by Ruth Vincent
“We’ll see,” was all I could manage to say in reply, and we smiled at each other, clearly both feeling like we’d won.
Obadiah lay back against the bed, and I rested my head on his chest. He pulled the comforter up over us as we lay together, clothed and staring at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere yet,” I said. “I can’t. First I have to go out to West Tulip. I have to at least check out the Quinn case, see if there’s anything I can do before I leave.” I glanced at him. “Are you going into the club tomorrow? I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”
Obadiah stroked my hair. “Relax, Mab. I’m totally fine on my own. This isn’t the first time I’ve had these symptoms. I’ve been having them for months.” He must have seen the expression on my face, because he looked abashed. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Please promise me you’ll never keep anything like that from me again,” I said, and I could tell he was serious when he nodded.
“I promise.”
As we undressed for bed that night, though, dread crept back into my heart. I’d seen firsthand what the Thirst could do. Memories of my old life as a fairy kept flooding back to me in the darkness: watching my fellow Fey waste away, collapsing by the sides of the gilded roads, or terror-eyed and screaming with madness. Now that I knew about Obadiah’s symptoms, I couldn’t stop my brain from returning there, like a tongue to a sore tooth. The glowing red lines on the bedside alarm clocked changed, minutes passing into hours. In the filter of the moonlight through the curtains, I watched Obadiah lying next to me, the shape of him slowly rising up and down with his breaths.
Obadiah murmured something in his sleep, and twitched. His nightmares had been growing more frequent lately, I’d noticed, and I wondered if it was the Elixir sickness. He cried out, and I pressed my hand to the small of his back, gentling him. Still half-asleep, he rolled over to spoon me. Dammit, I had to do something to help him. The thought of the Thirst getting him stopped my breath, made me want to curl into a ball and scream. It had been a little less than a year since we’d first met, and yet, I could no longer imagine life without Obadiah in it. It was noble of him to try to abstain from Elixir, but I wouldn’t let him do something stupid, just to be noble. And if he wouldn’t drink Elixir, I had to find a cure for the Elixir Thirst, before it was too late.
Chapter 2
I must have drifted off into a worried sleep myself because the blaring alarm clock woke me, and I groaned, reaching over to punch it off. I sat up and stretched.
“Morning, beautiful,” Obadiah whispered, handsomely grizzled in the blue light of early morning.
I kissed the top of his head. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah,” he said brightly.
But I looked askance at him. I couldn’t forget what I’d seen last night.
“I wish I didn’t have to go out there.”
“What time do you have to leave?” Obadiah asked.
“Soon.” I frowned. “I’m doing the interview first thing, then heading to Reggie’s office.”
Obadiah eyed me from where he lay sprawled out like a lion in the rumpled sheets. “Are you going to ask him about taking time off, to go back to the Vale?”
I shook my head. “Next week is Labor Day weekend. I’ll have Monday off and Reggie always closes the office early on that Friday. It’s enough time to make a quick trip back, enough to see what this bad thing is that the Queen’s talking about, and try to find out some answers.” And maybe steal some Elixir for you, directly from the streams, so you know it doesn’t come from the Queen’s captives, I thought, getting out of bed and shivering as my bare feet touched the floorboards.
“I hadn’t realized the holiday was coming up so soon. It would be the perfect time for a trip,” Obadiah said, rising from the bed after me.
“I wish I could tell Reggie where I was really going,” I said wistfully, putting on my robe.
“That you’re taking a long weekend to Fairyland?” Obadiah replied, raising his eyebrow.
“You’re right. There’s no way to really tell him, is there?” I sighed as I headed for the shower.
When I kissed Obadiah goodbye that morning, he was headed back to his club. He said he’d received a text from Reuben in the night that there was some trouble with the werewolves.
“Do you think everything’s okay?” I asked as he buttoned the cuffs to his crisp business shirt like a knight preparing for battle.
Obadiah shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. The Wolfmen are always having spats with each other. Too much testosterone.” He rolled his eyes, finishing the cuff. “But I’d better go out there and check it out. I don’t want Reuben to have to deal with it all on his own. He can’t be bad cop to his own pack, but I can.”
“I don’t want you to have to play bad cop,” I said, continuing to get ready for work myself.
“Why? I like playing bad cop.” He winked at me.
“Text me when you’re there just to let me know everything’s alright?” I said.
“Of course,” he said, “and good luck with the interview. I know you’ll do great.”
He kissed me again, filling me with warmth all over. The way Obadiah looked at me when he pulled back from the kiss made me feel strong, brave, capable.
“I’ll call you on my lunch break.” I smiled at him, still singing inside from his kiss as I bounced down the stairs.
Penn Station was a throng of pushing, shoving New Yorkers, but as I made my way to the Jersey Transit side, the crowd thinned out. The train glided towards me on the platform, and I walked on board, taking a seat on the top level of the double-decker. I settled my bag in my lap. The car was cleaner and more spacious than a subway car, but only slightly.
I was dressed in a freshly ironed, navy blue suit. Reggie had told me a suit wouldn’t be necessary. He told me I didn’t even need to dress up as much as I did to go to work, considering he himself lived in rumpled khakis. But I had met Brenda Sheffield; I saw how she dressed, and I knew my relative youth and inexperience were going to count against me here. At least I could look like an adult, even if I seldom felt like one.
The train lurched into motion. We rocked and swayed through the tunnel for a long time, at last popping out on the other side of the Hudson River. Newark seemed very much the same as New York City from the train: a maze of office buildings, dirty and gritty, until it all thinned out into a vast, industrial wasteland. But then twenty minutes later we had entered a different world.
I stared out the window in wonder as the green suburbs whirred by. It had been too long, I realized, since I’d seen trees. I’d forgotten what a difference looking out on nothing but green made to my heart. The last time I’d seen a forest, not a park but a real forest, was the last time I was in the Vale. I tried not to think about it, peering out at the houses: Tudors, Victorians and colonials, which grew larger and statelier as we sped along. Little commuter towns with picturesque names like “Bellefleur,” and “Griffin Park,” sped by, but after a while, they all blended in to each other, and I missed homely, homey Brooklyn.
The conductor’s voice boomed out, “West Tulip, next stop!” and my heart fluttered nervously. If this girl hadn’t opened up to the dozen other professionals her mother had dragged her to, who had many more degrees, and years of experience, what chance did I think I had?
But you have magic, a little voice inside me whispered. Not really. What I had was the memory of magic, the knowledge that there was another world outside our mundane realm. I didn’t know if that would help me in this case or not. But it was the only leg up I had.
The train rolled to a stop at the pretty brick station house of West Tulip, and I scrambled to my feet, smoothing the sitting wrinkles from my trousers, my pulse quickening. Brenda Sheffield met me at the station, as promised. Her Mercedes Benz was beige. In fact, it sort of matched her outfit, which was also beige: Coach purse, khaki pants, a blouse and stilettos. Here I was wearing a suit, and yet I still felt underd
ressed around the woman.
“Thank you for coming out,” she said stiffly, opening the door for me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I replied. Taking a seat, I tried to not stare too obviously. I’d never been in a car this expensive before, and I resisted the impulse to run my hands down the curves of the buttery soft leather seats.
We drove through the picturesque village of West Tulip. The sidewalks were punctuated by streetlights fashioned to look like old-fashioned gas lamps, each one of them supporting a basket of blooming begonias. The tidy little shops flanking the street sold designer baby clothes, artisanal ice creams, interior decor and various other lovely but impractical things.
It didn’t take long to leave the town center and drive through the green, sun-dappled lanes of residential West T to arrive at the Sheffields’ house.
My eyes widened as we pulled up at the gate. Yes, there was a gate, which should have been the first tell. It was a stately colonial, like the other houses in the block, set off from the road by large, sculpted hedges, and tastefully colored blooms lining the slate walk.
Brenda let me into the house through a side entrance, and the first thing I noticed was how immaculately clean it was. I mean, she knew I was coming, but still. It was intimidating. Eva’s and my domestic standards were basically if it didn’t violate any health codes it was probably okay. This house looked ready to be shown by a Realtor. The effect was cold and un-lived-in.
“May I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Perrier?” Brenda asked amiably, but she was still looking askance at me, like she was disappointed Reggie hadn’t come out himself. It made me more nervous than I already was.
“Oh, um, just some water, thanks,” I said, trying to act natural.
As Brenda filled a crystal glass with bottled water, I glanced around her kitchen, trying to not let my jaw drop open in amazement. It was almost the size of our entire apartment, full of gleaming granite countertops and a six burner Viking range. Eva would have flipped, yet I got the distinct impression that the only kitchen implement that got used in here was the small microwave recessed into the cream-colored wainscoted cabinetry.
She led me to take a seat in the living room, which was wall-to-wall beige couches, with a huge abstract painting over the fireplace that looked like it had been purchased more because it matched the colors in the window treatments than out of any love for the art itself.
“Is your daughter home?” I asked, fiddling with my glass.
Brenda frowned, the worry and strain showing through the perfect mask of her makeup. “Yes, of course, she’s upstairs, in her room.”
I looked Brenda right in the eye. “She’s expecting me, right? You did tell her I was coming?”
“Oh yes, I told her,” Brenda said quietly, her eyes drifting off to the window, where the remains of a child’s playhouse stood in the backyard. The wood was a pale weathered gray, and the shingled roof was beginning to sag. It contrasted so sharply with the otherwise immaculately manicured back lawn that at first it surprised me they hadn’t torn it down. But there are some things none of us can quite let go of.
“I told her you were coming,” Brenda continued. “But I’m not sure if she heard. I’m never sure anymore what gets through.”
I nodded. This interview wasn’t going to be easy.
“May I go see her?” I asked. I was nervous about my conversation with Quinn, but at the same time, I didn’t want to prolong the awkwardness of sitting here on this too-clean sofa drinking bottled water with her tightly wound mother.
Brenda nodded, biting her lip hard. It was hard for her to let a stranger into her house, hard for her to let me see how bad things really were with her daughter. I could tell by the haunted expression in her mascaraed eyes, the fact she was letting me was a sign of how desperate she was.
“Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you where her room is.”
I followed Brenda’s clacking heels up the stairs. The landing was decorated with framed family photographs. The center of all of them was a beaming, towheaded little girl, in ballet outfits and Christmas sweaters and elementary school graduation gowns. Quinn was adorable and had the glow of a well-loved child. I noticed the photos stopped around the age of twelve, though, and I wondered what kind of teenager this little Shirley Temple blonde had grown into.
There were three closed doors at the top of the stairs. Brenda pointed to the middle. “It’s, um, that one.”
She paused outside the door awkwardly.
“Would you like me to be present for the interview?” she asked hopefully.
“Actually, I think it would be better if we speak one-on-one,” I said, and her face fell. “I’ll stay and talk with you after, if I have additional questions,” I added. I had an instinct Quinn might be more forthcoming with a stranger than her own family.
Brenda headed back downstairs. Once she was out of earshot, I knocked softly on the door.
There was no answer.
I knocked again, louder this time.
“Quinn?” I called through the door. “It’s Mabily Jones from Reginald Ruggiero Investigative Services.”
I paused. Still no answer.
Brenda called up from downstairs. “You can just open it. She’d not going to answer.”
I realized she was probably right, but still, I felt bad. This whole assignment made me feel queasy inside.
“Quinn, I’m assuming you can hear me. I’m going to come in, okay?” I said, and slowly and hesitantly I opened the door.
When the door swung open, I caught my breath.
A young woman was lying on the bed, fully dressed, her eyes staring up vacantly at the ceiling.
For a brief, terrifying moment, I was afraid I was looking at a corpse, and then I saw the slow rise and fall of her chest.
“Hi, Quinn,” I said with all the friendliness I could muster.
She made no response. Just continued to lie there and stare.
The first thought that came to me as I saw her was how utterly different she was from her mother. It wasn’t just that her blond hair had been dyed an unnaturally maroon red, or the fact that she dressed mostly in black. It was the complete lack of politeness and social pretense. She didn’t even glance in my direction; she just ignored me, staring at the ceiling plaster.
Of course, Fetches just lay there catatonically too, I told myself. But I dismissed the thought.
Since Quinn wasn’t talking or looking at me, I cast a quick glimpse at the room in which I found myself.
Quinn’s room was another world entirely from downstairs.
The place was a complete mess. It seemed almost an act of defiance against the immaculately tidy downstairs. Black clothes were strewn across the floor like decaying leaves. Stacks of books and magazines collided haphazardly in the corners like collapsing skyscrapers. The whole room was a battleground between Brenda’s aesthetic taste and Quinn’s, symbolized by Nightwish posters tacked up over the pretty pink floral wallpaper. They met in the middle on some posters of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, one with Persephone thoughtfully holding a pomegranate, the other of Ophelia drowning in the stream, her hair spread out around her like a halo. It occurred to me as I glanced over at Quinn that she looked a lot like Millais’ painting: her pale face staring so vacantly up into space, her red hair sprawling out over the black flowered pattern of her comforter.
There was a chair by the bed, an elaborate Victorian-styled stuffed thing made of red velvet and black lace, perhaps a gift from her parents with a nod to their daughter’s tastes. If I sat down, I’d be more at eye level with the girl on the bed.
“May I take a seat?” I asked.
Again no response.
Awkwardly, I sat down. Sitting, I could see now that there was a shelf over her bed containing an altar much like Eva’s, although Quinn’s little statues of goddesses seemed a lot less friendly.
Quinn still wouldn’t look at me. I wondered if she knew I was there. Could it really be that she was a Fetch? The only
way to find out would be to get her to talk, or to touch her, but I didn’t want to do the latter without her permission. “May I talk to you?”
She didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t. But after a second, she slowly twisted her head to the side, so that one eye was looking at me.
That didn’t tell me whether or not she was a Fetch. Even a Fetch could still track with their eyes, mindlessly, like how plants move to follow the sun.
“Did your mom tell you who I am?”
“Yeah.”
I almost jumped at the sound of her voice. I hadn’t known she could speak. It almost wasn’t a word, just a low whisper, the shadow of a word. But she’d spoken. I’d heard that Fetches could speak sometimes, well, sort of. Yeses and nos at least. I need to get more of a complete conversation out of her to know for sure.
“What did your mom tell you about me?” I asked, trying not to ask yes or no questions.
Quinn turned her head another few inches to look at me directly. Her blue eyes were blank, soulless. She didn’t respond.
After a beat of silence, I tried again.
“Your parents hired my boss and me because they’re worried about you,” I began.
“They hired you to spy on me.”
It was the first full sentence she’d spoken, and it let me know definitively she wasn’t a Fetch. That was a level of complex thought that a wooden replacement could never handle. No, there was no magic here. This girl was just garden variety not okay.
I couldn’t help it; my heart sank a little. It would have almost been easier if she had been a Fetch. At least then I might have felt qualified to help her. I could have put some of my supernatural knowledge to use. Now I was going to rely on just old-fashioned detective work, something I’d been doing less than a year, something Reggie thought I was far better at than I feared I really was. But I’d been assigned this case, and I was going to do something to help this girl, or at least try.
