The Unfairfolk (Valenbound Book 1)

by Sara Wolf

  “Why -” He starts slowly. “- are you afraid of me?”

  “I’m not.” It rolls off my tongue before I know how to stop it. I’m not afraid. Not of him, not of anyone. I’m not afraid of red. I’m not afraid of pain. I’m not afraid of people. I’m not. I’m stronger now.

  I’m sixteen years old now, and I’m not afraid of anything.

  Alistair takes another step forward with his boots and like a trap instantly snapping shut - like a fucked-up mirror image - my converse dart backwards. He tilts his head in an ‘I told you so’ way.

  “Can we skip the doth protesting too much and get to the truth?”

  “It’s because you beat Gabe up,” I stammer.

  His mouth flattens. “And I’d do it again. He’s twenty-seven, and Borbeau’s a fourth year -”

  “I know,” I interrupt. “I know that now. He’s…taking advantage of Borbeau. Like a fucking creep.”

  “Then you know why I had to do it.”

  “Yeah - pedos deserved to be punched. But why do it in front of everyone like that?”

  “You’d prefer I privately break his nose? One-on-one?” He considers it, and then points a stray pinecone at me. “You know, you’re right. What’s really lacking from justice these days is an intimate atmosphere. Maybe next time I’ll light a nice candle, put on some smooth jazz -”

  “No,” I wince. “Just…why the big audience?”

  “Because,” He sighs. “It’s not just about punching him - it’s about sending a message to every other worm who’s thinking of trying it.”

  “And what message would that be?”

  “If you fuck with Silvere, you fuck with me.”

  The light, unaffected boredom that naturally oozed out his pores a second ago is nowhere to be seen. His brows set hard. His easy features, his tired posture - all of it sharpens in the time it takes him to say that one sentence. He’s so serious. Drop-dead, ten-ton-heavy serious.

  “Why get all serious about a school? Why is it so important to you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” A snap works into his voice. So I pivot with another tactic.

  “Borbeau hates your guts for what you did.”

  He laughs, self-satisfaction flooding back into his expression. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh - the sound like metal-striking-metal. Harsh and quick.

  “Sometimes doing the right thing means being hated, new girl. People don’t like taking their medicine, but they still have to.”

  “But -”

  He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls something out. It’s that small pad of paper I saw him write on earlier. He holds it up, flipping through the pages slowly. There’s dozens of names, all written in precise ink, all of them numbered. A list. He sees me looking.

  “It’s a ledger. Of everyone who ‘hates’ me,” He says evenly. “I’ve done something to every one of them - reported their smoking, detention for being late, broken up their make-out sessions, and then there are the more serious crimes. Unsavory bits. I’ll spare you those.”

  “Why would you -”

  Let’s see,” he muses, then points to the end of it. “The most recent offenders. There’s Borbeau; ‘Beat up her pedo boyfriend’. Ah, there you are, Pierce. Your reason for hating me; ‘Completely unknown’.”

  I’m quiet. He’s not.

  “As far as I can tell, you’ve hated me the second you saw me. Before I gave you detention. Before anything. Usually it takes a little more than that for most people.”

  “Why would you keep a list like that around?” I change the subject. He shrugs.

  “It’s a nice reminder. And a convenient paper trail - if anything happens to me, the police have a perfect list of suspects. You included.”

  “Why would anyone - what about what people think -”

  “As long as Borbeau’s safe -” He cuts me off. “ - I could give a shit what people think.”

  “You should. Give a shit.” I press. “Because if you keep making people hate you, one day you’re gonna end up all alone.”

  “And how is that any different from now?”

  The question is so quick, so heavy, I stagger. A hammer to the side of my head. Dizzying, unanswerable. I try anyway.

  “You have Maria. And Rafe. They’re your friends -”

  “Their families have a vested interest in my father’s company,” He cuts me off smoothly. “They’ve shadowed me since fourth year because their parents asked them to. They were asked to be my friend. And that’s not really a friend at all, is it?”

  My mouth works faster than my brain; “Why?”

  “They’re hoping I’ll put a good word in for them to my family. To the people my family knows. So, no. I don’t consider them friends. If anything, they’re parasites. I’m the host. And we’re in a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  “That’s -”

  “Friendship isn’t a realistic concept,” He cuts me off again. “It’s for stories. For movies. In real life, people come and go. They take what they want from you, and then they leave. And that’s just the way things are.”

  He says that like it’s fact. Like it’s a law of the universe written in steel and diamond - something that can never, ever be changed. I thought I was jaded, but he’s been dipped in the stuff from head-to-toe. I almost - thisclose to almost - feel sorry for him. Carrying around a list of people who hate you, thinking friendships are pointless…from anyone else, I’d say it reeks of edgelord. But the way he talks about it - the tiredness in his voice. The matter-of-fact, weather report way he lays it out. There’s not a hint of dramatic, or purposefully edgy. Just exhaustion.

  “How full of shit are you?” Alistair asks abruptly.

  I blink. “Full to the brim, pretty much always.”

  “I meant your bag.”

  “Oh. About halfway.”

  “Then consider your time served,” He ties his bag closed. “Leave it there, and I’ll take it to the incinerator. Don’t let me catch you running in the halls again, or I’ll make you clean the rose maze next time.” When I give him a blank look, he adds; “The students like to leave their used condoms in there.”

  I scoff and start to walk back to the dorm when I hear a shuffling in the pine needles behind me.

  “New girl, your -”

  I whirl around. He’s so close I can see the loose threads in his black jeans, the way the burn scar on his chest peeks through his collar and all I can remember are the bloodstains. The blood. Too close. Too sudden. My heart beats against the roof of my mouth.

  Don’t give it away, Lilith. He’s still the fox waiting for you to come out of the tunnel. They all are. Act cool.

  “What’s up?” I ask lightly.

  “Did you hurt your leg?” He points.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you hiding a limp?”

  Fucké. Did I not disguise it good enough? I swear I did. I’m used to making sure no one worries, Mom least of all. California made it easy - barely any cold. But here it’s harder.

  “Don’t -” I swallow. “Don’t worry about it.”

  There’s a long quiet. Alistair narrows his eyes. “It’s your knee, isn’t it?”

  Asshole. Asshole asshole asshole. Stop. It’s less real if you don’t talk about it.

  “Nope. I’m perfectly fine, thanks.”

  There’s that quiet again, me staring defiantly at the tree trunk over his shoulder and him frowning that impossibly long, impossibly tired frown. God, it fucking hurts. My kneecap feels like it’s made of needles, needles stabbing into and out of each other, my whole leg trembling with the effort of staying straight. But I won’t let this dickhead see that.

  “Ridiculous,” He finally mutters, breaking the staredown by rustling around in his pocket. He pulls out a plasticy something and tosses it into my hands. I just barely manage to catch it. The text is in all French, but it looks like something…medical?

  “A heat-relief patch,” Alistair rumbles. “Put it on. It help
s. I promise.”

  “Why do you -” I bury a disbelieving laugh. “Why do you have one of these?”

  He shrugs. “I carry things around. In case someone gets hurt.”

  “Like the people you fight?”

  “The people who pick fights with me, you mean,” He corrects.

  “You can’t expect me to believe -”

  “The list should be evidence enough.” He taps the book in his breastpocket. “Here at Silvere - no. Anywhere in the world. If you ruin the wrong entitled person’s fun, they get violent. Rich kids in particular are known for short tempers. They aren’t used to not getting their way.”

  If we talk, it’s easier to ignore the pain. “You could just walk away.”

  “And let them abuse someone else? I don’t think so.”

  “So I’m supposed to believe every fight you’re in, you’re just defending yourself?”

  He shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “Believe what you want. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Nothing to -” I gape like a fish. I look down at the heat-patch and contemplate just straight-up tossing it at the garbage bags. I don’t need his bullshit, or his pity, or his thorny attitude.

  “It does help,” Alistair presses. “I use them frequently.”

  “For what? Your tiny aching brain?” I scoff, and instantly regret it when my eyes flicker down to his chest, where the burn scars peek out. Scar tissue gets tight sometimes and aches. I know that. He…he probably knows that, too.

  He takes a step forward. Every trap in my mind-maze snaps closed at once, one of them grabbing me by the ankle and rooting me in place with iron teeth. He’s too close, so damn close I can see the way the aurora light catches each dark strand of his hair. I can smell salt-sweat and, faintly, the spicy part of black tea. Bergamot. An unsubtle one. A difficult one. Not easy like rose or mint. His eyes flicker back up and meet mine - an accident. A crashing of two cars, two trains colliding on the opposite tracks. Our gazes flinch away at the same time.

  “Use it or don’t,” Alistair suddenly snaps. “I really don’t care.”

  He grabs the two trash bags, lugging them over his shoulder as he walks away. When I’m sure he’s gone, like, gone gone, I put my hand to my chest and tell the rabbit beating its feet against my ribcage to calm the hell down. We survived, didn’t we? He came close, and we didn’t get hurt. This time. Who knows what could happen next time.

  There won’t be a next time, if I can help it.

  As I walk painfully and slowly out of the forest, my breathing evens out. All the traps reset themselves, springs creaking, jaws yawning open again and waiting for the next one who gets too close. Shitload of good they did. They’re supposed to protect me, not catch me, too. I blame my knee. Hurt too much. Distracted me. Why doesn’t Ciel set off any of my alarms like he does? It’s the red, probably. The blood. First impressions are everything. All I can think about when I think of Alistair now is blood.

  The sharpest jab in my knee I’ve felt all night makes me stop. Can’t keep going. Not like this.

  I stare down at the heat-patch like it’s my mortal enemy and unwrap it, grumbling the whole time.

  “If this doesn’t work, Prickland, I swear -”

  I press the pad on just below my knee, and a soothing warmth ekes into my muscles bit by bit. It’s not gone, but I feel okay enough to make it to Knight Lyon, at least.

  So, yeah. It worked. But like shit I’m ever gonna tell him that.

  I look back one last time at the incredible skyline before I go in. This time something feels different. Familiar. From where I’m standing the shadows, the lights of the chateaus, the auroras and the line of trees - it all looks familiar. I’ve seen this before, this exact snapshot. But how? Purple and green auroras. Wavy purple and green colored pencil lines. The chateaus - all the windows side-by-side, scribbled in messy yellow pencil.

  I turn my head creakingly slow. Across from me, the line of trees, the shadow there -

  It can’t be.

  My brain melts into white noise.

  I bolt into Knight Lyon, past the crowded common room and the blaring 4k TV and up the spiral stairs, the stained glass doves mocking me as they fly so easily upward while I’m clumsy and slow. Pure molten adrenaline blurs the pain better than any heat patch. My converse thud heavy down the carpeted hall and my fingers furiously wave the card in front of my room’s electric lock. The door swings open and I dive for my backpack, pulling my notebook out and flipping frantically through the pages until -

  The girl’s drawing.

  I pivot and limp down the hall, down the stairs, and back out to where I was standing in front of the chateau, the exact spot. My hands quiver as I open the notebook again, holding the picture up to the world in front of me.

  The lights, the lawn, no moon - it’s all the same, down to the purple and green she chose for the aurora. Down to the length of the trees. It’s the exact same place, with the exact same buildings in the same location. The same exact angle. How? She even got the chateau windows to my right down to a tee; three by two, with a door interrupting them. Knight Augustin’s on my left, except I can only see two windows from this angle.

  And she’s drawn only two windows on the left.

  How the hell -

  The distant trees, hers scraggly with brown pencil, line up perfectly with the wooded area I just came from. The thing standing in front of them - the thing she drew, that stomach-churning dark stick figure with red eyes and a thousand piranha teeth - just stands there in front of the wooded area, a ring of small, round white things around its feet.

  The perfect circle of mushrooms I saw just minutes ago.

  Fairy ring.

  Slowly, inch by trembling inch, I lower the picture, and look at the real world.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but darkness in those trees.

  13

  The Drawing (Or, How no one believes you until it’s too late)

  “On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to believe me when I say I met a little girl with ESP?”

  “Uh…” Ruby ponders this. “Like, a negative four?”

  With the phone facing me and swaddled in the pristine white comforter of my room like it’ll protect me, I tell her everything. The notebook sits on my desk, definitely closed and definitely as far away from my physical body as possible.

  When I’m finished, a silence settles over the line. Until Ruby says;

  “Isn’t it like, one in the morning there?”

  “Midnight. But I can’t sleep anyway,” I brush it off. “I know it sounds nuts, but I have proof.”

  I send her the photo I took of the exact spot on campus. And then I send her the picture I took of the drawing in my notebook. There’s a second, and I blurt;

  “Did you get ‘em?”

  “Yeah. I’m looking at them now.”

  “Look at the windows - its the same number of them on the same sides. And the aurora in the sky - it’s the same color the little girl chose. Green and purple.”

  “Holy shit,” Ruby exhales. “That thing in the corner is creepy. What’s it standing on?”

  “The mushroom ring I told you about. Prickland called it -” My voice lowers of it’s own accord. “ - He called it a fairy ring.”

  “You saw it? Like, for real?”

  “Forreal forreal,” I pull the comforter around me tighter. “The ring, not the thing. What if it’s a ghost?”

  “We went over this in third grade, Lilith - ghosts don’t exist.”

  “That was in America! Maybe they were chilling in Switzerland all along!”

  “Go try Bloody Mary in the bathroom just to be sure.”

  I eye the mirror gleaming out at me through the open door, still steamed-up from my emergency stress-relief boiling hot shower.

  “Don’t even joke about that right now. I’m in megababy-mode.”

  “Okay, sure, the drawing looks really similar,” She sighs. “I’ll give you that. But it’s just a dra
wing. Kids have wild-ass imaginations.”

  “Wild-ass imaginations that recreate an exact moment in the future they won’t even be there for?”

  “Maybe she’s seen that place at night way before you. If I was a kid and I saw an aurora like that, I’d never forget it. I’d draw it every fucking day.”

  “With unicorns and princesses frolicking in the background,” I hiss. “Not monsters with red eyes and long teeth.”

  “Maybe she likes goth stuff. Maybe she had a bad dream.”

  “I’m having a bad dream! Right now! It’s called you not believing me!”

  “I believe you, I promise,” Ruby assures me. “It’s just hard, is all. People don’t see the future. They just…don’t. There’s gotta be some explanation. Or it’s a coincidence.”

  I stare at the notebook warily.

  “Get some sleep, okay?” Ruby presses. “And maybe things will make sense in the morning.”

  “Y-Yeah,” I agree. “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you too, dingus.”

  She hangs up, and I watch the empty screen longer than is spiritually healthy. Who am I kidding? Of course she’s right - there has to be an explanation. I’ve read way too many of Mom’s old-ass Agatha Christie murder books to think otherwise. There’s an explanation out there, and it doesn’t involve demons or ghosts or fairy circles. Maybe I’m just overblowing this. I wouldn’t put it past my lonely, homesick brain to look for the smallest speck to use as an excuse to call Ruby and hear her voice over and over again.

  I’m safe, up here on the third floor of the chateau, snugly sequestered up in reality. The smell of the mango shampoo of my shower lingers, comforting. My door’s locked. My windows are closed. There’s no closet. I can’t hide. But I don’t need to.

  He’s gone.

  I don’t need to lock every door, check every window. There are no more monsters coming to get me.

  (we got rid of them all)

  I collapse on the bed in a flattened cocoon, and slowly doze uneasily into dreamland.