“She was the one who killed my parents,” I blurted out.
Logan was quiet for a moment. Eventually, his investigative skills began firing off.
“I don’t understand. Solana was the woman in Rylee’s dreams,” he said. “How can she be real? Or is Solana less of a person and more of an idea? Is that the name of a cult? Is it some kind of social movement?”
“Will you shut up and just listen to me?” I could feel the fire as it returned to my voice. “I don’t know how many more times I need to tell you this, but so many things you don’t believe in are real. It’s all fucking real. Solana is real. Faeries are real.”
“I realize you believe that,” he said. “And I know this whole fucking town believes in all sorts of that stuff too, but there has to be some logical explanation for these kids going missing.”
“Will you stop with your fucking logic already? The fae aren’t logical!”
Logan threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Fine. If those are the parameters we’re dealing with for this case, then humor me for a minute. Right now our prime suspect is a woman with big black eyes and long black hair who appeared in a seven-year-old’s dream. How are we supposed to bring Solana in for questioning?”
I felt my nails digging deep into the upholstery of the seat, and I gritted my teeth as wave after wave of anxiety washed over me.
“Faeries. Are. Real.”
Logan let out a heavy sigh.
“But how the hell do you know that for sure?”
“Because I am one!” I yelled. The words came out my mouth with such force that strong, steady, stable Logan Hawthorne actually flinched.
“You want proof?” I asked as I turned to him. “Watch this.”
By the time we climbed out of the car, the rain had turned to a light drizzle. Normally I would’ve reveled in it, but tonight I couldn’t care less.
“Where are we going?” Logan asked.
“Follow me.”
I headed straight to the edge of the parking lot to where the asphalt gave way to grass, finding exactly what I was looking for.
“What do you see?” I asked him.
He squinted through the soft rain and shrugged.
“Just a bunch of mud.”
“And what else?”
“And . . . I dunno. Can’t we do this back in the car?” he asked.
“No. Tell me what you see.”
Again, he looked down at the ground.
“Um . . . Some torn up grass, some crumpled weeds . . . a smashed dandelion. Looks like a car backed over it.”
“Exactly.”
Puzzled by how glad I was that he’d noticed this, he frowned and shook his head. I looked back down at the dandelion, so sad lying there, all smashed down into the mud. In that moment, I mourned for the small plant.
“Why do you look like you’re about to start crying?” he asked me. “It’s just a weed.”
“Just a weed? This plant had a life, and it gave others life, too!”
He took a step back and wiped the rain from his face.
“Whoa, sorry. Didn’t realize you were such an eco-warrior.”
“Just watch me, okay?”
Kneeling down in the mud beside the flower, I placed my hands on either side of it and created a little shield with my fingers.
“What you gonna do?” Logan teased. “Say a prayer? Give it a eulogy?”
Ignoring him, I gazed at the shriveled leaves and what was left of the annihilated bloom. It looked like a lost cause, but not to me. I could save it.
I filled my lungs with damp air, closed my eyes, and then, as gently as possible, sent a current of energy out of my hands and over the dandelion. Logan towered over me, probably thinking I was a legit crackpot. But I’d be the one who had the last laugh.
I rose to my knees and waited. A few seconds went by.
Nothing happened.
“Elena . . . ”
“Just watch.”
“I’m watching. Nothing’s happening.”
“Give it a fucking minute, would you?”
To an untrained eye, and especially a human one, I’m sure it did look like nothing was happening. But I could see the signs of life as clear as day. The withered stem started to plump up. The faded leaves began to fill out and grow more vivid in color. I could hear the sound of life being drawn back into the plant. I could even smell the chlorophyll return to its cells.
“Keep watching,” I whispered, feeling a little buzz from the excitement. “This is my favorite part.”
With curiosity overwhelming him, Logan knelt down beside me. Another whiff of his clean, woodsy scent wafted over me in the drizzle. I pushed the observation aside and focused on the dandelion.
“See?” I couldn’t help pointing it out to him as I studied his expression. “Can you see what’s happening?”
At first, he just stared with his perpetually skeptical expression. Then he started to notice the changes. The damage from the tire that had run it over vanished as the stem filled out, green and plump. It pulled itself out of the mud to stand upright. The mangled flower turned to the sky as its petals grew back and fanned out in a vibrant shade of yellow.
“What . . . the fuck?” he whispered. “How are you doing this?”
With a smile, I leaned forward and cradled the dandelion in my hand, giving one last surge of energy to nudge it back to its full splendor. It fanned out its leaves as though it was stretching after a long nap.
“Did that just happen?” Logan kept looking at the dandelion, then back at me before staring at the dandelion again. “Is this some sort of magic trick?”
“It’s not a trick. It’s magic.”
“I just . . . I just . . . ” Aww . . . The poor guy was at a loss for words. His face went alarmingly pale as he couldn’t take his eyes off the plant. “I just don’t understand.”
I laughed under my breath.
“Dude, we’ve barely scratched the surface. I don’t expect you to understand everything, but it would be great if you’d accept that I’m a fae.”
He was deep in thought, frowning as he scrambled for some sort of logical explanation. He must’ve remembered me telling him that the fae weren’t logical, because he opened his mouth, closed it, then hesitated before speaking.
“So . . . you’re not human. You’re fae.”
“Yep.”
“Do you have powers? I mean, clearly, you have powers.” He gave me a curious look, although he wasn’t anywhere near losing his shit. “What else can you do?”
“Lots of things. It’s all on my resume.”
He pinned his eyes onto mine.
“Really?”
“No, dumbass!” I laughed. “But asking me what I can do is like me asking what you can do. We’d be here forever.”
Logan took another long, deep breath, oblivious of the world around him. Meanwhile, I noticed that it was getting dark and the rain had stopped.
“I still don’t . . . I still don’t understand what just happened.”
“I took something that was almost dead and brought it back to life—that’s what just happened.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back. “Call it a blessing my tribe has.”
“So . . . can you bring people back from the dead?”
“No,” I said with a disgruntled shake of the head. “It only works if there’s still enough life left in the body. If someone’s like, a hundred percent dead, that’s it. Game over. I’ve seen actual dead things brought back to life, and . . . well, let’s just say it’s not good.”
Logan shook his head, still bewildered, but he was right there on the edge of coming around.
“Are we talking zombies here?”
“Pretty much,” I nodded. “It’s not like the movies where there’s a virus that spreads. You’d need some pretty serious dark magic to reanimate a dead body. The more magic is used, the more it takes. That’s why I used a dandelion as an example. I’d rather not have a magic hangover in the morning.”
He nodded slightly as he processed what I was saying.
“Right . . . so, there’s a kind of balance. A give and take. That makes sense. I mean, none of this makes sense, but I guess that part does.”
Gradually, he turned to face me before putting his hands on his hips to keep them from trembling.
“Ever since we first met, I knew there was something different about you,” he confessed. “I’m guessing this explains your obsession with sugar.”
Not bothering to hide my grin, I nodded. As I looked into his eyes, I could actually see the paradigm shift taking place inside his brain. I could see how the world as he knew it was starting to peel away and reveal that there was so much more to it, if only he was willing to see.
Looking down at the dandelion, I saw it was closing for the night. I knelt down and gazed at it, thinking about all the bees and butterflies it would feed the next day.
“Sleep tight, little guy,” I said, gently tickling the yellow petals as though it was a tiny little hummingbird. “I’ll come back and visit.”
Logan’s deep-thinking frowny face was kind of cute, although his eyes were still full of disbelief.
“Now you’re the one who looks like he’s gonna pass out,” I said. “You okay, partner?”
“I’m not sure.”
Standing up, he kept his eyes focused on the dandelion, now the brightest plant for miles. Its new vibrant yellow petals outshone all the nearby flowers so it sat like a beacon of vitality amid the mud and dirt.
“I’ve got so many questions,” he said, turning towards our rental car.
“I figured as much, but can we get something to drink? I’m dying for a soda.”
He shot me another quizzical look.
“Soda? I was thinking of something stronger.”
I had a fondness for dive bars and had quite a few favorites back in Virginia and Maryland, but nothing compared to The Drunk Chicken. It was the only watering hole in Yarbrough and brought with it a whole new level of dive-bar realness.
Even the smell was authentic.
It was hard to pin down; it wasn’t good, but after sitting in it a while you got used to it. Tobacco smoke permeated everything. There were notes of mold from countless spilled drinks that had been wiped up in a hurry . . . or not at all, and the stank of sweaty roughnecks was so thick you could almost taste it.
Situated in what looked like a dilapidated barn, it was filled to the rafter with loggers, miners, farmers, truckers, bikers, and other salt-of-the-earth folks who made up the backbone of this community. Their hands were thick and calloused, with dirt and grease under their nails and tattoos on their hairy arms.
The best thing about this crowd was that they took one look at my hot pink hair, glanced at the gold-plated Glock holstered at my hip, and went back to their drinks like it was no big deal. I’m sure we weren’t the only ones packing heat.
I climbed onto one of the available bar stools and ordered a Jack and Coke and an order of nachos.
“Half size or full portion?” the burly bartender asked.
“Full. Thanks.” I set down a twenty-dollar bill and had a drink in my hand within thirty seconds. It was exactly what I needed right now . . . the perfect mix between adult beverage and sweet, caffeinated goodness. The burn at the back of my throat comforted me and I relaxed back in my seat, hoping that the duct tape patch on the cushion wouldn’t stick to my ass.
Tuning out the noise of the other patrons, I focused on Hawthorne as he hung up his jacket on the coat rack near the door. Although his trembling hands had grown steady, he still looked a little pale when he asked the bartender for a beer and a shot of Jameson.
“Are you seriously that shook over seeing a dandelion come back to life?”
“Shook? I don’t know about that. A little unsettled, maybe,” he admitted. “That shit was weird.” I watched as he took the shot and ordered another.
“Well, if you want a career in the OCD, you’ll have a lot weirder stuff to contend with. Believe me, zombie dandelions are the least weird thing you’ll see.”
He took a long sip of his beer and ran his hand through his hair absentmindedly, leaving it sticking up in some places like a toilet brush. As the color and warmth returned to his cheeks, he looked about ten years younger. I had to hand it to him—he was taking this information pretty well. I suppose he never would’ve graduated from the academy if he was the type to get flustered at the drop of a hat.
“So . . . Are you gonna tell me how you did that with the flower?”
“I told you. I’m fae. That’s why I have my own special cutlery and a shiny gold Glock. I can’t touch iron. It burns me.”
“It burns you?” he asked. That shrewd skepticism was back in full force. “Prove it.”
I rolled my eyes, half-tempted to kick him in the shin. The whole cute jock from next door look he had going on was losing its charm fast.
“Fine,” I said, reaching for the roll of silverware the bartender had left for when my nachos arrived. I peeled off the paper holding the napkin in place, letting the spoon, fork, and knife slide onto the counter. “Pick one up and rest it against your arm. See what happens.”
Hawthorne reached for the spoon and pressed it into his forearm.
“How long do I do thi—”
“That’s long enough. Now do it to me.” I held out my left arm and pushed up the sleeve of my jacket. He’d only set the back of the spoon against my skin for a few seconds when it started to sting and burn. I grimaced, but I waited as long as I could before jerking my arm away. Hawthorne’s jaw fell. Not a lot.
But enough.
The perfect oval of burned skin was dark pink and was starting to puff up and blister. All from a run-of-the-mill stainless steel spoon.
“So that’s why you carry around your own silverware?” The half-haunted, totally bewildered look came back into his eyes. “That’s why you asked Mrs. Brown for a different glass, isn’t it?”
I nodded my head.
“Shit, Rivera—we should put some ice on that.”
“It’ll be gone in half an hour,” I said, and carefully pulled down the sleeve. Just then, the bartender set down a massive platter of nachos underneath my nose. I was so hungry I started to drool. I took another sip of my drink before plowing into my second attempt at a meal that day.
“But why would stainless steel burn you?” Logan asked. “That’s not iron.”
“Sure it is,” I replied. “It’s 98% iron. Hard pass.”
“What about soda cans? I’ve seen you carrying those around just fine.”
“Aluminum cans are made of aluminum,” I explained. “They’re fair game. So is tin, copper, silver and gold. I just can’t deal with iron.”
I loaded up a corn chip with fixings, then shoved it into my mouth.
“So you’re really a fae . . . ” he said into his glass of beer. “It’s like finding out you’re an alien or Sasquatch or something. Although . . . ” He trailed off, watching me scarf tortilla chips covered in shredded chicken, cheese, sour cream, jalapeños, black beans, and corn salsa. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost? Watching you eat is giving me flashbacks of Slimer from Ghostbusters.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled with my mouth full of food. “I’m way cuter than Slimer.”
“Your eyes are almost that same shade of green,” he pointed out with his glass before swallowing another gulp of beer. “It’s not natural. It shouldn’t exist.”
“But it does, and so do I.”
He set down his drink and fiddled with a coaster, but his eyes remained on mine.
“How many of you are there?”
I was grateful that the Drunk Chicken was quiet enough to hear each other talk and loud enough that eavesdropping would be tough. The music was steady, yet soft. An old jukebox was playing oldies on it, and every now and then we’d hear a scratch or a pop, which only added to the atmosphere.
“Not a lot. I mean, not up here on the surface. I shouldn’t really be up
here either. I should be down in The Hollows . . . back in my home realm.”
“So why aren’t you?”
My stomach dropped as I prepared myself to tell him my story. In all my years up on the surface, I had only confided in Chief Harris about where I came from, but even he didn’t know all the fine details.
Should I tell him? I asked myself. Would Logan understand? Would he believe me?
As I sat across from his watchful gaze, I felt a vulnerability that I’d never experienced before. I was going to lay myself bare to this man who, until today, didn’t believe in a single thing he couldn’t see or touch.
Could I really trust him?
13
Elena
No, don’t tell him! the protective part of my brain yelled at me. You can’t trust humans with your true identity. As soon as they find out, they’ll find a way to exploit you!
But as I looked into Logan’s eyes, a sense of calm came over me. I could feel his energy. I could feel that he wasn’t like most humans. He was . . . dare I say it, trustworthy and kind?
One more look deep into those dark blue eyes, and I knew my instincts were leading me in the right direction. I swallowed my nacho, slammed the rest of my drink, and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.
“The reason I left The Hollows . . . ” I began, feeling my heart beat a little faster, “is because of her—Solana.”
A deep rage drifted up from far, far down inside me the second I said her name out loud. To me, it wasn’t just a name. It was an evocation of evil. A sound so dark it wasn’t a name at all but an utterance of pain and heartache. It was a name that didn’t deserve to be heard from my lips.
“She’s the current Queen of Elphame,” I told Hawthorne. I could already see the wheels spinning as questions popped up right and left in his brain. Luckily, he kept his mouth shut and just listened to me. It was refreshing.
“The thing is, she shouldn’t have ever been queen. Elphame belonged to me—I mean . . . my family. They’d ruled over it for thousands of years.”
Wiretaps & Whiskers (The Faerie Files Book 1) Page 12
