Brownies were a rarity in the mortal realm. Frankly, from what I'd heard, they hated it here, supposedly preferring the forests of their realms, and honestly, there was no hiding what they were.
The gossamer wings kind of stood out.
Myths always portrayed them as being wingless, but they had them. They were also tiny, little things about the size of a Barbie doll. The brownie had been injured, suffering a tear in his frail wings and a broken leg. The moment he stared up at me with those big, pale blue eyes, I knew I couldn't just leave him there, hiding behind a vase with dried out flowers in it, standing among crusty Mardi Gras' beads. So I picked him up and put him in my backpack.
I'd taken the brownie home with me.
I knew—God, I knew—it was my duty to finish the job. No creature of the Otherworld was allowed to survive in our world, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, even though I knew I'd be in a world of trouble, maybe even kicked out of the Order. But I'd taken him home, created a leg splint out of popsicle sticks, and wrapped his wing with gauze while he sat there, a forlorn and pouty look on his cute face. I don't even know why I did it. I hated anything from the Otherworld—no matter their size or what breed they were—but for some reason, I took care of the little brownie.
And he'd stayed.
Probably because he discovered the Internet, the TV, and my Amazon Prime.
So yeah, I knew exactly how I ended up with the brownie, and just didn't understand why I had a weak spot for the little douche I'd named Tink.
I snorted.
Tink hated that nickname once I played the movie Peter Pan for him.
Peering into the bowl, I shook my head. He was shirtless, and cereal was stuck to his pale white wings, but at least he had pants on. Tink was wearing a pair of Ken doll trousers. Black ones with satiny stripes running down the sides.
I poked him in the belly.
He jerked away, arms flying as he sat up, snapping at my finger with wicked sharp teeth, coming dangerously close to making contact.
"Bite me," I warned, "and I will bury you alive in a shoebox."
His mouth dropped open as he popped out of the bowl, hovering above it. Pieces of cereal flew across the counter as his wings moved soundlessly. "Where have you been? You didn't come home. I thought you were dead, and no one knows about me, and I would just be left here. Forgotten. I'd starve, Ivy. Starve."
I folded my arms across my chest. "Doesn't look like you were starving. Looks like you were pretending to be a chipmunk and storing food for the winter by eating all of it."
"I had to eat to get through the stress of being abandoned!" he shouted, raising a hand and shaking a fist the size of a thumbnail at me. "I didn't know where you were, and you don't engage in any bow-chick-a-wow-wee so you always come home."
My lips turned down at the corners.
Tink flew up until he was eye level with me, clasping his hands together over his belly as he gave me those big eyes. "I ate so much sugar. So. Much."
Shaking my head, I turned and started picking the cereal up off the counter and tossing it into the bowl. "I don't even want to know what your blood sugar levels are."
"We don't have blood in our veins." He buzzed to my shoulder and sat down. His small fingers gripped my earlobe. "We have magic," he whispered in my ear.
I shrugged him off with a laugh. "You do not have magic in your veins, Tink."
"Whatever. What do you know?" He landed on the counter and started kicking cereal across it. I sighed. "So where were you, Ivy Divy?"
"I got shot last night."
"What?" Tink shrieked as he slapped his hands on his cheeks. "You got shot? Where? How? By who?" He zipped up in the air, darting left to right, right to left. "Did you cry? I would've cried. A lot. Like a river of motherfucking tears."
A whole half a minute went by as I stared at him. "Okay. You're normally like a little fairy on crack—"
"Just because I have wings doesn't mean I'm a damn fairy!" He then slipped into a language that sounded faintly like ancient Gaelic before saying, "I had a lot of sugar, okay? Is that a crime? You left me here alone all night! What else was I supposed to do?"
"Can brownies have strokes?" I asked, a little concerned by the way the vessels were starting to pop out along his temples.
He cocked his head to the side as he screwed up his face. "Is that when you blow something in your head? I don't know. Wait. Oh my, Queen Mab, do you think I'm having a stroke?" He zipped up to the light fixture in the ceiling, disappearing behind the silver dome-shaped shade. A second passed, then he peered over the side. His white-blond hair was sticking up in every direction. "I'm having a stroke. Shite."