Wicked Lovely (11 page)

He sighed. "Are you going to tell me what Beira wanted?"

Donia did look at him then, leaning her face close enough that he felt her words on his lips. "Beira wants the same thing you do: me to do her bidding."

He took several steps back. "Damn it, Donia, I don't want—"

"Stop.
Just stop." She pushed away from the building. "She wants me to convince Aislinn not to trust you.
Just a little pep talk in case I forgot my job."

She was hiding something: Beira wouldn't visit her for that alone. Evan, the rowan-man who watched over Donia, had said she was terrified when Beira left.

Terrified.
But she didn't trust him enough to tell him why.
And why should she?
He started to follow her, to try again.

"Please." Her voice wavered. "Not today. Just leave me alone today."

Then she walked away, closer to the railroad yard, as close as she could stand to go without collapsing. And there was nothing he could do to stop her, to help her. So he watched her until she ducked behind a wall and he couldn't see her anymore.

By nightfall Donia was composed again, but being down at the railroad yard had made her tired, so she'd stopped to rest by the fountain on Willow, a block over from Aislinn's house. She'd sent Sasha out to run, unwilling to ask the wolf to stay still when he wanted to roam.

The harsh streetlights reflected on the surface of the fountain, casting plum shadows in the courtyard. An old man with a well-loved sax played for the people who passed. Donia stretched her legs out on the bench, relishing the shadows, listening to the sax-man, and thinking.

In talking to the fey earlier, Donia had only learned that no one wanted to talk. Neither Beira's winter fey nor Irial's dark fey—who worked closely with the Winter Court— would admit to involvement. The solitary fey would only say they weren't comfortable in the park. The lack of answers was answer enough: by consent or directive, Beira had interfered.

She thinks this girl is different.

The sax-man played another mournful song. Donia shifted again, stretching out further, enjoying her solitude, cherishing the brief illusion of belonging with humanity. She'd never be that again—human. She didn't belong to their world, never again would. It still ached when she thought of what she'd given up for Keenan. Once the next girl lifted the staff, she would become just another faery— no allegiance to any of the courts, no responsibility, no place at all where she
belonged.

She still wanted that, belonging. Once she'd thought she belonged with Keenan. When she met him—before she knew what he was—he'd taken her to hear his friends' band. He'd even bought her a dress—a short little number with strands of beads hanging everywhere, swaying when she danced. And did they dance!

The band was unlike anything she'd ever heard before— three tall, thin men made love with the songs they wrenched from their horns, while a woman with a sexy torch voice crooned to the crowd, promising everything with her words and her body. There were others, a heavyset man with fingers that stroked the piano keys like he was caressing it. When they played, gods, it was like they funneled pure emotions into the instruments. Nothing had ever felt as good as listening to them play—nothing except moving across the floor in Keenan's arms. Nothing ever would.

Shaking off the longing, she closed her eyes, listening to the sax-man in front of her. His song was flat compared to the faery band in her memories, but blessedly mortal. There was no trickery in his song, no lie woven into the notes. It was
flawed,
and somehow lovelier for it.

She laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all: she could hear the most perfect music any day—fey with voices of unmatchable purity—but a half-talented old man playing for change in the park pleased her more.

From beside her, she heard Aislinn's voice, wary and thin, as the girl approached.
"Donia?"

"Umm?"

She
was wary, far more than Donia had ever been when the Winter Girl and Summer King had played her.
She'll need something to even the odds, especially if she
is
the one he's been seeking.

"We were walking by and saw you. Sasha's not here, so I thought…" Aislinn's voice trailed off. "Did he come back?"

"Sasha is fine. Sit with me." Donia kept her eyes closed, but turned her head to smile in Aislinn's direction. Aislinn's mortal didn't speak, but Donia heard his steady heartbeat as he stood protectively by her side.

Aislinn started, "We weren't—"

"Stay. Relax with me. We could both use it."

And it was true. After Keenan whispered his hollow words, his protests and reminders of what they'd once had, what she couldn't have, she was always out of sorts. If it'd been true winter, he'd be unable to bother her, but spring through fall he was out and about, tormenting her with his very presence. Never mind that he'd tempted her with empty promises; forget the fact that he'd stolen her mortality. Until another girl was willing to believe in him, she was trapped—watching him make them fall in love with him, knowing that the girls who chose not to risk the cold shared his bed. And they'd all refused the risk—choosing instead to be Summer Girls, refusing to lift the staff.
I
love
—loved—
him enough to risk the cold; they didn't.
Yet they had him.

"Ash?"
The mortal—Seth—motioned to a group of equally pierced people who'd called out to him.

"I'll be right here," Aislinn murmured to him with a weak smile. She folded her arms tightly over her chest.

"When you're ready…" He looked like he'd rather stay beside Aislinn, but she motioned him off—watching him as he passed the fountain.

Inside it young kelpies were playing. Like most of the water fey, they cared little for the other faeries in the park. They were still disquieting to Donia in a way that most of the fey no longer were, preying on mortals when given the slightest chance, drinking down their last breaths, somehow making death a sexual thing. Not even Irial's

Of course, Seth—like most mortals—didn't glance at them, but as he passed them they stilled, watching him with that eerie hunger they had. They could see the passion in him, feel it somehow, or they wouldn't watch him so.

Aislinn watched him too. Her breathing sped up; her cheeks flushed. Her willingness to be separated from him seemed to be a show for his benefit. She didn't speak, didn't relax.

Only a few minutes had passed when she announced, "I can't stay here."

"Still feeling weird about the attack?"

Donia felt pretty unsettled about it too, but for quite different reasons. If Beira knew Donia suspected her of violating the rules, if Keenan knew that Donia suspected that this mortal was the missing Summer Queen…
caught between them yet again.
Nothing was simple anymore. It hadn't been in so very long.

Beside her, Aislinn shuddered. She stared at the
fountain,
or perhaps past it where her mortal stood. "I guess it freaked me out a little. Seems unreal, you know? And the sort of things that come out at night…"

Donia sat up.
"Things?"

It was an odd word to chose, an odd tone in her voice as Aislinn stared toward the kelpies.

Can she see them?
How
very
unexpected that would be. There were stories of sighted mortals, but Donia'd never met one.

With a strange half-mocking tone, Aislinn said, "It's not just guys like those today. Even the pretty ones can be awful. Don't trust them just because they're pretty."

Donia laughed, coldly, sounding every bit Beira's creature in that moment. "Where were you when I needed that advice? I've already gone out with the biggest mistake a girl can make."

"Be sure to point him out if you see him around." Aislinn stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder.

And with that, Seth was already returning, attentive to Aislinn's every move.

Donia smiled at them, wishing someone waited for her like that—the way Keenan once had.

"Thanks again for the save." Aislinn nodded then and walked off, headed straight toward the cadaverous Scrimshaw Sisters, who were gliding over the ground with their usual macabre beauty.

She'll swerve if she can see them.

She didn't. She kept walking forward until one of the Scrimshaw Sisters drifted out of her path at the last possible second.

Mortals don't see the fey.
Donia smiled wryly: if they did, Keenan would never have convinced any of them to trust him.

Sometimes they contrived to induce, by their fair and winning ways, unwary men and women to go with them. —
Notes on the Folk-Lore of the North-East of Scotland
byWalterGregor(
1881)

By the time she was far enough away from the fountain to feel comfortable stopping, Aislinn thought she was going to be sick. She leaned into Seth, knowing he'd wrap his arms around her again.

His lips were against her ear when he asked, "More than meets the eye?"

"Yeah."

Seth held on to her, but he didn't say anything else.

"What would I do without you?" She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the vine-girls—or any of the other faeries—who stood watching them.

"You'll never need to find that out." He kept an arm around her shoulders as they started walking, past the place where the guys had grabbed her, past the omnipresent faeries with their crackled skin.

Being more assertive sounded good in theory, but she'd need to learn to relax a lot more if she was going to be able to talk to faeries. Donia might have rescued her once, but that didn't change what she was.

When they got to her building, Seth slipped money into her hand. "Take a taxi tomorrow."

She didn't like accepting money from him, but she couldn't ask Grams for it without making her suspicious. She tucked it into her pocket. "You want to come up?"

He lifted both eyebrows. "Pass."

Aislinn went up the stairs, hoping Grams was asleep. Right now, avoiding those too-observant eyes seemed like a good plan. She went inside and tried to walk past the living room.

"You missed dinner again." Grams didn't take her eyes off the news.
"Bad things out there, Aislinn."

"I know." She paused in the doorway to the living room, but she didn't go in.

Grams sat in her bright purple lounger, feet propped up on the stone and steel coffee table. Her reading glasses hung by a chain around her neck. She might not be as young as she was in Aislinn's childhood memories, but she still looked as fierce as she had then, still thin and healthier than many women her age. Even when she spent the day at home, she was dressed for the possibility of "callers"—her long gray hair coiled up into a simple bun or contained in an intricate plait, dressing gown traded in for a sedate skirt and blouse.

Grams wasn't
staid or sedate, though: she was uncommonly forward-thinking, and entirely too clever when she paid attention. "Something happen?"

It felt like a normal question, and if anyone heard, it'd sound like it too.
Always careful, that's the key to surviving among them.
Still, Grams' strong voice had more than a thread of worry in it.

"I'm fine, Grams.
Just tired."
Aislinn went in, leaned down, and kissed her.
I
need to tell her, just not yet.
She already worried too much.

"You're wearing new steel." Grams eyed the necklace Seth had given Aislinn.

Aislinn stood there—wavering.
How much do I say?
Grams wouldn't understand, or approve, of Aislinn taking an active approach to finding out what they wanted. Hide and look away: that was Grams' credo.

"Aislinn?"
Grams turned up the volume on the news and grabbed a piece of paper. She wrote:
Have
They
done something? Are you hurt?
and
held out the paper.

"No."

With a stern look, Grams pointed at the paper.

Sighing, Aislinn took the paper and pen. Using the coffee table as a desk, she wrote:
Two of them are following me.

Grams sucked in her breath, quietly gasping. She snatched the paper.
I'll call the school, fill out papers to homeschool, and…

"No. Please," Aislinn whispered. She put her hand over Grams' hand. She took the pen and wrote,
I'm not sure what
they want, but I don't want to hide.
Then she said, "Please? Let me try it this way. I'll be careful."

At first Grams stared at Aislinn, as if there were answers hidden under the skin that she could see if only she looked carefully.

Aislinn willed herself to look as reassuring as possible.