Although, if peering into the store was part of his regular morning routine, then it made more sense to pump him for information. He might have seen something, or heard something, or—depending on how long he’d been dead—actually been part of something to do with Gran’s disappearance.
When she got to the door, he was still standing where he’d landed, leaning forward slightly, gaze tracking her movements. That was good. The revenants with a little lingering self-determination were easier to talk to.
When she opened the door, the young man solidified.
Allie stared at him. Frowned. And closed the door.
Definitely translucent.
Open, opaque.
Closed, translucent.
Open…
“What the hell are you doing?” He looked ready to bolt.
She touched his shoulder and felt substance, although it gave a little under her finger. “You’re not dead.”
“I’m not what?” he demanded, jerking away from her touch.
“Dead.”
“Why would you be thinking I’m dead?”
“Give me a minute.” Closing the door again, she searched it for charms and found a clear-sight drawn on the painted steel frame that held the glass. So what she saw through the glass was the young man’s true appearance. But he wasn’t dead. Interesting.
This time when she opened the door, he rattled out, “Are you Alysha Catherine Gale?” before she could speak. “Your grandmother said I could trust you.”
“And you are?”
“Joe O’Hallan.”
The other signature on the will. That could mean she was supposed to trust him in return. It could mean nothing more than Gran had found him conveniently available at the time. It was hard to say.
“I’ve come for my drink.” Indicating his own body with a grubby hand nearly hidden in a gray sweater at least two sizes too big, he added, “I’m a bit beyond due, but you weren’t here yesterday.”
Allie ducked her head back and took another look at him through the glass door. Red hair, gray sweater, brown cords with cord worn off in places, work boots with the steel cap showing through the torn leather on one toe. Bit of ginger stubble along a narrow jaw. Purple/gray half circles under worried eyes. Still translucent. “You’d better come inside.” Whatever Gran was up to, explanations out on the sidewalk were a bad idea.
Joe appeared solid inside the store and, once over the threshold, a lot less skittish. Given the possible claw marks gouged into the outside of the door, maybe that wasn’t so surprising. “Your grandmother said you’d be taking over her stuff.”
Allie spent a moment not thinking about the toys in the bedside table. “That’s right.”
Thin shoulders rose and fell. “I need my drink, then.”
That was the second time he’d mentioned a drink. It wasn’t completely out of the question that Gran had been running some kind of weird after-hours club. Where
“Let’s pretend that Gran left me no information about her stuff. Which should be easy because it’s true.” Reaching past him, she relocked the door. “You’re going to have to tell me everything.”
Ginger brows drew in. “Everything?”
“Everything. Let’s start with who you are, what this drink is, and, when it comes to it, where I can find it.”
“It’s in…”
She raised a hand and cut him off like he was one of her younger cousins. “It hasn’t come to it. First, tell me who you are.”
“You know my name.”
Allie sighed. As names went, Joe O’Hallan wasn’t very descriptive. “You want to expand on that a bit?”
Joe stared at her for a long moment and then he sighed. “Look, you don’t…”
“Yes, I do.”
“Fine.” His chin rose. “I’m a leprechaun.”
“A leprechaun?” She hadn’t expected that; given how many Newfoundlanders were working the Alberta oilfields, she’d assumed his accent was east coast. “Aren’t you a little tall for a leprechaun?” He wasn’t that much shorter than she was. Five-six. Five-five maybe. And scowling.
“Am I? Faith and begorrah, sure, and no one’s ever pointed that out before!”
Allie blinked at him. “Bitter much?”
“You started it with the cultural stereotypes.” His hands disappeared inside his ragged cuffs as he folded his arms over his chest. “I’m a changeling, okay? I was raised as human, but the babe I got changed for has died.”
“Of what?”
“What difference does it make?” Joe rolled his eyes—inhumanly green now she knew what to look for—at her expression. “Fine. Whatever. Probably old age. Point is, without it there, I’ve no counterbalance to keep me here, so I fade as I’m Called back under the hill.”
Under the hill was the mythic reference to the UnderRealm. It was strange to hear one of the Fey use the Human term.
“Your grandmother made a drink that unfades me,” he added.
He seemed to be waiting for a response. “She did?”
“Why the hell would I lie about something like that, then?”
Good point.
“Don’t you want to go home?” She could feel the ache of her own home pulling at her.
