his contacts list. Eventually he dialed the right number, and I could hear the ringing noise that signaled he was making a call. He nervously switched the phone from one hand to the other, then brightened when the call connected. “Ah, yes! Greetings, Paragon—”
“The number you are trying to call is not available,” a tinny, female voice recited. “Please try again at another time.”
Suits ended the call with a swipe and laughed nervously. “It seems he is not answering his phone at this time.”
Hazel looked expectantly up at Killian.
“What?” he said.
“You try calling him.”
Killian’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re joking.”
“It’s for Leila.”
“He’ll never shut up about it.”
“It’s for Leila,” Hazel repeated. “She helped me when I needed it. You can put up with a clingy friend on her behalf.”
I’d never interacted much with Killian—even though I considered the Drakes to be great neighbors. I mostly saw his First and Second Knights, who were his second and third in command. But I’d heard enough rumors that even I was impressed with Hazel when Killian narrowed his eyes and got out his cellphone.
When he dialed, the phone rang once before it clicked, picking up.
“Killian! Such a pleasure to finally hear from you, bestie. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone in your dotage. How are you? Did you have a fight with Hazel? Is that why you’re calling me? I am something of a romantic consultant you know.” The speaker blared so loudly Killian actually held it back, away from his ear.
“If I had a fight with Hazel you’d be the last person I’d call,” Killian said.
“You said you wouldn’t call me ever, too, and yet here we are! What did you do? Did you insult her House again? It’s not wise to insult sentient magical houses.”
Killian closed his eyes, resembling a parent counting backwards to keep their temper. “I’m calling because I’m standing on my neighbor’s lawn, staring down a few psychotic fae who are claiming she’s their queen.”
“It sounds like a cult,” Hazel shouted at the phone.
“I thought so too!” I said.
“What Court are the fae from?”
“Night Court,” Killian said.
“Ew,” the Paragon said. “Omw.”
“What does that even mean—Paragon?” When his screen flashed, showing that the call had been disconnected, Killian wordlessly squeezed the phone, making its plastic case creak alarmingly.
Hazel gave me one of her sunny smiles. “The Paragon is on his way. Once he’s here he can smooth everything out, I’m sure.”
Suits exhaled in relief. “Yes, good. The Paragon can explain things.” He actually offered me a slight nod and an even slighter smile.
I didn’t like that—any sign of relief from these crazies was a bad thing for me.
Suits straightened his jacket, regaining his confidence with every passing moment. “We can escort you and the night mares to the Night Court estate and—”
“That’s not happening,” I interrupted. “I’ll tell the Paragon I have no desire to be queen, and you can be off on your merry way.”
Suits uneasily glanced at the night mares.
“If only it could be so,” Lady Demetria grumbled.
Unfortunately, it was then that my mom pulled into the driveway.
She stopped the car, and I could see her eyes flick from the cars—fancy-dress-fae-lady was still inside the car, looking petrified as a few of the vampires had taken it upon themselves to circle and stand on top of the car she was hidden in—to the well-dressed vampires, to the fae standing in the pasture with me.
I scratched the back of my neck as I tried to figure out what I should say, but to my surprise she leaned back in her seat as if the display pained her, parked her car, then got out with a shaky smile.
“Is something wrong, Leila?” she asked.
“Yeah, there’s been a huge mix-up,” I said. “But Hazel and Killian are helping me figure things out.”
“There is no mix-up,” Suits said—he was starting to be a big pain. “You are our queen.”
I scowled. “Could you please stop saying that!”
My mom clutched the shoulder strap of her massive purse. “I’ll go get Paul.” She disappeared around the corner of the house—heading for Dad’s woodshop.
Seconds later, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled into the driveway, rolling to a stop just behind the fae’s cars.
A back passenger door popped open, and an old man hopped out with a shocking amount of spryness.
The Paragon was the epitome of how a human would describe an elderly, aged fae. He had long, silvery white hair, a white mustache that drooped past his chin, spectacles with thin