With a Kiss
Page 1
With a Kiss
Stephanie Fowers
Copyright 2013 Stephanie Fowers
Published by Triad Media and Entertainment
Triad.film.productions@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, incidents and dialogue are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission in writing from the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for supporting the author's rights.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
2013933259
1. Fiction. 2. Young Adult. 3. Paranormal.
ISBN-13: 978-0615767437
ISBN-10: 0615767435
Cover Design by Jacqueline Fowers
Cover photography by Kristi Linton
Editor: Tristi Pinkston
Second Editor: Shannon Cooley
Logo design: Ian Anthony
Map of the Sidhe: Ian Anthony
Typeset by Stephanie Fowers
Typeset/ html mentor: Rachel Nunes
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
SAMPLE CHAPTER: TWISTED TALES SERIES (BOOK 2) "AT MIDNIGHT"
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE FOWERS
LIST OF FAERY CREATURES
GLOSSARY OF FAERY TERMS
MAP OF THE SIDHE
*For FAERY GLOSSARY OF TERMS and LIST OF CREATURES, Also see www.stephanie-fowers.com
DEDICATION
To my nieces
All 20 of them.
May I have many, many more
So that I might write many, many, many more books for you.
Chapter One
Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!
That I must see These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!
Go, pretty page! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
—John Keats, Faery Song
"Stop crying. Please, stop crying!" I whispered.
I should've been normal. There was no reason I shouldn't be normal. I splashed water over my face. It ran down my cheeks. The bathroom mirror loomed in front of me, and I refused to look too closely at the dark smudges under my eyes. The crying wouldn't stop. And it wasn't coming from me—I had never cried a day in my life. It wasn't coming from anything. I covered my ears, and tried to drown out the noise with the music from my old school radio. It didn't work. The baby kept going at it. Crying and crying and crying until I smacked the bathroom wall with my fist. Nothing would make the noise stop.
I could get used to pretending I was real. I could laugh when something was supposed to be funny. I could ask questions to make others think I cared. I was used to my numbness, but this? My life had turned into Midsummer Night's Dream gone crazy, or actually, a Midsummer Nightmare. Our small town theater was celebrating the season by doing the Shakespearian play at the school. But that wasn't the bad part.
It was my night to play the faery queen. Yeah, it's spelled faery with an e (that's how these faery enthusiasts like it), and even though I'm not the best actress at Omak High, that still wasn't my problem. It was just . . . that baby. It kept crying. And there was no baby. Anywhere. Something was wrong with me. The crying had haunted me from the moment I stepped onto that stage, and now it echoed in my dreams.
I focused on my New York poster next to the towels, taking deep breaths. After a moment, I turned down the radio to hear blessed silence. The ghost baby had finally given it a rest. I fought down my shaky breath and pulled the toothbrush from my holder to go over my lines for the play that night. Anything to get my mind off what was happening.
Hearing a nonexistent baby who cried all the time wasn't one of my usual symptoms. No, I typically just had to deal with a heart that refused to work. I couldn't love; I had no empathy. I couldn't count my friends on one hand—not even one finger. Sure, they always counted me, but a girl had to hide how crazy she was when her dad was the town's only psychiatrist. My parents thought I was normal, but what they didn't know was that their little girl was a highly functional sociopath. Either that or something had punched a hole through my heart and made it so I couldn't feel.
I shoved the toothbrush into my mouth and scrubbed at my teeth. No big deal, right? Hearing a crying baby was the least of my problems. I could hide this, go on like it wasn't happening. I had almost convinced myself, until I saw my shadow move in the mirror. My body tingled with fear. It wasn't my shadow, or if it was, it sure wasn't connected to me. It stood directly behind me, watching me as quietly as the late afternoon sun filtering through my window. My hand hesitated on my toothbrush.
What were the odds that I was still asleep? I remembered taking a nap, getting up, reading some online college applications, but had I really? Or were my nightmares getting worse? I'd definitely take that over this being real. My fingers trembled as I pulled the toothbrush out of my mouth, and, through the bathroom mirror, forced myself to study that thing behind my head. I picked out hollow eyes that watched me . . . as if the shadow thought I didn't see it staring. The shadow thought? My mouth went dry. I hunched my shoulders and spun around.
There was nothing there.
Hairball, our orange striped tabby lounged on the edge of the porcelain tub like a Cheshire cat. My eyes fixed on him instead. Everything seemed peaceful enough until the cat's head snapped up to watch the mirror behind me. The hair on my neck lifted in response.
I felt something there, too, its breath in my hair. The cat let out a hiss and sprang off the tub, abandoning me like the traitor he was. With my heart ripping out of my chest, I swiveled and saw a pale face fill the mirror. It was rotting and covered in a strange burnt shadow of long, red hair. I stumbled backwards, colliding into the bathroom wall to escape it.
"Reclaim the lost," it whispered.
"What?" I asked. "What is that?"
"Come home."
"Halley." I recognized my mother's soft voice. She knocked gently on the bathroom door from inside my room. "Halley Starr! It's show time. Get in the car, honey. You'll be late."
The face was gone from the mirror. I tried to catch my breath. It was worse than one of those ghouls in the darkest corners of a haunted house. And now I had to pretend I hadn't seen it. Like every weird thing that happened to me, I had to keep this from my family, too—just another sacrifice to be normal. I hated the thought, but not as much as I wondered what I would do if the shadow came back. I took another deep breath. No one knew I was hearing things . . . or seeing things. I just had to keep it that way.
I had been a sickly baby. No matter how many doctors and specialists saw me, they couldn't figure out what caused it. By the time the mysterious ailment went away, it was too late: my family was officially worried. It was all I could do to keep them from being suspicious.
My mom knocked again, louder this time. "You're not in the shower, are you?"
"What? No. I'm ready to go." I made my way to the door, feeling the numbness worm deeper inside the more helpless I felt. I tried to fight it. Even if the shadow with the weird red hair came back, it couldn't hurt me. It wasn't real. And the cries? There had to be an explanation. I opened the door from my bathroom, seeing my mom smooth down the creases of the comforter on my bed.
Her mouth dropped when she saw I was still in my blue plaid pajama bottoms. "Halley!" The usual dimples in her cheeks disappeared. My mom was all softness and sweetness in her signature worn-out jeans, but now she looked furious. "You aren't even dressed. Your play! I'm talking your play begins in an hour. Your sister is already waiting in the car."
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but she headed for the door, picking up some dirty clothes on her way out and chucking them into the laundry basket. "But that baby won't stop crying," I whispered to her back. It was the first time I had said it out loud.
There was no way she'd hear me. "You have three minutes!" my mom shouted on her way down the hall.
It was time to execute another typical Halley Starr photo finish, as my dad liked to call it—I had to get ready and out the door in record speed. I ran out of the bathroom and tripped on a dumbbell, then stumbled against the back of my computer chair. It hit me in the shin. I hopped on one foot and stubbed my toe on the desk for good measure. My legs buckled and I landed catlike on the ground. It would've been catlike if I hadn't landed on a pile of dirty clothes. It was hard to be graceful when I was such a slob.
That was not a typical Halley Starr photo finish.
My bedroom was a veritable landmine of clothes and shoes. Some sociopaths turned to serial killing—I turned to shopping. Cover me in color, and it hid the drabness inside, except now there was something even worse hiding inside me, an evil lurking that I couldn't explain. I tried to keep my mind off that hideous face, and rummaged through the clothes on the floor until I plucked out a flip-flop. I found a wing to my faery costume and then dragged out another from the hamper. It was a little wrinkled, but not beyond redemption.
The chimes at my window crashed merrily together and I winced, digging around my computer for my cell phone. The messy room was the closest thing I had to being just another bratty teenager. I spent my life mimicking them—their concern with others, their crushes, their meaningless cares. I was fascinated with their emotions and relationships; I even watched my sister's favorite show, Hot Club, for tips. I thought I could get in some good practice being a real girl when I tried out for the play, but that's what had triggered the crying and plunged me into these nightmares in the first place.
Lately my dreams were filled with hands. I had a feeling that something about the hands made me into the cold person that I was. The hands felt so real, almost like memories, because in my dreams, I remembered how to feel . . . and it seriously hurt when they reached out and ripped that out of me. Afterwards, there was nothing. Like a void in my heart covered with rusty chains. The only thing that touched a nerve now was that baby's cry.
My mom leaned on the horn outside, completely oblivious to my inner drama. I gave a deep sigh, fished for my other shoe, and hobbled for the door, gathering my blue tutu hanging on the knob on my way out. I ran through the house and shoved open the back door to the driveway. The heat of the summer slapped against my cheeks and I winced against the bright sun.
My mom lifted her hand from the horn seconds before I jumped into our gray minivan. The moment I slid the door shut behind me, she shifted the rearview mirror so she could look at me. "You still look tired, honey. After this play, you're getting some rest."
My younger sister, Daphne, sat up in the front. She was already in her Peaseblossom costume, pink feathery wings and glittery make-up. Her blonde hair whipped around her face when she circled in her seatbelt to smile at me. Daphne was always smiling. She was the typecast of the sweetest faery in existence, that's why she got the part of Peaseblossom. We were complete opposites; she felt everything I couldn't. Sometimes I tried to get her riled up to see what she would do, but she never let it get between us—I guess that's why I got the part of the mean faery.
"Dad and the twins are coming later," Mom said. "He's picking them up from swimming lessons." Now that I was safely ensconced in the car, she was back to her loving ways. She backed out of the driveway, tucking her graying blonde hair behind her ear. I was responsible for quite a few of those grays. "We are all so excited to see your play tonight. You girls look so gorgeous. And you're so talented! No wonder you both got main parts."
If things weren't so serious, I would've laughed. The Starr family, of which I was strangely a part, thought everything I did was great. Not only were they the nicest, most oblivious family in existence, they were also beautiful, blonde, long-legged things. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had dark hair and I was short—not just short compared to them, but compared to everyone. Family pictures in the Starr home always made me laugh. I was the emo among cheerleaders.
After a three-minute drive down the only main street in Omak—that just happened to be called Main Street—my mom turned the car into the parking lot of Omak High. The parking lot was filled with Buicks and beat-up Chevy pickups. Everyone supported the Arts here, ritzy and redneck alike. No, we weren't in New York or California; we were nestled in the shire of Washington, with our once-a-year Suicide Stampede to keep us occupied in the summers. Besides that, we had nothing else to do.
Mom dropped us off at the high school with a cheerful wave, and a minute later I found myself trudging down the newly painted halls with Daphne. It was silent until we passed the auditorium filled with people. Being on stage in front of my entire school and their parents wasn't a problem. I knew how to put on an act, but I didn't want to catch sight of that shadowy corpse again. It had better keep its distance during my scenes, or I didn't know what I'd do.
A herd of faeries passed me in the hall, and I waved along with Daphne. I nodded back at a few black-dressed techies, mirroring their energy. I tried to return a teacher's smile, but pretending to be like everyone else was getting to me. I felt my head hang the closer I got to the dressing room. Why did everyone look so happy and excited? Instead of going through the motions, I wanted to feel what they felt, too. I pushed into the dressing room and threw on my faery costume, knowing my face mirrored the dullness inside.
"Faeries!" Our stage manager poked her head into the messy dressing room. "You have fifteen minutes until curtain."
Shoes and props lay scattered over the floor. I shoved my way to a make-up stool to put on the finishing touches. My legs dangled inches above the ground. Blush. I needed plenty of blush. Anything to cover the paleness of my face.
"Hurry. Hurry."
Girls disguised as faeries stared into a mirror that had been placed cruelly above my reach; I could see my forehead. They danced around in a flutter of agitated skirts. I caked my eyelids with blue eye shadow. My lipstick was a shade too red, and I tried to wipe it off. The other actresses took nervous breaths, darting glances at our frazzled stage manager.
It all faded into nothing when I heard the faint sound of that crying baby again. My heart sank. I splattered too much glittery faery powder under my gray eyes, and turned cautiously to my neighbor. Her brush hovered over her face and she tilted her head. It gave me sudden hope. "Hey," I said. "Did you hear that?"
She gave me a blank look. Nope.
"What's the matter?" My younger sister was the only one paying attention in the crowd of gossamer wings. She waded through our street clothes piled on the dressing room floor to get to my side. "Hear what?"
"Nothing!" I felt my voice hit a hysterical note.
Daphne cocked her ear to catch a trace of it. Then she shook her head and dimpled. "Sorry, Halley. What does it sound like?"
"It was nothing." I glared up at the bottom corner of the mirror, my tight control unraveling as I pushed up to my t
iptoes. My sleep deprived eyes gave my face a sinister contrast. Yeah. I looked the part of the haughty faery queen alright, and I didn't like it.
My sister stood next to me, easily a foot taller than me. Her concerned eyes met mine. "Is it that baby you used to complain about?"
I shook my head again. Harder.
"Oh, honey. What did you do? Did you hit your eye?" The girl playing Cobweb grabbed my chin and dabbed yellow make-up under my eyes while Mustardseed plaited my dark hair. And no, I hadn't bothered to learn their real names.
Cobweb fluffed my skirts. "Did you even try to iron this?" I shook my head and she gave me a stern look while trying to undo all the wrinkles. Everyone babied me. Maybe it was because of how short I was compared to these long-legged ballerinas. I slid back to the makeup stool and took the treatment out of habit.
Moth danced past me in her puffy skirts. I actually knew her real name, since she had crashed our house almost nightly this summer to watch Hot Club reruns. Kolby was Daphne's best friend, and the two were inseparable. I listened to their giggles, feeling dead compared to them. "Maybe it's the ghost of the theater," Kolby teased. "You've finally made him mad."
I gave a scornful laugh.
"He's tired of your bad singing and he's trying to drive you crazy so you'll run off the stage screaming like a Banshee." Kolby stretched her arms up. Light glinted across the beautiful coppery skin that she inherited from her Colville tribe. She practiced a pirouette. I gave her a tired smile. If she knew what I was really hearing, she'd know I was already crazy.
"You need to appease the phantom of Omak High with a sacrifice." Daphne's eyes twinkled. "Here." She tucked a peacock feather in my hair, finishing off my costume. "He left this for you to wear. Sorry. The phantom was all out of roses."
Kolby giggled. "Daphne, do you want your sister to fall flat on her face? Peacock feathers are bad luck on stage. Who brought those?"
Daphne frowned and tried to pull the feather loose, but I wouldn't let her. I didn't believe in bad luck, or good luck. I never wished on a star. I didn't believe in happy endings or charming guys . . . or faeries for that matter. Sorry, Tinker Bell.
"Places, faeries! It's your cue."
That was our stage manager. I slid off the makeup stool. "Good luck," I told Daphne.
All the actresses gasped in horror. Daphne let out a little scream. "Halley Starr! You never say good luck in the theater! Quit trying to ruin the play!"
"Faeries!" Our stage manager tried again. "Curtains are going up with or without you. Move!"
Another excited murmur filled the cluttered dressing room at the announcement, but it wasn't enough to drown out the baby's cries. My heart sank when, this time, I heard whispers too. They added to the confusion in my head. I groaned. There was no way I could deliver my lines like this. I couldn't make out the words, but the voices sounded close by, like they were just outside my dressing room. My fists clenched. Maybe they were. I stormed through the door, my layers of blue skirts floating airily behind me.
"Halley." As soon as I stepped out into the narrow hallway, the guy who played Puck tried to get my attention. "Hey, I've been looking for you." A single florescent light sputtered over us, glistening strangely off the black painted walls. Puck had discarded his usual red hoodie in exchange for his faery costume--which wasn't much, just a black hand mark on his bare, sculpted chest and some black cut-offs.
He was tall and fairly good looking in a drama geek sort of way. All the other faeries loved him, but there was something about him that made me feel like a porcupine. No kidding. He actually made my hair stand on end. Somehow he sensed this, which was probably why he couldn't leave me alone. I nodded at him and tried to slip past.
"Where are you going, Ice Queen?" He stepped in front of me, blocking my way. "Aren't you going to talk to me?"
I managed a sickly smile. "Well, if it isn't . . . uh, Puck?" His was another name that eluded me. I think it was Ren, but it was strange enough that I didn't want to chance it and get it wrong. "I'm on call, so . . ."
"Wait, you look good enough to touch." And he did. He flicked at my dangling earrings, and I jerked away.
We had a cat-and-mouse thing going on, but I never had the stomach for it. Human contact felt awkward at its best. Even though I didn't quite reach his shoulder, I easily flounced from him. "Save it for the other faeries," I told him over my shoulder. A beautiful wing smartly whipped him back. He made an angry hiss; not that I cared, but I still took note. It meant he wasn't as nice as everyone thought he was. Not that anyone would believe that from the girl with no compassion.
The whispers carried through the hall, and I chased after them, rushing to the end where the lockers were, only to find it all empty. My shoulders sagged. The whispers weren't real. Nothing was. My entourage of faeries swept past me and dragged me backstage with them.
After a conspiring nod to each other, my sister and Puck rushed onto the stage, eager to depict Shakespeare's faery war. I watched with dead eyes, resigned to a confusing night of a crying baby, whispers, and human interaction at its strangest.
The play was the usual war-of-the-sexes plot by Shakespeare: boy versus girl, they fight, they cause trouble, they fall in love. I played the faery queen fighting the faery king over a baby, and since all my loyal subjects were involved in the battle, I got to listen to Puck and my sister banter onstage. I could barely concentrate on their lines.
"A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king," Puck said. "She never had so sweet a changeling."
The baby cried out again. Wait! I sagged in relief. This was a play after all and we needed a baby to play the lovely boy. The kid was totally real this time, except—"I thought we were just going to use a doll for the part of the changeling," I whispered to Kolby.
My sister's best friend didn't answer, unable to tear her gaze from the guy who played Puck. She was part of his fan club who watched breathlessly from the wings as he executed his lines.
"Jealous Oberon would have the child," Puck said, puffing out his chest. I supposed it was impressive for a high schooler's.
My sister strutted across the stage, the flowing material of her pink skirts dancing around her legs. "You are that shrewd and knavish sprite call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he that frights the maidens of the villagery?" Daphne couldn't look stern enough when she addressed Puck. My sister was almost as bad an actress as I was.
I smoothed my skirts, getting ready for my cue. Puck delivered it with expert aplomb and I swept over the planks of the stage, my dress gliding over my slippered feet, a diminutive faery queen surrounded by a train of swanlike faeries. The faery king entered from the other side. He was dressed like a barbarian with fake tattoos splattered all over his bare chest. We met in the middle like two army captains. He glared savagely down at me. I matched the angry look. Being ferocious was the only part of acting I was good at.
"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," he said, bowing coldly to me. "Am not I thy lord? I do but beg a little changeling boy to be my henchman . . ."
In Shakespearian language, that meant he was asking for the human baby that I stole fair and square. I tilted my head. The one-eyed feathers in my dark hair bounced at a jaunty angle. Yeah, bad luck, but what didn't kill me . . . I tried not to sneeze when an errant feather drooped over my nose. "What, jealous Oberon!" I managed to say. "The faery land buys not the child of me."
I searched around for that bawling bundle of joy. Wouldn't someone bring it in about now, you know, if it were actually real this time? I desperately hoped so, but no one stepped forward. I tried to tell myself it was because it wouldn't stop crying, and fighting over the kid wouldn't be believable.
"Give me that boy," Oberon said, "and I will go with thee."
I took a deep breath. "Not for thy faery kingdom. Faeries, away!" My long graceful sleeves slipped over my hands. My costume was a little big. The faeries followed me out and we watched from backstage as Puck, the most mischievous faery of all, plotted against me with the
faery king, devising a way to distract me from the child with a love potion. I couldn't concentrate on the play at all.
The voices were at it again, only this time I could make out the whispers: "Where is she? Where is she?"
I craned my neck. The talking came from the catwalks above the stage. Was it the techies? I glanced around at the other faeries. They watched the play as if they didn't hear a thing. I sighed. Not techies.
On our cue, we stormed back onto the stage. I settled into a bed of wild flowers while the faeries danced and sang in a dizzying blur around me. Letting my eyes grow heavy—which wasn't too hard considering my sleepless nights—I collapsed onto the flowers. It took forever, but eventually the other actresses danced themselves into exhaustion and landed on their own beds of flowers beside me, seemingly gone to the world and the play around us. The spotlight felt hot on my face. I took a deep breath and waited.
With all his manly prowess, the faery king snuck in. I could hear the bare pads of his feet slap across the stage and then the thud when he knelt beside me. The tip of the vial carrying the love potion felt cold against my closed eyelids. "What thou seest when thou dost wake," he feigned a loud stage whisper, "do it for thy true-love take."
I tried not to snort as he traced my still face with his fingers, droning on about finding love at first sight when I awoke. Nothing seemed more farfetched. Seriously, if anyone needed a real love potion, it was me . . . or really good acting skills, because I was low on both.
"Wake when some vile thing is near," the faery king commanded me. Moments later, the words seemed prophetic. My bed of flowers carried me up above the stage as if I were a sacrifice to the sky. I listened to the humans weave their tangled web of love and lies on the stage below and jerked in surprise when the voice I had been hunting all night whispered from the catwalks just a foot away.
"You cannot have her."
My eyes wrenched open. The whispers were within touching distance now. The audience could still see me and I tried to find the exact source of the voices without turning my head. It wouldn't do for everyone to know the faery queen was awake . . . or delusional.
The shadows painted the catwalks in black ink and seemed to stare down at me like the shadow had in my bathroom mirror. I swallowed hard. A warm gush of air brushed past my cheek, and it felt eerily like a human breath. It rushed over my bare arms, creating goose bumps everywhere it traveled.
My heart thumped rapidly. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening! The ropes holding my bed of flowers in place groaned and began to swing like an invisible hand pushed against it. My whole body tensed as if I could fight something that wasn't real. I listened to the players below, not able to concentrate on them.
The bed of flowers sagged in protest like a powerful weight crushed against it. I struggled to breathe, grappling for some kind of hold. If the ropes broke, I'd fall to my death on the hard stage below. Something cold and scary lurked inches above me. I could sense it . . . but no, my senses were faulty. I couldn't trust them. The weaves on the basket began to burst. That did it! I didn't care that I was crazy. I had to get down.
Too late, the bed of flowers swayed. My fingers clenched over the ivies and my bed dropped. I gasped before I realized what was happening. The techs were lowering the bed closer to the ground. Nothing was broken. I was still in one piece. Everything was okay.
The guy playing Bottom sang drunkenly below me. It was supposed to be my cue to wake up and fall in love with him, the most hideous creature in all of faeryland. It was Shakespeare's idea of a joke, but I didn't care what lover boy looked like. A half-human, half-donkey mix had nothing on what lurked in the shadows above me. I remembered that decomposing face in my mirror.
I took a steadying breath and popped my head over the side. "What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?" I asked a little too loudly.
My knuckles were white on the ivies. Bottom was supposed to sing a few more crazy rounds, but the whispers above me started again and I tried to cover them with another shout, "I pray thee, gentle mortal! Sing again: Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note." Maybe Bottom's rowdy singing could drown out those voices too, though nothing could disguise them. I had to get down from here. I tugged on the ropes to show the techies I was serious.
"Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! And Mustardseed!" I bellowed, cutting off quite a few of Bottom's lines. "Get over here! Get me down!" Bottom's mouth fell open and after a confused commotion, my delicate sister danced onstage with the other faeries just as my bed mercifully touched the ground.
Bottom plopped down next to me before I could get out. My skirt got caught underneath him and I tried to tug away inconspicuously. The fact that I was scared out of my wits made my acting worse and with a sinking heart, I felt my instincts kick in. The guy grabbed for my hand and I shrank away. Normally, I'd slap a guy for less, but this was a guy playing a donkey and I was supposed to be acting like I was in love. What was wrong with me?
The audience laughed and I could only imagine the director's groans. This was not some faery queen in love with a weaver turned monster. I tried to cover it up. "Out of this wood do not desire to go." I commanded Bottom in an angry voice as if the fear of losing him made me so prickly.
"Where's my baby?"
My breath quickened. I was crazy. Certifiably crazy! The baby was in my head, just like these voices were in my head. I wasn't sure if they were talking to me, or if I was overhearing some strange conversation no one else could hear--but I didn't know how to hide this!
I turned to Bottom with a determined glare, as if ignoring these voices would make them go away. His donkey ears quivered, and he frowned under his makeshift snout. I took a deep breath. "Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no," I commanded him.
He stared at me in shock, since I had effectively cut our scene in half, more than half. I was a director's nightmare. I stumbled out of my flowery bed and stalked off the stage, trying to escape the darkness that threatened to swallow me. The kid playing Bottom rushed after me into the wings, his feet stomping loudly. "What are you doing?" he hissed. He grabbed my elbow before I could escape.
"Help me!"
I stilled and stared up into the semi-darkness. "Please tell me you heard that!" He looked blank. Of course he didn't hear anything, but I pointed anyway, desperate to prove I wasn't insane. "That noise above us. Just try to hear it! Could you just try? Please."
Under his donkey nose, Bottom's lip shook with frustration. He escaped me to find a more sympathetic ear to bemoan his ruined acting career.
I let him go, staring up at the catwalks, I listened to the voice. It called to me, and I found myself on the stairs before I could fight it. After everything that had happened, nothing should entice me to go after those voices, but I felt myself moving up to them anyway, like Sleeping Beauty going after her spindle to fulfill a curse that I didn't want to fulfill. My whole body felt relaxed, and I couldn't get myself to care that I was heading for danger. A flash of light ripped past my face, and I jumped back, the spell over me broken like a splash of cold water.
"Help me."
I hesitated on the stairs. The darkness loomed over me. I shouldn't be doing this. The whispers were frightening enough. I tried to turn back.
"My baby!"
My hand landed back on the railing—against my will—and I pulled further into the gloom. The voice actually moved me up the stairs, edging me closer to whatever threat was up there. My faery skirts swished against the railing behind me. My heart cried out against every step like I was caught in a nightmare, but my feet refused to obey. I opened my mouth and tried to call for help, but my voice was gone. Nothing belonged to me. I reached the catwalk and watched the actors' heads below. They were too far down. I hoped whatever force controlled me wouldn't drive me off the edge.
"I wonder if Titania be awaked?" the faery king asked below on the bright stage.
I was Titania--well, I was playing her--and yes, I had never felt more awake. Every sense tingled with
a fear I had never known before. From the darkness I watched the actors beneath me, feeling like a fly on the wall . . . pursuing a spider.
Puck entered the stage below with a smug grin. "My mistress with a monster is in love," he announced.
Was I? Something strange controlled me. I hesitated on the catwalk and peered into the shadows. They were forming into something, a light in the darkness that grew pale blonde hair until it swept over the catwalk. Then there appeared the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her face looked to be cut from ghostly marble, as if she had never known the sun. Her silver robes were part of the mist that clung to her. It wasn't a bad look, really.
She turned, watching me. "Please . . ." she began.
"Onagh!" I heard a man's rough voice. The ethereal beauty stepped back as he ripped through the air. Looking distasteful, he peeled it from him like a spider web, but didn't bother to brush the rest off his powerful shoulders as he stalked our way. The man was dressed entirely in black shadow. His dark-eyed gaze swept over her. He wasn't happy, and he looked powerful enough to do something about it. "Give me the child, Onagh."
The dialogue seemed strangely familiar. I backed into the shadows, not wanting this man to see me. "Finvara, I . . ." The woman looked close to breaking. "I cannot. You know not what's been done!"
The baby cried out somewhere in the darkness, and I waited for the black-haired man to do something. Things had gone too far for me to think these two star-crossed lovers were techies, but I couldn't believe this was what it seemed to be either. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a reenactment of the play below with two powerful figures fighting over a baby. Different names, different faces, much more drama.
Through the stillness, I could hear someone coming. The footsteps trudged closer, and I jerked to action, realizing I had control over myself again. My legs. My hands. I ripped my fingers free from the railing and twisted backwards. Nothing felt so good, and yet so frightening because I couldn't move away fast enough. The footsteps were almost on me, and I hid behind a pile of backdrops, muffling my loud breathing behind my hand, trying to keep from strangling myself. A techie casually strolled past me and walked through the fighting couple like nothing was happening. Likewise, the couple acted as if they hadn't been interrupted by him, either.
"You cannot be here in the Otherworld. It is forbidden," the man told the beautiful lady. "We must leave."
The woman shook her head. Tears glistened over her alabaster skin.
"Cupid is a knavish lad," Puck's voice echoed up to us. "Thus to make poor females mad." My eyes widened at the significance. Puck was absolutely right. Not just mad—I was ready for an asylum—but I couldn't stop watching. This was better than any teen series Daphne followed, maybe because it wasn't supposed to be happening. Two beautiful people caught in tragic circumstances that I was dying to understand. If it wasn't all in my head, I'd grab some popcorn.
The techie threw some rose petals down to the stage below. Then, completely oblivious to the drama enfolding before him, he left me alone with it.