I crouched and set to work. With my right hand, I sank the trowel in the soft dirt of the flower bed, loosening the roots of the nasty weed, and pulled it up with my left hand. I shook the stalk to get the dirt off the roots and then tossed it aside. Before I’d started I’d put a radio out on the back porch. In no time at all, I was singing along with LeAnn Rimes. I began to feel less troubled. In a few minutes, I had a respectable pile of uprooted weeds and a glow of virtue.

If he hadn’t spoken, it would have ended differently. But since he was full of himself, he had to open his mouth. His pride saved my life.

Also, he picked some unwise words. Saying, “I’ll enjoy killing you for my lord,” is just not the way to make my acquaintance.

I have good reflexes, and I erupted from my squatting position with the trowel in my hand and I drove it upward into his stomach. It slid right in, as if it were designed to be a fairy-killing weapon.

And that was exactly what it turned out to be, because the trowel was iron and he was a fairy.

I leaped back and dropped into a half crouch, still gripping the bloody trowel, and waited to see what he’d do. He was looking down at the blood seeping through his fingers with an expression of absolute amazement, as if he couldn’t believe I’d ruined his ensemble. Then he looked at me, his eyes pale blue and huge, and there was a big question on his face, as if he were asking me if I’d really done that to him, if it wasn’t some kind of mistake.

I began backing up to the porch steps, never taking my eyes from him, but he wasn’t a threat any longer. As I reached behind me to open the screen door, my would-be murderer crumpled to the ground, still looking surprised.

I retreated into the house and locked the door. Then I walked on trembling legs over to the window above the kitchen sink and peered out, leaning as far over the sink as I could. From this angle I could see only a bit of the crumpled body. “Okay,” I said out loud. “Okay.” He was dead, looked like. It had been so quick.

I started to pick up the wall phone, noticed how my hands were shaking, and spotted my cell phone on the counter where I’d been charging it. Since this was a crisis that definitely called for the head honcho, I speed-dialed my great-grandfather’s big, secret emergency number. I thought the situation qualified. A male voice, not Niall’s, answered. “Yes?” the voice said with a cautious tone.

“Ah, is Niall there?”

“I can reach him. Can I help you?”

Steady, I told myself. Steady. “Would you please tell him I’ve killed a fairy and he’s laid out in my yard and I don’t know what to do with the body?”