Pia Does Hollywood (Elder Races, #8.6)

She stood frozen and mute, staring at him with huge eyes.

Because he had, in fact, told her to shut up. Well, that would wear off soon enough, but thank the gods, not while he was around.

Slapping her keys on the counter, he let himself out of Crazy Town and into the welcome fresh, sunlit air. Rotating first one shoulder, then the other, he angled his head and looked up and down the street.

Yes, there were people around, both shoppers walking down the sidewalks and people driving by in cars.

He was just about to dismiss the woman forever as a mental case, when one small detail caught his attention.

Everyone walking down the street was human. There weren’t any of the Elder Races in sight.

That happened quite often, actually. There were far more humans than people of the Elder Races. … But he was standing in front of a popular Elder Races shop, which strengthened the likelihood that he would see a member of the Elder Races—any of the Elder Races—quite a bit.

Frowning again, he turned his attention to the cars passing by. The next five vehicles were filled with humans too.

It was probably just a huge, boring coincidence. But Tatiana had guards barricading her street. And it had seemed like she had sent a large number of troops to meet Pia’s flight.

Fuck it. He would go check out Basket Case’s address and determine for himself whether or not there was anybody around.

When he consulted Google Maps briefly on his smartphone, he found Basket Case lived in a neighborhood north and to the west. Pulling his cloaking tightly around him, he shapeshifted and took to the air. By car, he guessed it would take Basket Case a good forty-five minutes to drive into work. Sometimes he pitied wingless creatures.

As he flew the distance, he turned over various thoughts in his mind like searching for the spark of jewels in a mound of earth.

People, any kind of people, tended to congregate in enclaves and cluster in clumps. Sure, there were crossovers, but overall, families liked to flock to family-oriented amusements and neighborhoods. Hipsters flocked to whatever hipsters liked to do. Dragos was acres and miles and continents away from being a hipster, so he had no real understanding of that new subset of society, but he thought it involved drinking lots of artisanal coffee and organic wines.

Those who were religious behaved in the same way. They went to church, or synagogues, or temples, and enjoyed social outings together. The Elder Races also followed the same behavioral trend. They tended to shop at Elder Races stores and live in neighborhoods filled with Elder Races creatures.

The Light Fae were no exception. As a people, they tended to be clannish anyway, and Basket Case had said her mother lived on the next block over from her. It stood to reason that Basket Case probably lived in a neighborhood filled with Light Fae.

Her mother was missing. Her co-workers and manager, who were in all probability Light Fae as well, had not come in to work.

Locating the street on which Basket Case lived, he coasted down the length of it until he reached her block. Then he landed, shapeshifted and walked down the middle of the tree-lined street until he came up to her address.

It looked like a modest, smart neighborhood, with a mix of single-family homes and other houses that appeared to be divided into apartments. Along with oaks and other varieties of trees, palm trees dotted either side of the streets. Fences were painted; lawns were well kept. While modest, this was not a neighborhood in decline.

No cars traveled down the street to disrupt the direction of Dragos’s stroll.

Nobody mowed their lawn.

He began to listen closely for any signs of movement in the houses he passed. There were none. A couple of houses stood with their front doors open. Silence beat down on his head, along with the strength of the southern California sun.

Basket Case had not been delusional, after all. There were no people in her neighborhood.

Some people might think that meant he owed her an apology. In fact, if he considered WWPD, she would definitely say that he did, but as far as he was concerned, it was a moot point, as he had no intention of ever speaking to or seeing Basket Case again. There was just so much of the rest of his life to live, which took a far greater urgency.

Wait, there was a sound. It came from some distance away, perhaps a couple of blocks over to the right. It sounded metallic, like a trash can had been knocked over.

He broke into an easy jog, reached the end of the block and turned right. The small sound of his own footsteps overrode what he had heard, so he had to stop once or twice to listen again before moving forward.

There—more sounds came from down this street. It was virtually a replica of the street he had just left. This was all part of the same neighborhood.