Faeries Gone Wild

by MaryJanice Davidson

  What of “buffoonery”? she wondered. Was that a term yet used? The study of history had confused her no small bit, for the stories oft differed with the teller. Faeries had no need of written records, of course, for the Fey did not easily forget, and each tale grew in lushness and depth when passed from mother to daughter, from queen to princess.

  But all agreed that for time beyond memory human-kind was bent on atrocities. The very earth upon which she stood told the tale, chanting of battles the species had waged amongst themselves, but now the foolish Mortal seemed determined to declare war on the ferns as well.

  Ava scowled at the thought. Off to her right, near the gnarled feet of a reticent maple, a frond nodded in the last, slanted rays of the vanquished sun. She caught her breath. Could it be? Might she have found the Pinquil already? she wondered, and rushed over. But it was only a timid leatherleaf. She touched its unfurling stem and it bobbed gracefully, but beneath her pinching slippers the flora complained. She shuffled apologetically aside, restoring broken herbage with a touch.

  “How long will you be with us, Mistress?” asked a reedy sprig of lamb’s-quarter.

  It was not easy to decipher its dialect, for it had taken on a Mortal twang, but Avalina had not spent long hours in study for naught. “Six days yet,” she said.

  There were “oohs” in response. “And all in mortal body?” asked a bending sapling.

  “Nay indeed,” Avalina said. “I would spend every moment in my own form if ever I could, but it requires a great deal of energy here in Mortal. Still . . .” She glanced about again. The fireflies were just winking to life, lighting the bog with mercurial magic.

  No mortals had passed this way for some hours. She had seen a leather-faced fellow wandering down a meandering path while it was yet fully light, but he had seemed intent on his own mission, stopping now and again to gaze at some particular plant or scribble something on his parchment.

  Most probably at this late hour the mortals were well settled in, having gorged themselves on the flesh of their fellow species and content to lounge about until well past morning light. “I think it safe to make the change now,” she said. “Full darkness is nearly upon us; thus I must say farewell until the morrow.”

  “Good night, Mistress,” sighed the maple.

  “Good night,” chirped the sapling.

  “Until the dawn.”

  “May you sleep with the dew,” added a woody bur.

  “My thanks,” she said, and, closing her eyes, let her mind slip away to her homeland. The memory ’twas all that was needed to transform her. Feelings swamped her, immersed her. It was warm in the land of the Ancients, gently sultry, washed in color and light and fragrances so rich and fresh, it all but made one giddy. She filled her lungs with her thoughts and felt the change take her, felt the magic touch her and fill her and form her.

  The flora gasped and oohed as the Mortal Realm rose and grew around her. She felt the rush of possibilities, the bloom of everlasting hope. With a sigh of relief, she smiled and opened her eyes. Upon her back, glowing wings fluttered past her shoulders. With naught but a thought, she lifted from the ground. A score of voices raised their good-byes as she zipped above the sleepy grasses. Then, light as a breeze, she glided through the glen in search of the smiling poppy she had spoken with some hours before.

  Dammit! He was late again.

  William Timber stood silent in the darkening woods. It was a pretty spot. That much he could admit. His mother would have been giddy at the sight of it. Would have probably given it some foolish name just as that idiot Braumberg had. Would have coohed over each pointy leaf, each scurrying bunny.

  But William’s mother was dead. Had been for more than twenty years, in fact. A heroin overdose, the police had said.

  And they’d been right, of course. Old hippies often died that way. Old hippies whose lovers had abandoned them to the harsh realities of the world usually died that way. Leaving terrified little boys trying to feign bravery and fend for themselves.

  “Elder Mann?” The first officer on the scene had tried to smile when he’d addressed William. The boy was frail, short, too small for his age, but smart. Certainly smart enough to know that he should not be dressed in mismatched socks and pink pajamas. But his mother had not believed in color-coding the genders . . . as she called it. “That your name?”

  The boy had managed a nod and wiped his nose with the back of his frayed sleeve.

  “You don’t look real old.” The cop’s hair had been as gray as platinum.

  William had fisted his hands, throat tight, eyes dry. There was no time for tears. Never would be again. He had known that with a terrible certainty. “It doesn’t pertain to age,” he said, words perfectly enunciated, and the old man had scowled.

  The boy had legally changed his name not twelve months later. Had left the foolishness behind to become William Timber instead. William because it was rich with traditional practicality. Timber because it spoke of strength. He had been William Timber ever since. William Timber, self-made millionaire. Well . . . millionaire if you counted all assets, which he did. Counted and recounted, and configured and contrived.

  He would not die in some musty, run-down apartment above a Vietnamese restaurant that reeked of burnt sauces and aloeswood incense. He would make a name for himself. In fact, he had done just that.

  Snorting silently at his own wit, or lack thereof, he moved on.

  Emily was one of the few who seemed to appreciate his dubious sense of humor. Or maybe it was his capital gains that she found heartening. He wasn’t, after all, foolish enough to believe that a woman such as his fiancée would have taken notice of him if her iron-fisted father hadn’t declared him to be an up-and-comer.

  It was no secret that Emily Meier wanted to up-and-come. And William, never one for undue passion or wayward idealism, had wanted rather desperately to make inroads with Meier Conglomerated. It was a match made in financial heaven.

  Still . . . He glanced around the sleepy woods. Purple wildflowers bloomed in riotous profusion. Lupine, if he remembered correctly, standing tall and proud on their spiky stalks. Fireflies flitted amongst the greenery near the bog. His mother had said they were sparkles of moon-dust come to life. She had a weakness for fireflies. In fact, she had many weaknesses, but for one shining moment all he could remember was her smile. It shone in his mind, the personification of love, of adoration.

  Half-forgotten memories stole in, shadowed by sadness, illumined with laughter. But William plowed them aside, focusing on his mantra: another day another million. And this place had tremendous monetary potential. Within an hour’s drive of Seattle and ringed by old-growth trees, it was the perfect spot for an upper-income community. A year from now there would be row upon row of two-story houses and brick patios. He would keep the best of the mature trees, of course. But the rest would be razed, plowed under, sodded over, paved, made ready for SUVs, overworked septic systems, and humming air conditioners.

  To night, however, he had promised to dine with Emily, and she wasn’t one to be kept waiting.

  A tired trail wended through the woods, barely visible now in the waning light. It had almost certainly been made by Braumberg. Damned, dehydrated tree hugger. He was probably higher than a rocket ship by now. High and still plotting how best to save the glen from succumbing to progress. But it didn’t matter. Meier Conglomerated had money and it had clout. Those who couldn’t be ignored could be bullied. Those who couldn’t be bullied could be bought. Even hippy-dippy environmentalists had their price. They had to pay their dealers, after all.

  Off to William’s right, a poppy nodded heavily. It was tightly closed against the oncoming night. Tiny many-fingered leaves cradled its sleepy head. The blossom inside would be white with the faintest hint of lemon hues.

  Emily preferred white to every other color. White on white on white. What did that say of her?

  Bending with a mental shrug, William tore off the blossom and turned toward home.


  Chapter

  2

  Avalina awoke with a start and struggled to her knees. The alba poppy that housed her was trembling with violent urgency. What was amiss? Had a windstorm sprung up unexpectedly? Had some beast attacked her bower?

  Pressing her palms flat against the smooth-veined interior of the blossom, she drew in the flower’s fragrant emotions and immediately knew the truth. Alba was in the throes of death.

  Lurching to her feet, Avalina glanced frantically about. Had the blossom been torn off by the wind? Severed from its stem by a flailing branch? Ripped—

  But no. The sound of heavy footfalls below her stopped Avalina’s breath in her throat, for suddenly she knew the truth. Alba had been intentionally decapitated.

  Panicked now, Avalina pushed against the closed petals with all her trembling strength, but it was of little use; the flower had already passed away, never again to smile at the morning sun, to sip nectar from the giving earth, to open at her command.

  The footfalls stopped abruptly, tossing Ava from her feet. She struck the already-wilting pistil and bounced back up, breath held, waiting. A noise clanged, sharp and metallic, but there was no time to dwell on the sounds, for suddenly she was dipped violently downward, tumbling against a stamen before rolling to her feet. It was dark and silent for an elongated second, and then something roared.

  She covered her ears, trying to shut out the agony, but a thought struck her suddenly: perhaps her captor knew nothing of her presence. Such behavior seemed likely from the ham-fisted humans of whom she’d been told. But regardless whether her abduction was intentional or not, she might not live long enough to escape. Already she could feel her powers weakening, for instead of taking strength from the blossom that cradled her, she was being drained. Drained by her separation from the earth, from life itself, the life that was the Fey’s very identity. Stretching out her arms, she pushed against the petals once again, but it was no use. They had closed to the world, preparing to give their life to the soil. There was nothing Ava could do just now. Thus she sat, huddling against the stem, desperately absorbing what little energy remained.

  She would wait, bide her time, and hope to retain strength enough to escape when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Emily.” William had pulled his Pontiac into the driveway seconds before, only to find his fiancée waiting by her car. Her sleek body was encased in a white satin sheath, her hips pressed against her Porsche’s gleaming ivory fender. Luscious hips, or so Dean Abbot had declared them. Lifting the flower from the passenger seat, William stepped out of the car and slammed the door. “What are you doing here?”

  She pushed away from her vehicle, eyeing him from beneath dark lashes, glossy pink-frosted lips curled up. Dean called it her sexy-as-hell expression, but it always looked a little predatory to William. As if she may have skipped one too many meals and was considering devouring him whole. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our date again.”

  “Okay.” Jostling his overstuffed briefcase, he headed for the door.

  “You forgot,” she said.

  “I didn’t,” he countered, and, turning on his stoop, handed her the flower. It seemed silly suddenly. Silly and sophomoric. Though he’d never been either. “I picked this for you.”

  “Oh.” She drew back dramatically, pressing her finger-tips to her breasts. A discreet amount of cleavage showed between her French-manicured nails. “It’s lovely,” she said.

  But it wasn’t. It was dead, wilted, and droopy in her carefully moisturized hand.

  “Maybe if you put it in water it’ll open,” he said. Feeling foolish, he slipped his key into the lock. “It’s a California poppy.”

  “Really.”

  He pushed open the door and motioned her inside. She gave him a glance from the corners of her eyes. Also sexy, according to Dean. But Dean found most things suspiciously erotic . . . frying pans and cobwebs included. Dean obviously needed the help of a licensed psychotherapist, but he was one hell of an architect.

  “And how do you know that?” she asked.

  “What?” William glanced at her, refusing to be irritated by her presence. She would soon be his wife, after all, and was, therefore, liable to be nearby now and again.

  “That it’s a California poppy.”

  “Oh,” he said, and followed her into the foyer. “Common knowledge.”

  “I didn’t know it.” She was twirling the flower between her fingers.

  “Maybe you’re not common enough,” he said, and took the poppy from her hand. The kitchen was just down the hall. A half bath was situated to the right, a small office adjacent.

  He didn’t own a vase, so he retrieved a glass, filled it with water, and dropped the stem inside. The single bloom floundered, drowning. Plucking it out, he hooked the lower petals over the rim and stared at it as a host of rambling memories rushed in: Flowers woven into a head of glossy curls. Laughter. Butterflies streaming like sunlight through an open window.

  His mother had called herself Poppy; her real name had been Louise. He hadn’t realized that until the day of her funeral. But he was certain that had nothing to do with his reason for picking the flower. He didn’t admire her, after all. Hardly that. In fact, he was damned lucky he hadn’t followed in her footsteps. The flower-child gene seemed to be a particularly virulent one.

  “A renowned single-minded developer who knows the names of wildflowers . . . very intriguing,” Emily said.

  Making some sort of noncommittal noise, he drew himself back to the present.

  “A man of mystery.” She smiled . . . devastatingly, according to the ever ludicrous Dean, then changed the subject. “You know, if you’d give me a key, I could have waited inside,” she said. She was leaning against the kitchen’s rough doorjamb. Next week when he had a few hours to work with his hands, he would take it out, widen the entrance. It would open up the entire house. Increase its value dramatically. If the damned real estate market would rebound, he would make a decent profit.

  “I could have made you dinner,” she continued.

  He glanced at her in surprise. As far as he knew, Emily Meier had never cooked so much as an idea in her entire life.

  “If I hadn’t just gotten a manicure,” she said, and laughed. Dean said she laughed like a virgin goddess. “And speaking of cooking . . .” She sauntered toward him, hips swaying, but not too much. Emily Meier would never be mistaken for provocative, at least not by anyone but Dean. “I’m famished. Why don’t you get dressed and take me to Mixtura?”

  Getting dressed meant Armani and Kenneth Cole. A visit to the yacht club called for a carefully pressed polo shirt, linen pants, and leather loafers . . . the casual look. Just now, however, William was rather in the mood for a beer and a bag of Doritos. On the other hand, he was always in the mood to marry money.

  Which meant, of course, that it was entirely possible that he was an ass, he thought as he headed for the bathroom. Or maybe Emily knew exactly what he was in the mood for and had an appetite for the same. Maybe he should ask her, he mused. But he wouldn’t, which probably proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was an ass.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and stepped into the bathroom. It was messy. He closed the door behind him, simultaneously realizing he still held the glass that housed the pathetic flower. Setting it on the faux marble, he leaned against the vanity and examined himself in the mirror.

  He looked about the same as he had on the previous day, weathered, with a slightly crooked nose and a five o’clock shadow cast daily just before noon. He was tall, dark haired . . . and probably an ass. But he wasn’t getting any younger. According to the far too verbose Dean, Emily was a great catch what with her rockin’ body and sizable inheritance. She was also probably great in bed. Supposedly, the cool ones often were. William couldn’t attest to the fact. Presumably Dean was also just hypothesizing. Perhaps it should bother him that he wasn’t sure and had never cared enough to ask.

  Turning on the sh
ower, William peeled off his clothes and left the garments heaped on the floor.

  The water pressure was pathetic in this aging section of Seattle, but the heat felt good against his back. Poppy had said that water was the essence of life. That—

  The sound of shattering glass tore apart his musings.

  “Emily?” he called.

  A crash answered him.

  Slamming off the water, he tore the curtain aside, glanced toward the door, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

  A woman lay sprawled on his yellowed linoleum, legs spread, hair scattered, absolutely naked.

  “What the hell!” he rasped, but she was already lurching to her feet, backing unsteadily toward the door, eyes as wide as the horizon, wild hair spread about her in a golden tangle. “How—”

  “William?” Emily called from the far side of the door, but he failed to notice.

  The girl’s breasts seemed to be sparkling. Breasts didn’t usually do that, did they? His throat felt suddenly dry, his heart overtaxed. “Who the hell are you?” he croaked.

  “William, honey.” Emily knocked again. “Are you all right?”

  No, he wasn’t all right; he was, suddenly and unmistakably, horribly aroused. The girl had a face like an angel, a body like a wet dream. Snatching a towel from a plastic peg, he hooked it around his waist, ineffectively hiding his erection as he stepped from the shower.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “William!” Emily’s voice had become strident. “I’m coming in,” she said, and snapped the door open.

  The girl stared, buttocks pressed against his vanity, tousled hair flowing like molten gold over glittering breasts to curl protectively about her sweetly curved hips.

  “Who the hell is that?” Emily rasped.

  Somewhere in the dim part of William’s mind not demanded by his southward rush of blood, he realized he’d never heard her swear before. Then again, he’d never had a naked, sparkling angel backed against his vanity, either. And all he could do was stare.