Tempted By Fae Read online

  To occupy myself, I start to cook breakfast. We only bother with a proper sit-down meal on weekends, normally, but there isn’t much else to do right now.

  A small feast rests under glass and steel cloches—fluffy pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, all crowned by our grandmother’s gravy and biscuits. One glance back at the clock in the hallway, and I groan. It’s not even six. What am I supposed to do with my time now?

  I wish I could read a book, but my mind is restless. I know it’s not likely to allow me to sit still.

  On an impulse, I opt to head outside, changing my white slippers for a pair of sneakers. I’m wearing checkered PJ shorts and a white tank top. It’s too cold for my getup, but I choose to forgo a coat. I’ll warm up soon enough.

  I set out across the lawn, to the woods, moving at a brisk jog.

  My muscles immediately protest against the unfamiliar exercise. It’s been a while since I’ve run. Back in middle school, I used to be part of the track team, but I've since given up on anything even resembling team spirit. My father insists that I keep at least one extracurricular activity, “for my future”. I’ve chosen chess.

  I’ve vaguely thought about running through the woods, simply because they’re right there at our doorstep, and pretty enough, but I don’t think I’d truly meant to do it. Now, with my lungs burning, my shins weighing five tons each, it’s a matter of pride. I haven’t even cleared a quarter of a mile. As a kid, I used to be able to run four or five without straining. I feel like I’m dying!

  My ears ring, and my breathing gets so uneven, I have to stop. I bend forward, holding my knees. Damn. I’m going to start working out. What if a murderer was running after me? I wouldn’t last five minutes.

  I calm down enough to start appreciating the view again. Sometime in the last quarter of an hour, dawn rose in the horizon. The sky is all shades of blood and water over the line of trees surrounding me.

  To my surprise, I have to admit I like it here. It’s peaceful. Quiet.

  And I haven’t felt any itch, any pain.

  Not since I left the house.

  Not since I woke up, actually.

  I’m fine.

  I haven’t been fine for such a long time, it’s a little odd to me. Fine feels uncomfortable on my skin.

  Then I see it, right in front of me, almost close enough to touch my nose. A little folk of some variety. Three feet tall and purple-skinned, creased like that of an elephant, and covered with a soft layer of white fur. It’s fluffy enough to be cute, although I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face so grisly. Its droopy, beady eyes are surrounded by a million wrinkles, and it has no nose—just two slits, farther apart than that of a snake. It licks its lipless mouth with a long, serpentine green tongue that looks slimy.

  I lift my torso abruptly, eager to keep my face far, far away from it.

  “Sorry,” I say impulsively, like the well-bred girl I’m not.

  I freeze, the realization dawning on me.

  It’s the first word I've ever said to one of them, and with good reason.

  The folk of this world glamour themselves to be invisible to mortals like me when they roam our world. Animals see them, or at least sense their presence, hence why cats and dogs sometimes stop dead in their tracks, staring at what seems to be nothing. Humans cannot see them, and therefore, I act like I don’t.

  There’s safety in feigning ignorance. I’m just another girl, if I’m not aware of them. I can’t see them? They don’t bother to see me.

  Aunt Julia told me that from the moment she started to interact with the folk, her life took a turn for the worse. They started to tease her, play with her, to catch her attention or ask for favors.

  In my childhood, I think I used to wave at them, but they don’t pay attention to little boys and girls. Most children can see the folk, until they grow to believe there’s no such thing as fairy tales.

  I’ve been so, so very good, for years and years.

  And now, I’ve spoken.

  To my surprise, as I stare at the creature with dismay and fear, it stares back, and it’s terrified.

  What could the likes of him have to fear from me? I’m one hundred and fifteen pounds, soaking wet. I took self-defense lessons, but I’m aware I’m lacking in the threatening department.

  The strange thing doesn’t agree. It’s shivering from head to toes. “I beg your pardon, my lady. My queen!” it squeaks, bending at the waist, so low it’s shoving its face on the muddy ground.

  By then, it’s quite clear that this is a case of mistaken identity. In a split second, I decide to ensure the creature keeps mistaking me for whoever he thinks I might be.

  Did he say queen?

  I don’t have much to work with, but I stand upright, throwing my shoulders back and lifting my chin in what I imagine is a queenly way. I’m ridiculous, sweating, out of breath, and imitating Lady Di.

  “You’re pardoned. Now, go, I need my privacy.”

  There. Not too bad, right?

  The little folk pops its head up, suspicion written in his puckered, leathery skin.

  Dammit. I gave myself away, somehow.

  “If I may, why is Her Majesty so far from the bright lands, and at such a time as this! Should they find you here, on unseelie soil—”

  The words make little sense to me. I think back to Julia’s tales, trying to decipher its meaning, so that I might give a convincing answer.

  I settle on sticking to my guns. I am queen. He’s…whatever he is. I doubt he can be very far up on the food chain. “Tell me, since when do I have to justify myself to you, exactly?” There’s a threatening edge to my words.

  At first, it works. The little folk is trembling and shivering, reacquainting its face with the moss.

  Then I hear a low, rumbling laugh, followed by a pointed slow clap. I turn to the sound, and freeze.

  He stands feet from me, leaning on a black oak tree. The man from yesterday, still in black under the coat. Now that he’s ten feet away, I can tell it’s forest-green leather, stitched with gold embellishments. Trees and leaves, birds and hearts, follow the edges of the garment.

  I concentrate on it, studying it in great detail, if only to avoid looking at him directly. I’ve had a glance. It’s enough. Enough to realize my terrible, terrible mistake.

  I should have locked myself in yesterday. I should have convinced my family to pack up their bags and move far, far away.

  Run, run, run away.

  I don’t. I don’t move at all. As much as I want to flee, I obviously suck at running. Besides, I can tell. He’ll enjoy the chase.

  The fae is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever beheld. There’s no need for any posturing on his part. I itch to kneel. To bare my throat to him, like a spineless bitch.

  Come, come, come closer.

  His dark eyes whisper promises of pain and pleasure, wordlessly beckoning me, but it is his mouth I fear. His playful, full, bloodred lips have no business on the face of a man. I note the delicately curved point to his ears, poking out under his waves of black curls.

  Screw it. I need to go, and I do just that, willing myself to ignore both of the folk as I storm past them, sprinting in the direction of my home.

  At least, I hope it’s the right direction. Suddenly, I’m not sure at all.

  A laugh follows me. I don’t stop, concentrating on one single goal. Getting back home alive. And whole.

  Part of me wishes I were religious. I could pray right now, if I knew how. I could swear to be good. I could swear to be a better person, a better daughter and sister, so long as a higher power intervened, ensuring I got home in one piece.

  Please, please, please.

  One moment, there’s nothing but the muddy ground in front of me. The next, a root lashes like a whip, curling under my foot. I see the ground approach, and wince in anticipation. At my speed, the fall is going to hurt.

  I close my eyes, willing reality away, but the pain never comes.

  Instead, I feel something muc
h worse.

  Warm, soft hands holding my middle. The scent of wood, blood, musk, and ashes hits my nostrils. I open my eyes to see the fae right under me, lying on the ground, his elaborate coat stained with mud and moss. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s smiling as though he couldn’t be more pleased.

  Run, run, run away.

  I don’t. I know it’s far too late for that.

  Chapter Four

  “There, there, little lamb. It wouldn’t do to hurt your pretty face, now would it?”

  I wish his voice wasn’t so sweet. I wish I didn’t want to hear, smell, and feel more of him. I know it has nothing to do with me. Enchanting others is simply the fae’s nature.

  Recalling my aunt’s advice, I bite my bottom lip, as hard as I can.

  To my surprise, the fae laughs.

  “No need for all that. Besides, I’ll have you know some of us do enjoy a little bit of blood with our pleasure.”

  I let go of my lip, suitably stricken. Aunt Julia said that salt is one of the things I can use to repel the folk. If absolutely necessary, human blood does have enough salt to keep one at bay for a moment or two.

  She said that when they’re of a mind to eat one of us, they have to cut us up, cook us down, and season us with honey and berries, till we’re a thick stew without much salt left to it.

  I will this thought away. I will every terrifying tale of the folk right out of my mind.

  Except for one. I’d been terrified when she told me about the stew, but then she said something else. “Don’t fear, Keira. That only happens to regular mortals. The folk don’t eat us fae-touched. They have other uses for us.”

  "What uses?" I’d asked. She only chuckled.

  Half reassuring, half alarming, like all fairy tales.

  I pull back and get up, ignoring the growing pain in my left ankle, where the root lashed at me. I hope nothing’s broken.

  “What do you want?”

  The fae smirks, moving so fast I have some trouble making out the detail of his cat-like, elegant movement as he rises to a crouch. “I only meant to congratulate you, pretty girl. You excel in deceit, for one so young.”

  I analyze every word, turning them in my mind like they’re a riddle. The folk can’t tell an outright lie, so they make it their business to twist the truth around their tongue.

  “Meant. Past tense. What do you mean to do now?”

  His smile widens, revealing long, strong canines that look too much like fangs for comfort.

  What I don’t understand is how something like him—something not human, and quite clearly dangerous, threatening—can possibly look so irresistible. There must be a spell in the works. Yes, magic.

  When the paranormal creatures came out of the shadows years ago, before my parents were even born, they changed the world that until then had belonged to us, redefining the place of humans in the food chain. We’d believed we were on top. Now, we know that saying we’re in the middle is quite generous.

  There are werewolves and witches, vampires, and even dragons, if one believes the tales.

  I’ve always wished I had magic—true magic, not just my lingering trace of weirdness that causes me nothing but trouble. Never so more than now. If I could create some sort of shield against him, I would. If, if, if.

  “Someone schooled you in our ways,” he notes approvingly. “I wish to take you home. These woods are dangerous, and you’re wounded.”

  Shifting my weight, one hip out, I put one hand on my waist and open my mouth to inform him that I can take care of myself, but right then, a sharp jolt of pain shoots all the way up my leg from my ankle.

  I curse under my breath. The fae only laughs. Instantly, he’s right there beside me, one arm around my torso. “Allow me.”

  Without waiting for permission of any kind, he lifts me from under the knees, and carries me like I’m a princess.

  I don’t move. I don’t say a thing. Inside, I’m screaming. I’m fighting myself, and panicking.

  Nothing has ever felt so perfect, so delectably right. I’m in no pain, there’s no discomfort. The craving for flesh—anyone’s flesh, any boy I can lock my lips on—is sated, as if his touch, his presence, is all I could ever need.

  I’m whole.

  I hate, hate, hate him.

  And I know, to the bottom of my soul, that I’ll never stop needing him. Needing this peace.

  “Do you have a name, pretty girl?”

  “I do,” I reply spitefully.

  He seems positively delighted with me. “They call me Cal. You’ll want to be careful, if you wish to wander the woods. Bring salt, but in powder, not rock, you understand? Iron will be efficient—steel, if you must. Turn your clothes inside out. Your socks, or your underthings will do. And when you need to find shelter fast, turn to running water. Yes?”

  I only nod, committing all of this to memory. Not that I will ever wander the woods again. We live too close to forgo protection, though.

  “Good, pretty girl.”

  I grimace in distaste. He sounds so condescending, I’d kick his ass if my feet were in any state to attempt the endeavor.

  Reading my expression correctly, he tells me, “You’ll have to give me a name, if you wish to be known as anything but the pretty girl in my domain.”

  His domain?

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Names have power to your kind.”

  “True names, yes. The name of your soul. I doubt your human procreators would have guessed it right, so your given name would have none.”

  I don’t give it to him, anyway. “You were in front of the house yesterday,” I accuse.

  This surprises him—at least, he pretends it does. “Was I?”

  I don’t grace him with an answer.

  I see my house through the woods, and a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach loosens. Part of me doubted he’d take me back, whatever he said.

  I quiet the voice that says I might not have minded being led astray for a while.

  I only have moments left with him. Suddenly, I think of a thousand questions. I ask the one that matters most to me at this moment. “Why did that—that thing—call me queen? Who did he think I was?”

  The fae keeps walking, ignoring me for so long, I think I won’t get an answer. But when we reach the edge of my backyard, he says, “Boggart. The thing was a boggart. A wicked brownie. And you’re quite lucky he mistook you, otherwise he might well have taken a bite out of you—or led you down to the depths of his hole, where you’d never see the light of day again. Do not presume to stand above what you cannot understand, mortal.”

  Suddenly, I’m mortal, not pretty girl anymore. I don’t know which I like less.

  I suppose I’ve been a little condescending, but I simply didn’t know what to call the boggart. I don’t attempt to justify myself.

  “And he mistook you for the queen of the bright court, despite knowing she’d never dare enter these woods.” His voice has lost all humor, all pleasantry. There’s only darkness left. Suave, dangerous darkness. I wish I could bottle it. Spread it on my skin every day.

  “Why?” is all I ask.

  Cal looks down at me. The shadow is there, under the surface, making his piercing gaze cold and unyielding. “Oh, no, Keira sweet. You’ve had quite enough from me for today. If you have other questions, you’ll have to follow the willow trail, and come dance for me under the starlight some night.”

  His bright, toothy smirk tells me he knows I’ll never dare.

  We reach the four steps leading to the back door, and he lowers me to the white wooden panels, ever so gently.

  I watch him retreat to the woods without a goodbye.

  It’s only after he’s out of view that I realize he said the name I never gave him.

  I get up, intending to hobble to the kitchen and ask Mom to run me to the ER, but when my foot hits the floor I notice the pain—if it ever existed—is long gone. I walk inside, forcing myself not to look back to the woods.

  Chapter Five


  I’m usually better at pretending to fit in. Not to the point of going unnoticed, but I don’t tend to stand out as anything other than a flirt.

  As the day passes, I get more and more irritated by little nothings that shouldn’t even have attracted my notice. My patience for everything has been smashed into a thousand shards.

  This morning, it was the teacher’s teeth. Mrs. Motts wasn’t very fond of oral hygiene. I’d noticed that yesterday, but now, something green was stuck between her lateral incisor and her canine. Lettuce. Spinach. Maybe even kale.

  I itch to prick at it with something sharp. A spaghetti noodle. A pencil. Skewer. If that fails, I don’t mind pricking her head with the sharp end of a kitchen knife until it stops bothering me.

  She isn’t responsible for my irritation. I know the true culprit: the return of the uncomfortable ache inside and outside of me, after spending a few priceless moments without it this morning.

  The culprit is Cal. As I can’t take it out on him, I want to lash out at everything else.

  I don’t. For hours, I take irritation after irritation. High-pitched voices, stinky lab partners. I don’t even tell the annoyingly friendly girl who sits next to me at lunch to fuck off when she explains the benefits of a healthy meal. So what if I only picked at an apple? I don’t feel like eating anything at all. The bright green fruit tastes like ash on my tongue.

  At two, our math teacher chooses the lazy way out of giving us a lesson: he starts the year with a quiz, “to understand our level.” Any other day, I would have taken my time, and borne it. Today, I fly through the multiple-choice answers, and hand it back to him five minutes after the beginning of the class.

  I answered the last question wrong, deliberately. The last thing I need is another school calling my parents to ask that I be placed in special education again.

  I like high school. I like coasting through easy, boring lessons and having all the time to pursue whatever I want to. Soon enough, I’ll have to get a job, spend hours at a repetitive task that’ll drain any joy from me.