From the Twisted Tails IV short story, REPO GIRL AND THE FORTUNE FAERIE, by Marilyn Peake:

A brilliant half-moon cut through clouds like a scythe, retreating into blackness. Next to it, a rocky planet pulled scraps of celestial light into its skin; then shimmered like an isolated diamond in the cold night sky. Brittle leaves, nothing more than scraping sounds and grayish ghostly shapes, skittered down the street within the midnight gloom.

A hooded figure moved quickly. Passing under fiercely glowing streetlamps, she revealed little: long, dark hair escaping the confines of a purple hood; tall, shapely, female body; purple velvet cloak tied securely around her neck and held closed by the steel grip of one slender hand; high-heeled black leather boots that clacked and echoed against cold concrete slabs of pavement. Her profile was alluring and provocative, like an antique porcelain doll.

Arriving at a brownstone house, one of many along the quiet street, she marched up to the front door. The building loomed large, staring down at her through opaque glass windows. With a sense of purpose and determination, she raised the doorknocker, face of a grimacing god carved from dark wood, and slammed it repeatedly against the steel-reinforced wooden door. She shuddered, unnerved by the embedded metal, and waited.

Windows winked into awareness as yellow light flooded them, splashing the pavement with rectangular afterthoughts, the dusky building growling suddenly with confused speech.

“Coming! Wait one goddamn minute!”

“Don’t answer it! It’s after midnight, Charles!”

“I’m goin’ with the gun! Get ready to call the police!”

The woman at the front door chuckled. Police? That’s a good one.

Lace curtains slid back, revealing only a moving shadow within a downstairs room.

“I see you, Mr. Charles Quain. You and your family need to leave...right now! There are no further chances. Open up!” She pounded on the door with the sound of an angry mob of men.

Feeling strangely drawn to the porcelain face – powdery white with a hint of blush, twinkling violet eyes, long black lashes, full painted lips – the man opened the front door. Dazed, he stared into violet eyes. His wife watched from the second floor, peering over a thick balcony rail.

The hooded figure spoke in a commanding voice, “Put down your gun, Mr. Quain, and get out here!”

The man obeyed, placing a black Colt .45 on a long, intricately carved hall table, then stepping out into the night wearing only a ribbed sleeveless undershirt and boxer shorts. His wife sped away down the upstairs hallway, waking their children, leading them quietly into the master bedroom and bolting the door shut.

“Nice boxers, Quain! Hearts? How sweet! Must be feelin’ lucky tonight.”

The woman extended her long, thin hand from inside a flowing sleeve, briefly flashing glossy purple fingernails, and slapped him on the backside. His buttocks stayed firm, the spank impacting with a cracking sound. Fire burned in the man’s emerald eyes, but he said nothing.

The woman snickered. “Perhaps you’re being evicted, Mr. Quain.”

The man looked up, orange hair brilliant under the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp. “What are you talking about? You have the wrong person. My mortgage is completely paid up. Maybe you have the wrong address. Can I see your papers?” He stepped toward her, shivering in the bleak wind whistling round them.

The woman tossed her head back in laughter, hood slipping to her shoulders, thick black hair cascading down in curls. “You’re rather suggestible. I only said, ‘Perhaps you’re being evicted, Mr. Quain.’ You’re not being evicted. But you are having items repossessed. Just thought I’d have a little fun with you.” Smiling broadly, she shoved one open palm against the chest of the man moving toward her, wrestling a folded sheet of paper from a pocket in her robe with the other hand. Slowly unfolding the paper, she continued, “Looks like you haven’t paid your charge cards in a while. I’m here to collect a few things: Ming vase, wide-screen plasma TV, a few paintings....Should I go on?”

The woman snapped her fingers, and a mob of hooded figures moved swiftly from the shadows. Lights blinked on in nearby houses; then faded to black a few seconds later.

Charles Quain shuddered, tried to speak between chattering teeth, “You can’t just take my stuff away!”

The woman laughed again, mockery bouncing off the brownstone walls in waves of echo. “Ah...yes. Actually, I can take your stuff away.” Flashing a plastic-coated I.D. card in front of him, she continued, “I’m Donella Bard, Repo Girl, in charge of getting back things that don’t belong to you.”

Waving her right hand in the air, she turned her back on the man in debt. Another cloaked figure—a tall, burly man with a gray beard—stepped into the light, tossed a woolen blanket around Mr. Quain; then handcuffed him to the lamppost. When the blanket slipped open, exposing his prisoner to the elements, the hulking figure mumbled a series of rhythmic lines until Mr. Quain’s teeth stopped chattering and a healthy pink color returned to his lips. Fae were sworn to never cause direct harm to humans. Certainly freezing them to death would run contrary to Faerie Law. Therefore, the massive faerie chose a warming spell to prevent his human from death or serious injury.

Minutes later, a small group of figures wearing dark capes swarmed the steps leading up to the brownstone and passed inside. Stepping through the doorframe, Donella flicked on a switch and looked around. A large chandelier—light shimmering through crystal droplets, morphing into vibrant rainbows against floor and walls—hung from a golden chain suspended far above. The floor in the front hallway was covered in black-and-white marble tiles. Donella grabbed the Colt .45 from the white ivory table, clicked on the safety, and tucked it into her pocket.

Stepping onto the hardwood floor of the living room, she shouted orders, “Take the plasma TV. Grab those crystal glasses, and the china. Take all the furniture in the living room, and the Persian rug under the coffee table. Get the Ming vase, and the paintings. I’ll go upstairs and look for the jewelry we’re supposed to get.”

Traveling upstairs, Donella ran one hand over the richly textured, antique-white wallpaper embossed with kaleidoscopic swirls, and her other hand over the brightly polished banister. Wooden steps creaked beneath her. At the second-floor landing, she stopped and listened; then moved forward. Pounding on the door to the master bedroom, she demanded that those within unlock it. When she found her request denied, she grabbed the doorknob, twisted until the lock snapped, then kicked the door open.

Copyright (c) 2010 Marilyn Peake