Greta wears the sewer well—a walking, talking atomized bouquet of sunlight-deprived stagnant water, raw-waste, sludge, damp vermin pelts, and death-rot. But that’s where she lives, under the slow moving current of drain-off, and skims food from the bottom. Greta reminds me of home.
I politely smile, and although several of the masculine genders are still staring, most have gone back to betting on an arm wrestling match about to start between a vampire and a leshy. The bulk of the bar seems to be gravitating toward their hefty wooden table in the middle of the east side of the room.
The leshy has presented himself well. They’re woodland spirits, lords of the forest, and up close and personal with gray wolves and bears. Ill-behaved buggers, they can stir up major hostility. Leshy can shrink to the size of a blade of grass, or grow as tall as tree. In human form, they are always male. In natural form, a leshy has a beard and tail of living plants, and hooves and horns like a goat. This one has chosen to weave an upper human body with its leshy lower body—all hooves, haunches, and grassy tail with a masculine upper half rippling with muscle. His hair is long and braided, eyes dark green. He has a square chin, thick neck, and full lips.
The vampire slaps the table and hammers his elbow on the wood, hand ready to grasp the opponent’s. The leshy’s elbow hits the table and strikes a musical note of wood on wood. They join hands and turn to a púca with a whistle between its lips. The fairy is a goblin at the moment. And they talk no matter the form. If I were human, a voice coming from a bear, rabbit, or a living, breathing, kitchen chair injected with an effervescent personality and great legs would be terrifying. Almost as scary as the hefty and slouchy green goblin it’s wearing now.
I turn away, brow raised, and nod an acquaintance at the bartender as I slide onto a stool. The púca’s whistle blows, and a hush washes over the dingy room as everyone stares in silence. The match intrigues the Jane in me, and I have a hard time controlling her gaze. I pound one of her fists on the bar.
“Shoot me up, will ya?” I shout to the green water sprite tending bar.
While a backlash of hisses and boos rush the crowd, the fairy moves quickly to my attention. “And what does the lady favor?”
Letting Jane’s eyes roam the room, I spy something that has promise. A leprechaun is tipping a long stemmed glass of frothing purple fluid.
“It’s two for one tonight, dearie. You up for it?”
“I’m always up for it. Question is, are you?” Jane slips the comment past me. I push one of her most worldly smiles at him.
“One for you, and one for the delightful human you’re wearing,” he says with a tinkling giggle. “I like this one, dearie. The other was rather milquetoast. Has mum seen her?”
I shake my head with an evil grin on my lips. “No, and believe me I can wait, oh, an eternity for that meeting.”
While he giggles and polishes the bar with a damp cloth, I scan the room again and spot the frothy lavender drink in the fluted glass.
“How about one of those?” I point at the drink in a wrinkled little elf’s hand. His red hair and green outfit clash horribly with the cocktail.
“Two Purple Passions,” the fairy sings, his words rolling like rustling leaves and windblown hay toward the mixer.
The elf smiles back, arms working a shaker.
The crowd around the thick wooden table on the east side of the room bursts with mixed sentiment: cheers, boos, claps, and stomps.
Jane jerks our head in that direction.
The leshy spits a robust laugh and lays a good-hearted slap on the vampire’s shoulder, and that action ejects a set of impressive canines. In a human heartbeat, the fangs snap back into place like well-oiled pistons and the vampire slams a purse of payment on the table, all contempt and resolve.
Looking more like a woodland creature now, the leshy rakes his fingers through his whimsical flora beard and stomps a hooved foot on the cement floor. He tilts his head, and grass-like hair falls across a smooth, white forehead; his sharp horns are aimed directly at the cold, dead heart of the vampire. Color flushes amusement on the leshy’s pale cheeks and flashes mischievous intent through his eyes.
A werewolf picks up the vampire’s purse and slaps it against the leshy’s chest hard enough to suggest he take his winnings and mockery elsewhere.
Leshy may be lords of the forest and friends with wolves, but in Purgatory the creature holds no weight with the werewolf. Down Under, all otherworld creatures are treated with an equal amount of discord.
The woodland fairy takes his winnings, and steps back as several others vie for a chair at the gaming table. But as the vampire rises, the leshy’s glaring eyes lock on the werewolf bouncer.
The bartender, a water sprite, sets the Purple Passions on Purgatory coasters. He swings his long green fingers at the leshy. “If he starts screaming, I’m going to be taking a long break, so would you like to pay up now?”