Page 19 of Perfectly Charmed Pixie

“Peaches. That’s King Moony’s beloved. Right?”

My human bartender momentarily froze, eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “That’s right. You got something to say about it?” Throwing a hand towel over her shoulder, she spread her arms wide, leaning on the bar in what I suspect she considered a threatening manner.

Was this little slip of a human really threatening a warlock?

Considering I was here seeking information, laughing in her face didn’t seem wise. Given the scathing reproach shimmering in her eyes, I didn’t hide my smirk as well as I would have liked.

“Johnny,” she hollered, making me flinch. Who knew someone so small could make that loud of a sound.

Less than twenty seconds later, a faun came through a door leading behind the bar. “Problem, Lizbeth?” The faun, Johnny, glanced between me and Lizbeth. I realized the instant he figured out I was a warlock.

“Not sure, but this guy’s asking questions about Peaches.”

I thought that was stretching things and said, “I only asked if Peaches was King Moony’s beloved. I meant no offense and didn’t realize it was considered a secret.”

“No secret,” Johnny assured me, much more relaxed than Lizbeth. “Go on, Lizbeth, I’ll take care of this one.”

My would-be bartender gave Johnny a sharp nod. Before she took off for parts unknown, she said, “He’d like a glass of burnt rum. Not sure if we still have a bottle or not.”

Johnny huffed before rolling his eyes. “Wish Peaches or Phil were here.”

“That’s what I said,” Lizbeth answered before walking away.

“Wendall.” Johnny’s voice wasn’t as loud as Lizbeth’s was, but it resonated with a lower frequency and carried farther.

“Yeah?” A young, human male peeked his head out the same door Johnny had just exited. Far more timid than the human female, his pale blue eyes darted here and there. “You need something, Johnny?”

“Grab a ladder and fetch me that red bottle up there on the top shelf.”

Wendall leaned out a little more, craning his neck and staring up at the shelving. “You got it, boss.”

Wendall scurried to do as told, and I had to ask, “A little young for a human, isn’t he? The legal limit’s still—” My words ground to an immediate halt.

Wendall was closer now, close enough for me to sense him. Or, in this case, not sense him. The only species who did that wasn’t really a species at all.

I hissed in a breath.

“Don’t.” Johnny leaned over the bar, far more menacing than Lizbeth. “Don’t say it. Wendall knows what he is, what’s been done to him. He doesn’t need any reminders. Got it?”

I might not have understood how a zombie was that fully functional and evidently self-aware, but I did understand Johnny’s concern and swallowed my disbelief.

Keeping my voice hushed, I asked, “How?”

Thankfully, Johnny understood the breadth of that single word. “Not sure,” he answered with a casual shrug. “Muriel asked us to keep him, and the boss agreed. Wendall’s a good worker,” Johnny said the last loud enough for Wendall’s ears to catch it. “That’s all that matters to me, and that’s all you need to worry about.”

Wendall’s zombie status wasn’t my concern, and it wasn’t the business I was here about. When he placed the bottle of burnt rum on the counter, Wendall was all shy smiles and soft pride. “Here you go, Johnny. Anything else I can do?”

“Not right now. Head on back and finish cleaning those glasses. The place will get busy soon enough, and we’ll need the extra stash.”

“Will do,” Wendall answered with an eager grin.

My eyes tracked him as he turned and exited through the door to the back.

“Here you go. One glass of burnt rum.” Johnny’s voice pulled my attention from the swinging door.

“Thanks.” I grabbed the glass, noting its shimmering deep plum color before tossing back the contents. The burn was good, and I hummed in genuine appreciation. “That’s good stuff.”

Johnny chuckled, the sound almost as warm as the burnt rum pleasantly coating my stomach. “Only the best for the boss’s bar, even if we don’t have too much need to carry it. Lucroy always makes sure we’ve got every species’ needs satisfied. Even warlocks.” There was a minuscule hint of derision coating those final words.

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