Free Night of the Dark Horse (An Allegra Fairweather Mystery) by Janni Nell

to get you out of danger. But don’t get too complacent. I couldn’t have helped if you’d been sprayed or swatted.”
    I shuddered at the thought. “I didn’t much like being a fly.” I shot a glance at the rotting food, which no longer smelled so good.
    “Do you have a tissue?” Casper asked.
    I produced one from my bag, which had magically reappeared when I returned to human form. Casper moistened it with saliva like a mother preparing to clean her kid’s face.
    “Don’t,” I said brushing him away. “That’s gross.”
    “Not as gross as the moldy pickle on your chin.”
    “Ew. Get it off.”
    “Stop batting your hands around,” he said. “Hold still.”
    “Yes, Mom.” Not that my mom would have cleaned my cheek with saliva on a tissue. She’d have used an antibacterial wipe.
    I remained perfectly still while Casper cleaned my face. When he was done, he suggested we head back to Dingaleen.
    “Not gonna happen until we get your new outfit.”
    Reluctantly he agreed to enter another clothing store. This time I didn’t even think of wishing to enter the fitting room. No more fly-on-the-wall stuff for me. I contented myself with watching him model different styles of jeans.
    He still claimed the skinny leg jeans were uncomfortable, so although I liked the way they outlined his butt, I bought him something looser. I also purchased a new T-shirt, an all-weather jacket, socks, jocks and walking shoes. He really did look hot in his new clothes. I couldn’t help noticing the admiring glances from women we passed on the street. Yeah , girls , you can look , but don’t touch . He’s mine .
    On impulse I decided to stop by Siobhan’s gallery and check out her work. Who knew, it might somehow help with the case. Even if it didn’t, I might pick up something to hang in my Maui house, which had been a gift from a grateful billionaire client.
    Siobhan’s paintings had a lot to do with myth and magic. One subject wore the floaty dress I’d seen on the rack in her studio, another wore the barbarian loincloth low on his hips. I was tempted by the prospect of owning the barbarian, but then I did have my own ex-warrior angel.
    I stopped in front of a portrait called Daydreaming . Its subject was a boy of about eight, who had hair as black as a pooka and skin that was pale even for the Irish. His eyes were a kind of light brown almost golden. His features were delicate and his shoulders so slight he could’ve blown away on the breeze.
    “You like it?” asked Siobhan, coming to stand beside me.
    “Very much. It’s my favorite. Is that how you think the Fae would look?” I asked.
    “No, he’s human. He lives in Dingaleen.” Folding her arms, she regarded the pic with a critical eye. “I wanted to call it The Changeling , but the kid has it tough enough already. Sure, and he’s a good kid. A little weird, but we’re all weird in our own ways. I know I am.” She laughed. “I used to babysit him. Things were fine until he was about six or seven. He had a great imagination. Potential as an artist, too, if his parents would stop trying to turn him into an accountant. Not that there’s anything wrong with accountants. God knows, I’d be lost without mine. Still, you’ve got to have a talent for it, haven’t you? And Liam couldn’t balance the books to save his life.”
    “Liam Murphy?” The kid who’d stolen Ronan’s cookies? He was quickly becoming my prime suspect. “You know him? What happened when he was six or seven?”
    “He asked me what a changeling was. Of course, I knew his parents had been calling him that for years. And not in a nice way. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him it was a scrawny, ugly, bad-tempered fairy. I tried to change the subject, but he was having none of that. He pulled a dictionary from the bookcase. I’d always thought it was a good thing he could read so well for his age, but I changed my mind when he read out the definition of a changeling. Poor boy. He