and cinnamon. The large bag of sugar has been broken open and is scattered all over the floor.

  Pixie’s are everywhere. They spin in the air, kicking up puffs of powdered sugar. They cackle maniacally while flinging what I can only hope are chocolate drops at the wall. The kitchen appears as if a tornado swept through it, and I can only imagine what the dining area looks like.

  “How many do you think are in there?” Her voice quakes then steadies. Tessa is not the type to let a little fear stop her, and that’s why she’s my favorite cousin.

  “I have no clue. I hope there’s a simple explanation for this.”

  Like the entire Coven from Talia’s Bookstore and Enchantments popped over for an unexpected birthday party and they forgot to let us know? Yeah, that’s probably it.

  With trembling hands, Tessa indicates her bakery, “It’s all ruined, Fhina. We were only gone an hour. Just long enough to buy some shoes. Everything I own is invested in this place.”

  “Let’s not panic. First thing we need to do is—”

  A peculiar thumping noise has me ignoring the chaos of dirty dishes and sugar flung on the floor. “Where’s Wichara?”

  Tessa’s newest employee, a chubby little mouse of a witch, appeared fine when we left. She didn’t look capable of letting a single pixie loose, much less the dozen or so fluttering around the kitchen.

  “You don’t think she did this, do you?” Tessa's naturally pale complexion grows even paler.

  The thumping becomes more urgent and has me turning around with tense shoulders.

  The panicked, frosty eyed stare of her new employee meets my eyes.

  Tessa twists the lock and Wichara stumbles into the room.

  “C—c—cold.” Wichara collapses onto the only upright chair in the room, rubbing her arms briskly. Her square glasses frost up, making it hard to see her violet eyes.

  “How could you?” Tessa blasts the shivering witch in front of us.

  “I didn’t do it. I swear,” Wichara hiccups. “A p—p—portal appeared in the middle of the show room and when I started s—s—sending them back, they overwhelmed me, and locked me in the f—freezer.”

  “A portal?” Tessa rubs Wichara’s arms. “The sooner we get you warmed up, the better.”

  The framed sayings and expressions Tessa treasures lay on the floor in tattered lumps of wood and flour. Glass shards sparkle from every corner.

  Tiny legs race around, tiny hands gather napkins and throw them in the air, tiny bodies flit from place to place as they ruin more and more of Tessa’s things. Pixies fight each other on her new countertops, using metal spoons as swords. They fling frosting at each other and at the windows. A few enterprising creatures are marking the walls with cuss words in a variety of different languages.

  “Put that down.” Tessa drops Wichara’s arm and waves her hands at a pixie, who drops the marker and runs. “Shame on you. You're ruining my place. Shame. On. You!”

  “W—what do we do?” Wichara whispers.

  “This is...” For once words fail me. The oval portal in the corner draws my attention. It’s small, no more than the size of a plate, yet more pixies stare out at us from inside the sphere.

  The sharp pain at my ankle has me looking down, and without thinking, I pick up the nasty little biter and toss it through the glinting, rainbow colored portal.

  “Don’t.” Wichara screams, her hands thrust out in front of her. “It just makes it worse.”

  Magic sprays outward and pixies pop out of the oval. One, two, three. Soon, there are seven more Pixie’s flitting around.

  “Oh, no...”

  “That’s why I stopped throwing them back. They multiply too fast.” Wichara sniffs and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her brown robe. “I suck as a w
itch. I really do.”

  “Stop that. You’re only on your first levels at the college. You weren’t prepared for this.” Tessa pats her roughly on the shoulder. “What do we do?”

  The glass hostess bowl Tessa bought last week to keep crystallized fruit in is full of white icing and raspberries. One enterprising little fellow dunks his head into it. He pulls it out and shakes, screaming with maniacal laughter as delicate red and cream-colored globs splatter on the wall, the floor and Tessa’s shirt.

  “You, the one near the sink. Stop throwing grapes at me, and you.” Tessa spins around to point toward the urchin spraying her with raspberry sludge. “Stop. Just stop!”

  Miranda Lambert’s ‘White Liar’ blasts through my cell phone and every pixie head in the room shifts toward me.

  Nothing like having an audience for a phone call. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I haven’t heard that particular ring in several years.

  Curious, I flip open the phone. “Carl? What do you want?”

  “Time to give back the earrings,” says the voice on the other end.

  The phone clicks off and smoke billows out around the receding portal. A pop sound rings out, and Carl appears.

  “Are you responsible for this infestation?” Tessa snaps.

  “No.” His matter a fact tone takes me by surprise. “She is.”

  “What the hell are you pointing at me for?” I ask.

  “You have something of mine and I want it back.” Carl sniffs. “I must say, they’ve done an excellent job.” His tall form leans against the display case