Korrigan (Secrets of the Fae Book 1)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  "Since when have agreements meant anything to him?" Gemma says. "He's nothing but a low-down trickster."

  "A monster," Magnolia adds. Her face is salt-white in its frame of frizzy red hair. "Maeve, it isn't him, is it?"

  "You took care of it, right?" Gillian asks. "After Fiona."

  Fiona? My mother's name. Who are they talking about? What does this have to do with my mother? I don't ask, because if I do, they'll remember I'm here and stop discussing it. I freeze, staring at my plate and listening with all my might.

  "I took care of Fiona and her lover," says Maeve. "What happened was her fault; she broke the agreement. I told her not to interfere in the Far Darrig's business."

  "Yes, but that was seventeen years ago." Magnolia is almost whining, pleading. "Why would he come here? We've done nothing to provoke him."

  The news broadcast has moved on to other topics, but Maeve stands frozen in the center of the great room, hands clenched at her sides. Despite her crisp pantsuit and short-cropped hair, there's something ancient and regal about her. The others wait, barely breathing, eyes on her face.

  "We don't know that it's him," she says finally. Calmly. "Humans, as we know, are incredibly depraved creatures. It could just as easily be one of them doing this. There are baby-selling rings and human trafficking here, as in any human civilization."

  "But no one has seen anything," Gillian interrupts. "No one has any clues. Doesn't that seem odd? It feels like his way of operating. I really think it's him."

  Magnolia emits a squeak of terror.

  "Enough!" Maeve's eyes flash around the room, and her voice is thunderous. "Silence! We will not panic. We will not interfere. Our best course of action is to say nothing and do nothing. Do you understand?"

  "Of course, my Lady," says Arden.

  "Yes, my Lady," the others whisper.

  "And you, child." Maeve's eyes turn on me, and I reflexively shrink back against the couch cushions. "Next time we begin a conversation that doesn't concern you, I expect you to leave the room. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Your Life-Stealing attempt will be postponed until I say otherwise. Finish your breakfast and do your homework in your room."

  Homework is the last thing on my mind, but I go upstairs anyway, just so I can think. They were talking about the Far Darrig— it can't be a coincidence. How is he connected to the kidnapped babies, to Mom and Dad? And what did Maeve mean when she said she warned my mom not to interfere in his business? Maybe their death wasn't the straightforward apartment fire accident I've always been told it was.

  Again, as I've done a hundred times, I search online for anything I can find related to their deaths. There's that one news blurb about the fire, a couple hundred words long. And there's a death record. That's it. Nothing else to find, no matter how hard I try.

  My brain is humming with questions, but with no way to get answers, I have to give it up for now and do my homework.

  The next few days pass slowly, mostly homework and books and TV like normal; but I get to eat my meals with the others, and I can study outdoors and soak up sunshine on the porch or the lawn. Magnolia and I go grocery shopping during the daytime— a novelty for me, although I think she only asks me along to help with the bags. I relish breakfast in the morning, take long walks in the forest during the day, and ride my bike along sunny streets in the afternoons, when other kids are done with school and no one will think I'm playing hooky.

  The nights are anything but normal, if normal means sleeping all the way through till dawn. I have periods of restful, unbroken sleep; but there's always at least one nightmare that delivers bone-crunching pain and terror until I wake up shaking, my insides twisted in knots.

  "Do you ever have nightmares?" I ask Gemma one morning. We both got up late, and the others are all busy in other parts of the house.

  She crunches a mouthful of cereal. "No. Well, sometimes, I guess. Like I dream that I'm completely naked in front of a crowd of— no wait, those are the good dreams."

  She laughs, but the most I can manage is a half-hearted chuckle. I really want to know. "Seriously, you never have nightmares? Like, dreams where you can feel terrible pain? And then you wake up really scared?"

  "Hmm. I don't think so. Of course you're more human, and younger than I am— practically a child, and children tend to have those dreams, I think. I wouldn't worry about it," she says airily.

  "Thanks, I won't." I don't think she picks up on the sarcasm, and it's just as well. It looks as if this, like all my other problems, is something I'll be handling on my own.

  "I know what you need," she says after another mouthful of cereal. "Retail therapy. Come on, it'll be fun. It's Wednesday today, right? Gillian and I are going to the mall this afternoon. You should come with us."

  Stay in the house and be bored, take yet another walk in the woods, or go hang out with people and buy things? Option C, please!

  I've been to the mall a few times in the evening, but we never stayed long. This time, I'm eager to check out all the little shops I've always wanted to visit and buy clothes that people will actually see me wear in the daytime. But the twins are intent on getting entirely new wardrobes for themselves— and supposedly for me, too, although they take so long in the dressing rooms that we never make it over to my area of the department store.

  "How do I look?" asks Gemma for the hundredth time, coming out of the dressing room and twirling around in front of me.

  "Like an old woman." I'm done humoring her.

  She puts her hands on her hips. "Listen, Aislinn, this would be a lot more fun if you had a better attitude."

  "Give me some money," I counter. "Let me go shopping in the stores where girls my age actually belong."

  She sighs. "Fine. Meet us at the food court at five o'clock." She pulls a few fifties out of her wallet and hands them to me. Of course she wouldn't trust me with one of the credit cards; still, it's more money than I've ever held in my hands.

  I salute her with the money and practically skip out of the department store.

  A few cute tops, a dress, and some earrings later, I've made a big dent in the cash, and I have to pee. Seeing a sign for restrooms, I wander down a long hallway, deep into the bowels of the building. This is the older section of the mall, and the hallway floor tiles are all faded or cracked, the roughly textured wallpaper peeling in places. A smell of cleaning fluid and urine, old moisture and dust hangs in the air. On the walls someone has stuck a few old posters with faded colors and vaguely inspirational sayings.

  The noise of the mall has faded behind me, and it's very, very quiet except for the clopping of my wedge heels on the tile floor.

  How long is this hallway? Where the heck is the bathroom?

  The hall takes a sharp turn, and there are the men's and women's bathrooms, facing each other across a T-shaped space. On the floor in front of the women's bathroom, there's a plastic yellow "Caution: Wet Floor" sign, and half-circle of some greenish liquid with a faint mist rising from it. Ew. I step over it and push through the door anyway, because I need to pee and I've walked all this way.

  I stop dead. The door bangs shut behind me.

  I can hardly believe the scene in front of me. The door to the larger stall, the handicapped one, is wedged open with a stroller. A woman lies crumpled on the tiles, eyes closed. Her baby is in the stroller, sound asleep— and over the baby, sharp nails working at the buckles, bends a green-skinned leprechaun. I can see the feet of another leprechaun next to the woman's body, and a third is perched in one of the sinks, pushing the soap dispenser over and over and cackling as the froth piles up on the counter.

  I've surprised them. They freeze for a moment.

  "She? How she get in?" squawks the leprechaun in the sink.

  The one in the bathroom stall squiggles out from under the partition. "Korrigan!" it hisses. "Our barrier doesn't work on them."

  The one crouching over the baby sniggers. "But something else will." He draws a long, wicked-lo
oking knife from his boot. "Come, Korrigan. Come and see the wee babe."

  This isn't a nightmare; this is real. Do something, Aislinn. Get a grip.

  "Leave the baby alone," I say.

  The one in the sink bursts into cackles. "She! She tells us to leave it alone!" The others let out peals of laughter as well.

  Dropping my shopping bags, I glance around, desperate for something to fight them with. The one with the knife leaps off the stroller, slashing at me. Dodging, I seize the tall trash can and pull it in front of me like a shield, but he leaps on top of it, grinning.

  I whip the bathroom door open and run through it, pulling it shut behind me. Thunk! His knife stabs into it. With my shoulder I give the door a hard, fast shove, smacking it into the leprechaun's face.

  He screeches in pain; but before I can feel good about the hit there's a cackle behind me. Whirling, I see Soap Bubbles, green fingers dripping with froth, a set of spiked metal knuckles on his right hand. Apparently they can transport themselves as well as disappear.

  He lunges at me with his spiked fist. Seizing the caution sign, I swing it at him with all my strength. It cracks with the force of his punch, but I pull it back and whack him in the head with it this time. He howls, greenish blood oozing from his nose.

  A sharp sting of pain flashes through my thigh. The other leprechaun is out of the bathroom and he just sliced through my jeans— my favorite jeans. My going-to-the-mall-on-my-first-week-in-the-sunshine" jeans.

  "You'll regret that." I kick him in the face with my thick wedge heels. But Soap Bubbles has leaped onto my back now, and he's drawing back his fist for another punch.

  My brain flashes back for an instant to my first nightmare— the pale monsters surrounding me on my thin column of rock, tearing me apart. I scream, and I throw myself backward onto the floor. My head hits the tile with a hollow thud, and for a second I can't think because there's pain and everything is ringing. But the leprechaun underneath me goes slack. Then he's gone. He disappeared, and so did the one in the doorway.

  My head throbs, and I wonder vaguely if I killed any brain cells. Staggering to my feet, I stumble into the bathroom.

  The baby is still in the stroller. Thank goodness for tricky five-point harnesses.

  The mother is still on the floor.

  Quickly I move the stroller out of the stall and check the woman's pulse. She's alive. Breathing.

  I grab a wad of paper towels and sweep them through the soap on the counter. Then I scrub away all the acrid green liquid from the floor outside the bathroom.

  Just as I walk back in to throw the paper towels away, the woman stirs.

  I kneel next to her. "Hey, are you okay?"

  She opens her eyes. "Wha— what happened?"

  "I think you passed out."

  "My baby! Where—"

  "Right here. She's right here, don't worry. She's asleep."

  The woman sighs and puts her hands over her face. "I guess I didn't eat enough today. I've been so tired, and so busy— and breastfeeding, let me tell you, that takes it out of you."

  Too much information. "I'll walk you out, okay? Just to make sure you don't pass out again."

  "Thanks, honey. Oh, and I probably shouldn't drive home. Do you have a phone? I forgot to bring mine."

  "Sorry, I don't."

  She stares for a second. "A teenager without a phone. Well. Something new every day." She smiles. "I can ask someone at one of the kiosks."

  While she washes her hands, I collect my slightly trampled shopping bags. We walk back down the hall— I walk to her right so she doesn't notice the cut on my right thigh— and I leave her in the capable hands of the guy selling woman's facial products. I still have to pee, but no way am I going back down that hallway. Instead I head for the food court and use the restroom there. Water and paper towels don't do much for the cut on my thigh, but it doesn't seem that deep. I squeeze a few tissues down my jeans as a bandage; thankfully the jeans are tight enough to hold the tissues in place over the cut.

  When I come out, I'm still feeling weird and dizzy from thumping my head on the tile, so I buy a Sprite at one of the booths.

  "Aislinn!"

  Not Gillian's or Gemma's voice. This is a warm, young, male voice. I turn, and Zane is grinning at me.

  "Hey girl! Nice surprise seein' you here."

  "Yeah, yeah, just shopping." I shift my shopping bag over my right thigh so he doesn't see the bloodstain; but he takes the bag right out of my hand.

  "Let's see what you got here— ooh, this is nice! You gonna wear this Friday?" He holds up a green halter top.

  My cheeks flush. "Maybe."

  "Can't wait." He hands back the bag, but his eyes drop just in time to see the bloodstain. "Did you hurt yourself?"

  "Oh, I'm clumsy," I say. "Just, um— bumped into a sharp— table corner— yeah. It's nothing, it's fine."

  "You need something better than tissues for it? I got a bandage in my backpack, just sayin'."

  He's right; I do need something better than tissues. The blood is already soaking through.

  "What time is it?" I ask.

  "Oh— uh, 4:45."

  Fifteen minutes until Gemma and Gillian show up; if they're on time, which they rarely are.

  "Okay, I guess I could use a bandage."

  He swings the backpack off his shoulders. "No problem. I keep 'em in here in case I get banged up running or playing ball."

  "Thanks. I'll just go in the bathroom and put this on."

  "I'll be here. I'll guard your soda."

  "Be right back."

  When I return, freshly bandaged, he waves to me from a booth. I slide in across from him, wincing a little at the pull on my sliced muscle.

  He's watching my face.

  "How'd you get that cut again?" His brown eyes are serious now.

  "A table corner."

  "Uh-huh. Aislinn, I don't know you well, but I really don't think that's what happened. See, that cut through your jeans is way too clean to have been done by a table."

  I chew my lip and look away from him.

  "Did somebody hurt you?"

  "Don't worry about it, okay? Please! I'm really fine." He looks so concerned, and I hate seeing that worry on his handsome face. "Hey!" I touch the top of his hand. "I'm okay. You don't need to worry."

  "I'll let it go. For now," he says. The concern clears a bit, and he holds up his own shopping bag. "Guess what I got?"

  He sets a box on the table and opens it.

  "Shoes?"

  "Dope shoes."

  I laugh. "They do look pretty cool. They for running?"

  "No, girl! These shoes are not run-through-the-forest-and-get-all-torn-up shoes. They're go-to-school-and-make-everybody-jealous shoes."

  I'm laughing again, and it feels amazing. The ache in my head recedes. "So what do you do besides skip grades? And go running in the forest?"

  "I play a little guitar. A little basketball."

  "Ooh, basketball. I bet you're good."

  "Cause I'm black?"

  My face goes from normal to 100 degrees hotter in two seconds. Stupid, stupid. "No, I just meant—"

  Then I see his grin. He leans across the table. "I'm just messing with you."

  "Oh. Good."

  "Yeah. And actually, I kinda suck at basketball. I'm not on a team or anything, I just play with my boys for fun."

  "I'm no good at any sport," I say. "Never played."

  "I can show you a few things. If you want, sometime."

  "Sure." Although I'm pretty sure there's not going to be anything much more embarrassing than fumbling around with a basketball on a court in front of this gorgeous guy. Except maybe tripping over a soccer ball in front of him, or getting smacked in the face with a volley ball, or missing a golf ball altogether when it's right in front of me. Maybe we should steer clear of sports.

  Before we can talk any more, some other teens walk up to our table. There's Julio, whom I've met, and another guy and girl that I haven't. The
girl has smooth dark skin and long black braids, and the guy is bigger and beefier than Zane, with a tuft of hair on his chin and a wide smile.

  "What's up, man?" They do some kind of complicated secret handshake thing, and the big guy squeezes in next to Zane. "Move over, string bean. Hey, how you doin'?" He shoves his hand across the table at me. "I'm Michael."

  "Michael?" The girl snorts. "Since when do we call you 'Michael?' His name's Mike," she says to me. "I'm Laurel."

  "Aislinn. Nice to meet you."

  "I like her, Z. She's got nice manners. Not like you hoodlums." She scoots onto the bench beside me.

  "Where am I supposed to sit?" says Julio, looking pained.

  "Ju-li-o!" Laurel drags out each syllable. "Pull up a chair from that table and quit your whining."

  He obeys her meekly. "Hey, Aislinn."

  I smile. "Hey, Julio."

  "So you're the little snowflake Zane's been talkin' about," says Mike.

  I raise my eyebrows. Snowflake? Okay.

  Zane elbows him. Hard. "Come on, man."

  Mike holds up his hands. "I'm chill, I'm chill! We're just all gettin' to know each other, okay? All gettin' to be friends. I hear you're homeschooled," he says.

  "Geez, Mike," says Zane.

  "Yeah, I hate it," I say. "But it is what it is. You play the hand you're dealt."

  "I hear that." Mike nods. "Well, we're happy to have you in the squad. Everybody's welcome."

  He really seems to mean it, so I give him my best smile. "Thanks."

  They start talking, about school and about the weekend, but mostly about nothing in particular. I sit there, smiling, nodding, soaking it in.

  Until Gemma and Gillian walk up to our table. Staring.

  "Hell-o, ladies," says Mike, looking them up and down. "What can we do for you?"

  "Aislinn," says Gillian. "It's time to go."

  Laurel slips out of the booth so I can get out.

  "These are my— aunts," I say, flushing. "Gemma and Gillian."

  "You got twin aunts? That's so cool!" says Julio.

  Gemma smiles at him. "You're cute. Call me when you're a few years older."