by Kara Jaynes
Wilder’s smile is tight, and he gestures to the numerous shelves. “Time’s ticking,” he says.
I nod. “Right.” I start perusing the shelves, reading the paper plaques. Children’s, mystery, young adult, literature, romance, science-fiction/fantasy.
“May I help you?” A middle-aged woman asks me. She’s standing behind the small counter, her thin fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Her gaze shifts from me to Wilder, and her smile widens. “Wilder,” she purrs. “How good to see you.”
“Hello, Lydia,” Wilder says with a short nod.
“Are you looking for—” her eyes flicker to me again and then away, “the usual?”
My eyes narrow in response. What is she talking about?
Wilder shakes his head, blond curls dancing on either side of his face. He hasn’t cut his hair in a long while, and I like it. “No, ma’am,” he says. “My interest no longer dwells on the stars.”
This doesn’t make any sense to me, but the woman’s expression turns sour. She lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t know one’s interests in the stars could change. Let me know if you change your mind.” She turns her attention to a book she’s reading.
“Um, excuse me.” I clear my throat.
Her eyes pin me, irritation in their depths. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for books on local history,” I say. “On the history of Liberty, and the surrounding area.”
“Oh.” The woman blinks, her eyes looking owlish behind her red frames. “I see.” She doesn’t say anything further.
“So,” I continue, feeling both annoyed and confused, “do you have any books like that?”
“Hmm.” Lydia taps her lips with a bony finger. “No, I don’t suppose I have. But if I did,” she flicks her hand off to her right. “They’d probably be over there somewhere, in miscellaneous.” Her gaze is pulled down to her book again. I can see the title from here; Jane Eyre.
Well, I can’t fault her for her taste in books.
Heaving a sigh, I step over to the shelf she’s indicated. It’s quite large, and it’s clear she’s put anything here that didn’t fit in an immediate genre. It could take me the better part of an hour to read every title she has on this bookcase, and that’s before I even look inside any of them.
“What are you looking for, specifically?” Wilder asks. “I can help you look.”
“I wish I knew,” I said. “Hmm. Anything related to the history of the Pacific Northwest, magic, or, I don’t know, fairies or something.”
“Fairies?” Wilder rolls his eyes. “Please.”
I laugh, but the sound is strained. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn anything exists, anymore. Elves are real. Magic is real. Vam—”
“Hush,” Wilder hisses, his perfect brow lowering in a frown of disapproval.
“Sorry,” I say. “Anyway, keep your eyes peeled for anything that looks like it might carry some sort of information about local folklore, magic, or whatever. I don’t know. I won’t know until I find it.”
“That’s helpful,” Wilder quips, but he begins looking, his gaze roving over the titles on the book spines with startling speed.
I look as well, but see nothing of use. There’s a book on how to manipulate one’s husband, and that does look interesting, but I know I don’t have time to be distracted. Another book is about cats and their different temperaments. I roll my eyes. It looks quite old, and that doesn’t surprise me. Most people in this age can’t afford the luxury of pets. Animals that hold still long enough for a human to hold are usually cooked and eaten, cats included.
The minutes pass by quickly. I finish looking at the books on the top shelf and look at the next. Wilder has already scanned over half the titles, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Here’s something,” he says. He pulls a book out. “It’s titled ‘Picturesque photography from the Blessed Isle of Fae.’” He scrunches his nose and peers closer. “The subtitle is “My magical stay on Vashon Island.”
Now it’s my turn to wrinkle my nose. “What’s Vashon?” I ask.
Wilder shrugs. “You got me.” He opens the book, flipping through the faded pages. “Hmm. Lots of photos. That makes sense, based on the title, but—” he pauses, staring down at the open book for a moment and smirks. “Ha. Here’s a blurry picture of what the author claims are real live fairies.”
I crane my neck to get a better look. The photograph is in color, but the ‘fairies’ are little more than glowing orbs on the page. The backdrop is a gloomy-looking forest. “Very convincing,” I say dryly, and we share a chuckle.
“Hmm,” Wilder muses as he returns to the search. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be looking for books at all,” he says, with a wink at me. “I know how much you enjoy it, but what if this person or whatever you’re looking for; what if he doesn’t exist? Or at the very least, what if no account of this person’s whereabouts has ever been written down?”
I rub my eyes with a tired groan. “Ugh,” I say in response. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Why not?” Wilder presses. “You need to be willing to switch up your search if you want results.”
“Because if it’s not in a book, my search is over,” I protest. “I’m taking a crazy-huge risk as it is, coming with you, don’t you get it?”
Wilder’s gaze hardens. “You don’t have to stay there,” he says. “You know I can help you hide. You don’t have to be a prisoner, Stella.”
“I know that,” I groan. “I just—” I bite my lip, unsure how much to tell him.
Wilder’s eyes narrow. Once a brilliant blue, like the sea on a sunny day, they are now red. Red as a sunset. Red as blood. Fitting, I suppose. “Do you want to stay?” he asks.
I hesitate, and I’m not sure why. Wilder is my closest friend, and regardless of our past, I still love him. Desperately. But I also told Eldaren I would stay. I would give him the chance that he felt he needed, to win me over. Like I’m the freaking catch of the day.
But something tells me to keep that a secret. Wilder cannot know, and I’m unsure why I feel this way. So I settle on a different truth. “Quinn,” I say. “He’s happy and safe, there. The elves have been training him. He has magic, Wilder, and they’re showing him how to use it.”
Wilder smirks, anger flickering in his beautiful gaze and tightening his perfect jawline. “Until they decide he’s a danger they can’t control, and kill him.”
I stare at him, words refusing to form. I hadn’t thought of that. Was it possible? Could Quinn do anything that could put his life in jeopardy with the elves?
No. I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s true. Not with Quinn. He does everything they ask.”
“I hope for his sake, that you’re right.” Wilder hasn’t torn his gaze from me, his eyes burning with intensity. “But in the meantime, this gaia needs to be found. Where else can you search? What can you do?” He gestures to the shop with a crooked, mocking smile. “This one seems to have failed us. Maybe we should look and see what other mythical creatures actually exist and contact them. Maybe they know.”
That’s a thought, but it sounds time-consuming and probably ineffective. I glance at the clock on the wall and grimace. I’ve been gone for almost two hours. My bedroom door doesn’t have a lock on it. Any elf at any time could decide to check and find me missing. I need to get back so I can bathe and drench my room in perfume so the elves can’t pick up Wilder’s scent on me. They didn’t seem to notice when it was just a brief encounter, but I knew once Wilder’s arms went around me for more than a minute or two, that his scent would probably stick around longer. I don’t want to risk his being found out.
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “But if you know of any other bookshops that might hold something, please let me know. I need to be getting back, now.”
Wilder’s nostrils flare, but he dips his head in a nod to hide his disappointment. “Okay
,” he says. “I’ll take you back.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, and together, we leave the shop. I know he’s upset with me, and guilt stabs me like a blade. Part of me wants to burrow into his embrace and never let go. I miss what we had.
We could still have it. The thought flits through my mind. You can go back to that: no elves, no fruitless research, no worries. No cares. Just you. And him.
Eldaren. I inhale sharply, my steps taking me down the gloomy underground alley, the way I came. I don’t love him, but I care about him—a lot. And I know slipping away a second time would crush him.
And to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what will happen to me if I run away from him again. I mean, I did tonight, but this was different. I am going back. What happens if I tried to escape, really escape, again?
What if I’m caught?
I wouldn’t. I glance at Wilder out of the corner of my eye as we walk. Sure, confident. Powerful. It may not have been true before, but it is now:
Wilder will protect me.
28
Stella
Leaving the bookshop, we walk back the way we came earlier. My mind is torn between aggravation for not being able to help Eldaren, and nervousness over coming up with an explanation if I’m caught by the elves. They are not my enemy.
But neither is Wilder.
My steps slow when we come across the little shop selling crystals and incense. I look back at Wilder. “Just for a few minutes?” I ask.
He smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “Sure,” he replies. “No rush.”
A bell chimes over the door when I open it, the silvery notes hanging in the air. It smells like old pages, dust, and cinnamon tea. Mother would have loved it. Perhaps she’d known about this place, years ago. The thought fills me with comfort.
A woman is standing behind the counter. She has her hair swept up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing long dangling earrings that flash in the light.
Several candles are placed on precarious stacks of books, and fairy lights are strung across the ceiling. I’d always wanted fairy lights, but they’re very expensive, and now that I’m looking, I see that several of the bulbs are burnt out. She must have pulled this set out of an attic or bought them used somewhere.
My eyes want to look everywhere at once. Crystals are piled in baskets on a low shelf, clear, pink, black, blue, and more, each of them organized by color. Sticks of incense are bundled together and tied with twine, and stacks of tarot cards clutter the counter. I eye the latter rather nervously. I’ve heard tarot cards are devilry, and I certainly don’t want to get mixed up in that, if it’s true. I have enough to worry about.
“Good evening, my dear.” The shopkeeper speaks out. It’s belated; I’ve already been inside for several moments, but she seems oblivious to the awkwardness of it. She smiles at me, eyes wide and earnest behind enormous black spectacles. “Looking for something?”
I’m not looking for anything in particular. I just want to take a look at this place. But my gaze turns to the long bookshelf that runs the length of one wall. “Books,” I say.
The woman raises her eyebrows. “Books?” she says. “I have plenty of those, m’dear. Anything specific?”
“Um . . .” I’m not sure how to phrase it. I’m looking for a legend, a person who doesn’t actually exist. But Eldaren thinks a gaia is out there, so I’ve spent hours and hours searching, and all for nothing. I don’t say any of that, though. “Do you have any books on, uh, local magic?”
The woman tilts her head, the beads of her earrings clinking together. “Local magic,” she muses. “How intriguing. Hmm.” She bustles out from behind the counter, the hem of her long, bohemian skirt swishing about her ankles. “Let me see, here.” She walks over to the bookshelf, and I follow. “I have a book on general spell casting, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
It isn’t, but I don’t reply. She almost seems to have forgotten me as she clucks over her books. “And I’m quite fond of ‘Manipulating Those Around Us, for the Greater, Cosmic Good.”
Wilder and I exchange glances, and he grins, hiding his fangs behind a pale hand.
“I do have ‘Myths, Folklore and Legends of the Pacific Northwest,’” she chirps, pulling the volume off the shelf. She hands it to me, a cloud of dust billowing outward. “Is this of any interest?”
“Uh, it might?” I offer. “Thanks. I’ll take a look.”
The woman beams. “Of course, sweetie. Take all the time you need.” She walks back to the counter, her wrists covered in bangles. She takes the whole magic thing pretty seriously if her stereotypical fortune-telling garb is any indication.
I flip open the book, clearing my throat when more dust blows into my face. It is precisely what the title says; a collection of stories collected from various parts of the Northwest. Witches, ghouls, shapeshifters—though the author says in a margin, that shapeshifters are more commonly found in the Midwest—Bigfoot, and a host of other creatures. Fairies were said to be seen there, as well.
I settle myself on the floor, sighing at the very thought of seeing a fairy. Mother never quite came out and said it, but I know she believed in them. I can’t say whether or not they’re real. I’ve never seen one, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.
Wilder crouches beside me. “This one looks promising,” he says. “Are these books why you came in here?”
I shook my head. “I just wanted to look.” But peering down at this book, I have a funny feeling, fluttering in my heart. There is something here, hidden in the faded, yellowed pages. I can sense it.
Almost as if my thoughts summoned it, I turn the page, landing on a picture of a forest. My heartbeat pounds faster at the sight of the trees. Something important is in those woods, wherever they are.
“There.” Wilder’s breath tickles the side of my face as he leans closer. He points at the text below the photograph.
Vashon. A quiet island, its small town, and homes surrounded by forest, is thick with enchantment and legendary creatures. Fairies have been spotted here several times, as well as other ethereal beings. One family in particular lives in harmony with these creatures. Most humans do not possess magic, but these people were rumored to wield several different types of enchantment. Once, even a gaia walked among them, though he is said to be long dead.
“Stars,” I breathed. “I found it.”
“That . . . was a tremendous stroke of luck,” Wilder murmured.
I agree. Except, I feel . . .
I shake my head, clearing the fog out of my mind. It is massively lucky that I found it. And that’s all it is. Luck. Stranger things have happened.
I think.
Standing, I flip the cover over to read the price. Five dollars.
I still have money from the first time I raided the elven trash bin, and at my request, Sol went back to fetch it for me in the first couple of weeks following Quinn’s arrival to the base. I had the foresight to bring it with me tonight. Digging a hand into my coat pocket, I procure some faded bills and take them to the counter. “I want to buy this book.”
The woman eyes it with interest. “Good choice,” she says. “Who knows? Use it as a guide, and you may find some of these creatures.” She winks. “I’d choose the fairies. They can be quite friendly, you know. Just don’t get on their bad side the first time, and you should have no trouble at all with making friends.”
I’m not sure what to think of that, so I don’t respond, and instead dole out the bills, getting a handful of coins in exchange. No tax. Not any more. I’m not sure that money is being made any longer, and it’s becoming increasingly valuable.
Wilder and I leave the shop, the little bell ringing again as we open the door. It’s the cheeriest sound I’ve heard in a long time. There’s precious little to be happy about in Liberty.
But I’m feeling happy. Purpose surges through me like the waves of a rising tide. I found a clue.
We’re one step closer to finding a gaia.
Eldar
en will be very pleased.
Unless, of course, he learns who is responsible for helping me find it.
29
Eldaren
Mother takes me to Father. He’s in his study. It’s larger than the office I’m using down in Liberty and is more richly furnished. Only the best, for the king of elves. Lavish tapestries adorn the walls, depicting many of the worlds we have saved.
Father is sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, the furniture carved and polished to perfection. It’s beautiful. Everything in the palace is beautiful. As elves, we demand nothing less. Attractive and functional. Things should be both, when possible.
Father looks up from the book he is reading, his gray gaze flickering past me to settle on my Mother.
“Aldriek,” Mother says, her tone taking on a silky edge that would make me grimace if I wasn’t carefully masking my emotions. Mates for over two hundred years, and Mother still swoons over Father like the Kenelky sparked yesterday.
Father doesn’t smile. He seldom does. There is a slight softening around the eyes when he sees Mother, however. “Dryial,” he says. He puts the book aside, and I know what he’s thinking; reading doesn’t happen when Mother is around. She’s much too talkative for that.
Mother perches on the armrest of the chair, settling her skirts about her. “Eldaren came to see me,” she says happily.
“I see that,” Father says. His gaze trains on me again, and I stand a little straighter, chin tilted upward.
Father and I look alike. I am the only son who takes after him in looks so closely. All of my other brothers take after his first mate, Edoshie. She died years before I was born, but not before she’d given Father seven sons and one daughter. They are all blond. My mother often prattles on about how her life would be easier with daughters—and they would all look like her—but if they were anything like her, I think she’d change her mind.
