Chapter 9
Effie stalked down the sidewalk, seething silently, schooling her features when she reached the inn, where Martha knelt in the dirt outside. Martha cursed under her breath as she ripped off her gaudy floral gardening gloves and threw them down onto the grass.
“Martha?” Effie asked tentatively, coming to a stop beside the woman, who, much to Effie’s stomach-sinking horror, wasn’t just cursing. She was crying, and from the look of her bloodshot eyes, she had been for some time.
“Oh, Effie.” Martha rose to her feet on wobbly legs and brushed away her tears. “You haven’t been standing there long, have you?”
“No, I just— Is everything all right?”
Martha sniffled and batted at the air. “It’s just the voles.”
“I’m sorry, the—the voles?”
Martha nodded gravely and gestured weakly to the flower bed in full bloom.
“Voles. They’re like little hamsters, but stockier.
Or it could be moles. I don’t know. See those mounds?
” With a trembling finger she pointed to the raised dirt running between the daffodils and the daylilies.
“Something’s been tunneling all throughout the garden and wreaking havoc on our rosebushes.
I think they’ve been eating the roots. The leaves are turning all—all brown and droopy, and—” Martha hiccupped a sob, her voice breaking. “Oh, look at me! I’m a mess.”
These tears were because of a rodent?
“Oh, that’s—that’s awful,” Effie said, trying to inject sympathy into her voice. “Isn’t there anything you can do to get rid of them?”
Martha frowned. “I suppose I could get some snap traps.”
“Well, then, perfect!” Effie clapped her hands. “Problem solved.”
“But the roses,” Martha blubbered. “I—I don’t know what to do about those or—or how to save them. Earl’s the one with the green thumb, not me. I’ve always been better with the chickens.”
She shrugged. “Let Earl take care of it.”
Martha sniffled and shook her head morosely. “Earl’s not doing so well, honey. Too many years of smoking. It looks like it’s finally caught up to him.”
“Oh,” Effie said, swallowing past the strange lump in her throat. She didn’t have to try very hard to sound sympathetic now. She didn’t have to try at all. “I’m sorry, Martha. Is it…Are his doctors—”
“Doing everything they can for him, but there’s not much anyone can do but try to make sure he’s comfortable,” Martha murmured, turning back to the roses with a faraway look in her bloodshot eyes.
“Roses are my favorite, but I’ve always hated it when picked flowers die.
Earl, he might not be the most…loquacious man, but he makes up for what he doesn’t say in what he does.
He planted these rosebushes for me on our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I—” Her voice broke, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I— Excuse me.”
Martha turned, hurrying up the porch steps and into the house.
Effie pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum and scowled at the dunes in the dirt.
This tightness in her chest, this heaviness that surrounded her heart, an ache she couldn’t rub out, this feeling, she hated it.
She wasn’t meant to feel this, no demon was, and yet ever since helping Daphne, Effie had been experiencing all sorts of feelings she wasn’t supposed to.
With one wish, she had upended her life, paying the price for her insubordination in more ways than one.
Feelings that had lain dormant inside her for centuries had returned with a vengeance.
Maybe it was an artifact of having gone so long without experiencing these emotions, that she had no tolerance for them, but every new feeling was heightened, dialed up to eleven, everything overwhelming, confusing.
Frustrated and still nursing her stupid hangover, Effie was about to head inside when, two paces from where she stood, one of the dunes collapsed in on itself, exposing something wiggling beneath the dirt, tunneling its way toward Martha’s precious rosebushes.
She crept closer, careful to keep her footsteps light.
This was good, this was what she needed, an outlet, something she could do.
She might not be able to cure whatever ailed Earl, at least not without a considerable amount of magic the likes of which someone would have to sell their soul to generate, and she might not be able to heal Martha’s heartache, but a mole, a vole, whatever the fuck it was, Effie could catch it and prevent it from doing any more damage than it already had.
When the moment was right, she’d strike, but until then, she’d have to bide her time, have to— There. Beneath the daylilies, the loose earth trembled, and out popped a pale little…arm?
Oh, great.
Martha didn’t have a rodent problem, but she did have an infestation.
A gnome infestation.
Gnomes, real ones, were nothing like the kitschy, humanoid lawn ornaments sold at garden centers.
If anything, the little bearded men with red pointed hats and jovial smiles holding tiny trowels and watering cans more closely resembled dwarves.
Actual gnomes were fossorial creatures, living primarily in burrows and dens underground.
Like moles, they had an extra thumb on each hand, good for digging and likely a result of their high levels of testosterone—also potentially why they had terrible tempers and a tendency to bite—and were relatively solitary creatures, but the similarities ended there.
Standing on average eighteen inches tall when fully grown, gnomes looked like the unfortunate progeny of an ill-conceived union between a hairless cat and a parsnip.
She’d rather have tussled with a rodent any day, but if these little assholes were responsible for ruining Martha’s roses, somebody needed to do something, and it looked like that someone had to be her.
Quietly cursing her bad luck, Effie reached down and grasped the little arm firmly at the joint, pulling it sharply up out of the dirt.
The gnome gave a panicked cry as it breached the surface, and in a voice that sounded as if it had been sucking helium screamed, “Demon! It’s a demon! Run!”
All at once, half a dozen bare-assed gnomes burst from the ground, dirt flying in every direction as they shrieked and scattered, their squat little legs carrying them to the far reaches of the garden and the yard that lay beyond.
The gnome she’d caught grunted and writhed, trying hard to sink his pointy teeth into her wrist. She gave him a good hard shake and growled.
“Listen here, you little vermin. The lady who lives in that house right there? This is her garden, and she’s apparently had a rough go of it lately.
So whatever you’re doing that’s fucking up her flowers? Knock it off.”
He stared up at her with mutiny in his beady black eyes. “Or what, Hell beast?”
“Or your wrinkly ass is going to wind up in a snap trap, that’s what.”
He blew a raspberry. “As if we gnomes would ever be stupid enough to get caught.”
“Really?” She arched a brow, and his pale, dirt-streaked face flushed a dark brown.
“Humans can’t see us,” he grumbled. “How was I to expect a Hell beast?”
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, pal. And let’s cool it with the pejoratives, hmm?”
“What do you want?”
“Are your ears full of dirt? I already said—stop running roughshod through Martha’s garden.”
The gnome harrumphed. “No dice, demon. This garden is as much ours as it is hers.”
Effie pursed her lips, pretending to think. “Roasted, boiled, pureed…Mashed is always good—”
“What are you on about now?” he asked, eyes narrowed furtively inside a face that looked like it had been roughly molded out of clay.
“Hmm?” She smiled, showing off her own sharp teeth. “Oh, I was just thinking of all the ways I could cook your parsnip-looking ass if you don’t leave. Martha’s. Flowers. Alone.”
“Six generations of Gallagher gnomes have lived here,” he cried, indignant. “You have no right to kick us out of our home.”
“Relax. I’m not trying to evict you. I’m just asking you to show a little care is all.”
He eyed her askance. “You are a strange demon.”
“So they tell me.” She rolled her eyes. “Look, are we going to do this the easy way or am I going to be forced to put my copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking to use?”
He considered. “What’s in it for me?”
A startled laugh escaped her. “You mean besides not winding up in a nice gnome tagine?”
“My kin would avenge me,” he said, unmoved, his nose turned up loftily.
“Wouldn’t you rather, oh, I don’t know, not require avenging?”
Stubbornly, he shook his head and crossed his arms.
Effie sighed, missing how much simpler life had been when she hadn’t cared. “What do you want?” she asked, voice grim, dejected.
The gnome looked smug. “I’m so glad you asked.”
A bell jingled over the door as Effie stepped inside Fannin’s Five Effie had offered to provide Gnorman and his family with as many bananas as their little hearts desired on the condition that they do no further damage to the roses planted around the inn.
It was a generous offer. But did Gnorman take it? No. Their burrow was at the eastern edge of the garden, he’d said, and avoiding the rose bushes would mean having to dig new access tunnels. A real hassle, he’d griped. The bananas were nice but not enough. He wanted more, greedy little bugger.
What could a garden gnome possibly want? Effie snagged a shopping basket from the stack beside the registers, eyeing the aisle markers.