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A Fearie Tale

It started small. Just a tooth. A baby one at that. Lying there, under the pillow, all tiny and white and pretty. The Fearie stretched out a cunning, clawed hand and the warm little head on the pillow didn’t stir.

The creature withdrew its hand, uncurled its claws to examine the pearly treasure. Pretty. It stroked a gentle talon over the smooth upper surface, then flipped it to inspect the rough, blood-speckled underside. A croon of pleasure escaped its grey lips at the mixture of beauty and gore, and something inside its belly stirred.

The next night it was back. The long arm extended, claws scrabbled furtively under the pillow, but came out empty. No tooth.

The Fearie growled. On its finger the baby tooth shone like moonlight, fixed in a ring of elven silver. The setting was hollow, allowing the tooth’s rough, tainted underside to scrape gently against the creature’s scaly skin. The rub was comforting and exciting all at once. But it was so small. The Fearie wanted more.

It sniffed about the room in the darkness, huge, lamp-like eyes searching corners obscured by shadows, but to no avail. No more teeth hidden here. Out of the door and up the hallway it went, trailing its shadow into one room after another, until it came to one where the head on the pillow was grey.

Instinct told it to hurry, night was paling and daylight on its way. Its gaze flickered about the room, predatory, until it spied the table beside the bed, where a glass cup held undreamed of riches. Teeth. Big ones. Not one, or two, but a whole mouthful of them.

The Fearie slid across the room, plunging its fingers into the strange-smelling water just as the head on the pillow shifted, coughed. Claws gripped the bounty and the creature slipped from the room while the unsteady hand from the bed was still groping for glasses.

Racing shadows over the rooftops as they fled the dawn, the Fearie cradled its haul, shiny and white, enough for a necklace. It shivered in pleasure at the thought of the pretty baubles gleaming against the dull slate of its skin, the coarse kiss of the jagged undersides on its throat.

Only once it crawled into its lair did it realise the trick. Its shriek of rage when the fake treasure shattered under its fingers rattled the branches above.

All day it seethed and plotted, waiting for the sun to set. Out it crept with the shadows, intent on revenge.

In the darkness of the room, the face on the pillow was a pale smudge. The Fearie stared down at it in fury. As the mouth dropped open in a soft snore it noted the naked gums in disgust.

Sharp claws curled into the open mouth, groped their way down the throat. The body on the bed jolted, then convulsed, choking, as the wrist extended, twisted, fingers searching.

The Fearie grunted with effort. Its talons pushed through membrane and sinew, found purchase, grasped, pulled. It took a few minutes of tugging until the thrashing body on the bed finally stilled and the creature held its prize, gloating. This was better than teeth! The interlocked bones were elegant, snakelike. The spine was slick with red.

It would make an exquisite belt.