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THE TROUBLE WITH PIXIES
     
    Edinburgh Elementals #1
     
    Gayle Ramage
     
     
    www.gayleramage.co.uk
     
     
     
     
    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
     
     
    Copyright (c) 2013 by Gayle Ramage
    All Rights Reserved. THE TROUBLE WITH PIXIES
     
    Michael paused at the bottom of the staircase, one hand gripped on the mahogany banister as he looked upwards. Having carried several boxes up to his new bedroom, he was now ready to relax. But he’d heard something, like the low murmuring of nearby voices. He stood still and listened for the sound again, but all was silent. The house was old, built in the Georgian era, according to the estate agent. Maybe it had just been the natural groan of an ageing building. Putting it from his mind, he headed to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. The last of the boxes sat on the kitchen table, waiting to be unpacked, but Michael could deal with them in the morning. What he needed was to relax while he had the house to himself.
    Michael had just sat down on the black leather sofa when there came a sharp rap at the front door. With a heavy sigh, he put his drink down on the coffee table and went to answer it. Pulling the door open, he was met with a black and white woolly hat; a large white bobble inches from his face. Its wearer was peering down into a multi-coloured rucksack.
    ‘Hi, Elsa. Sorry I’m a couple of months late,’ said the hat. ‘I should have rang to say I was coming back this evening. Thought I’d come and see how you were doing.’ When Michael didn’t answer, the hat moved upwards to reveal its wearer. A smattering of freckles lay across the bridge of the young woman’s nose, and a couple of strands of red hair appeared to have escaped the clutches of the hat, framing her pale face. From the glaring light in the hallway, Michael noticed her different-coloured eyes. One was violet, the other green. ‘You’re not Elsa,’ she said, a hint of suspicion in her voice. She peered over his shoulder as if expecting to find someone else in the hallway. ‘Where is she?’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Elsa,’ Michael explained. ‘You don’t mean the lady who used to live here, do you? I never found out her first name.’
    ‘ Used to live here?’
    ‘Yes. She passed away three months ago.’
    The woman reached out and gripped his arm, those strange eyes wide with alarm. ‘O gods,’ she gasped. ‘How did she die? Please, it’s very important.’
    ‘I - I was told it was natural causes. Died in her sleep. Peacefully.’
    ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ The woman sighed heavily, letting go of Michael.
    ‘I feel awful for having to tell you about your friend,’ said Michael. ‘Do you want to come in? I was just having a quiet drink. You’re more than welcome to join me.’
    The woman studied him for a moment, and then nodded. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’ She slung the rucksack over her shoulder and bent down, picking up a similar bag lying by her feet. In fact, the woman appeared to have several bags beside her. Ever the gentleman, Michael helped her carry them into the house before showing her through to the living room. He popped to the kitchen to retrieve another wine glass only to return to find the woman standing by the unlit fireplace and sipping his drink.
    ‘Looks totally different,’ she said, glancing about the room.
    ‘It was pretty bare when we moved in,’ explained Michael. ‘Just an armchair and an old table lamp. I think Elsa’s family maybe took the rest of the furniture, or sold them.’
    ‘They would have sold Elsa herself if they’d got a good price for her.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Michael, pouring himself some more wine. ‘I see.’
    ‘She always used to say she was sure she’d brought