by Anthea Sharp
“You met a lot of people yesterday,” she said, trying not to grin too much.
“But only one that I’d like to know better,” he said. “Want to dance?”
“Sure.”
They found a corner of the floor, and she was glad to see that Aran was a good dancer. Nothing too flashy, nothing too geeky, although she had to laugh a little when they started copying one another’s robo-dance moves.
The DJ put on a slow song, and Spark hesitated. Then Aran opened his arms, and she went into them. She slipped her arms around his shoulders, and their bodies gently bumped as they swayed together. It was straight out of a too-sweet movie, but she didn’t care.
She was just a girl, dancing with a boy, and everything in the world was right.
The music stopped too soon. She leaned her head against his chest a moment longer, counting his breaths.
She pulled back a little and touched the dash of indigo in his black hair. “Is this new? I like it.”
“I just redid it. My rebel streak.”
“I think it goes deeper than your hair.”
She could picture him, riding midnight streets on a sleek grav-cycle, pushing the speed limit, flying over the horizon toward dawn and freedom.
“Maybe.” His expression was shuttered.
“Break time,” the DJ announced. “Grab some refreshments, and meet me back here in ten!”
Spark stepped out of Aran’s arms as the room lights came up.
“Want to get some punch?” she asked.
“Not really. That glow weirds me. Maybe just a glass of water.”
“Let’s go to the kitchen.” She tilted her head to the half-hidden door in the corner of the suite. “That’s where they keep the high-class beverages. You know, water, fruit juice.”
“Caffeinated drinks?”
“Definitely.”
Spark led him around the plastic ferns in the corner, and they slipped into the empty kitchen. The remains of frantic party-readying were evident in the empty food containers scattered over the counters and the glowing red puddle of punch in the sink.
“I think there’s a coffee maker in here somewhere,” Spark said.
“I’m good with soda.”
She opened the fridge, and Aran snagged a silver can of high-octane soda.
“You planning on staying up all night?” she asked.
“Maybe. If the company keeps being this good.”
“Does that line actually work for you?” She had to admit, though, it had. A little.
He laughed. “Hey, if it’s true, it’s not a line.”
She rolled her eyes. But no matter how much she liked him, she had some questions she needed to ask before he distracted her again.
“I want to hear more about your experience in Feyland,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “We didn’t get enough of a chance to talk about what you thought of the game-play.”
“I told you—it was interesting.”
“That’s not very detailed.” A shiver of unease went through her. “What, exactly, did you do in there?”
He set his soda on the counter, then took her hands. “That’s not important. Have you ever seen the sun rise over the sea?”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Look. I’m trying to ask you out. We’ll have plenty of time to talk as I show you the city. That is, if your keepers will let you go.”
She couldn’t help the pleased glow that warmed her from within.
“If they don’t, I’ll fire them.”
“Good.”
He held her gaze and leaned forward. The promise of a kiss tingled in the space between them—and the kitchen door swung open, letting in a blare of music. And Burt.
“Everything all right in here, Miss Jaxley?”
It had been, until he walked in.
“Sure,” she said. “Burt, you remember Aran, from lunch?”
“Of course.” His voice was flat.
“Hey,” Aran said.
His eyes were guarded. For a long moment he and Burt just looked at each other. If they had hackles, she was sure they’d be raised.
“Burt,” she said, “Aran’s going to take me out to see the city. I’ll be back after sunrise.”
“I don’t think so.” Burt crossed his arms.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Aran said.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Stop it.” She stepped between them. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Burt, you’re my security team leader, not my dad. Besides, I know the protocol.”
Aran raised his brows. “Protocol?”
“I’m only allowed to be gone four hours, have to activate the locater in my wrist-chip to a specific frequency, and check in every half-hour.” In some ways, having a security team was worse than parents.
“Being a super-celebrity seems pretty tweaked, you know that?”
“Oh, I know.”
All too well. But tonight she wanted to shut away that part of her life and be an ordinary girl.
“Hold out your hand,” Burt said, gesturing to Aran. “Let me see that chip.”
“So you can short it out?” Aran asked. “No thanks.”
“Mr. Cole, if you don’t want me to throw you out this very moment, it’s a requirement.”
Aran hesitated. She could see his throat move as he swallowed. Then he rolled up his sleeve and extended his arm, wrist up.
Burt leaned forward, gave a grunt, and with his thumbnail flicked the chip completely off Aran’s wrist. It sparkled, turning in the air, before Burt caught it in his meaty fist.
“Burt! His chip—you can’t do that.” Turning to Aran, she grabbed his hand, inspecting his skin for blood. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry, Spark,” he said. “It was a fake.”
“What?” A spurt of anger heated her blood, and she dropped his wrist. “Are you a fake, too? Is your name even Aran, or is this some game you’re playing?”
“No.” He gave her a pained look. “This is real.”
“Aran Myeong Cole,” Burt said. “American father, Korean mother. Ostensibly lives at 1418 Circle Court, with two siblings and both parents. Graduated from high school two years early, and was accepted on full scholarship to several elite colleges. Attended none of them, due to—”
“All right,” Aran said, his voice raised and uneven. “Real enough for you? I think I’m done here.”
He turned and started for the door.
“Wait.” Spark caught his arm. “You can’t just leave.”
“It was nice meeting you,” he said. “I’ll always be a fan.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened. “We are not finished. I need to know what you did today, in Feyland.”
Aran jerked his head up, his pupils wide. “I told you. I explored the world a little bit. That’s it.”
“He’s lying,” Burt said.
“Aran, listen to me.” She had no idea how to say this, especially in front of Burt. “The game is… different. Be careful.”
Aran’s brows drew together, and she could see the pulse beating fast in his neck. He glanced at Burt, then back to her.
“Goodbye, Spark.”
Before she could react, he leaned in and brushed a kiss over her lips. Then he pulled away, out of her grasp, out the kitchen door, out of her life.
“Miss Jaxley—”
“Why did you do that?” She whirled on Burt. “The one guy who treated me like a real person, and you drove him away!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my job. That boy has a criminal record for running drugs. And he was lying to you. You spending time with him was a no-go.”
Great. She’d been all too right about Aran’s rebel streak.
“I’m going back to my rooms.”
She stalked past Burt, taking the other exit from the kitchen. If she had to walk back through the VirtuMax party, she would scream at the emptiness of it all.
Burt followed her wi
thout a word, just doing his job. Whether she wanted him to or not.
There was no escaping from her life. Not even by playing games, the way she used to do. Now her life was a huge, complex game, played on VirtuMax’s system.
Well, that wasn’t completely true. The world was bigger than the FullD, or the continent, or even the planet. There were worlds beyond worlds, and she had even seen one of them.
But even memories of haunting fey magic couldn’t ease the aching of her human heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aran slumped on the lumpy sofa in the Chowney’s garage, his battered tablet in one hand. He’d turned the single wall-mounted heater on, but it did little to push back the chill. Even with a cup of ramen in his belly and his bulky black hoodie on, he couldn’t get warm.
Everything in his life was sour. He’d gotten nowhere with hacking Feyland, he’d severely tweaked it with Spark—not that they’d had a chance of something real, anyway—and he’d just found out some guy on buysimcheats.com had undercut all his prices. He was down to twelve bucks, half of it in grimy change.
And he didn’t even have his fake chip any more. It was a little thing, but it stung the back of his throat. He was out of choices, with nowhere left to go.
At the dark of the moon, we will come and take you… The goblin’s words echoed through his mind. Aran scrolled through the calendars on his tablet until he found one that showed the phases of the moon. The dark of the moon was tomorrow.
His stomach tightened, although he knew nothing was going to happen. Feyland was just a game.
From outside the thin window he heard giggling. He immediately powered off his tablet, the blue glow fading until the garage was dark. Rising, he twitched open the thick, dusty curtain and could barely make out the figure of Bix trying to boost the robo-enforcer girl into his bedroom window.
“Just push it up,” Bix whispered in a too-loud voice.
“I’m trying.”
She shoved at the window, lost her balance, and the two of them toppled into the shrubbery. Aran winced at the crackle of breaking branches. No lights went on in the house, though Bix and Cyndee were smart enough to lie there quietly for a moment.
Still, they were going to be discovered, and Bix would regret it. His parents were strict. If they could, they’d confine him to his room until he left for college next fall.
Quiet as a shadow, Aran slipped out the door and into the yard.
“You two,” he whispered.
“What?” Bix turned on the thin beam of a flashlight and shone it around. “Aran?”
“Come to the garage,” Aran said.
Bix untangled himself from the shrubs and helped Cyndee out. When the three of them reached the musty darkness of the garage, Aran flicked his tablet back on, letting the blue light illuminate the room.
“Really?” He turned to Bix. “What do you think your parents will say when they discover you?”
Cyndee set a hand on her hip and scowled at Bix. “You said it was all flash for me to come over. I don’t want no raging ’rents.”
“You guys can stay here.” Aran tilted his head toward the couch he slept on most nights.
“What about you?” Bix asked.
“I’m not sleepy,” Aran lied. “Besides, I’ve got a date.”
Right. An imaginary magenta-haired girl with a great laugh waited for him beside the sea. If only things were different. If only he were different, not forever marked by one naïve mistake that had cost him everything.
“Have fun,” he said, scooping up his bag and tucking his tablet inside. “See you later, Bix.”
“Thanks, man. Catch you at the con tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Aran lifted his hand in farewell and went out into the empty night—made all the more bitter by the sound of Cyndee’s laughter and Bix’s answering murmur as he shut the door.
Aran spent some of his change at a late-night coffeehouse, idly flicking through the gaming headlines on his tablet. Once the place closed down he caught the last bus to the outskirts. It was just him and a guy who reeked of urine. Aran was glad to get off where the train tracks crossed the road.
He walked the rails, shining silvery gray in the first light of approaching dawn. Ahead, he could hear the waves swooshing back and forth over the gravelly beach.
The faint drizzle faded, leaving a sheen of water over the earth. He balanced on the glistening metal tracks, then took the cutoff through the bracken, his jeans wicking water from the evergreen leaves. Ahead of him, the hushing of the sea grew louder as the path dropped to the shore.
Aran followed the trail around the last hump of land, and the sea opened before him, all gray and moving like a vast, living creature. He drew in a deep breath, scented with salt and crushed ferns, and scrambled down to the stone-covered slice of shore.
Despite the dreariness of his life, his spirits rose. It was hard to be completely depressed at the secret cove, especially as the clouds turned silver, then pinkish gold. He walked along the water line, looking for treasure. Once he’d found an old glass fishing float, but most of the time only trash washed ashore.
Dingy Styrofoam and frayed bits of bright orange netting, bottle caps, and shredded plastic. Humans could be such careless, dirty things. Sometimes he’d bring a garbage bag and fill it, though he’d forgotten this time.
The debris wasn’t enough to erase the wonder of the sunrise. He wandered over to a bleached driftwood log and perched there, not worrying about the damp. His jeans were wet anyway. Arms folded, he watched the sky brighten to white, then blue, until he had to turn his face away from the horizon and the burning golden ball of the sun.
Something caught his eye, right at the edge of the water, a flash of magenta almost as bright as Spark’s hair. Timing his steps to the tide, Aran grabbed it—a stone, water-slick and gleaming, striated with bands of pink and darker purple. It wasn’t the first agate he’d found on the beach, but it was the prettiest.
He cupped it in his palm, watching the colors fade as it dried, then slipped the stone into his pocket.
Without meaning to, he’d decided to return to SimCon for the last half-day. Bix expected him, and, hell, why not? He swallowed Spark’s name, and turned his back to the rising sun.
***
“All is in readiness, my queen.” The redcap goblin knelt before the tangled throne, eyes averted from his ruler’s icy gaze. “Tonight we enter the mortal world and fetch the human.”
The Dark Queen lifted her face to the star-dappled sky and inhaled deeply. Power tingled, almost within her grasp. The night tasted of wildness and lost dreaming.
Soon.
***
Spark opened her eyes, groggy and disoriented. For a second she had no idea where she was, and the anonymity of the hotel room didn’t help. She’d woken in hundreds of rooms that looked just like this one: beige walls holding paintings of innocuous landscapes, soap-scented sheets, curtains that always let in a thick slab of light at the sides.
Then memory tumbled back into her brain. SimCon, and the rainy city she’d decided not to explore after all. And Aran.
She squeezed her eyes shut, letting brief regret wash over her, then stuck the feeling in a little box and locked it up tight. Enough with the self-pity and tragic heroine bit. So she met a guy and it didn’t work out. Welcome to life.
She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but she called room service and ordered a mocha, along with their fruit-and-pastry plate. The food was waiting outside her door when she got out of the shower. One of Burt’s guys was, too. Well, not directly outside, but sitting in the room across the hall with the door propped open. She didn’t feel shy about not being dressed yet; after all, she was wrapped up in her thick bathrobe. If she let the security team bother her that much, she’d be a walking mess.
“Morning, Miss Jaxley,” he said. “After the official luncheon, we’ll be rolling out. If that’s good with you?”
“Hi, Joe. And yeah, it’s fine.” No reason
to stay around.
She grabbed her breakfast tray and locked the door behind her. While she ate, she scanned the entertainment headlines on her tablet. There—the report on SimCon. She skimmed over the pictures of herself, and read the article on Feyland with interest. The reporter had gotten a chance to try the FullD, and was full of praise for the immersive interface and creative quest lines.
Not that her job depended on whether the FullD was a success, since she was under contract to VirtuMax for the next two years. But she had that other job—the fey border patrol.
Spark switched to her messager. Though it was early, she hoped Jennet would be awake.
:You up?: she sent.
After a bite of scone and a sip of her mocha, Spark’s messager pinged.
:Am now. Did you see that guy again?:
:His name’s Aran. And no. That’s done.:
:Sorry to hear it.: Jennet sent a sad face graphic, which, ironically, made Spark smile a little.
:So, what are the details about us being Feyguard?: Spark asked.
:Tam and I have been talking about it. We figure our job is to watch the interface between the game and the realm, since we’re familiar with both. The Elder Fey didn’t seal the realm off completely, so a few people are bound to slip through the cracks.:
:And our job is to get them before they stumble too far into the Realm of Faerie. But how will we know when we’re needed?:
Like when someone who’d gone in-game behaved suspiciously. Was she just supposed to follow her intuition? But then what?
:I’m sure the Elder Fey have that covered. Somehow.:
:Reassuring. Creatures from another dimension got it handled, check.:
:Haha: Jennet wrote. :Seriously, though, I’ll keep talking it over with Tam. Game releases next week.:
:As if I don’t know it. My schedule’s insane. Speaking of which, gotta go.:
:Later.:
Spark finished her breakfast, then checked the time. Vonda would be waiting for her on the floor in half an hour, and then there was the VirtuMax luncheon panel. Spark was one of the panelists, along with Mr. Chon—who’d taken over as lead developer for Feyland after Thomas died—and the graphics designer, and a few other people who’d dedicated years of their lives to the game.
