“Are you a cop?” she asks in a gargled voice. “You have to tell me if you're a cop.” She wheezes and coughs, sliding back down to the floor.
Another woman, wearing clothes that haven't seen a washer in this side of forever, ambles over on bone-thin legs. She makes Barbie look fat.
“What you lookin' for?” she asks, tearing off a piece of some kind of candy and popping it in her mouth.
“I'd like some crack, please,” I say, and it even sounds dumb to me. I can only imagine the impression I'm giving: some naïve college girl, tired of being a scene kiddie and moving on to the grown up stuff.
At least, I hope that's the worst they get from me.
“We don't got no crack. . .” The woman's voice trails away as her eyes light up. “Oh. I bet we got a little left.”
She turns and staggers through the room. I follow after her. Inside, people are strewn about, some on mattresses, a few more with blankets, but many without anything. Some could be dead, from the state they're in, and no one seems to notice because of the state they are also in.
Pungent acidic smells attack me from every side, forcing into my nose, insisting on being noticed. Urine and sweat and mold and. . .My stomach squeezes, and I try to hold my breath.
But the stench is only half of the problem. The people become increasingly horrifying as my eyes adjust to the dim light. Deathly thin, covered in wounds, shooting up among piles of garbage and pissing in corners.
I'm afraid I'll catch something just being in close proximity.
The woman turns to me, chewing on her candy. “Big Daddy be out soon. He can decide how you gonna earn your keep.”
I can't suppress the shudder. “I suppose he's not looking for a cook. I make a mean chili pie.”
She laughs, then coughs on her candy and wheezes so hard she might die right here. Her face turns shades of white and then purple as she doubles over. Finally, she hacks up the candy and spits it on the floor.
“You're a funny one,” she says, sauntering past me. “He going to like you.”
She mingles into the slow churn of people and disappears. I guess I have to wait for Big Daddy to emerge, but I'm realizing that calling this a half-assed plan was a serious exaggeration. It's not even that well thought out.
I meander through the filth, trying not to see more of it than necessary. There's a lot going on here that I will never be able to fully purge from my mind so I just tiptoe through it as absently as possible. Still, I catch the three-way with a toothless woman and two well-endowed men in one room, and the artistic-like smear of vomit in a nearby corner. I step over what I hope is just a bag of rice, and turn the corner.
I'm face-to-shoulder with a giant man. He's square-shaped: his chest, his head, even his arms seem to be composed of squares. I raise my gaze to him, timidly.
“I hear you looking for. . .” His booming voice comes to a halt as his face lights up.
He's one of the mercenaries.
It's not difficult to remember to turn and run. I take off down a hallway, heart racing, pulse thudding in my head. I throw open doors, scoping each room for a place to hide. I know I'm supposed to be just leading him on a convincing chase and then resign, but I can only think of how to escape. For real.
There's no way I'm turning myself over to him. No way I'm going to be at their mercy. What sort of crazy idea was this? I shove open another door, dive into the room, and stumble over the moaning squirming pile of people. A closet door sits ajar. I lunge into it, pulling it closed behind me.
I settle down among things I can't—and don't want to—identify. Gasping for air, I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and try to listen. His footsteps pound closer, loud enough I can hear them over the orgy fest happening a few feet away.
Then the door slams open so hard, the room shakes.
He won't see me. He can't see me. He'll just turn around and check another room. Then I can climb out the window and make a run for it.
Part of me wishes I could peer out of the closet. The other part of me is glad I cannot. If I saw him up close, I'd probably involuntarily scream.
I squeeze my eyes shut and mentally count:
One. . .two. . .three. . .four. . .five. . .
The closet door shoves open.
My eyes snap open. He's staring down at me. Then he reaches in and grabs me up. I scream as he hauls me into the air, my backpack falling to the floor. Two men flank him. They carry me down the hallway. I twist and flail and scream for Remy. But he's not here. He left me alone with this dumb plan and these awful people and. . .
I'm brought through another door and thrown down on a sofa, my back landing on the cushions. I stare up at them but all I can see is black and red as I continue to scream.
I need to stop. They might hurt me if I resist. This wasn't part of the plan. But I can't stop. I'm alone with them. Anything could happen. This might be the end of my adventures, right here.
“We can either tranquilize you, or you can come willingly,” Square Man above me says. His voice is firm; there will be no negotiations. “It's up to you how we do this.”
I hiccup on a sob and focus my sight on him, trying to see past the tears that have covered my eyes. The two guys next to him could be twins, both with curly blond hair brushed to the side and noses too long for their faces.
They're going to take me the other changeling. They're going to take me to the source of the problems, and then I can fix this. And I will never have to see the dark fae, or the mercenaries, ever again. I can just go home to Mom and Cassia and live my life.
“Are you going to come willingly?” Square Man asks.
I swallow hard—well, try to, but the saliva sticks in my throat—and then nod, sniffing. My pulse slows. I find my bearing.
He leans down and hoists me back up to my feet.
“Out the back,” he says to his men. “Don't want to deal with the ghouls in the front.”
Ghouls? Oh, the drug addicts.
“Why would you pick a crack house to hide out in?” I ask aloud, even though the question probably should have stayed in my head.
Square Man doesn't seem fazed by it, though. “Not many places in your world where we can hang out without anyone bothering us, or ratting us out. A bunch of junkies are unlikely to be a problem. ”
“Sound logic,” I reply, not at all like I'm being held hostage and being ushered into another realm.
His answer does make sense, though. It would explain why all of the fae hang out in the underside of the city. Not only does the portal drop them there, but it's the only way to stay out of the spotlight.
If the pregnant fae and her daughter had crossed through the portal, is this where they would have had to stay? I still don't agree with remaining near the shadows, risking her children like that, but her options really were as bad as she had made them out to be.
The men lead me out the back door into a yard full of barrels with frozen over water, tipped boxes whose contents I can't identify, and a washing machine tub being used as a fire pit. Snow has been dropping steadily without letting up.
In the back of the yard, underneath a large tree, sits a structure, barely more than a hut, covered in snow, with swatches of contrasting vibrant green moss breaking through.
My pulse and breathing begin to race. Being alone with them in my own world was bad enough, but back in the fae world will be terrifying.
As they shove me inside the portal, I catch a glimpse of a figure on top of the hut, nearly melted into the shadows.
Remy.
My heart nearly swells with happiness. He's going to follow us once we're through.
He didn't leave me alone.
The other side of the portal is the dreary world I've come to know as the land of the fae. The shadows are hanging in the air, like fog, but darker, more ominous. I resist breathing for as long as possible, not wanting to inhale their toxin. I'm not entirely sure if it can harm humans, and I'm less sure if I'm really not a fae, so I wo
uld rather not take a chance. But I have to breathe, and when I do, the air smells like burned rubber and decay.
I duck my head, less in shame and fear, and more trying to keep from walking face-first into low-hanging fog, but it grazes the top of my head. It's slick and jiggly. I really want a shower to scrub it out of my hair.
The men don't seem to notice the shadow-fog. Or maybe they just ignore it. I suspect that's all the inhabitants can do anymore is just pretend it doesn't exist and hope it goes away, even though that tactic isn't working. The shadows are closing in.
I don't really pay attention to where they are leading me, because all of this place looks about the same. I just focus on not glancing back, not even by accident, and giving away Remy. I hope he followed through and is right behind us. Hope he is near enough that a glance back would be sufficient to see him. But he's also probably—hopefully—smarter than that.
The men lead me through the debris of the city, over piles of wood and broken dead bodies, and then up a gentle incline. We slow at the top.
I let myself look up. Ahead is a sprawling farmhouse, ravaged by the shadows—broken windows, loose shingles, and a toppled shed—but not completely destroyed. The dividing wall runs the length of one side of the property.
A woman fae, followed by several other fae, hurry out the front. The woman sobs as she barrels toward us, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Before I can react, she wraps her arms around me and sobs into my neck.
“You made it,” she cries. “You're finally home.”
11
My first instinct is so shove the crazy fae woman back, but I don't want to cause a scene with the mercenaries still hanging around. So I just stand there helpless while she hugs me and cries, and brushes back my hair and cries, and hugs me again. . .and cries.
Finally, she composes herself enough to address my captors. “Please, go inside. My husband will handle the payment.”
She hooks my elbow with hers and walks me toward the house. The other fae scatter about: two children wrestling, an older boy taking up hoeing the ground, and another adult woman who bustles back inside, right behind the mercenaries.
I'm led into the house, the scent of baking bread and warm berries hitting me right in the face. And stomach. I'm suddenly starving, but I say nothing as my gaze darts around the room, trying to take in everything: the farmhouse style dining room table, the large kitchen with simmering pots of delicious smelling sauces, the oven ticking away, and the back door ajar, revealing gray chickens strutting and clucking. I have never seen this place in my life.
Or have I?
Dread sinks into me. Changelings have to come from somewhere, right? They didn't just magically appear. At least, that's what I gathered.
I glance at the woman as she directs me down a hallway.
“Are you. . .are you my. . .” I can't finish the sentence. No matter who these people—fae—might have been, they aren't anymore.
I know my family. My real one. Mom and Cassia.
The woman opens a bedroom door and steps back for me to enter. I do so, hesitantly, less worried about being trapped in the room, and more about how this situation is starting to come together. I don't like it.
“This is your room,” she says, beaming, “and I am your mother.”
Sadness casts over me, worse than the shadows. She is delusional. Whether or not I am a changeling—and that is still up for debate—she is most definitely not my mother. I know my mother. I love my mother. And this woman is not her.
I just force a smile, afraid to say or do anything that will upset her. She has mercenaries, after all.
“I know you don't understand,” she says, caressing my hair. I wish she wouldn't do that, but I'm still not ready to take a stand. “You will, though. Let me get you something to eat. Just stay right here.” She smiles and then bounds out the door.
I listen until her footsteps have faded and her voice carries from far away. The clattering of dishes in the kitchen follows. Then I hurry to the window and push back the curtains to survey my new surroundings, my temporary home.
The land goes on forever, ending in a line of green trees against the horizon. I don't know how much of it is ours—theirs—but the way the livestock and kids run about, it seems quite a bit.
My gaze snaps back up the trees. Green trees. Lush like the moss on the portals. Nothing in this world has been that color, that depth, since I've visited. The grass is rich, the chickens becoming brown and white. The sky is increasingly blue.
The shadows are lifting.
My fake mother returns with a plate full of white bread, like pound cake, topped in warm berry sauce and served with thick cream. She hands me the food and, as much as I would like to revolt against them and their silly notion that I belong here—silly even though the shadows seem to agree—I take the plate because I'm starving.
I sit on the edge of the bed covered in a blue and red comforter and scarf down the food. The little bit that actually lingers on my taste buds long enough to notice is amazing. Homemade, fresh off the farm kind of amazing. I probably had a pretty good life here.
If I had ever lived here.
“Do you have pictures of me?” I ask all at once, surprising both me and my alleged fae mother.
She smiles, but it's enormously sad. “You were taken the moment you were born. I've waited. . .” She breaks down in sobs, covering her face with her hands.
I feel bad all over again. I may not have any attachment to her, but she clearly does to me. And, somehow, this plays into the shadows. I'm not yet brave enough to ask her why, though, so I finish my food and hand her the empty plate.
“Thank you,” I say genuinely. She's a sweet woman, and her life has probably been full of heartache trying to relocate her child, even though I still don't fully understand what happened. I study her for a few minutes, trying to determine how safe it is to ask her questions—real ones, that need real answers. I take a deep breath. “Why was I gone so long?”
“There was no one to retrieve you,” she says, fighting back more tears. She leans forward and kisses the top of my head. “Rest, sweetheart. You need rest. You are safe now.”
She turns and leaves, but her words linger with me. It has been a while since I've been truly safe. Ever since I ran into Remy holding up the convenience store, my life has been turmoil.
Even though I don't want to believe this woman, I can't help but take comfort that the shadows have started to lift. Something has gone right for a change.
I crawl under the covers, sinking in the mattress, trying to piece together why my return here would have any bearing on the curse over the fae world. But the evidence is right outside my window: as soon as I came into this house, the shadows started to recede.
It couldn't be a coincidence, could it?
My overtaxed brain shuts down bit by bit, and I don't try to resist. I need sleep, and I can, because I'm safe.
My mother wouldn't lie to me, would she?
I wake to the sounds of dishes banging around and people shouting. At first, I wonder why my mother and Cassia are fighting. Then I realize it's a different mother, there's no Cassia, and I'm not in my house. Or my world.
I hop out of bed and head for the door, my hand halting on the knob. As silently as I can manage, I turn and head for the window, instead, and peer out. The sun is setting, but the sky is full of colors: oranges and reds, mainly.
The shadows are still tinting the very top of the sky and the far edges of the field, but everything else has been brought to life. Maybe the city is coming back to its previous state? I would like to go look, but I also don't want to leave the sanctuary of this house.
More yelling and clanking.
As minimal of sanctuary as it is, anyway.
I creak open the door and creep down the hallway, just far enough to hear what is being said.
“She's not going to leave,” a man yells, his voice cracking. “She wasn't running away from us, Ella.”
“How can you be sure? You didn't see the way she looked at me.” The woman, my fae mother, is crying again. Or still.
“It's just a lot for her take,” the man says. I assume he's probably Papa. I have yet to see him. “She'll come to realize we're her Mama and Papa.”
“She is terrified of me, of her family! I will never forgive him!” Mama punctuates her screeching anger with the clanging of a pan. “Never!”
“It's done now, Ella,” the man says, soothing and calm.
The woman sobs loudly, and he makes shushing noises and murmurs things I can't make out.
I straighten upright and head down the hallway, turning the corner at the kitchen. Mamam and a man are embracing in the middle of the dining room, her head on his shoulder and her back heaving up and down.
The man sees me first. “Did you sleep well, dear?”
He looks more like a gnome than a fairy, except for the wisps of wings behind him.
I nod as they separate and Mama turns around to face me. She wipes her eyes and hurries to the kitchen.
“Would you like a snack?” Her voice quivers. “There's plenty to choose from. I've been working all day.”
“Your Mama is a wonderful cook,” the man—Papa—says, and I cringe against the need to correct him. They are not my parents.
But they're such sweet people, and the woman is so heartbroken over my delayed return, that I can't bring myself to be that much of an asshat. So I just try on a pleasant smile.
“I'm not hungry right now, thank you, but maybe something to drink?” My throat feels as if I had slept with my mouth open.
“Tea?”
Ah, so we're on that side of the wall.
“Yes, please,” I say and then slink over to the farmhouse table and take a seat as far from Papa as possible. He seems as nice as any of them, but I would rather the vantage point of being able to observe them. . .and have a head start if I need to throw a chair and run.
Mama boils water on the stove, then brews a mug of tea and brings it over to me at the table. She scoots two little containers from the middle of the table toward me.
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