“How can I possibly trust you?” Buford threw the torque wrench into the toolbox. “You torched Pop’s shop. You lost payroll to a swarm of rabid fairies. And you gave Alley fleas.”

“I contest that last accusation,” PJ the satyr said, scratching his tail.

“Even if I did trust you not to make trouble, which I don’t, she’d never take you.”

PJ clopped off, muttering, “Fine. Find somebody else brave enough to protect her.”

“Protect who?” May the half-Fae landed next to Buford and retracted her mechanical wings.

Buford held up his hands. “Listen, I just don’t want you to go alone.”

“Go where?”

“To confront the River Fae.” He flinched as if expecting a blow.

“Okay.”

“Really?”

May shrugged. “PJ, get out here.”

“Not PJ. He can’t help but make trouble.”

“You want me protected? He’ll do.”

PJ trotted back over. “Trust me, bro. What could possibly go wrong?” Before Buford could list the many possibilities, they’d disappeared.

As the moon reached its apex, they reappeared, startling Buford into dropping a ball-peen hammer on his big toe. Between gritted teeth, he asked, “Any trouble?”

PJ guffawed. “You didn’t trust me not to make trouble?” With a sly smile, May swirled an iridescent feather boa around her shoulders. “Dude, they needed protection from her.”

“Who did?”

“He did.” PJ dove into the storage room and locked the door while May laughed and launched herself into the rafters, leaving Buford facing a seven-foot-tall Fae — wings unfurled and plucked clean of feathers.

Phot by Daniel Olah