Ferrous (Fae's Folly Book 1)

by Valerie Mars

  “He’ll be performing, then?”

  “Yeah! He said he’s next. I’m actually super excited to hear him.”

  “Well, we better launch into the big brother talk while we’re waiting on food and Enzo, then.” She searches my eyes when my response isn’t immediate. “Right?”

  “Right,” I cringe-grin as the coffee hits my stomach like the firebombing of Dresden.

  “You’ve probably heard that our family comes from a long line of politicians. That’s true for my mother’s side, as well. She was the daughter of a regional Spring statesman, and her and my father met at a conference in the citadel. From there, they fell in love and became a dominating power couple. They were happy for quite some time, but they both wanted more. For my mother, it was a quiet family life away from the limelight. My father had higher ambitions, however. He aimed for the council seat. And so Ryland was born and my father’s long journey began.”

  She leans a cheek on her fist, other hand stirring her coffee endlessly as she continues. “The limelight didn’t end for my mother as she wished, however. She was still thrown into campaigns and dinner parties as my father’s spouse, toting Ryland around from festivity to festivity. Eventually she found reasons not to attend, and my parents started drifting apart. Not long after I was born, she met someone.”

  “Ah, so Ryland hates women because your mom ran off with another man?”

  “I’d say he distrusts women. But his discomfort with you runs deeper than that. You see, my mother’s new flame was also unhappy, and had taken solace in human creations. It isn’t unusual for someone disenchanted with fae society to look at Techie settlements as an alternative. Some come right back, but many stay. Anyway, time passed, and the two of them ran off together in search of greener pastures.”

  “How old were you and Ryland at the time?”

  “Four and fourteen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Mhmm. There’s a lot there. By then, Father was rising in the political world. Mother running off became a scandal so massive that he even tried dragging her back, but she wouldn’t do it. Not for her children, certainly not for Father, and not for her own health. I don’t know what she got into, but she deteriorated very quickly.” She sighs, shaking away the memories. “Father became a tyrant after that, obsessed with his creations not following in her footsteps. This ended once he took higher office, as he largely left Ryland to finish raising me. He and Father have worked tirelessly to restore our reputation. Ryland even took local office a few years ago.”

  “So they spend all these years distancing themselves from what your mother did and here drops this human girl during what was supposed to be a simple task for Ryland to prove himself to the council.”

  She stops stirring. “Exactly. You also somewhat resemble our mother, so you’re the perfect storm of everything he’s been working hard to erase from his life the past decade or two.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Yep. So here he is, feeling all this rage toward an innocent girl and everything she represents, while simultaneously enjoying certain aspects of you. This directly contradicts decades of using hatred toward anything human as motivation for everything he did, yet being unkind to you contradicts the person he is in practice. My brother is not an unkind man.”

  “He’s still a dick.”

  “No argument. But he knows that. And he knows better. So it all stews into this lovely miasma within him that he, least of all, knows what to do with.”

  “And what should I do with this information?”

  She moves her fist up to support her forehead, staring into the coffee for answers. “Whatever you wish. If the information buys you one more second of patience before you respond to him in equal force, I’d say you’ve used it well. I only ask that you refrain from throwing the knowledge back in his face.”

  “That might be a challenge,” I admit.

  “It always is with him.”

  27

  Mallory

  At some point, the conversation calls for a beer. At the onset, if I’m being honest. I’m nursing my second one after plowing through our eggplant-free food, hoping to quell the nerves I feel toward way too many men right now. Twyla eyes me slyly as my gaze drifts in and out of our conversation. Enzo’s deep into his setlist, and I’m deeply distracted by the way his tendons flex while he plays the guitar.

  I take a long sip of beer and will my eyes from the stage. “I know I’m a sloppy mess. I was in a dry spell before coming here, and now it feels like open season on Mallory Meadowbrook.”

  “You’re looking more like the hunter,” she accuses while pretending to notch an arrow.

  “Can’t deny that. Everyone’s so gorgeous here. That’s actually part of my interest in Enzo. He’s a little more human-like, if that makes any sense.”

  She zeroes in on the stage. “You have a point. He’s remarkably…plain.” Leaning over the table, she drops her voice. “It’s different here, you know.”

  “In what way?”

  “You can have them all, if they agree. It isn’t taboo.”

  “Have. Them. All?” I crack, my voice jumping an octave.

  “Life’s too long not to share,” she says, flipping her hair. “But monogamy is still very common. Some return to the same person decade after decade while others commit more short-term.”

  “Like one week sort of short-term?” I joke, because even kissing Bash last night was a bit out of left field for me.

  “Or one night,” she smirks. “What I mean to express is that you ought not to tear yourself up over this. Not when your time is limited and the rules are different, okay?”

  Her concern warms me, but doubt and discomfort twists my face into a monstrously lopsided grimace as I thank her. Enzo’s song finishes, and we golf clap while most of the tavern continues their conversations.

  “I have one more for you guys before Bertha kicks me out, so here’s an old song for a new friend. Feel free to sing along.”

  He launches into a finger-picked intro on the guitar, the melody made of tumbling triplets with the first note of each triplet held longer than the succeeding two. The effect is a jovial, jig-like cadence. After only a few measures, the people not paying attention begin to recognize the song and clap along. Whatever it is, it’s the tavern equivalent of a head-banger. I half expect the men to begin swinging their pints back and forth.

  I try to join in on the clapping, but it’s syncopated and I can’t seem to catch the patterns, so I focus on Enzo instead. Bright and clear, he tells the story of a Summer fae attempting to woo the Winter queen. When he gets to the chorus, everyone joins in, and I giggle from enjoyment. Things go a little better for the smitten Summer fae in the second verse, but by the end of the chorus and next bridge, we’re left wondering if he’s going to melt that ice or not.

  “This is the best part,” Twyla says. Several people rise from their seats, forming pairs that dance as Enzo hits an instrumental portion of the song. They all appear to be dancing the parts of the Summer and Winter fae, one dancing around the other as they attempt to gain their partner’s favor. Everyone remains standing for the final chorus which they belt out while dancing.

  I’m still not seeing anyone swinging beer steins, though.

  They sing and dance through the end of the song, clapping as Enzo takes a bow. He finds me in the crowd, blowing a kiss. The crowd follows his kiss over to me, hooting and hollering in its wake. I curtsy, and several laugh before returning to their seats.

  I feel my cheeks. “Definitely red,” Twyla assures.

  “I figured. Stuff like this only happens in fiction where I’m from.”

  She flashes a soft smile. “It’s not as common as this display would make it appear, but it’s a classic he did great justice to. You’ve found yourself a very talented friend.”

  “I seem to have a knack for that this week,” I reply, watching him approach. It takes a while, as he’s receiving several high-fives and slaps on the back while he work
s his way over. He eventually makes it, his guitar slung over his shoulder the same as before.

  “I’ve officially paid my end of the bargain, Meadowbrook,” he gloats.

  Twyla claps her hands together with stars in her eyes. “A bargain?”

  I groan. “If you could call it that. I told him I’d like to hear a classic I may have missed during my Techie childhood. He made it a bargain by agreeing under the condition that I teach him a Techie song.”

  “Sounds like a bargain to me,” she says with a wide smile.

  “I like this one,” he points. “If you’re finished in the lower city, would you like a ride back to the citadel? Bertha called me a carriage, and it’d feel far less wasteful if you accompanied us.”

  “Us, hmm? We better head back.” She gathers her things, all too eager to deliver me to Enzo.

  He grins triumphantly, his chocolate eyes promising fun.

  “So this is where they’re putting Separatists, huh? It’s—”

  “It’s enough,” I reply, noting Kai’s boots are still by the door. “My neighbor doesn’t have a window, so I’m more than content with this.”

  He frowns. “That isn’t fair.”

  “Would you like a glass of water? I’ve had about everything but, so you’ll have to excuse me while I briefly drown myself.”

  He emits a humored hmph. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

  “The drowning, or a glass of water?” I thrust out my finger. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Go get your guitar set up.”

  I chug water as he opens his case. Halfway through the glass, it hits me he’s over here to learn a song that I haven’t selected yet. I have no idea what I’m about to sing to this guy, and here he is tuning his guitar on my couch.

  The kids think I’m a real rockstar with “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” but I don’t think that’s going to cut it today. What the heck do I remember the chord progression to?

  I set the glasses on the coffee table and hover in place. He looks up from the guitar, noticing my hesitation. “You alright?”

  I suck air through my teeth. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, then you pop up today out of the blue. Truth be told, I haven’t thought of a song yet.”

  “No problem. Let’s fix that. What’s a song only a Techie would understand?”

  I’m trying to envision all the ukulele tabs I’ve scrolled through. It’s a lot of Ed Sheeran and The Beatles. One song sticks out as uniquely modern, though. Bruno Mars’s “The Lazy Song” is a Techie slang masterpiece. Chock-full of words unfamiliar to fae like “dougie” and “Snuggie,” it’s practically a foreign language. And the chord progression is simple enough that we can figure it out.

  “I’ve got it,” I announce. “Can you play me a G chord? I think it’s a G.” The six strings on his guitar ring out, and I find my starting note within them, nodding. “It might be a basic 1-5-4 progression from there, but don’t take my word for it.”

  He’s already swapping between chords as I speak. “I’ll follow your lead, no worries.” He strums the chord again, and I let him know the general strumming pattern as best I can from memory. We stumble through the opening lines a few times before nailing down the timing of chord changes. By the time we approach the chorus, he’s humming the melody with me.

  Long ago I was shy with my singing, but that was before open houses and toddler recitals. I got over it. The two of us laugh our way through the fumbles, Enzo’s laid-back nature making it feel like we’ve been doing this for weeks. We work through the song, and I get the honor of explaining why mankind decided they need a blanket with sleeves.

  We’re hitting our stride in a play-through—complete with harmonies sung by Enzo—when an envelope slides underneath my door. His frown matches my own as we continue to the end of the song. He belts out the most ridiculous vocal riff on the last note, and I high-five him while laughing.

  “I’ve enjoyed this way more than I expected. My only singing partners the past few years have been children, so it’s a real treat.”

  “Children? How many do you have?”

  “Oh, no no no. None from me.” Unsure if fae call them toddlers or not, I elect to use Tristan’s terminology. “My job in the settlement was taking care of the young’ins.”

  He lays his guitar beside the couch. “Did you enjoy it?”

  I hold my breath while mulling it over. “I didn’t mean to do it for long, but the little buggers grew on me.” As did my student loan interest.

  “I know what you mean. I’m the firstborn with eleven siblings. It gets chaotic, but the love you receive is like nothing else.” Eleven. That’s…that’s Spring, for sure.

  I nod. “I can’t tell you how many times I was having a bad day, and one of them would do something to melt my heart and make the world better. It makes the moments you’re covered in vomit slightly more tolerable.”

  “Been there,” he replies with a wrinkled nose before looking to the door. “Want to see what they planned for tomorrow?”

  My upper lip curls in protest. “Not really, but maybe it’s better I have someone here to help me cope.” I trudge over to the pale blue envelope, opening it on my return. Sitting next to him, we read it together. I get sidetracked by the smell of fresh cotton halfway through and have to retrace my sentences.

  There’ll be another mingling activity in the form of a game, then a follow-up akin to show-and-tell with magic. I don’t recognize the game.

  “What’s fire-water-cold?”

  He frowns. “I thought the Techies would have that. It’s a game school children play. You really don’t know it?”

  “Can I learn it in a night?”

  “In a minute, even. You face your opponent like this,” he says, angling his body toward mine. “And you say ‘fire-water-cold’ in unison before displaying one of three gestures.”

  “This is rock-paper-scissors, isn’t it? Each gesture prevails over one while losing to the other?”

  He nods, but conflict weighs on his features. “In what world would paper win? Are you sure this is the same game?” He ain’t wrong.

  “Same game; different science, apparently. Let me guess: Water beats fire, fire beats cold, and cold beats water by freezing it?”

  “Right you are. These are the gestures.” He points four fingers upward. “Fire.” Next, he directs all fingers toward the ground. “Water—like rain.” Last, he aims four fingers to the side. “Cold, like a frigid wind.”

  That symbol would be on Ryland’s calling card.

  “Got it. Help me practice a little so I’m not flashing the wrong signs tomorrow?”

  He eyes me with a roguish grin. “Ready to make another bargain?”

  “Name your terms.”

  “Best two out of three gets to ask the loser a question.”

  “Done,” I say, bearing a fist over my palm.

  “Fire, water, cold!”

  He wins the first two rounds decisively, as my hands are slow due to muscle memory insisting I form scissors or rock. He leans back, head tilting in consideration.

  “Do you have any nicknames?”

  Lately, I seem to have many. “Mal or Mali are common, but there’s also been ones like Mallybrook and Mal-gal. There was a Miss Malum once, but I don’t think that one was affectionate.” I assume the position. “Second match?”

  His win again.

  “How did you befriend someone like Twyla Everhart as the new Separatist in town?”

  “Her brother was part of the group that found me. I like her a lot more.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Nah-uh-uh, buddy. Save that for your third win. Ready?”

  He wins the match yet again, but I do win the second round after noticing he has a tendency to tighten his mouth before throwing the cold gesture.

  I cross a leg. “What ever might your question be?”

  “Who were the other members of the group that found you?”

  “Kai Varigarde and Bash Ankerstrand. I like them better
than Ryland, too.”

  “Ankerstrand, huh? I met him last night. He was the life of the party at our table.”

  “And surprisingly complex,” I note. “Next match?”

  “Ready.”

  His mouth tightens, so I hit him with fire and take the first round. Losers have a tendency to change, so I play cold next in anticipation of him playing water.

  I take my first win. “Oh my god, finally.” I don’t showboat as he did, but simply smile and stare. He’s a relatively open book, so I don’t want to waste the question on information when it’s easily attained. I’d rather ask something of him he’s evaded thus far.

  “Will you agree to come find me during the event tomorrow and say hi?

  He looks off to the side for a moment with narrowed eyes before returning his gaze with a soft smile. “Sure.”

  “One last round?”

  “I’m in.”

  I lose again, go figure. He’s cleaned up his face.

  He wastes no time launching into his question. “Would you like to do this again sometime?”

  This spawns more fear within me than what I did with Bash last night. Bash brought me here. Bash knows I’m going home. Bash will probably be present when I do go home. But people like Enzo and Ferra…what’s it going to be like for them when I up and disappear?

  How have I not realized what being a spy in exchange for my ticket home really means? You don’t grow a new secret agent persona who doesn’t care about these things overnight upon agreeing to spy, Mallory. Not that they presented me with the option to decline, anyway. Maybe after I’m gone, the council can have a talk with my handful of friends and tell them they’re sorry for their losses, but to know it was for the sacrifice of the greater good. I’m sure that’ll make it better.

  Now I’ve gone too long without responding to Enzo. His eyes are losing their spark, his confidence faltering. There’s no way for me to avoid pain for everyone involved, is there?