The Passionate Delegate Read online

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Subner lifted his hand and dropped one of the silver balls she’d given him at Rudolf’s wedding into the flames. They were made from metal from the Isle of Man, and held strange properties imbued by the giants. That was as much as she knew.

  Unhurriedly, Subner glanced up at her. “Nothing.”

  “Right, and I’m currently standing on my head.”

  Not amused, Subner scowled. “No, you’re not.”

  “And you’re not doing nothing.” He dropped the other silver ball into the flames, watching it intently.

  “I’m making something,” he finally said.

  “And I absolutely don’t want to know what it is. I’m not at all curious.”

  He fanned the fire gently. “That’s good.”

  “So whatever you do, don’t tell me.”

  Subner pointed to the door at his back. “Papa is down in his office.”

  Liv sighed. “Good, I wanted to walk down a trillion flights of steps.”

  He lifted his gaze away from the fire. “Are magicians taught that sarcasm is a productive way of communicating?”

  “You and the giants don’t care for sarcasm much, do you?”

  Subner shook his head. “Although it might seem strange to you, Warrior Beaufont, we say only that which we are thinking.”

  “If you say that much, you little secret-keepers. I swear gnomes and giants went to the same school of tight-lipped privacy.”

  “I’d contend that this is better than the fae, who over-share,” Subner said.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Liv said, her strange conversation with Rudolf still streaming through her head. “Did you know that some fae who will remain nameless think they can reproduce from a handshake?”

  Subner glanced up suddenly. “You mean the cheeky monkey? Of course, they can get pregnant from that.”

  Liv’s hand popped to her mouth. “Are you serious?”

  Subner’s face remained impassive. “Of course, I’m not. Do you see how confusing it is when you say things you don’t mean or that are untrue?”

  Liv narrowed her eyes at the gnome. “That was a rude trick. And I think you undervalue the fine art of sarcasm. People know when I’m joking.”

  “Do they?” he questioned.

  “Don’t you?” she countered.

  He shrugged. “Yes, I guess so. But I think calling it an art form might be a bit of a stretch.”

  She started for the door to the stairs, shaking her head. “True. I get that it’s not like the metalwork you’re doing there, making silver bullets.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing, actually. I’m…wait, that was a trick.”

  “No. If it had been a trick, it would have worked. It was a mediocre attempt to trick you,” Liv stated.

  “Papa Creola is expecting you. You’re already late,” Subner said dismissively.

  “He’s the freaking father of time. I think he knows I’m going to be late,” Liv exclaimed, rolling her eyes as she pulled open the door.

  “He also knows you’re going to trip on the third-to-last stair,” the gnome said, his attention back on his work.

  “I tripped on the first flight of stairs,” Liv said, rubbing her ankle.

  “So?” Papa Creola asked, sucking on his pipe.

  “So, Subner said I’d trip on the third-to-last stair.”

  “From the top,” Papa Creola answered.

  “Who talks that way?” Liv questioned, rolling around her ankle. “Wouldn’t you just say… You know what, never mind. It’s a wonder any of us communicate at all.”

  “Learning how to communicate despite all our nuances is part of the magic of this world,” Papa Creola said with a speculative glint in his eyes.

  Liv glanced at the giant hourglass that hung over the fireplace. It had appeared to recover since the mortals had been awoken to magic. However, Liv knew the balance was always shifting. It only took a few small events for time to be in jeopardy.

  “Soooo…” Liv began. “I’m thinking of buying a new laptop this afternoon.”

  “You should wait. Prices will be better this weekend,” Papa said casually.

  “And there’s a new Mexican place in town I’m thinking—”

  “You’ll get food poisoning. Wait six weeks until they’ve gotten a different dishwasher.”

  “And if I play the lottery tonight?” Liv asked.

  “Doesn’t matter when you play it. A lottery win isn’t in any of your futures.”

  Liv sighed. “See? That wasn’t hard. Who says you’re an uptight man who is unwilling to help others?”

  Papa Creola’s face creased into wrinkles.

  “No, it was a question,” Liv said, trying to recover from her blunder. “Who is this person that would call you anything of the sort? Not me, for sure. But I’ll keep an eye out, and report any misconduct straight to you, boss.”

  “Speaking of being your boss,” Papa began, “I have an important case that needs your immediate attention.”

  “What is it?” Liv asked, leaning forward in the armchair.

  “You’re going to have to work fast to solve this one. Again, mortals are in danger.”

  Liv drew in a breath. “Couldn’t you have told me about it a little earlier, and then I wouldn’t have such a rushed deadline?”

  Papa Creola laid his pipe on the side table and stared into the fire. “Just because I get glimpses of events doesn’t mean I see the whole picture. Time isn’t linear, and neither are the things that happen.”

  “Now that my head has exploded, would you like to tell me what’s going on?” Liv asked.

  “One of my greatest nemeses has returned. I’m not entirely sure how. Someone has awoken him,” Papa Creola related.

  Liv began to rack her brain. Who was Papa Creola talking about? The Grim Reaper? Mother Nature? Santa Claus? She didn’t know.

  “I have to admit that things have been going along too well for too long. Most of my enemies are dead or gone, making my job easier.” Papa Creola laid his hands over his belly, sighing deeply. “I fear I’ve gotten complacent. I admit that I didn’t see this one coming.”

  “Who is this great adversary?” Liv asked, nearly falling off her chair.

  He let out a long breath. “It’s none other than the SandMan.”

  Liv could have been lightly slapped and fallen off her chair right then. It wouldn’t have taken much to throw her off her balance. “Say what?”

  “Yes, I know,” Papa Creola said, nodding. “He’s back. It’s terrifying.”

  “For who?” Liv asked. “Grouchy children who don’t want to tuck in early?”

  Papa Creola flashed her a disapproving look. “Don’t you underestimate him. The SandMan is a horrible being. He’ll do things that would make the devil appear ordinary.”

  “Like put people to sleep so they can snore blissfully for hours? Sounds petrifying,” Liv said, thinking of her own predicament of not being able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

  “No, like put mortals into a slumber so they sleep for ages, not doing anything for the eternity of their lives. They then fade into nothingness, contributing nothing and being nothing.”

  “Oh, and that is a bad thing,” Liv said darkly.

  “And since the SandMan can only affect mortals, that means that as he puts them all to sleep, magic is compromised.”

  “Once again, right?” Liv asked.

  “Exactly,” Papa Creola answered.

  “I thought the SandMan was responsible for all of our sleep. If someone just awoke him, which I’ll remind you is ironic, then what’s the deal?”

  “He’s only responsible for putting mortals to sleep, but he doesn’t understand limits. He never has. He’s always gone too far. Long ago, he helped them sleep when magic kept them awake, but he always made them sleep for days at a time. Then the House came into existence to help balance things, and since then, the SandMan has been out of commission. That sent him into
more of a rebellion. He started making mortals sleep for longer, and that was when I had him subdued.”

  “Wow, so the SandMan lost it, huh?” Liv asked.

  “Yep,” Papa Creola answered. “He got power-hungry and sent mortals into comas. He’s been awoken again, and I fear that means he’ll do what he did before. He’ll put all mortals to sleep forever.”

  “And once again, we’re right back to where we were before,” Liv said, standing suddenly, her ankle resisting her weight as she began to pace.

  Papa Creola shared Liv’s concern with a single look. “Someone has awoken him. Someone who is powerful, and knows where I hid him long ago. They knew the tune I used to put him to sleep, which is what he must hear to wake.”

  “Does anyone find it interesting that the man responsible for sleep had to be put into a deep sleep?” Liv asked.

  Papa Creola glanced around. “I don’t think so.”

  Liv yawned, strangely tired. “Okay, fine. What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to put him back to sleep.”

  She gave him a deadpan look. “I love that you’re serious.”

  “I love that you don’t even question me at this point,” he fired back.

  “How do you want me to put the SandMan to sleep?” Liv asked.

  “You have to read him a bedtime story,” Papa Creola answered.

  Liv lowered her chin. Huffed. “Yeah, that seems about right.”

  Chapter Eight

  Papa Creola explained to Liv that he had changed the incantation that used to awaken and put the SandMan to sleep since someone had apparently figured it out. Instead of a song, it was now a bedtime story. A really long one that took several minutes to read, and the SandMan had to be listening, or it wouldn’t work.

  Liv felt as though her job had gone from fighting evil to babysitting all of a sudden. The SandMan sounded like an angry toddler who was going to challenge her every step of the way as she tried to get him to sleep.

  She sighed her frustration as she entered the official brownie office. Mortimer, as usual, was her go-to for finding the SandMan since Papa Creola, of course, didn’t know where he was.

  It finally made sense to Liv why the President of the United States had fallen asleep during their meeting, but if the SandMan could affect people in such high positions, that was even more worrisome. Papa Creola had also explained that car accidents and other similar incidents were on the rise. Mortals all over the world were falling asleep at the most inopportune moments, putting their lives and others in danger.

  Pricilla was humming as she dusted the light fixtures in the hallway when Liv entered. She flashed her a pleasant smile and raised her finger to her mouth.

  “Please be quiet if you can,” the secretary encouraged. She pointed to a bassinet in the corner of the reception area. “The baby is asleep.”

  “Baby?” Liv questioned. “I thought you were just pregnant?”

  “Yes, but the gestation period for brownies isn’t long,” Pricilla explained in a whisper.

  Liv nodded, remembering that this was similar for other small mammals like rats and rabbits.

  “Mortimer is in the back, in his office,” Pricilla said, buzzing around the area, cleaning furiously. That must have been how she’d taken off the baby weight so fast. The place was spotless, even more so than it had been before.

  “Thanks,” Liv said, tiptoeing down to Mortimer’s office.

  The Head Official for the Brownies had his head on his desk when Liv ducked into his office, casually clearing her throat to get his attention.

  A soft whimper escaped Mortimer’s mouth. “I’m sorry. I just can’t…”

  “Mortimer?” Liv asked, inching closer to the desk. “Are you all right?”

  He looked up suddenly, his already large eyes widening. “Warrior Beaufont? It is you. I thought it was Pricilla coming to give me my lunch.”

  “And that’s a problem why?” Liv asked, noticing that the window in his office pictured turbulent seas, which was different from the last time she had been there.

  “I can’t eat,” he said, lacing his fingers together. “I don’t have the time.”

  “But I thought things were easier with the new filing and computer systems,” Liv questioned.

  “They were, but then the baby came, and now I feel all this pressure.”

  “From Pricilla?” Liv questioned, trying to take a seat in the small chair.

  “Oh, no,” Mortimer answered. “She’s lovely, taking care of the baby and the administrative work and cleaning the office.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Liv asked, wondering where she could get a Pricilla.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Liv shook her head.

  “I’ve got a family depending on me now, as well as thousands of brownies. And I’m just Mortimer. Sad little Mortimer who is going to disappoint my son and send my family into squalor and let everyone else down.”

  Liv finally understood. “You’re feeling the pressures of parenthood, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mortimer said, putting his head back on the desk and starting to bang it on the wood. “What if I fail my son? What if he hates me? What if he turns into a lazy brownie and it reflects on me?”

  Liv sighed. “I’m not a parent, but I think many go through this. Are you close to your parents?”

  Mortimer brought his head up, his forehead red from abuse. “Well, yes. My pops is the best person I know. And my mum, well, she’s the hardest worker I have ever seen. Well, besides Cilla. That woman never takes a day off.”

  Liv smiled. “Don’t you see? Your son—”

  “Seurat,” Mortimer supplied.

  “Right, well Seurat is going to look up to you the same way you do to your parents because despite your worries, you’re incredible, Mortimer,” Liv explained. “You manage tons of brownies. You attracted a woman who I sort of want to be my personal assistant. And you changed your life when you realized it wasn’t serving you.”

  Mortimer thought that over and then nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m just worried that I won’t be enough for Seurat.”

  “I think that’s precisely what makes you an incredible parent,” Liv stated. “If you didn’t feel that way, there might be something wrong with you. But you, Mortimer, are always reaching to be better, and for that, I admire the hell out of you.”

  The brownie beamed. “As usual, you, Warrior Beaufont, have made me feel better while saving the world. Simply amazing.”

  “Well, I haven’t saved the world yet,” Liv stated. “There’s another problem that once again puts mortals in peril, which means the rest of the world, as usual.”

  “Not mortals,” Mortimer said, covering his mouth.

  “Yes, apparently the SandMan has been awoken—”

  The brownie gasped, cutting Liv off. She thought she was going to have to explain things to Mortimer, but it appeared, based on his reaction, that he already knew about the SandMan and his potential threat.

  “So you need my help locating him, do you?” Mortimer asked, typing wildly on his computer.

  “Thank you,” Liv answered. “And that’s right. I was hoping one of your brownies could help locate him.”

  “They can, but only if we can determine what his real name is,” Mortimer said, his brow furrowing as he studied his monitor. “We need that to find him.”

  “Oh, well, hold on a sec,” Liv said, messaging Papa Creola. There were a few benefits to having Father Time on speed dial, besides that he told her when to buy electronics and avoid Mexican food.

  A moment later, a text came back from the gnome.

  “Tell the Head Official for the brownies to ask his wife,” Papa Creola answered.

  Liv rolled her eyes at the reply. This was another of the gnome’s games. He was up to something. She just knew it.

  Lowering her phone, she blinked at the brownie. “Do you think your lovely receptionist and wife would know the name of the SandMan?”
/>   He gave her a dumbfounded expression. “Well, I’m not sure. I expect it’s worth trying.”

  Pressing a button on a machine beside his keyboard, he said, “Dear, can you—”

  “Shhh,” Pricilla said in reply. “Please whisper. The baby is sleeping.”

  “Sorry, dear,” Mortimer whispered. “Will you please come here?”

  A moment later, the beautifully poised Brownie appeared in the doorway to the office, appearing to still be listening for Seurat in the front office. “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you, by chance, know the name of the SandMan?” Mortimer asked his wife.

  Her face brightened. “Of course. I once worked for the Navarro family. Thank you, dear, for remembering that. And here I thought I was just your secretary and baby machine.”

  “Oh, honey. You know that’s not true,” Mortimer said, giving Liv a sideways look that spoke of his instant gratitude.

  Damn it, Papa Creola is a genius, she thought.

  “I seem to remember that his name was Zeno Dutillet,” Pricilla said, musing on the notion.

  Immediately Mortimer began typing. He studied the screen before bringing up a victorious expression.

  “Did you find him?” Liv asked, excited that she’d be closing this case so soon.

  “No,” he said at once. “But I have the information out for the brownies to locate. It won’t be long.”

  “And…” Liv said, glancing at him and his wife.

  “And, also I realized that my wife is the smartest brownie in the world,” Mortimer said, picking up on the hint.

  Pricilla laughed shrilly with excitement, waking the baby immediately. She was so happy that it didn’t even seem to bother her. She trotted off to comfort Seurat.

  Mortimer bowed his head. “Again, thank you, Warrior Beaufont. You haven’t just saved my sanity, but probably my family and my business. Never, ever stop paying me these visits.”

  “I think our partnership is mutual,” Liv said, indicating his computer.

  “I hope so,” he agreed. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear about Zeno Dutillet’s whereabouts. Keep an eye out for a brownie visitor. They will have the information.”