She managed, somehow, to make every phrase sound exciting, stimulating, as unexpected as Christmas in June. He sat up. She was naked. The world was as it should be.
“My mother named me Elder,” he said, and was surprised by his own words.
She put a hand to his chest and gazed into his eyes. “ ’Tis a good name.”
“No.” He shook his head and crushed her fingers in his hand, though if she had said the world was octagonal, it would have been difficult to disagree. “It was a foolish name. She was a foolish woman, worried more about a hundred inconsequential things than about her own son.”
She studied him, eyes aglow with thoughts so clear he could almost see them. “Hence you took the name of William, for it is not foolish.”
“It was strong with tradition, with practicality. And I was . . .” He lost his breath searching her eyes, remembering a hundred things he should have done differently. “I was weak.”
“As was she,” Fern murmured, watching his eyes. “But that does not mean that she loved the less.”
And watching her, he believed. “What of you?” he murmured. “Do you love me?”
“This I think you know,” she whispered, and he made love to her again. Once on the bed, once in the closet, and once on the counter between a jar of blue-ribbon huckleberry jam and two chipped glasses, because he could. Because she was irresistible.
Later, they sat cross-legged on the floor, where he fed her peanut butter from a spoon.
“Move in with me,” he said.
“I believe . . .” She gazed into the distance for a moment, eyes serious, mouth strawberry red from kissing. “I think my home, it is in the woods.”
“The woods! Fern! You’re a genius,” he said, and, grabbing the emerald gown, pulled it over her head. Perhaps he knew she should have worn something more substantial, but that would seem wrong, and in a minute they were in his car.
It was evening by the time they reached the woods that surrounded Sunshadow Glen. She looked like a small slice of heaven in the fading golden light. He had been here dozens of times, but it seemed different now. So different when seen with an angel in your arms. For that was where she was. He carried her through the grasping underbrush, unable to let her go. She was weightless and warm against his chest, face glowing in the waning light.
Below them, the river flowed midnight blue. Beneath its sheer banks, a chorus of amphibians tuned up. An owl called mournfully from a nearby conifer.
Slipping her hand behind his head, Fern kissed him, making him instantly dizzy with hope and desire.
“We’ll build our house here,” he murmured.
“Swim,” she said, and pointed to the water.
“In there? Oh, no.” He shook his head, loving her. “It’s not safe.”
Her brow furrowed, her eyes saddened. “Unsafe?”
“Chemicals, runoffs.” He shrugged, strangely guilty.
“Life is good,” she said, and, dropping to her feet, slipped from his arms.
“Wait,” he said, but in that moment her fingers parted from his. A second later she dove.
There was nothing but a flash of green and gold, and then she was gone, slicing through the water like a clean blade.
“Fern!” he yelled, and frantically searched the surface, but she was nowhere to be seen. He swore, then, ripping off his pants, dove after her. He hit the water like a box of rocks, then scrambled to the surface, screaming her name, but she was already there, inches away, bobbing effortlessly in the water and smiling.
“Life,” she said.
“Holy shit, woman!” He was gasping, breathless with relief and worn terror. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Not bad.”
“What?” His heart rate slowed to a gallop. “What’s not bad?”
She motioned toward the world at large. “Life. Green.” She shrugged, and her gilded tresses, ever playful, twined around his back. “You.”
The touch of her hair was shockingly erotic. Soft and pliant, like a living thing that pulled him closer, drew him in, and suddenly they were inches apart, breathing the same air. Thinking the same lurid thoughts.
He touched her face, because he could not resist. “Where do you belong?” he breathed.
Their gazes met and melded.
“With you,” she whispered, and the world simply ceased to be.
He awoke slowly. They were lying on a narrow spit of sand. She was pressed against his back, her hair a warm, soft blanket across his side, though one wayward lock had curled around his hardening desire. He rolled onto his back.
The sight of her struck him like a blow. Her body was almost covered with the long sweep of her locks, but here and there he could see the glowing ecstasy of her skin.
Her eyes opened slowly, like a sleepy cat’s. “Good morningtide,” she said, and stretched, unembarrassed, unashamed, every sinuous muscle taut, every sweeping hollow tempting.
He was immediately aching. Her eyes turned mischievous. Her hair tightened around him.
“Not again,” he breathed. “You’ll kill me.”
But he was wrong. He didn’t die, though it felt for a moment as if he had, as if he had succumbed to her charms and been lifted to heaven, as if he were floating into another realm where there was no such thing as mortgages and investments and other meaningless things. He pulled her closer, feeling the euphoria of her skin against his. Nothing mattered, nothing except the sweet feel of her against him, but suddenly voices sounded from the shore.
He darted his gaze to the bank, shielding her from their sight, but there was no need. Whoever was traveling through the woods passed on unaware that beauty itself lay nearly at their feet.
Still, Will waited several minutes until he was sure they were alone, then, tugging her along the slender trail of beach, found their clothes and pulled on his pants. She slipped into her gown and he did his best to resist touching her, lest he find he could never stop.
“Stay,” she implored.
But he shook his head and struggled into his shirt as he crested the escarpment. Foliage grew in a lush, undulating line along the edge of the sharp declivity. “I can’t stay, honey. I have to talk to Emily. Tell her what I’ve done.” Her hair blew across his knuckles, caressing gently. “Tell her the wedding’s off. That I . . .” He laughed. It sounded giddy, idiotic. “I don’t even know who you are.”
She smiled as she stepped into the grasping weeds. “I am yours,” she said, and reached for him.
But he caught her wrist. “Oh, no. No, you don’t.” He was grinning like a buffoon. “Buffoon,” where the hell did that word come from? “Not this time. You can’t distract me again. I brought you here . . .” He glanced about, gathering his wits. “To show you where I want to build our home.” She touched his face. Passion burned through him, but he turned away, holding her hand, tugging her through the scrub. Plants reached up, snagging on their clothes, but he plowed through.
“Home?” She sounded disoriented. But so was he. Disoriented, shocked, dizzy with happiness.
He turned back, breath held, searching her face. Ferns brushed their legs, but he didn’t notice.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
She glanced down at the unfurling fronds and scowled.
He looked into her face, trying to read her thoughts. “I’ll help you remember who you are. But it doesn’t matter.”
“Fern,” she said.
He laughed. “I don’t think your name is Fern. You look like a—”
“Avalina.” She jerked her gaze to his, eyes as bright as flares.
“Avalina.” He nodded and laughed, then dropped to one knee. “Avalina, will you marry me? I’ll build you a mansion. Right here in this woods. We’ll tear out the underbrush,” he said, and knocked the ferns aside with one hand.
She reared back as if struck. “Tear out—”
“It’s all scheduled for development. There’ll be a road through here. And a row of houses. We’ll keep a few of the tr
ees.”
“A few.” She looked pale, shocked, devastated.
“We’ll have the biggest house of all. With a pool and a fenced yard. You can have a dog. An Airedale if you like.”
She was shaking her head, backing away.
He rose to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“You cannot. I—” She glanced about, stopped, frozen, eyes wide with horror. “Pinquil Fern.”
“What?”
“I am entrusted to find it. To save it. To take it back to . . .” She fisted her hands, put them against her mouth.
“What are you talking about?”
“You must not tarnish this land,” she breathed.
“Tarnish? What the hell’s going on?”
“It is sacred.” She grasped his wrist. “Do you not see? Look about.”
But he didn’t. He was looking at her, seeing her in a different light. Seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”
She straightened, dropped her hand. “I am Avalina, friend of the wild things.”
Silence filled the woods. Reality shifted, settled, cemented. “You’re one of those damned tree huggers.” His voice was a whisper of disbelief.
“I have come to save the fern.”
“Save the fern!” He grabbed her arm. Rage spurred through him. “You lied to me.”
“I did not—”
“Prostituted yourself for some worthless weed.”
“It is not worthless. It is precious. It is invaluable. Do you not see? Do you not realize what you are about to lose?”
“Lose? Are you threatening me? Is that what this is all about? Blackmail?” He felt breathless, aching. “You’re underage. Is that it? You think that’ll ruin me?” He leaned in, gritted his teeth.
She cowered away. There was fear in her eyes, but he didn’t care.
“I do not wish to ruin you. I . . .”
“Nothing ruins me,” he snarled. “Nothing has; nothing will.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“What’ll it take?” he rasped.
She was pulling away, her hair wrapped tight about his wrist. “I do not understand—”
“What’ll it take to keep you from going to the press?”
“Press?”
“To keep from telling what happened here?”
“I have no intention of telling—”
He grabbed her arms, shook her. “Don’t lie to me.”
She drew herself slowly to her full height, as regal as royalty, as solemn as a stone. “The fair folk do not lie.”
He stared at her, breath coming hard. “Who are you?”
Her eyes held him for a small eternity, then, “I am but a memory,” she said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Farewell, Elder,” she said, and suddenly she began to glow with a sparkling light.
He stumbled back. A noise brushed him, a rustle of wind, and she was gone.
There was nothing in her place, nothing but an emerald dragonfly fluttering on a ribbon of wind.
Tears streamed down Avalina’s face. The touch of the fern had returned her memory with a scorching jolt. She remembered everything, her character, her purpose, her home, and so she had been able to transform, to leave him.
She swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She knew better than to trust mortals. Never had she compromised herself. Always she had felt naught but disdain for the foolish flower faeries with their preening, de cadent ways, but when she had lost herself, she had become everything legend claimed her to be.
She was back now, however. She was back and she would not forget the betrayal. She would find the Pinquil, would take it back to Faery, would put this shame far behind her.
Or maybe . . . Maybe she should go to those he feared. Maybe she should tell what he had done. Find him trouble. Maybe then the land would be safe from him. Would be free.
Just as she was safe. As she was—
Something swung from the sky. Instinctively, she darted to the right, but in that instant pain struck her shoulder. She fell, spinning downward, spiraling into a mounded bed of leaves.
“Jay!” a voice boomed. Footsteps thundered against the earth. “What are you doing? You gotta be careful.”
“But Max.” The childish voice was close, reverberating in Avalina’s ears. “I found something.”
“There are lots of amazing things in Sunshadow, Jay.” An immense shadow blocked the sun. Ava cowered backward. “Berries. Ferns. They don’t know what they’re about to lose. That’s why we have to convince them to protect—”
The voice stopped. The shadow leaned closer.
“Balls!” Max puffed.
“Isn’t it funny looking?”
“Grab the juice bottle.”
The smaller form scrambled away.
“Empty it. Hurry now.”
The sound of running water filled Avalina’s head.
“Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared, little one,” crooned the towering form. But Avalina was scared. Terrified. She crunched backward, but the huge hand descended, bearing the net around her. She fought with all her might, scratched and bit and scrambled, but the net tightened around her, suffocating her. “Hold up the jar, Jay. Hold it up!” he shrieked.
Suddenly she was lifted into the air, and just as suddenly she was falling. She tried to gather her wits, to fly, to escape, but her senses were reeling. She hit the hard bottom with a jolt.
“Get the cover!” hissed the man, and then the sky thundered down, shaking the surface on which she lay. “Grab the bag,” the voice echoed like a drum, and suddenly she was thrust into darkness, as black and deep and hopeless as a hobgoblin’s hole.
Chapter
9
William drove straight downtown. He parked in the ramp he had used for the past fifteen years and walked the two blocks to the office. The two blocks during which his mind was usually filled with ideas and plans and schemes. But today there was nothing. Nothing but a wide, blank whiteboard without a single message.
“Andrea,” he said, passing the reception desk. She opened her eyes wide and half rose to her feet as he passed by.
She blinked. “Good morning, sir,” she said.
His office was silent. Colorless, still. He closed the door behind him. Another day, another million, he thought, and wondered what it meant. He sat down behind the desk.
Minutes passed like scattered dust motes. Fragments of conversations murmured politely in the hall, but he didn’t try to decipher them, not until there were no options and the voices were crowding in on him.
“. . . how nice to see you.”
“Thank you.” A familiar voice. Feminine. “Oh, what a lovely scarf. Is Mr. Timber in?”
“Yes, but I don’t think—”
“That’s nice. I’ll only be a moment,” said a voice, and then the door opened.
A woman stepped inside. Her name was Emily. He was pretty sure of that much. Her face was absolutely without expression. He wondered dully if he had ever found her attractive.
“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was abrasive, her eyes flat.
“Listen, I’m pretty busy right now,” he said, and, glancing down at a smattering of documents, forgot to read the words.
Striding toward the desk, she slammed her palms atop the polished mahogany. “You were with that little whore, weren’t you?”
His mind felt sodden, saturated. “I don’t think I know any whores.”
“You were fucking that hippy whore, weren’t you? Well, Daddy’s not going to stand for it.” Her voice was a deep, feral growl. “You can forget the deals. Forget—”
The door opened. Dean Abbot stepped inside, snapped his startled gaze to William’s, and stared.
“Hey,” Dean said.
“How are . . . things coming along?” Will asked, though, for the life of him, he couldn’t think what those things might be.
“Things . . . well . . . umm . . . need a little work yet.
“Hey, Emily, how are you doing?” Dean asked.
She didn’t answer but turned away.
“What have you been doing?” Will asked. It sounded like something he might have said in another life.
“It’s been a little hectic,” Dean said. “Listen, Emily, maybe Will and I could have a few minutes alone.”
Will could feel her glare, but it bounced off him, deflecting into nothingness. “That’s a good idea,” she hissed. “If you want to keep your pathetic little jobs, you’ll talk some sense into him.”
“Right. Thanks for your input,” Dean said, and ushered her to the door with a hand at the small of her close-cinched waist.
In a minute he had returned. “Hey, buddy.” Did his voice sound as if he were talking to a trauma victim? “What’s up?”
William scowled and tried to remember who he was, who he might have been. Outside the broad expanse of his triple-paned windows, clouds were bubbling, gray, and bumpy. He wondered if it would rain. How the drops would feel on his skin. Where dragonflies went to sleep. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well . . .” Dean paused. “I’m no fashion critic or anything, but I think your shirt’s on inside out.”
Will scowled down at himself, mildly surprised.
“Is that . . . is that algae on your shoulder?”
“What if it is?” Will asked, and rose restlessly to his feet. Turning around the corner of his desk, he struck his toe on the thing’s solid leg, and hobbled painfully onward.
“That a new look for you, buddy?”
“What?”
Going to the window, Dean glanced outside, looked both ways, then pulled the shades, and turned back toward the center of the room. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you usually wear shoes to the office?”
William blinked, focused, and realized with sudden confusion that he was barefoot. It was then that his thoughts erupted with a thousand tumultuous memories. An ever-clear smile, bright mercurial laughter, an angel’s touch, so soft and tender it rattled everything he’d ever known, ever believed. He stumbled backward, holding his head, and Dean grabbed his arm, directing him toward a chair.
“Sit down. Take it easy. Breathe deep.”
Faeries Gone Wild Page 11
