“Call me if you run a fever or start to get worse. If you’re still swollen in the morning, you need to see a real doctor.” He pushed down the feeling of guilt for getting her into this mess.
“Sure was lucky you were driving a truck tonight and not your motorcycle.”
She said it casually. A little too casually.
“Until Samhain is over, I thought it would be for the best. The Unseelie Fae have a field day this time of year.”
She regarded him with an expression he couldn’t quite pin down. Part assessing, part thoughtful, and entirely serious. Her green eyes were the darkest he had ever seen them and the light frosting of freckles on her nose contrasted sharply with her paler-than-usual skin. The purple streaks of hair framing her face appeared more prominent too.
His chest squeezed in sudden realization. She had the look of the Fae about her tonight.
13
Chrysalis
Skye latched the door shut with relief. Home at last.
She flung her purse on the nearest chair. Without turning on the lights, she risked pulling aside a bit of the drapes to see if they were still out there.
Dozens of supernatural eyes were focused on the window. She drew the drapes tight and rubbed her scalp where a particularly bold goblin had snatched and pulled out a chunk of hair as she climbed up the apartment steps. Skye frowned. Come to think of it, dozens of arms had been reaching for her hair. It was where the fairies’ eyes always focused. You would think they’d never seen red hair before.
Either the elf poisoning or the ointment medicine from Kheelan made Skye’s brain synapses sizzle disjointedly as she searched for patterns in everything that happened today. Images flashed: blood oozing from her back, black-gloved hands torturing the pixies, the Unseelie fairy attacks, Finvorra’s drunken leer, and the sting of poison arrows. But always the images returned to Kheelan, to his dark eyes with their unusual topaz flecks that lit with passion. Skye sank onto the sofa, weak and dizzy from elf poison.
She had no idea what she was in for when she’d first agreed to help Kheelan. Her life was at risk. Did Kheelan know it was this dangerous when he sought her out? And, more importantly, did she still want to help him?
Skye remembered the hagstone and stood. The sudden movement made her sway and a shooting pain shot up her spine. She grasped the edge of the chair, steadied herself, then turned on her salt lamp to find the stone she’d put on the end table. She needed to see the good fairies again, a reminder of what was at stake.
The hagstone tingled with energy as she ran her fingers over its water-smoothed surface. It probably wouldn’t work inside but she decided to hold it to the window and gaze outside at the oak tree by her bedroom. She squinted through the stone’s small aperture and was rewarded to see a cluster of dancing pricks of pastel-colored lights in the oak’s outermost branches.
Utterly amazing. She had to help them in this battle. After tonight, only three days remained until Samhain. She could hang on for three more days. In the morning, she would cast a series of protections spells, something she would have done earlier had she known she was in personal danger. Too bad she hadn’t inherited her mother’s incredible supernatural abilities, but she could call Callie and ask her advice.
For the first time in the long day, her body sagged in relief. She should have called Callie days ago. At any rate, she was taking action and that made her feel more in control. She went back to the living room and studied her spreadsheets. She was way, way behind in schoolwork. After Samhain she would revise her spreadsheet to make up for the lost time.
Cheered, she went to the bathroom and splashed her face with water and brushed her hair. Good grief. Skye dropped the brush. More purple highlights had sprouted at the crown and temples. It was bad enough when the first purple streaks announced themselves overnight when she turned sixteen. She’d heard of people turning prematurely gray, but purple?
Skye would never forget the look on her mother’s face when she walked into the kitchen the morning of her sixteenth birthday, pointed to her hair, and screamed ‘look at this.’ Mom had turned from the stove, a pan of scrambled eggs in one hand. One look at her daughter’s hair and the pan clattered to the floor, yellow globules of eggs spreading over the black and red checked linoleum. Michael walked in and hooted with laughter. “What the heck did you to do your hair?”
“Nothing,” she’d protested.
“Next time you want highlights, buy a box of Clairol,” her mom said, cleaning up the spilled eggs with trembling hands.
“I didn’t do it.” Skye pulled at the purple streaks in hysterics. Mom placed her hands on her daughter’s head, bent over and whispered in her ear. “It’s okay.”
No matter how much Skye pleaded, her mom refused to ever discuss it again. She knew something, of that Skye was certain.
She took a deep breath and stared in the mirror. “Add ‘call Mom’ on my to-do list tomorrow,” she muttered. This time she would demand an answer to this bizarre hair phenomenon. Either that, or she might one day end up with troll doll hair sprouting all over her scalp. She checked out the wounded flesh, relieved to see the swelling had subsided. She desperately wanted a bath, but decided it wasn’t worth washing off the antidote medicine too soon. It could wait until morning.
Normally, she lay in bed in her deep indigo blue bedroom imagining she was a magical mermaid enveloped in a warm sea. But now the day’s images swirled in a vortex of confusion. Her mind kept looping through the Unseelie preying on the pixies, then turning their attention to her. Tonight wasn’t random, she was being singled out. It couldn’t only be for helping Kheelan. The Fae hadn’t seemed all that interested in him this evening. Only her.
She was too tired to think. Blackness descended like a veil of peace. Her body sank in its vacuum, then rose and floated in the void. Effortless. She swam in black velvet, now punctuated with a few sparkling stars above. Her skin felt pleasantly cool and Skye gazed at her arms and legs, pale as lace in the moonlight and perfect—no burning punctures, no bleeding sores on her spine.
She soared in the blackness then descended to the top of the tree lines. The nearly full red-orange moon illuminated a landscape of silver and gray shadows. The silence gave way to familiar noises— wind swirls of rustling leaves and scraping branches, dogs howling in the distance. Ever lower, she flew between the trees and in and out of branches with unerring night vision. Faster, slower, up, down, even backwards, she maneuvered with a freedom and grace impossible when two-footed on land.
Ethereal visions came into focus. Beginning as balls of brilliant light, they crystallized into beings of beauty and grace as she drew near. They came in every size and color under the rainbow. Some were tiny with baby pink skin and clothes made of flower petals. Others were several feet tall, with olive complexions and either red or green caps. Most sported delicately veined butterfly wings of blue, silver, purple and green. The females had long, flowing hair streaked in every shade imaginable.
She drifted low to the ground. A mistake. A couple of young schoolchildren pointed and ran toward her with open mason jars. It took her a moment to figure out their game—they meant to trap her as she had once unknowingly trapped fairies as a child.
Skye flew away from her innocent predators, directionless until she heard singing voices that tinkled like crystal. The sweetness and clarity of the notes drew her until she hovered spellbound above fairies and elves. They danced and paid her no notice. Midway through one of the Scottish reels, the fiddle-playing elves looked just past her right shoulder, terror in their neon eyes. The fiddles came to an abrupt, discordant stop. Curious, Skye turned to see what had scared them so.
Columns of wispy fog twisted in the night breeze, forming a wailing trio of banshee spirits with bodies as tall as the surrounding trees. Their long hair was a cascade of grayish-green Spanish moss and their gowns were of the whitest lace. It was hard to tell where their shrouds ended and their elongated arms began, so fair was their skin. Against st
arkly alabaster faces shone maroon eyes that shed black tears.
They opened their mouths and began their wailing laments, wordless and high-pitched. It made her think of death and pain. Helpless, she couldn’t move as they fixed that deathly stare directly at her. A breeze drifted them closer and the three banshees held out their arms, beckoning her to enter their deadly embrace.
No, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Wake up, wake up. Skye struggled to escape the nightmare. She closed her eyes to the banshees and with supreme effort, shook movement into her paralyzed arms and legs. Ever so slightly, she drifted higher, the wind propelling her to a low-lying oak tree limb.
Silence. The dream ended. Skye opened her eyes, expecting to be in her own bed and her own room with the familiar collection of crystals lining the top of the nightstand. She stretched her arms upward and hit something hard. Her fingers grasped the unyielding object and tested its rough surface.
Tree bark.
No, she must have dreamed she had awoken. That fairy poison had messed with her brain big time. Skye scrunched her eyes closed, tense with concentration. Wake up for real this time.
She opened them again and stared, eye level, into neighboring treetops tinged with silver and crimson moonlight. Skye gripped her thighs and felt the rough texture of bark against bare flesh. What the hell? No, she couldn’t be out in the woods stuck up in a tree. No freaking way. Violent shudders wracked her body and she teetered. Her hands and legs gripped the tree so tightly, she felt splinters imbed in her palms and thighs.
Afraid to move, she drew long breaths, exhaling puffs that looked like smoke in the autumn air. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d freeze up here. She imagined some hunter finding her icy body, her long red hair tangled in branches.
Like David’s son Absalom in the Bible, she thought with mounting hysteria.
She’d worry later about how she got here. The first thing she had to do was get out of the tree. She looked down.
The ground seemed miles away.
There must be a way down. She studied the tree but couldn’t make out any more branches to scoot down. It was a straight shot from where she was stuck. She would have to repel to safety. Skye remembered a gym class drill where you were supposed to climb up a rope and repel down. Everyone but her had been able to reach the top of the ceiling. She’d only managed a few feet, but still got a wicked case of rope burn trying to get down. Even from that short distance, she had managed to land on her butt, resulting in a bruised tailbone that made sitting down torture for weeks. At least she’d been excused from gym for a whole month.
She’d be lucky to escape from this mess with only bruises. Skye regarded her flimsy nightgown in despair. Not exactly athletic apparel.
An explosion of air and the flapping of wings by her face broke the night silence. Reflexively, Skye’s hands lifted off the tree limb and batted at the attacker. She swayed to the side, made a last, desperate attempt to hold onto something, and then her hands grasped nothing but black air.
She was falling.
Her heart hammered and she wondered how many bones would break when she crashed. If she was lucky, maybe she would go into shock before that happened.
Fly.
The insistent voice filled her mind, its vibration echoing like an internal drum. Skye’s body slowed and she harmlessly drifted the last few feet, landing upright on a bed of pine needles.
She collapsed on wobbly knees and took huge gulps of air, trying to stop the adrenaline-induced panic. Her heart thumped heavy and fast, pumping a fire in her chest. She took more gulps of air but no matter how deeply she sucked in oxygen, she couldn’t get enough. Her lungs felt as though they had been used as a pincushion and had dozens of tiny punctures. This must be what they call a panic attack. Either that or her heart and lungs were going to beat her to death.
You’re safe. The voice was back inside her head, originating from the solar plexus. Waves of peace and light radiated from that same point. Slowly, Skye’s breathing returned to normal and her heart, though still beating too fast, slowed enough that it no longer felt as if it might burn a hole in her chest.
Skye sat long moments, rubbing her hands up and down bare arms covered in goose bumps. She was safe. And she was definitely not dreaming. By all rights, she should have sustained serious injuries, or worse.
Fly. Had she really flown? No, it wasn’t possible. There must be some other explanation for what was happening.
As if in answer, Skye became aware of her back muscles gently rippling and contracting dead in the middle of her spine. She reached a tentative hand behind and grasped something thin and that tingled to the touch—as if it were alive. With great foreboding, she strained her neck around, trying to see what it was.
Wings. A pair of multi-colored phosphorescent wings.
A chilling scream echoed through the trees, only this time the sound tore from Skye’ s mouth, as terrifying as the trio of banshees.
Skye screamed until her head pounded from the noise. When she stopped, in the absolute quiet, her screams hung in the space, inaudible but still pulsing with energy. She staggered to her feet, vigorously rubbing her arms against the cold. Turning slowly in a circle, she saw nothing but darkness and the faint outline of treetops above.
She had no idea where she was.
Her back muscles rippled, the wings fluttered and gave off a magenta aura that allowed her to see a few feet in front.
Fly. The same disembodied whisper inside commanded once more.
It worked once, maybe that was her only way out of this. But how exactly was she supposed to fly? Skye flapped her arms and jumped.
Nothing.
She ran in circles, arms flailing uselessly at her sides. How ridiculous—she must look like a crazed chicken. She was almost glad no one was around to witness this pathetic display of ineptitude. Skye leaned against a tree and cried; part-anger, part despair, and part disgust that she was as much a failure at being a fairy as she was at being a witch.
Her head jerked up at the thought, the tears drying at the sudden realization. She was a fairy. She paced back and forth between the trees, her path lit in magenta, trying to make sense of the situation. One, this was no drug-induced dream. Two, she wasn’t crazy. At least, not the full-blown, hallucinogenic psychopathic kind. Three, she had wings for goddess’ sake.
Skye scooped up a palm-sized pink rock and closed her eyes. The vibration from the stone worked to ease her anxiety and ground her to the earth.
With the relaxation, her body lightened. And lightened. Until gravity couldn’t hold her down any longer. Her feet lifted inches above the ground, and with that, her back muscles rippled, wings fluttered, and she was floating among the treetops.
Heavenly. Weird, but in a good way. As if she had done it all her life, was born for this purpose, Skye raised her arms and tilted to one side to change directions. Not even a mile north, she saw the university football stadium, a giant crater surrounded by brick school buildings. Home’s signpost.
Kheelan turned in his findings to Queen Corrigan’s Seelie Council. He reported the pixie murders were occurring at The Green Fairy, they were being drowned in absinthe, and he included a list of probable suspects.
Claribel was at the top of that list. It was so obvious to him, even if Skye had blind loyalties and trusted those close to her.
But the best part of his report to the Seelie was his implication that he needed more time in Tuscaloosa to pursue a few human leads that might have an even greater significance than the casualties sustained thus far. He hadn’t been raised by the Sly Ones without picking up a few tricks of his own.
Queen Corrigan and her Court Council had been more somber than usual. There were no loud whispers, giggles or yawns like when he had been in their presence before. He tried to tell himself it was because Samhain drew near, yet he still felt a tingle of foreboding. Their eyes had been mistrustful, as if they knew he was withholding information.
“Are ye sure ye have not
hing more to tell us, changeling?” Queen Corrigan asked when he prepared to leave.
“That’s it,” he said curtly.
Her eyes flashed a tinge of reproach, but she waved a hand in dismissal.
Kheelan returned home, stopping along the way for his Guardian’s provisions. Finvorra grabbed the pint of Scotch whisky out of Kheelan’s hands the moment he entered the house.
“About time ye showed up, Tacharan. Bring me my mug filled with ice.” He staggered over to the well-worn recliner and fell into its contoured grooves, molded from mounds of resting flesh. Impossible to imagine him shapeshifting back into the fit Sidhe warrior he had been six months ago, before taking on human form to play Guardian. With any luck, the fairies would kick his fat ass out of their world once Kheelan escaped. Queen Corrigan would be none too pleased if she suspected Finvorra’s lack of diligence contributed to losing the changeling.
Kheelan filled the mug and returned to the den. Finvorra was up now, stumbling around the room in a drunken dance, attempting to kick off his pants.
“Don’t just stand there mocking me, boy, help me with these confounded human britches.” Finvorra fell back into his recliner.
Kheelan sat the mug on a table and reluctantly helped his Guardian pull off the offending pants. Once Finvorra was comfortably seated in his underwear, Kheelan shoved the mug at him. The thick wool sock on Finvorra’s right foot had loosened, exposing hairy, crooked toes that looked like buzzard claws.
Finvorra followed Kheelan’s gaze and swore. Heaving, he pulled up the sock, hiding the deformity. It was the only modesty he ever displayed. The misshapen feet filled him with rage, as if he couldn’t stand for anyone to witness the imperfection.
Kheelan jumped back in anticipation, narrowly missing Finvorra’s swing at his face.
Jerk. Finvorra needed to drink up the entire bottle immediately. The only way out of this foul mood was a full-blown, knockout drunken stupor.
Changeling: An Appalachian Magic Novel Book 2 (Appalachian Magic Series) Page 13
