Inimical

by Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  Syl catches my lament and teases, “Oh, don’t be such a grump.”

  I find myself grinning at her good nature and returning the flirtiness. “Who’s a grump, little Miss Stompy Pants?” When I first mentioned letting Syl drive, she immediately tried to back out. I had to push her to be spontaneous.

  Me, a dark Fae, steeped in rules and traditions.

  Let that sink in for a minute.

  Once she got into the “driver’s seat,” there was no stopping her. She’s a complete bat out of hell. It’s that Summer blood in her, all fire and adventure. That, and I’ve always been daring and impulsive.

  I guess we both rub off on each other.

  An added benefit of nearly dying with every corner she takes is that my dark self doesn’t make one single peep about how close I am to my girl. I can just enjoy the ride.

  We roar up on Chimborazo Park. It’s a hot summer day, but thankfully, there’s a bit of a breeze to take the edge off. People are out in force, playing Frisbee, walking their dogs, biking, picnicking. I’d so rather be doing any one of those things with Syl.

  As usual, once the Fae drama started, we’ve had very little time to ourselves.

  I’m hoping the baseball diamond will be in use, but nope. No such luck.

  Becca and company have already commandeered it. They’re out in force, in matching uniforms, stretching and playing catch. Waiting for us. As cool as they are, though, they all ogle Syl driving my giant black and violet Harley.

  Syl gives a little snort of laughter, her amusement shooting down the soul-bond. She turns to me, grinning—“Showtime”—whips her baseball cap off and plunks in on my head.

  I’m the princess of Dark Faerie. One day, I might be queen, if Syl and I survive the Great Convergence.

  And I’m wearing a William Fox Elementary School baseball cap (and yes, the team name is the Foxes). But my girl’s getting such a kick out of seeing me in it, I don’t have the heart to take it off.

  Instead, I tuck it down like I mean business. “Showtime.”

  25

  SYL

  While Fae are stronger, faster, more athletic

  A Fae in the mortal realm must be careful

  Not to reveal her true nature

  Lest Faerie rebel against her

  - Glamma’s Grimm

  * * *

  Whiff! The sound of the bat meeting only air makes me cringe. Chuck’s shoulders slump, and he lowers the borrowed bat with a thunk on the home plate. His tawny-brown hair flops over one eye, and he pushes it back.

  “Strike!” Jazz plucks the ball from her catcher’s mitt and tosses it back to Becca on the pitcher’s mound. She catches my eye as she crouches back in place. “That’s one strike and two outs, Skye. Only two strikes to go.”

  Becca’s smile is perfect.

  Mine would be, too, if my team was winning by a mile.

  I’m afraid to even look at the scoreboard. 10 - 1. Ugh, shouldn’t have looked, Syl! Roue’s scored our only run, and we’re in the bottom of the ninth.

  Reluctant, Chuck sets his stance again, but he looks more afraid of the ball than anything else.

  “Let’s go, Chuck!” Pru’s the first to shout encouragement. “Knock it outta the park!”

  “You can do it,” Lennon chimes in, and several of the other kids shout their support.

  “Get some, Chuck!”

  “Yeah!”

  “You got this!”

  At least my team’s got heart.

  “Come on, Chuck!” I cup my hand by my mouth so he’ll hear me over the others. “Step back from the plate. You can do it!”

  But can he? Doubt shows in his eyes, and he stumbles over his own two feet as the pitch comes, easy-breezy. Becca puts it right over the plate. Insult to injury and all that.

  Swish! Another swing, another miss.

  “Ugh, Chuck, you’re swinging too late!” Nazira’s annoyance is evident as she rattles the dugout fence. Naz probably shouldn’t talk since Dani caught two of her pop-flies last inning, but we’re all stressed.

  No one wants to lose to Becca’s team.

  “I’m trying.” Chuck sighs, then mutters, “Maybe I should just quit.”

  “Time out!” I leap onto the field, making the universal T sign with both hands, and beeline over to Chuck. He’s shaking, he’s so upset. I know he doesn’t like to be touched so I don’t. Instead, I pitch my voice low and gentle. “Hey…it’s all right. Try to relax a bit.”

  “I hate this.” He hunches like he wants to hide inside himself. “All the kids make fun of me.” His face crumples.

  Suddenly, I feel like a Grade-A jerk.

  I shouldn’t have pushed him into this. I shouldn’t have pushed any of them.

  “Hurry up, grandmas!” Maggie yells from her position on second base.

  Silently, I vow to make it right.

  Starting with this. I ignore her and turn to Chuck. “Listen, I’ll finish your ups. Go on back to the dugout.”

  “Really?” He smiles a watery smile.

  “Only if you promise to work on it with me. Later.” I eye Becca. “When there are less prying eyes around.”

  “Deal.” He leave his floppy hair to cover his face, but at least he straightens a bit as he heads back to the dugout.

  I take his place at home plate.

  “What the hell, Skye?” Dani demands, hands on hips.

  “I’m pinch-hitting for Chuck.”

  Jazz throws a fit. “You can’t do that!”

  I give her my best impression of Roue’s glare. “Ball’s not in active play, Jazz. I called time-out. Check your rulebook.”

  She stands up, yanking her catcher’s mask off. “Who died and made you umpire?” She gets right in my face.

  Okay, she’s got me there, but we don’t exactly have an ump.

  “No big deal.” Becca waves it off. “Let her bat.” She looks at me, an evil glint in her eye as she punches the ball into her glove again and again.

  Just the slap of the leather makes me break out in a cold sweat. I hesitate before stepping to the plate, my mind hurtling me back to a day in the 8th grade. Bases loaded, two outs, and two strikes. One more pitch. That’s all that stood between me and utter victory—or utter defeat.

  That, and Becca Buchanan.

  Back then, I was going to William Fox and she was at Binford Middle School.

  Their star pitcher.

  I still remember the moment before the pitch, how time seemed to slow down…my hands sweaty on the bat, my cleats gripping the gravel… Then came the slider, and my world lit up in blinding white pain and black unconsciousness. It didn’t even matter that I was wearing a batting helmet.

  I woke up in the ER, my jaw broken and wired shut.

  They say she didn’t hit me on purpose, but they didn’t hear her before the game. “I’m going to take you out, Skye. Faulty equation. Erased from the board.”

  At the time, no one took her seriously.

  I remember the gleam in her eyes, how she aimed right for my head—

  “Are you gonna bat or what?” Jazz’s voice cuts my memory off.

  I swallow a lump of dust in my throat and give the Aureate Queen in my pocket a little squeeze for luck. Throwing on a batting helmet, I step to the plate.

  Everything feels weird. It’s been a thousand years since I held a bat, since I played softball, since me and Dad—

  A blur of white wakes me from my funk. The ball!

  I swing. Whunk! I get a piece of it, but it flies out of bounds.

  “Foul ball!” Jazz calls.

  Darn it!

  The Xi jogs over from short-stop to grab the ball and toss it back to Becca. Oh, did I mention the Xi is on their team? Yup. The killer dark Fae assassin who wants my head on a platter and they’re fielding in my foul ball.

  At least the Xi’s not attacking us outright. For now. For some reason. But whether it’s because Roue’s dad has other plans or the Xi’s too busy making heart-eyes at Becca, I can’t be sure
.

  Becca winds up.

  Crack! The smack of the ball, my jaw, waking up in the hospital.

  I had to eat through a straw for two months.

  Whap! The sound of the ball hitting Jazz’s glove wakes me from my funk.

  “Strike three!” The glee in Jazz’s voice echoes across the diamond. “Yooooooooou’rrrrrrre out!”

  All the blood in my body rushes to my face, my heart ramping up into dread/ horror/shame mode. Jazz races to the pitcher’s mound, grabs Becca, and lifts her up. Their entire squad explodes into cheers, everyone rushing Becca and patting her on the back.

  “You got her good, Becca!”

  “Ten to one! Eat that, losers!”

  Only the Xi stays silent, watching me with those ice-blue eyes until Becca pulls away from Jazz and goes to explain it to them.

  I focus on that so I don’t have to feel like a complete loser.

  My closest guess with the whole Xi/Becca thing is: Becca thinks the Xi’s some kind of foreign exchange student.

  She’s not totally wrong.

  Meanwhile, my team’s slumped in the dugout, disappointment staining their auras a cloudy grey. I’m their leader, and I just struck out.

  “Syl?” Roue’s sending is gentle, but that gentleness hits all my Cry Right Now buttons.

  Tears threaten, my throat closes up. My fight-or-flight response kicks in.

  I want to stay. I should stay, apologize, promise to do better next time.

  But I’m ashamed of sucking so hard.

  I look down at my old cleats, memories bombarding me: Dad helping me pick them out at REI, Dad showing me how to field grounders, Dad hitting pop-flies for me, Dad, Dad, Dad…

  Tears blind me as I throw off my helmet and run across Chimborazo Park, all “elbows and arses,” as Glamma would say. I don’t know where I mean to go or what I mean to do.

  I just need to get away.

  As soon as I’m out of sight, I throw up a don’t-see-me Glamoury and call on my fairy wind. Gusts of Summer blow hot around me, enveloping me, and whoosh! I windwarp away, to the top of an old weather-worn monument.

  I spend a long moment looking down at Becca and her friends. They’ve taken over the diamond. Becca is hitting pop-flies, and they’re fielding easily, each member working with the others like a precise machine.

  They’re going to kill us on game day.

  I wipe my tears on the hem of my shirt. I failed my team today, and that hurts worse than the memories of Dad coaching me. Every day after school, we’d practice for hours—fielding, hitting, running bases, practicing to steal, to slide into home.

  He was the one who first put a bat in my hands.

  I remember how proud he was when I got MVP in the 7th grade. I beat Dani, I beat Fiann, I even beat Becca. She’s never forgotten.

  Becca and I competed in a lot of things—sports, academics, Mathlete competitions, you name it. She was only point-zero-two points ahead of me in her GPA. I won the state math championships. She won the science fair. She was way better at soccer, field hockey, basketball, but softball…

  We were equals on the softball field. Until she hit me with that pitch.

  I never played again.

  And now Dad’s gone, and all my good memories have turned into pain and loss and missing him. I haven’t let myself think of him too much. Mom needed me to be the strong one, so I was.

  I windwarp away, the warm Summer winds drying the tears on my cheeks.

  Mom was devastated when Dad left. For a while, he was sending us checks from…wherever he was. We never knew. And then those stopped coming. Since then, I’ve feared the worst, but I’ve never said anything. Not to Mom, not to Roue.

  Not to anyone.

  I pour on the speed, not even looking where I’m going. I want to leave all this behind, my good memories turned bad, my failure, Becca, softball.

  But I can’t. The old pain comes back to remind me.

  I speed past Fulton Gas Works, where Roue and me had a major throwdown with Fiann only a few months ago. The remnants of gasometer are strewn all over the trampled grass. My heart’s ramped up into the stratosphere, and I feel like I’m going to explode.

  I stop and put my hands on my knees. Deep breaths, Syl. Calm down.

  But still… The Summer in my blood boils, and my heart cries out.

  Something calls back. “Syl…Syl…Syl...”

  I feel it tugging on my bones, my blood, the power of OverHill pulling at me. My dad calling me. I’m locked out, but Fair Faerie is pulling on me. Somehow.

  Not somehow. Somewhen, Syl.

  My people, my realm, needs me.

  Sudden flashes of my nightmare come rushing back: the Aureate Throne, me crowned in sunfire, holding a blazing white dagger, stabbing Roue—

  No! I run from that, too, from responsibility, from shame at losing, from the anger that boils up inside me—at me, at Dad and the way he just vanished when I needed him most.

  "Syl, Syl, Syl…”

  His call comes again, yanking hard at the Summer in my blood. The world tilts sideways. My body temp rises, my vision doubles. I smell heat and dandelions, wildflowers in full bloom. OverHill. Pain rockets through me. It’s like I’m being torn apart, part of me anchored in the mortal realm, but my Fae blood pulling me to Fair Faerie.

  Syl, Syl, Sy—

  “Hey.” Rouen’s voice, her hand on my shoulder silences the call.

  I slump into her arms. “Roue!”

  “Oh. Oh, hey…” Surprise and worry shoot down our bond. She steps in and pulls me close. I melt into her embrace, needing to get closer. “I’ve got you,” she whispers, kissing the top of my head.

  I burrow deeper into her strength, her sinful autumn scent. She wraps me up, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

  She presses another cool kiss to my forehead, her Winter power wrapping us both in a chill caress. It’s cold, but in her arms, I feel only her. The warmth of her body against mine, the comfort of her arms.

  “Let’s go home.”

  I don’t argue. I’d go anywhere with her. I’m just glad we get to go home, where all my failures seem to matter less.

  26

  ROUEN

  All the Gates are closed

  To us

  Let us be open

  To each other

  “Open & Closed,” Euphoria

  * * *

  Fae can lie all we want, but truth be told, I love holding Syl like this, carrying her. She’s warm and soft in my arms, and her need for me satisfies all my protector instincts. The only downside is her nearness riles up my dark self. Dark-Rouen rises up inside my soul, pounding away at the cage I’ve locked her in and clamoring to own Syl, possess her, to keep her as mine and only mine.

  It’s bad.

  In two blocks, I’m gritting my fangs, my entire body trembling with want and need. Luckily, Dark-Rouen’s thoughts don’t seem to bleed down the bond.

  Even so, Syl senses…something.

  She snuggles deeper into my embrace. “I trust you, Roue.”

  Her words tear at my heart. “I know you do, princess.” And I’ll never betray that trust. Not for anything, not even for my own people. I’ve known this for some time now. It’s one of the reasons I never wanted to challenge my father.

  Because for me, there is no choice.

  On Midsummer, if it comes to it, I’ll put that icy dagger into my own chest.

  If we let you, Dark-Rouen rumbles. You won’t have a choice.

  Her deep, rolling chuckle sends shivers down my spine. We’ll see.

  Thus begins my game of Step on a Crack, except instead of breaking my mother’s back, I envision pounding Dark-Rouen back into her prison in the deepest pits of my soul every time I step on a piece of cracked pavement.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp! Sorry, can’t hear you over the sound of my boot in your face.

  Finally, she gets tired and sinks back into the depths of my soul.

  Good riddance.

  Feeling a li
ttle bit lighter, I zip down the streets of Richmond center, through Fulton Hill, to the tenements of Jackson Ward. The sun is setting, hitting the windows of the rundown buildings like sun flares.

  It’s late. We’ve missed dinner, but I know Georgina will understand.

  Georgie and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. Except when it comes to Syl.

  I carry her all the way home, burrowed into my embrace, her hands bunched in my black tank top. My anger’s a deep, icy-cold well inside me.

  I’m ready to freeze the world for her. Full-on apocalyptic Winter.

  I want to hurt the people who hurt her.

  But for now, I take care of my girl. My fairy wind carries us to the fire escape outside Syl’s open bedroom window and then disperses in ice and frost. I duck inside with Syl in my arms.

  “Thanks,” she whispers. I set her down, and she immediately flops onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Gently, I set her glove and her father’s on the bed between us. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” My girl winces and then sighs. “I don’t, but…I don’t want you to think I flaked out because I missed my swing. I’ve missed plenty of pitches in my day.”

  I keep the surprise off my face.

  Sometimes I forget that Syl used to run with Fiann’s crowd, a group of popular, sporty, well-to-do socialites. Used to being the operative term.

  “It’s never flustered me like this.” Syl pushes a mass of red curls back from her face. “Dad always said the expert’s failed a million more times than the beginner’s even tried. Meaning: you’ve got to suck before you get good. Y’know?”

  I squeeze her knee. “I do.”

  “I…” She plucks imaginary lint off her Gryffindor comforter.

  “You don’t owe me any explanation.” I take her hand. As usual, her touch sends warm tingles racing through me, head to toe. I shiver pleasantly, but if we’re going to actually talk, I need to move away from her.

  Otherwise, my dark self might forget the face-stomping I just gave her.

  I push away gently and turn to face Syl.

  She toys with the bigger glove, tears shining in her eyes. “It was my dad’s. Before he left. We played a lot when I was a kid…” She sniffles, and I feel her pain through our bond. “I-I don’t want to talk about him, though.”