Thorns of Fae

by S L Mason

  “You’re Seelie, aren’t you,” I state.

  He turns from the fading Fae light and smirks. “Yes, but not just any Seelie— the first Seelie. That is a story for another time and place, granddaughter. Sarinah, eat and rest so you may win.” He reaches to cup my cheek, and I let him. His eyes soften.

  The tender look of paternal love pushes back all his bravado. He blinks and snatches his hand back.

  “Any last words of advice before I march off to possible death and dismemberment?” I allow my own bravado to cover my moment of trust. He has risked everything to be here helping me. My neck works to take the tightness away. I’ve never before felt the love of a grandparent, I had thought they were all dead. But here Puca stands in all his glory— I’m sure he believes he is glorious. Showing me love isn’t just a word you say, it’s something you do.

  “You can only open a portal to a place you’ve seen. When the end comes, you will need to make a choice. Don’t make the obvious one. Chaos or death are simply a stepping stone to something else.” Puca locks his jaw down. The wall shimmers behind and pulls apart to reveal the cozy sitting room he took Lavender to. He leaps, and it closes before he lands on the other side. I am alone with all my crazy thoughts.

  CHAPTER 19

  Deston's words still ring in my head, every action could cost someone I cared about their life. He is blackmailing me by holding them over me. For all I know, he has Zoe, Olive, Brad, and Camille. Though I've got a feeling Brad would rather die than come back.

  I could let myself out of this room, I could leave the castle. But what about my friends? What about Arty? What would happen to them? Puca said to stay put.

  Wherever Arty is I know he’s still alive, and Jacques knows how much he means to me. I showed that hand a long time ago. If I just kept my mouth shut and not been so obsessed about getting both of us out of here, the Fae would never have known.

  They took us together. I'm sure Janice told Deston how we were yelling at each other, fighting for each other. They probably thought we were in love. Janice knows better now.

  I can stare out the crystal windows till kingdom come, yet it won't change anything.

  I have to finish this and quickly.

  The door swings silently open, the lock didn’t make its usual click. Why bother with the locks when the iron works so much better? But the burning iron magic never wakes out to me from the door. I eye the jam behind my new guest with some interest. What else had they done while I was gone?

  Facing my guest, I expected to see Deston, but instead, I am stuck with Pinky, my unwanted, long-lost one-time Fae maid. Her hottie attitude was unchanged. Her lips turn down in a glower.

  "Where’d they dig you out of?" I cross my arms and cock a hip out.

  "My lady." She narrows her eyes while setting a food tray down. Calling me ‘my lady’ clearly leaves a sour taste on her tongue.

  "What you don't recognize me? Is it the hair or the pointy ears?" I click my tongue.

  Her eyes dart over my face and body, brows rising in surprise as she surveys my face.

  "No, my lady, I recognize you. Course, you've changed so much since we last saw each other." Pinky’s reply is cold and dry and laced with innuendo.

  I release a humorless laugh at her discomfort. I don’t even remember Pinky’s real name. At the time, I didn't care—I was afraid of Fae and wanted to leave. Now I want to stop them, rule them, teach them you can live without being an asshole.

  She ran on quickly, trying to hide her feelings. "The rules weren't laid out for everyone. Some of us just thought the princes were toying with humans, creating some distractions to help us all get over our sorrow.” Pinky turns her head to inspect the room, searching for something: Lavender maybe? “If I had known, I would've treated you with more respect." The lie wakes off of her. She could've just had it tattooed on her head in day-glo colors, liar. It would look fab in scrolling cursive, with maybe a little tribal line down the side. I smirk at the vision.

  "Don't bother with your lies, Pinky. I don't care whether you would've treated me better or not. Leave the tray and go. I have no time, patience, or interest in talking to someone who can't even figure out what the truth is or which side their bread is buttered on," I retort, crossing my arms. Then, thinking twice about it, I loosen them to hang open and ready at my sides.

  “Why would you butter bread on both sides?" she inquires with a quirked eyebrow and hitched lips.

  “Exactly. You can’t answer the question since you don't understand the euphemism. So, you’re really just wasting my time. Is there anything else you wanted to say?” I demand.

  Her jaw clenches together. I can see it working back and forth as she grinds her teeth, ears wiggling with each clinch.

  "You won't rule, you know—they won't allow you to be Queen. No one wants you to be Queen," Pinky spit the venomous words, unable to hold her ire back anymore.

  "Just because I'm here and you all hate me, doesn't mean I won't be in charge. And when I am in charge, I'll remember who helped me and who hurt me. You haven't helped." I smile.

  I didn't think it was possible for her to become a lighter shade of pink, but she did, Pinky paled.

  "My lady, I am UnSeelie, you can never ask us to support a Seelie Queen. We will respect you, follow your orders, but wanting you? That won't happen. We only want our own kind and you cannot fault us for that." It was a plea for understanding.

  Her plea fell on the deaf ears of the millions of humans the Fae butchered. In that moment I see how easy it would be to kill all who stood in my way. I tasted this bitterness before with Nikki as I watched her kill Nick. Then again when Jacques used his magical control to force Arty away from me and back to his den of vipers.

  "I can fault you for it, I don't care if you want your own kind. If it hadn't been for the last Queen this whole charade would never have happened. She's the one who told you to go to the surface, where you'd find the next Queen. She's the one who put all of this into action, and if it wasn't for her and her vindictive nature all those humans would not have had to die.” I shift from one foot to the other, keeping my stance open for attack. I don’t care what the rules said about challengers. Deston had already sent one assassin, so why not another? “But you guys don't give a shit. You don't care who you hurt or kill. You’re too busy running around acting like crazy, wild people with no manners. Apparently, no one's ever taught you."

  The vision of Deston’s smug smile after he kissed me brings on a desire to gag. The UnSeelie are cancer to be culled from the world. They feel no remorse for all the suffering they brought to the world. The UnSeelie Queen did all this, and they wanted another Queen just like her.

  I want to turn my back on her lying Fae face. She’s telling the truth about the UnSeelie court. They will never accept or respect me. It'll be a constant battle, and everything I say is going to be twisted and used for some nefarious purpose.

  I begin again. "You know, I don't need you to stay and watch me eat. I'm perfectly capable of getting a fork to my own mouth without a babysitter." I throw the words over my shoulder at her. I just want her to leave. Hearing no reply, I turn and steal a glance at her.

  Lyra, her name was Lyra. I dredged that one up from the fat file of I don't care.

  She crosses her arms, without saying a word and stands her ground, refusing to leave until I’d eaten. I fake calm under her scrutiny— her actions made me suspicious. Nothing about the food gives off a strange wake. It all looks perfectly normal, but it’s always perfectly normal until it isn't.

  Doesn't matter, tomorrow's the final challenge. I can't run the risk of being weakened by hunger, and the food tastes normal enough. But with the butterflies in my stomach pulling flip-flops I hardly taste any of it. A glass of some kind of juice is off to the side. I’ve never been much of a juice drinker, instead preferring water and coffee or tea. My mother said juice was poison. The wakes coming off it are normal and it smells flowery and sweet.

  "I'm finished, so
can you go now? I'd like to go to sleep before I murder or get murdered tomorrow." I give her a pinched tight-lipped smile.

  "My instructions were to not leave until you had finished the entire tray." She plasters a half smile on her face and cocked her hip to one side mimicking me.

  I curl one side of my face at her. It’s a snarl, but I didn't care. Tomorrow I’ll either be dead or running this whole shit show. "The tray is empty unless of course, you’re blind as well as stupid." I threw the last part in out of spite while wiping my lips on the silky cloth napkin and throwing it on the tray for good measure.

  "I beg your pardon, ‘my lady,’ but you still have something left—a drink, I believe," Lyra gives her smug reply and points at the seemingly innocuous cup.

  Now I found her cheeky pressing of the subject not only curious but suspicious. "What's so special about the juice?" My eyes linger on the cup, but under scrutiny, it comes up boring. The wakes say it is normal, inert.

  "There is nothing special about it. I'll prove it." She snatches up the glass, takes the smallest sip in the world. Then, she extends the cup toward me.

  I take it in my hand and sniff at its flowery, sticky sweetness, then take a big gulp, setting the remainder down on the tray.

  "See? All done. Now go!" I spit at her.

  Her face painted with a self-satisfied smile, she picks up the tray and saunters out of the room. She hums the cleaning song as she goes, and the tray cleans itself.

  Before the door closes, I know what she did. She took just enough of a sip to get me to drink— it was her job to trick me. They sent Lyra because Lavender was gone. Besides, Lavender wouldn’t have done it.

  My mother was right, juice is poison—why didn’t I listen?

  My vision darkens around the edges. My muscles loosen, and I relaxed back onto the bed. My eyes drift closed and darkness swamps me.

  CHAPTER 20

  On the edge of my consciousness, a cold permeates, seeping deep into my bones. I roll over, only to encounter more cold. My neck aches from the angle of my head. With a dry mouth and crusty tongue, I smack my lips together, running my tongue around the inside. My eyelids scratch with every blink because they are covered in a crust all their own.

  I choose a gray blob and focus on it, only to focus on the dark, silvery gray of dead trees surrounding grayish-black rock. The room wakes of death and decay.

  A couple more minutes lying on my side allows my drugged sleep to ease away. Stretching my cramped and achy limbs, I hear the creaking of joints.

  Is this how Sleeping Beauty felt when she got up after lying in bed for years? Did they dust her off?

  Propping my torso up on my elbows and pressing down with my hands, I turn my head to get a good look at the room.

  It is round and made of old stones and dead trees—they didn't wake back anything that felt living. I can't tell if the floor was actually rock or wood that has been dead so long it is petrified. The windows in the room are no larger than an archer’s perch. Otherwise, it is completely empty, suspiciously vacant of stairs or doors nothing. I can't even discern a break in the flooring.

  I rub my hands over my eyes. Maybe if I clear a little more of the foggy drug out, I can see a way to escape. But after rubbing for several minutes and getting rid of all the crusty eye boogies, the visage still hasn't changed. I’m still staring at dead trees and crumbling rocks.

  I take to my feet, and the whole structure groans, and the floor shifts. Nothing happens, and other than further groaning from the flooring as I step across the room it doesn’t seem as though I am in any immediate danger.

  The Fae got me in here somehow, and clearly, I didn’t fly through a window — they’re too narrow. There must be a way out. All the rocks and wood in the walls fit together seamlessly as if the castle was built as they grew the trees around it. Everything was odd shapes, and there was no symmetrical meeting of edges. Some of the stones are shaped like triangles, some fit like a puzzle piece right around the branch. Others have branches sticking out of the center as if they'd used the trees themselves like rebar. But it is all dead—long dead. There aren't even any dried leaves or remnants of life. The only thing left in the room is dust and cobwebs.

  Cobwebs?

  My eyes dart up around the rafters I don’t see any spiders, but clearly, there must be some here. They clearly left their mark behind. The cobwebs appear old, but age doesn't mean they’re unused—could be a part of their web they'd forgotten or not visited recently. What had Lavender said about spiders in Fae? They’re bigger than the ones on the surface? A shiver runs over my body, bigger spiders. I shake my head, rubbing my arms up and down over my shoulders. Now I know how Indiana Jones felt when it came to snakes.

  The floor groans again, and I slide my feet across the surface. I have to get out of here. Think. However they got me in here is clearly still here, all I have to do is figure it out. I just need to systematically check every stone and branch to see exactly how it fits together and if it comes apart. I go to the window with the most cobwebs around it.

  I ran my fingers from the floor to the ceiling. I examine every inch I could reach painstakingly. Taking my time, I examine anywhere that even remotely looked like it might be meeting lines for an opening.

  It all ends up being nothing more than just more space on the wall filled with sticks and stones. Who builds like this? Construction is supposed to have rhyme and reason. Who am I kidding, this is Fae, so there is no rhyme or reason. It’s all about amusing themselves.

  Oh my God, that's it. I have to look for the part that has rhyme and reason. Everything else will be whimsical, not making any sense. Throw in the rhyme or reason, not because it makes sense, but because they feel as if it’s obtuse simply by putting it there.

  I have to take the room as a whole, not in its smaller parts. I put my back to the window, and I can hear the wind howling outside. The rustling caused the eaves of the roof to groan.

  It strikes me, one of the windows isn’t real. It's fake, like a painting or imaginary a trompe l'oeil. And I fell for it. How much time did I waste scouring this place?

  The light outside isn’t fading but that no guarantee they didn’t enchant the windows so I never know what time it is. The window I stood beside gives off a cool breeze raising the hairs on my arms. I thrust my arm out to be sure it’s real, then pull my arm back in and move to the next one. It has cobwebs lingering around the edges. I rub my hand up and down on my leather britches. The idea of the creepy crawly spider silk clinging to my skin makes every part of me tingle with revulsion. I open and close my eyes a few times, and I thrust my hand into the windows opening, nothing out there but the fading light of Fae illuminating the skin on my arms. The window reveals nothing more than my own day-glo Fae markings. I light up like a Christmas tree. I will never get used to that, I don't care if I live to be a thousand years old. Seeing my own skin light up like a night-light is going to creep me out to the day I died.

  I proceed to the final window. I should've seen it before, but I missed it, too busy thinking it was real and not seeing it for what it was—just a trick of Fae: something to make you believe it is something it isn't.

  My arm doesn't go through, stopping dead as my fingers crush into a stone hole. I grope around only to stumble upon a wooden lever. I clasp it and pull it down, only to encounter a skittering and click, clicking. Like knitting needles clacking together. It comes closer and grows slowly until finally, it stops. I crank the handle over and the stones swing open to reveal a narrow, winding staircase twisting down into the gloom. I have just enough time to look behind me and see the giant, black, multi-faceted eyes of a spider.

  My heart rate shoots through the roof. It came through the thatching and I watch in horror as the last bit of straw falls back into place. The clacking is the spinnerets sticking out of its ass, and it isn’t alone, it came with friends.

  All three of them are black, with a red star on their bulbous backside. I frequently have nightmares about tara
ntulas and cane spiders. They were large but compared to these big boys they were nothing more than gag gifts to fool your friends.

  These were the mother-of-all Black Widows all lined up on me. I dart my eyes down to the gloomy stairs and seize the rope handle. I whistle up my rope charm and grab ahold, allowing it to drag me down to wherever it led.

  My heart beats 1000 times a minute, and the clacking follows after me keeping time with my movements. I chance a glance back to catch they aren’t far behind, each one hanging from its own silk cord.

  My terror is now palpable, my hands moist with fear. Before I can stop myself, I fall through the break in the rope and tumble to the floor. It only takes a fraction of a second before one pounces on me. Six of its legs lock me in place, pulling me toward its spinners. I crane my head to see the shiny black needles rubbing against each other, oozing the sticky silk from its body. The clacking roars into overdrive, creating more of a vibration versus and old lady knitting in a rocking chair.

  I grab a hold of the lip in a step to pull myself away. Anything to get away from this giant bloodsucker. But its legs have some kind of hairy knives locked into my skin. I kick at what I assumed is its thorax, and the adrenaline pulsing through my veins throws my energy into overdrive. The spider rears back, and I whistle at the other half of the rope. The end glistens with its enchantment, waiting for me. I pull my arm free of the little needle-like knives on the spider's foot, but it drags me back at the last second. I scream with frustration and kick out again, using the force of my feet against its belly to leverage myself onto the rope. My hand touches it and I’m pulled away, but the clacking doesn't stop, it simply slows down. One is behind me and one of my feet is covered in spider silk, but where are the others?

  The magic tugs on my arm, drawing me down, and my leg is pulled up, dragging me back up. The spider closest to me digs one of his knife-like hairs into the leather of my pants and strains back. A second leg digs into my leg, cutting the leather away. I watch as a mushroom form on a stair, then the wall.