When she pushed through the front door to Elfie’s bar, she had begun to feel like she was wearing half the dirt in the city. She felt grubby and hollowed out, emotionally drained and physically hungry. Stress had clogged her throat for days and she hadn’t been able to choke down much food.
Elfie’s was open for lunch during the day. Lunch, served from eleven to three, was a supplemental part of the business, as Elfie’s came alive at night. Quentin, the owner, could have turned it into one of New York’s premiere clubs if he had wanted to. He had the charisma and style for it.
Instead Quentin kept a lid on the business getting too big. Elfie’s was known as a good neighborhood club with a steady, loyal clientele of mixed breeds from all three races. They were the city’s very own Island of Misfit Toys, the flotsam and jetsam of societies, not being fully Wyr, Fae, Elven or human and thus not fully belonging anywhere. Some were open about their mixed-breed nature and argued the benefits of living out of the closet. Many, like Pia, hid what they were and pretended to fit in somewhere.
She had worked at Elfie’s since she was twenty-one, when she had pushed through those same front doors and asked Quentin for a job. It was the only place she had found after her mom had died that came close to feeling like home.
She pushed her way to the servers’ end of the bar and sagged against it. The current bartender on duty, Rupert, paused in slinging drinks and looked at her in surprise. He lifted his chin, silently asking if she wanted him to get her a drink.
She shook her head and mouthed at him, “Where’s Quentin?” The bartender shrugged. She nodded, waved at him, and he went back to work.
Air-conditioning licked her overheated skin. Her eyes threatened to water again as she looked around familiar surroundings. She liked bartending at Elfie’s. She liked working for Quentin. She hoped Captain Fantastic and his hyenas rotted in hell.
The after-work crowd cluttered the large trendy space and lined up three deep for drinks. Low-level magic items and Power sparkled through the constant buzz of conversation. Sports channels played on huge HDTVs on the other side of the bar. Most people watched the wide-screen mounted high in one corner of the bar. She looked up to a CNN newscast.
“. . . and in local news, reports continue to roll in on the extent of the damage from this afternoon’s mysterious event. Meanwhile, speculation continues to run rampant as to the cause.” A blonde lacquered woman, one of CNN’s regulars, gave the camera a professional smile. The reporter stood in front of a sidewalk where crews of workmen were sweeping up mountains of broken glass.
The barfly next to Pia said in a voice that sounded like tumbling rocks, “Hey, gorgeous. Weren’t you taking a week of vacation? What are you doing here on your time off?”
She glanced at the hulking, squat half troll perched on a custom-made steel stool. On his feet, he slouched at eight feet tall with pale gray skin and a thatch of black hair that refused to lie down. “Hey, Preston,” she said. “Yeah, I’m still off. I just need to talk to Quentin for a minute.”
Preston was one of Elfie’s regulars. He declared he lived life on his own terms. A freelance computer programmer, he worked from home during the day and warmed the bar stool at Elfie’s at nights. He drank like a fish and occasionally acted as volunteer bouncer when things got dicey. “You know it’s a bad sign when you can’t leave work at work, honey,” he grunted as he slurped down a tall Coke glass filled with scotch.
“It’s a curse,” she agreed. Pulled by an invisible string, her gaze drifted back up to the overhead screen. She watched in equal parts fascination and horror.
“Quentin went somewhere about twenty minutes ago,” the half-breed troll told her. “Said he’d be right back.”
She nodded as the CNN reporter continued. “. . . Meanwhile public officials confirm that the origin of the event occurred some distance from Cuelebre Tower on Fifth Avenue, in a local park near Penn Station. Cuelebre Enterprises has released a press statement claiming responsibility for the unfortunate ‘research and development accident.’ We now go to Thistle Periwinkle, PR director for Cuelebre Enterprises and one of the more famous spokespersons from the Elder Races.” The scene cut to a small figure surrounded by reporters in front of Cuelebre Tower’s polished chrome and marble veneer.
The crowd at the bar broke into two-fingered whistles, scattered stamping and applause. “WOOT!” “Faerie Barbie—yes!” “My GIRL!”
The petite figure wore a pale pink business suit that accentuated an hourglass figure with a tiny waist. Standing close to five foot ten, Pia always felt like a galumphing horse when she saw the faerie on television. Cuelebre’s famous public mouthpiece wore her fluffy lavender hair in a chic flipped-up bob. She wrinkled her tilted nose with a sympathetic smile as a dozen microphones were thrust in her face.