A Faerie's Secret (Creepy Hollow Book 4) (25 page)

My mind keeps cycling through possibilities and theories as my body grows closer to sleep. The last clear thought I have before drifting into unconsciousness is what Dad said before we began yelling at one another:
She doesn’t trust anyone who works at the Guild, and she never wants her family to have anything to do with them again. The fact that she decided you’d be safer there than anywhere else must mean there’s something she’s
very
afraid of.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

“How about that one?” I point to the half-finished sketch of a wing that might belong to a phoenix.

“No, I think that’s more feathery than the look she’s going for,” Chase says. “I’ve got this one, which is based on sprite and sylph wings, very long and wispy. That one over there has just a bit of a feathery influence, so she might be open to it. And this one … well, it’s a bit different.”

We’re sitting on Chase’s living room floor with some of the furniture pushed aside so there’s space for the sketches we’ve spread out around us. Despite my intention to return to Ryn’s house last night, I never woke up from my brief rest—which turned out to be not so brief, as I discovered when Chase woke me some time this morning. I was highly confused for at least five seconds before I remembered where I was and why.

Now, after ten minutes in the bathing room, I’m helping Chase decide which drawings to present to his most high-maintenance client, who decided she wants a pair of wings tattooed across her shoulders—and she wants it done now. “Oh, I really like that one.” I point to the sketch in Chase’s hand. “It looks like ink is dripping off the ends of the wings. Definitely show her that one.” I look around and add, “These are all incredible, though. I wish I’d been born with your kind of skill.”

With a short laugh, Chase says, “Sometimes I wish I’d been born with this skill too.”

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair as he surveys the drawings spread across the floor. “This isn’t something I’ve always been able to do. It was a gift. From … a friend. She was the real artist. Before she died, she gave me this skill.”

I try to remember if I’ve heard of anything like that before, but my brain comes up with nothing. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“I didn’t either, but apparently it is. She was an elf. Maybe it’s a type of magic we don’t know about.”

“Maybe,” I say. “So … stick figures one day, fine art the next?”

“Something like that. I never had the desire to draw or paint anything when I was younger. Not even stick figures. I certainly wasn’t the creative type.”

“I doodled on everything,” I say, smiling as I picture the myriad ink drawings covering every school notebook I’ve ever owned. Well, except for my most recent ones. I’ve barely had any time for daydreams and doodles amidst my efforts to catch up—and then keep up—with all my guardian studies. “Hey, have you ever used fire paint?”

“No, I’ve only ever used regular paint. None of that fancy stuff with flames or sparkles or water or smoke or … whatever else you get.”

“They had the fancy stuff at Ellinhart, but it’s expensive so we only got to use it once. The fire paint was definitely the most exciting painting experience I’ve ever had. I mean, you’re painting with flames. Just imagine it.”

“I am. I’m imagining a charred canvas.”

“No! You’d think that would happen, but it doesn’t. It’s incredible. The flames continue burning wherever you place your brush, as if the paint is made of burning magma. I ended up with burns all over my hand and Mom freaked out about it, but it was so worth it.”

“Perhaps I should try it.”

“You should. And the water one as well. It’s beautiful.”

“Okay then.”

I smile back at him and hold his gaze for a moment too long. Feeling suddenly awkward, I look down and search for something else to say. “So, um, I know you’re talented, but you didn’t draw all of these this morning, did you?”

“No, most of these are old,” Chase says as he gathers the drawings into two separate piles. “I only had time to do three more based on my client’s vague brief after I got back this morning.”

“This morning? You mean you haven’t slept yet?”

“Who needs sleep?”

“Um … me?” I say in a small voice.

He smiles. “I do sleep, just not much. Which is fortunate, since my non-tattoo work takes up many of my nighttime hours.”

“Seriously?” I say to him. “Your
non-tattoo work
? Just come out and admit what it is you really do. You know I know.”

“I will admit to nothing,” he says with a superior grin. “And you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do.” He stands and carries both piles of drawings to the desk. “Okay, I need to get to work, and you need to do what people do when they have a family member in a hospital.” He gives me a pointed look.

“Hospital? That sounds a whole lot like a word humans use to describe their healing institutes.”

“You should visit her.”

“Does that mean you’ve spent a lot of time in the human realm?”

“It means I’ve decided it’s quicker to say ‘hospital’ than ‘healing institute.’ And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re doing your best to avoid the subject.”

I release an overly dramatic groan and say, “Firstly, what point is there in visiting someone who’s asleep and can’t hear a thing I say? Secondly, I’m still angry with her and my dad, and, as childish as it sounds, I’m not ready to let go of that anger yet. And thirdly, why do you even care if I visit my mother?”

“Firstly—” Chase ticks off one finger “—it doesn’t matter if she can’t hear you. Secondly, visiting her doesn’t mean you have to stop being angry. And thirdly … what kind of a question is that? I’m not a stranger, and I’m not a heartless monster, so of course I care.”

“Um … okay.” I instruct myself not to dwell on the part where he said he cares—
he would care about anyone in this situation, Calla. You’re no one special
—and focus instead on points number one and two. “I suppose I could think about the possibility of visiting her.”

“That sounds like a start.” Chase rolls up the chosen artwork and opens a doorway near his desk. “Ladies first,” he says.

“Right.” I need to go to Ryn’s now, where he’ll probably want to know where I’ve been all night—and I doubt he’ll settle for the vague answer Vi will already have given him: Underground. His protective tendencies were sweet when I was little, but I’m getting over it now. He needs to realize I’m no longer a child.

“Oh, before you go, I wanted to ask you something.” Chase rubs the back of his neck and hesitates, his mouth half open as if he’s about to speak. “Actually, don’t worry about it.”

He seems awkward suddenly, and I wonder if … maybe …
No, don’t be ridiculous, Calla. The cool, tattooed vigilante faerie does
not
feel that way about you.
“Well, now I’m curious,” I say as sprite wings flutter in my stomach.
No. You are
not
curious. Didn’t you learn your lesson with Zed?

“I was going to suggest something,” Chase says, “but …”

“You were going to suggest what?” I ask before the logical side of my brain can take over and stop me.

“I’m fascinated by your Griffin Ability and the opportunities it presents. I’d love to work with you, but with your loyalties strictly aligned with the Guild and their way of doing things, and me being …
not
with the Guild, it probably wouldn’t work out so well.”

“Oh, right, yes. That’s probably not a good idea.” Which makes it so confusing that my first thought was actually,
That would be so much fun!
It would be fun, but I have a feeling Chase operates outside the law, and that would be a problem for me. I step through the doorway Chase has been holding open with his foot and turn around. “Thank you for listening last night. And for letting me stay.” Then I walk into the darkness, try to put those intense storm-green eyes out of my mind, and think of the forest near Ryn’s home.

* * *

I walk through the trees for a while before heading back to Ryn’s. When I get there, Violet is out, so I have to face Ryn on my own. I tell him I spent the night with a friend. He says, “A friend who lives Underground?” I don’t answer, and, with what looks like extreme difficulty, he leaves it at that. Vi probably told him to give me a break. Hopefully she reminded him that when they were my age, they were running around doing whatever the heck they pleased. He then offers to take me to the Creepy Hollow Guild’s healing wing to see Mom and speak to the healers. After deciding that Chase might be right after all, I say yes.

The healing wing smells odd, like the substance Mom pours on the kitchen floor at home before reciting the cleaning spell. It’s stronger, though, and mixed with the underlying sweet scent of poppinies, the flowers used to make an exceptionally strong painkiller. I rub my nose as I follow a healer into a long room and walk between two rows of beds. Some of the beds are hidden by floating curtains pulled closed around them, while other beds are visible, their occupants sitting up and talking quietly with visitors.

“She’s in here,” the blue-uniformed man in front of me says, stopping and pointing to a floating curtain on my right. I thank him and he leaves. After a moment’s pause, I pull the curtain aside just enough to walk into the enclosed area.

I stand and look at her, a still, silent form in a neat, white bed. If not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the occasional flutter behind her eyelids, I wouldn’t believe she’s alive. I take slow, careful steps toward her. As I reach the bedside, slender branches rise from the floor and weave themselves into a stool. A cushion appears on top of it. I nudge the stool with my knee to make sure it’s sturdier than it looks, then sit down.

My hand inches forward and rests on the edge of the bed next to Mom’s pale arm. “Just so you know,” I whisper, “I’m really mad at you. I can’t believe you didn’t
tell me
. Why? You made up all these stories when you could have just told me the truth.” I press my fingers into the blanket. “You really need to wake up so I can shout at you properly. This whispering thing isn’t working. And also … it’s just freaky seeing you lying here like this. So you have to wake up. Okay?” I lean back and watch her, waiting, hoping that somehow my voice can drag her from the depths of this enchanted sleep. It doesn’t, though. Of course it doesn’t.

I stand, find the gap in the floating curtain, and push my way out. I walk past the row of identical floating curtains and out to the corridor where I last saw Ryn. A woman dressed in a pale blue healer uniform is approaching him from the other side. I reach him at the same time she does. “You’re Kara Larkenwood’s daughter?” she says to me.

“Yes. Do you know anything more about my mother?”

“Is your father here?” she asks. “I should probably speak to both of you together.”

“Um, no.”

“We don’t know when he’ll be here,” Ryn says, “so if you know something, please tell us.”

The healer’s eyes flick with uncertainty toward Ryn. “You are …”

“Linden Larkenwood’s son.”

“Please,” I say. “Whatever you know, just tell us. You’re starting to scare me.”

Ryn puts an arm around my shoulders. The healer clasps her hands in front of her. “The bottle that was found next to your mother had several drops of liquid left inside it. Our analysis spells identified it as a sleeping potion.”

I nod. “That’s what I thought.”

“Did you know how strong it was?”

“Well, she only took a few drops every night, so it must have been rather strong.”

The healer shakes her head. “Stronger than that. One drop could send a person into a deep sleep for days. It’s illegal to buy and sell potions of this strength without a permit. We don’t know how much your mother ingested, but if the bottle was full, we’ve calculated she could be asleep for …” The healer twists her hands together, looking between the two of us, possibly weighing how best to share this final piece of information.

“For?” I prompt, not willing to wait a second longer.

“At least a year.”

“
What?
”

“Probably longer.”

“That’s insane! How will she survive that long?”

“Potions of this sort are designed to sustain the body while—”

“Is there anything we can do other than wait?” Ryn asks. “Any potions or magic that can reverse the effects of a sleeping potion?”

“Not something this strong,” the healer says, then rushes to add, “but, uh, we’re working on creating an antidote. And our potion makers are very skilled. Don’t you worry, I’m sure they’ll come up with something.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO