{Junk Mail} and Summer’s Wrath

The scam company’s protocol was simple: Every new owner of a registered vehicle was to be mailed notice of nonexistent warranty expiration, at a rate of approximately once every two months, for a duration lasting no less than three years after the recipient of the mail ceased to own the vehicle in question…

There was one very, very key exception: the fae. One does not send junk mail to such entities, the policy clearly stated.

That way lies ruin.

The cheap furniture of the offices of WarrantyNow! smoldered, and a tall, slender figure glided between the smoking cubicles. He was possessed of Summer’s radiance, with deep orange hair that matched what flames still burned and skin the shade and sheen of polished mahogany. His searching eyes glowed red with rage as he scanned for his target.

All others—the vassals, to the fae’s mind—had fled. He had provided the customary, courteous warning at the front desk before setting to his work. Though he had of course contained the blaze to the property of the scam artistry office, he knew that firefighters waited outside.

They would not enter yet, of course. They knew better.

The Summer courtier tilted his head at the sound of pathetic whimpering, coming from an office down the hall. As a sweltering breeze, he flowed into the room and found the reason behind the insult which had driven him to this place.

“Please,” the human begged, tears close to evaporating in the heat of Summer’s Wrath. “Please don’t.”

“You have violated your contract with the Courts.” The Summer fae’s voice was laced with power. He gazed at the man with contempt. “Be thankful, mortal. Had you wronged Autumn, your suffering would have been far less brief.” Then he raised a glowing hand, and the human was turned to ash before he could scream.

As the beautiful and terrible man emerged from the building, the nearby firefighters shared a knowing look. He gave them a sincere, respectful bow, then drew out the excess heat to prevent them from encountering any backdrafts or flashovers, as was standard courtesy.

“Knights,” he said, acknowledging the public servants as he passed them. The group nodded back silently to the courtier. Then the Summer fae slid gracefully into his convertible, donned a pair of golden aviators, and departed without another word.

One of the older firefighters elbowed the newest member of the squad. “And that’s why you double-check who you’re sending mail to, kid.”