Tempted By Fae Page 3

  I am smart. Maybe unnaturally so. But I know there’s nothing bright in my future. No wonderful job, no acclamation.

  I can’t stand technology. It physically hurts me. I’ll never own a computer or a mobile phone if I can help it. In this world, it means I can’t amount to anything.

  It isn’t until PE that I lose it.

  The coach is as lazy as the math teacher; he gets us to play dodgeball.

  We’ve been in eight different towns, eight different schools, and the one constant in each of these establishments is them. The boys tripping up loners with glasses, and girls giggling in the corridors. There’s a reason the cliché appears in every movie. Whatever the school, those blessed with looks and athletic ability always prey on those who don’t conform.

  I’ve never been a target. Maybe because my sister’s always welcome among the pretty girl clubs, or because I make out with most of the popular boys, but even at the start of the year, they leave me alone. I don’t look like a target, I suppose.

  The short, pencil-thin girl with baggy gray and brown workout clothes that must have belonged to her grandad? She does. I recognize her from the cafeteria. She judged me for nursing one apple for twenty minutes.

  When the girls start to mock her in half-whispers, at first I shrug it off. Serves her right. She judged my diet. They judge her clothes. That strikes me as fair.

  Then the game starts.

  The coach divided the girls in two groups of ten, and the boys are on the other side of the indoor basketball court.

  The six pretty girls are together, I note. It strikes me as unfair, as they’re the cheerleader type, clearly more athletic than the majority of the class. I pick the losing side, mostly because I have no interest in the outcome of the game.

  As soon as he blows his whistle, the girls all throw their balls at the thin girl, who clearly lacks coordination. Four of their six balls hit her, one close to the face. I can tell they all aimed for the face. The girl is lucky they can’t shoot, or she might have been hurt.

  She limps to the benches, wincing.

  I shrug it off. Whatever.

  The coach calls for a break, checking on the girl, and the group of girls gather around and chat in low voices, giggling again.

  When the game resumes, they’re shooting together again, this time aiming at a big girl on my right, ganging up on her the same way. One of their balls does hit her face.

  I watch the girl who shot that one squeal in delight, and hold up her hands in victory. Her friends high-five her. The poor girl holds her face in her hands and cries.

  The coach halts the game again, to help the second girl. When he coaxes her to move her hands, I see her nose is bleeding. I lean against the wall, waiting on him to administer first aid and letting rage simmer inside me.

  I have to admit, I've surprised myself. I don’t have much empathy for things that don’t affect me or my family. Other people have their problems? Well, so do I. I deal with mine; they should learn to address theirs.

  Right now, my problem is beyond my competency. I’ve let myself pay attention to everyone else’s. I suppose it’s oddly comforting to see that their lives suck, too.

  The coach finishes dabbing at the girl’s nose and sends her to the nurse's office with one of the boys—her brother, I think. Then, he calls us back to the court.

  I expect him to make a speech of sort about bullying, or better yet, tell off the girls. Instead, he just waves us back into position, and blows his whistle.

  He isn’t going to say anything, do anything. He’s going to let these bitches hurt their next target.

  I can’t believe it.

  I catch the first ball thrown my way, by one girl who isn’t part of the manicured posse, eyeing the little pack as they move to hit another smaller target. And I shoot.

  Hard. Very, very hard. I shoot just at the right angle for the ball to hit the peroxide blonde right in the stomach, and bounce back to me. Retrieving it, I shoot again, aiming for the breasts this time—and not missing. I catch someone else’s ball, and shoot a third time, then a fourth. A fifth. I save the one who hit the girl’s face for last. I smile so sweetly, before throwing her a gentle curve ball. “Fun, right?” I ask in a syrupy voice.

  I stare them down as the six bitches gape at me, wincing. I’m a little winded, but I don’t show it, hiding any weakness.

  Inside, for the first time in hours, I’m fine. Sated.

  I was cruel and nasty, and I love this version of me. I recognize it.

  I’m free.

  I walk back to my initial position and play pleasantly for the rest of the day.

  Back home a couple of hours later, it strikes me that for the first time since I was fifteen, I haven’t kissed any boys at school.

  Chapter Six

  I sleep well for the second night in a row, and again, I wake before dawn. I’m not so much surprised as resigned, glancing at the darkness outside before sighing.

  I get dressed in a pair of black high-rise jeans with a crop top, finishing the look with heavy boots. After yesterday’s incident with the posse, I know I’m going to face open war at school. I can’t deny part of me looks forward to it. Yesterday changed something. The dynamic I’m used to has been flipped on its head. Who knows what’s next? Certainly not I.

  I remain inside, occupying myself until the rest of my family wakes up. After preparing breakfast, I paint my nails matte black. It’s six-thirty. Has time ever passed this slowly?

  I force myself to focus on one of my mother’s suspense books, willing the words on the page to make sense. Eventually, they do. The storyline is boring and rather predictable, but I’ve read all of my books, and I’m not one to go back for a reread.

  “I could get used to waking up to this smell!” Dad says from the stairway. Peeking through the open door leading to the den, he spots me, and advances to join me. When he reaches me, he bends down to kiss my forehead. “Breakfast again?”

  I shrug. “I was up.”

  He sits on the arm of the sofa I’m lounging on. The poor old sofa sinks and almost topples. We both laugh. “Maybe I don’t need that breakfast after all.”

  He’s talking nonsense. Dad isn’t a small man. At six foot four, he’d be hard-pressed to weigh any less than he does.

  “Is everything all right? I’m not complaining—it’s great to be treated in the morning!—but you’ve been…”

  He can’t find a word. I could fill one in for him.

  Distracted.

  Distant.

  Cruel.

  Glancing out the back window to the yard every other minute.

  He was bound to have noticed something at dinner yesterday.

  My instinct is to fake it, smile and say nothing’s the matter at all. Instead, I find myself asking, “Do you have any news about Aunt Julia?”

  We don’t talk about her. Not since she disappeared two years ago. It upsets Dad and annoys Mom.

  His eyes widen. “Why do you ask?”

  That isn’t a no, I realize.

  “She…” What can I say, she was like me, and whatever happened to her is likely to happen to me? I think she might have left for the faerie land, where there’s no steel or iron clogging the air, burning her insides? “She got me.”

  My father sighs. “I know she did. You and her…you were very alike. Different, even as children. Very smart, very strong. You don’t cry when you’re hurt, you just get back up.” He grins at me. “What makes you cry is frustration. The inability to act. Right?” I can only nod. Not that I’d know—I don’t remember ever crying. I suppose I must have as a baby. But I can guess helplessness would frustrate me beyond belief.

  My father continues. “And you’re both—” He decides against saying anything else, letting his words fade.

  I wonder if she ever confessed to being fae-touched to him, maybe as a child. I know her own uncle told her about it, and on and on goes our tradition in the family. Each of our ancestors had twins, and one of them is fae-to
uched. Aunt Julia’s twin, Aunt April, is perfectly normal. Like my father, she married an eccentric. A sculptor who molds her likeness over and over.

  “I miss her,” I confess.

  Dad rubs my knee in his awkward attempt to comfort me. I’m not being fair. I’ve seen her maybe a hundred times in my entire life, while she’s his sister. Her loss is his more than it will ever be mine. I feel it keenly regardless.

  I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Mom’s, I think. Clary is faster and lighter.

  “I’ll start plating everything, shall I?” Dad offers.

  I nod, returning to my book. I should finish the chapter before putting it down. It’ll make it easier to get back to it tomorrow, if I wake early again.

  After reading the next three pages, I dog-ear the novel like the savage I am, and place it back on the white bookshelf coating the longest wall in the den.

  I’m standing right next to the window, and I can’t help myself. I look. I look past the yard, to the woods.

  It’s as if they call me, whisper my name over and over again.

  All of a sudden, I see him in the distance. Cal, in his familiar, eccentric coat. He’s there one moment, then gone in a blink.

  I gasp and hold my middle.

  I can resist. I can. I have to. I have school, and breakfast, and my family to think of. What if I disappear like Julia? Before I can tell the next Woodspire about the curse? I have to—

  Screw it. I’ve never been one to stick to the rules. Not even my own.

  “Start without me!” I call to the kitchen.

  I take my leather jacket, hanging on a hook at the back of the door, and step out in the garden, crossing the yard to the woods.

  I have more questions. About these woods, about him, and about myself. What I am. And I need to ask Cal if he knows about Julia. I suspect few fae-touched mortals join the fae. If there’s any way he has heard of her, I’ll get him to tell me, if only so I can reassure my family. My dad, her brother, who loves her with all his heart. If I could get her to come back for one day, or write a note, it might make all the difference to them.

  To me.

  The moment I step into the woods, I feel the change in the air.

  It’s cold. Colder than ice. The trees around me seem to converge closer and closer, caging me in. I can hardly breathe. I can hardly see.

  I fall to my knees, feeling dizzy, disoriented, and more than a little nauseous.

  I retch. If I’d eaten anything, I would have emptied the contents of my stomach on the mud.

  “Poor thing.” The singsong voice wraps around each sound, with a sensual drawl I can’t place. British, maybe.

  I don’t try to lift my head. It feels too heavy, too unstable. At eye level, I see a pair of pointed white velvet boots encrusted with shiny blue gemstones. Sapphires, maybe. I can’t bring myself to care one way or another.

  “I suppose it’s to be expected. Mortals are so very fragile, are they not?”

  Though it sounded like a rhetorical question, it’s answered. I realize we aren’t alone.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Unsteadily, willing the bile threatening to come out back down my throat, I stagger to my feet, and force myself to look straight ahead.

  I see myself.

  Chapter Seven

  The same strong chin, defined jaw, high cheekbones. A generous mouth with a pouty lower lip, naturally more purple than pink. Lighter brown eyebrows, though I have mine tinted black to match my hair. Strawberry-blonde, soft, wavy hair.

  I’m used to seeing myself reflected on someone else’s face. Every day, I look at Clary and I wonder at our similitudes. I like to study our differences too. Clary’s ears are rounder, smaller, while mine slightly curve at the tip. Her canines are smaller, whereas mine are sharp enough to draw blood when I bite.

  The thing in front of me is no twin of mine. She is me. She shares every single one of my features. I wouldn’t wonder at finding a beauty spot below her right hipbone, if I were to strip her out of her layers of white and blue lace and gossamer.

  I don’t bother to ask who she is. The queen. The queen of the bright court, according to Cal. All at once, I understand how the boggart mistook me for her, and I wonder how he could have been so blind. Her presence is potent, magnetic. She exudes power and wickedness. No amount of posturing could ever make me look like her. Besides, this creature has never worn anything that could even remotely pass for PJ shorts.

  “How?” I ask, for two reasons.

  One of them is my curiosity. I do genuinely wonder how it’s possible for the two of us to be so exactly identical. But my true motive is to buy time. Time to think. Time to regain my senses. I feel better as moments pass, seeing more clearly, feeling less sick.

  I doubt she's come for a courtesy call. I’d rather be in full possession of my abilities when she gets to the point of her schemes.

  She circles me like a wolf pacing around its prey, her piercing eyes taking in everything about me. I resist the impulse to turn to face her when she reaches my back. I don’t much like the thought of turning my back to her, but spinning around would have been a sign of weakness. I can’t afford to show any more of that.

  She picks up a strand of my hair, lifting it to eye level, and then drops it with a disappointed sigh.

  “We can thank Mummy dearest, may her soul rest in peace,” says the queen. “See, she had to taint the blood of Medb with that of a mortal. I can’t say I ever understood that particular proclivity, but I’m not one to judge kinks.”

  She’s facing me again. I’m disturbed to recognize her scowl, so like my own.

  “She bore twins, you see. I was raised with her, in the courts, and my sister lived as a mortal, with our father. She died long ago, poor thing. I suppose you’re the result.”

  Aunt Julia told me we had a fae ancestor. That makes this…thing my great-great-great aunt, in a way.

  “So, we’re family.” I doubt she’ll see it that way, but I say it nonetheless.

  Her laughter is a clear bell ringing in the silent woods. “Yes, I suppose we are. However, you haven’t been a good little niece, have you?”

  I catch the edge in her voice. I have no clue what she’s talking about, but I don’t think playing innocent is likely to work with her.

  “You’ll have to be more specific. I can’t remember the last time I was good the last few years.”

  She laughs again. “Ha! Isn’t she just delightful?”

  “Yes, my queen,” another voice echoes.

  I finally give in, glancing around.

  Several steps away, I see a retinue of folk—some fae, other little folk I can’t identify. I spot the boggart from yesterday, too.

  No need to wonder how the queen heard about me then.

  The question is, what could she want from me?

  Her next words enlighten me. “I see what he sees in you, niece.”

  He.

  Assuming she isn’t talking about the boggart, I only know of one other fae.

  Him.

  Cal.

  She’s here because he paid attention to me yesterday.

  I recognize her behavior now. She isn’t the first disgruntled ex-girlfriend cornering me because of some boy I’ve played with.

  She is, however, the first who could rip my heart out of my chest and crush it in her grasp.

  I opt to go with apologetic and truthful. “You’re talking about Cal? I wouldn’t say he sees anything in me. Really. We chatted for, like, one minute.”

  Maybe two or three. All right, ten at a push, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “And yet you’re still alive, whole, and were allowed to return to your world. Why would you say that is, dearest niece?”

  She makes it clear that my encounter with Cal should have gone a different way. And I don’t find anything to say. She’s right. I did expect he’d trick me, hurt me, or kidnap me. That’s what happens in the true fairy tales.

  That’s what’s going to
happen to me now.

  I feel my knees weaken again, but will myself to remain on my feet.

  I have to think of a way out of this. I have to outsmart her.

  A tall order. No one outsmarts the fae. They delight in trickery and lethal games. They delight in suffering and torment.

  “Even now, I feel his magic on you. I can taste it,” she whispers, holding my gaze. “His scent is all around you. There’s a spell in the works. A spell of his own making.”

  I glance down.

  Maybe I did hurt my foot. It certainly felt like it. And yet, I’ve been fine since. More than fine.

  He might have healed me.

  Helped me.

  Why?

  “Maybe he thought it’d be fun if you heard about it, got pissed, and hurt me yourself?” I guess, offering the only theory that isn’t likely to result in my losing a head or vital organ on the spot. “So he could watch. Some boys have a thing about seeing catfights between girls, you know.”

  The queen blinks, surprised. She hadn’t considered that possibility. Maybe because it’s ludicrous.

  “Hm,” she says. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Yes, yes, yes. Believe it.

  Maybe I can’t outsmart her, but I can out-dumb her. I can play the stupid, worthless human for all it’s worth.

  “He did talk to me about you.”

  She likes that, I can tell.

  “He said you’re a great queen, ruling over a bright court,” I continue.

  I have nothing else to add. Thankfully, she doesn’t prompt for more.

  “Did he, now?” The queen stands a little taller, inclining her head to the side. Louder, she calls, “And what other flatteries might you have whispered in my niece’s ear, Calreth?”

  I wonder if she’s truly mad. There’s no one here but her dozens of followers.

  Then, Cal appears between an ash and a willow tree. Gone is the coat, now—he’s just wearing a silk ruffled shirt, open on his torso.

  He strolls forward leisurely, smiling in a way that might pass as pleasant, were it not for the look in his eyes.

  “Do you expect me to remember, Rena darling?” The endearment sounds like poison on his tongue. “It’s almost dawn.”