"Prom night, wooooo!" yells Frank's date, and we all laugh, and my quality of life is forgotten.
It's not long before we get to the school. Frank arranges for the driver to come back around 11:30— which means I'll need to call a ride to get home by curfew. But who cares? I'm going to prom!
I tuck my arm in Zane's and we walk up together. The front of the school is standard for South Carolina— one-story, red brick and rambling, with narrow windows, double locked doors at the front for security, and inside, long hallways plastered with posters and lined with lockers. But when we reach the doors to the cafeteria (which is also the auditorium and event space), all of that changes.
We pass through a fluttering curtain of streamers into a whole new world— Gatsby's world. My senses are so overwhelmed by the music and lights that I can't distinguish all the details at once; but the walls are covered in black cloth with gold paint in bold geometric designs, and there are ceiling-to-floor clusters of gold streamers like glittering pillars, and the ceiling itself is festooned with gold and white balloons. Twinkle lights and swags of tulle are everywhere, and in the corners of the room are dark red couches. The round tables and cafeteria chairs are so decked out with gold and black they look like luxury dining sets.
Laurel rushes up to us and greets Mike with an enthusiastic smack on the lips. He's clearly dazzled, and a big goofy smile spreads over his face. After all, she looks like a goddess in her sparkly gold dress. Her hair, studded with tiny crystal flowers, fans out like a dark halo around her head. She's truly breathtaking, and she fits perfectly into the splendor of the setting.
"Laurel, this place is— wow!" I can hardly get words out.
"Oh yeah girl!" She's practically squealing. "Some rich guy gave the school a huge donation and directed that a big chunk of it go to the prom, so we were able to get a lot more decorations! And wait till you see the food!"
The buffet is the most beautiful thing I think I've ever seen. The tables are dressed in black and gold, and there are towers of sparkling goblets and tiers of tapas and fancy small bites and macaroons and mini cupcakes.
"Don't forget the photo booth!" Laurel points at two pillars holding up a sheet of shimmering gold cloth. Couples are taking turns posing in front of the gold background, holding up prom signs or mustaches, or donning Gatsby caps and flapper headbands.
"Somebody donated?" Zane asks. "Who is this guy, Gatsby himself?"
Laurel bursts into laughter; I've never seen her this excited. "This thing is going to look awesome on my resume someday! You know I'm going to be an event planner," she says aside to me.
"I didn't know," I say. "But it looks like you'd kill as an event planner. This is amazing."
"Oh, there he is!" Laurel points past me to a group of teachers and other adults near the buffet. "You have to see this guy, he is fi-ine!" She flutters her fingers in the direction of the adults, and one of them lifts his glass to her.
If the floor had dropped right out from under me, I couldn't have been more shocked. My grip on Zane's arm tightens before I realize it.
The Far Darrig is walking toward us, looking like he stepped straight off a Fashion Week runway. He's wearing a tuxedo with a red tie and vest, black hair perfectly gelled and an amused half-smile lighting his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says as he reaches our group.
"Mr. O'Connell, I just wanted you to meet my friends— they were wondering who we have to thank for this wonderful night," says Laurel. "Ya'll, this is Mr. Kieran O'Connell. These guys are Mike, Frank, Frank's date who I don't know, Julio, Carmen, Aislinn, and Zane."
"Please just call me Kieran. I won't remember all those names, but I'm happy to be part of this," says the Far Darrig with a wider smile. "This is a special night in a young adult's life, and it's important to me that it be perfect." His silver eyes meet mine for a second, and I know he's talking to me. "Enjoy!"
He walks away, and suddenly I can breathe again.
"Is he smooth or what?" says Laurel, clearly charmed."The man's got style!"
"Nah, that wasn't creepy at all," says Mike.
Laurel frowns. "Come on, he's just trying to do something nice. Apparently he never had prom; no one at his high school could afford it. Chill, Mike."
"He looked familiar to me." Zane is frowning, and I realize with another shock that he's seen the Far Darrig before. In the alley downtown.
"I'm sure he just has one of those faces," I say, in what I hope is a careless tone.
"Maybe." Zane slips his hand into mine. "Let's get some food!"
Thank goodness for his teenage boy's appetite.
"Photos first!" Laurel insists, so we head to the photo booth and a guy snaps pictures of us— me with a flapper headpiece, Zane with an extravagant prop mustache. As I smile for the photo, my mind is racing.
The Far Darrig is here. How did he know I was coming to this? Probably those stupid leprechauns, spying— or maybe Arden told him. But why is he here? Because he wants this night to be perfect for me? That's actually kind of sweet. Or it would be if he hadn't forced me to freaking kill a pixie! Maybe he's trying to make it up to me. Why is he even in my life? Doesn't he know he's complicating everything?
We fill our plates and find a spot on one of the couches, while the others settle in chairs nearby. We're eating and talking and laughing so hard that we barely notice more and more students arriving. The place is crowded—except for the dance floor.
Laurel bustles up to us. "Guys, you gotta help me out! Nobody's dancing!"
"There are a few couples out there," I say.
"Everybody should be dancing! It's part of prom!" Her eyes are wide, her nostrils flaring.
"Calm down, babe," says Mike. "It's probably 'cause the DJ is playing crappy old-school stuff nobody likes." He points upward, listening to the Charleston dance music that the DJ is pumping over the sound system. "Ya'll hear that? Ain't nobody know how to dance to that."
Laurel looks as if she might burst into flames. "I picked the set list," she says, clipping each word. "It's Roaring Twenties jazz age music, you Nimrod. It's authentic."
"Dang, girl! Did I say crappy? I meant fantastic golden oldies. C'mon, baby, let's dance!" Mike stands up slowly, looking very reluctant.
"If I may," says a voice directly behind me— a velvety voice I know all too well. I can see his hand resting on the back of the couch, right near my shoulder. There's a black Celtic knot cufflink at his wrist, and a heavy silver ring set with a ruby on his finger. "Laurel, would you mind if I made a few suggestions to the DJ? Something to get the crowd going. And I think Aislinn here could help get everyone in the dancing mood."
What? Why me? What is he talking about?
Everyone is staring at me, and at the Far Darrig— or Kieran, as he's apparently calling himself.
Zane clears his throat and stands up, holding out his hand to me. "Yeah, girl, let's dance!"
I rise, smoothing the champagne-colored gown. The Far Darrig moves past me toward the DJ; and as he does, he whispers, "Show them those pixie skills, love."
Of course. He's not just here because he likes me and wants me to have a good time; he's here for a demonstration of my new powers. My heart starts thumping violently in my chest. I'm an okay dancer, but nothing special. What if I didn't get that part of the pixie's abilities? I'll make an idiot of myself.
By the time Zane and I reach the center of the dance floor, the music is already changing into something with a deeper beat, a more modern rhythm— a fierce, blood-pumping anthem to life and passion. I know this song, and I love it. And something deep inside me loves it too— something Fae and primal.
This just might work.
I lean forward and whisper in Zane's ear. "Just go with it."
Then I step back, and I let myself go.
The minute I start dancing, every bit of fear is gone. I'm electric, dynamic— I'm a force of nature and the rhythm pumps through my body like water. This is the way I was always meant to move. It's as
if I'm suddenly able to perform every dance move I've ever seen in a TV show or movie— and each move flows into the next so smoothly, it's nothing less than magical.
Zane is right there near me. He's actually a good dancer, thanks to his flexibility and strength and his inborn sense of rhythm; and he's keeping up as best he can. Normally he'd be outshining me for sure; I push down the knowledge that my gift is a stolen one, and throw myself harder into the music.
I can hear wolf whistles and cheers as my dancing draws the crowd. "White girl got moves!" someone shouts— I think it's Mike, and I see phones out, people taking video. I'll be a social media sensation by midnight. But that doesn't suit my life; I need to stay out of the spotlight. I need other people to get out on this dance floor, too.
What was it the Far Darrig said? Pixies are great dancers, and they can charm others into dancing with them.
I start whispering Celtic words, hoping to create a spell. Come move, come to me, I whisper. Be part of this. And I smile, and I motion to the watchers to join me.
One by one, then two by two they come, clustering around me and hiding me from the cameras. They're all dancing, throwing themselves backwards and upward and leaping and moving their feet faster and faster, dancing better than they ever danced in their lives. We're one beating, thumping, whirling, electrifying crowd, and I am the magnetic center. The DJ is going crazy with one wild song after another, adding layers of rhythm and sound, until the entire room is charged with magic and music.
I'm in a kind of hyperactive trance, caught up in the music, whispering to the crowd every so often to push them even further. I don't know when I drifted away from Zane, but he's gone. Still, there is music to fill his place. For now, all I need is music.
And then a hand closes, cool and insistent, around mine. I feel the cold press of metal from a heavy ring as I'm pulled out of the center of the dancing crowd, past the buffet tables and the photo booth, out into the bright, cold school hallway, and around a corner, out of sight of the cafeteria doors. I'm sweating, panting, and giggling. Is this what being drunk feels like?
The Far Darrig whirls me around and pushes me against the wall. "Enough," he says. "You'll kill them."
"What?" I laugh, breathlessly, because he is being ridiculous.
"They've been dancing like this for three hours," he says. "It's time to let them stop."
"Three hours? No, no, it's only been a few minutes." I glance around, looking for a clock. The one on the wall says it's nearly midnight.
"How? How could it be three hours?" My music is gone, and the world feels suddenly empty. My legs weaken, and I'm gasping, falling. He grips my shoulders and presses his body against mine, propping me up.
"Stand up, Aislinn. Look at me." He puts his hand under my chin and turns my face to his. "They will be all right, as long as you don't push them any further. Now that you're gone, they'll slow down in a few minutes, and they'll just be very, very tired in the morning."
"Oh, gosh. Oh my gosh." I think I might be having a panic attack. "My curfew— I was supposed to be back two hours ago. Maeve will lock me up, she will— she'll put locks on my door and never ever let me out, and I'll be trapped in that house forever without being able to escape— I can't, I just can't take it, I—"
His mouth cuts off my words— not a soft, tender kiss, but a hard, fierce "shut-up-or-else" kind of kiss. He breaks it off in a second but keeps his face just inches from mine.
"You're not supposed to kiss me," I say.
"You were panicking," he said. "I had to snap you out of it."
I smirk. "Seems like a poor excuse. Admit it, you just wanted to kiss me."
"I want to kiss you every day," he says, quietly. "Do you know what it's like to want something so badly, and have the power to make it happen, but hold yourself back instead? It's not so pleasant."
"Power," I murmur. "I like power. I want more power."
He smiles a little. "Someone must have spiked the punch."
"I'm drunk?"
"Either drunk on magic or something else," he says. "You have druid blood and the Korrigan curse and pixie powers— who knows what that cocktail will do to you? It's time for you to rest a while."
"But I can't rest. I have a date. With Zane." I look around. "Where is Zane?"
"Still dancing, probably. But he'll notice you're gone soon, if he hasn't already. Let's get you back to him." He steps back, slipping his arm around my waist. "Come on."
When we re-enter the prom room, I can tell that the party is winding down. Teachers, students, and chaperones are stumbling off the dance floor, finding places to sit down or trickling out into the hallway to head for their cars. A sweaty middle-aged woman in a suit, probably the principal, has a microphone and is trying to give out the awards or recognitions she was supposed to deliver much earlier in the evening.
The Far Darrig helps me to an empty spot on one of the couches. "He'll find you here soon," he whispers. "You look lovely tonight."
I turn my head, but all I see is his back disappearing into the crowd.
A few minutes later, Zane is at my side. "Hey there, Dancing Queen," he says. "Ready to get out of here?"
"I feel totally trashed," moans Frank's date, collapsing on the couch beside me. "I must have burned so many calories."
"I'm just hungry," says Julio. "Really, really hungry."
"Me too," Mike agrees. "Waffle time?"
I shake my head. I'm too far past my curfew already. "I'm calling a driver. If I'm not home soon, they'll never let me out of the house again."
Julio chuckles.
"You think I'm kidding?" I say. "My guardians are the absolute worst. They're gonna put locks on my door after this and take away my phone. So goodbye, everyone. This may be the last time you see me."
"Are you serious?" Zane frowns. "Aislinn, they can ground you, maybe, but locking you in? That's messed up."
"I know, trust me."
"I'll get your bag," Laurel says. She's a little sweaty herself, and her feet look swollen in her strappy heels. I feel a pang of guilt. "You tossed it on the couch when you went to dance and I thought someone might take it, so I put it in the office with mine. Be right back."
When she returns with it, we walk outside.
"Go ahead, guys, I'm gonna call a lift," I say.
"You sure?" Zane asks.
"Absolutely."
The others climb into the car, but he steps closer to me. "Call me, text me, email me— something to let me know you're okay."
"I will."
He slides both hands around my face and rests his forehead against mine for a minute. Then he kisses me, and I feel like fireworks should be bursting into colored sparks in the night sky above us.
"I had the best night of my life," I whisper.
"You were incredible," he says quietly. "You're so quiet and like a mystery, you know, and the next minute you're like fire, just the craziest and most beautiful thing ever. I think I love you."
A different kind of magic pulses through my heart. "I think maybe I love you too."
"I don't want to leave," he says.
"But you should," I tell him. "There are plenty of people here, I'll be fine till the car comes. Go get something to eat! You deserve it after you danced so hard."
"I was on tonight, wasn't I? Not like you, but I was hot!"
"Yeah you were." I kiss him again. "Now go!"
And then he's in the car, and he's waving, and he's gone.
I pull my phone out of the clutch to call a driver, but before I can find the number in my contacts, a familiar voice asks, "It seems your date has left you. May I offer you a ride?"
I roll my eyes as I turn around. "You. Again?" The high of the dancing or whatever it was has worn off, and I'm less amused by his presence. Not amused at all, actually.
"You could pretend to be happy to see me," he says, low.
"Never."
A smile spreads over his face. "Never is a long time. Remember, I'm going to be here lon
g after your human boy. I'll win you over."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"So are you." He offers me his arm, like some old-fashioned gentleman. "Besides, my offer of a ride isn't just out of chivalry. We need to talk business, and power."
I sigh. Prom is over. My one night as a normal human teen is over— not that it was very normal, after all. Now it's time to get back to my plans, which include killing this man— this mythical Thing— for letting my parents die and for magically forcing me to kill someone. To end him, I need to suck the powers out of a few more Fae— preferably without killing them. #LifeGoals, right?
"Fine, I'll ride with you. Where's your car?"
"It's parked out in the lot. And I don't think we should be seen getting into it together— preying upon teenage girls isn't really good for my whole benevolent donor image."
"Oh, right, of course, Mr. O'Connell, was it? I'll hang back and follow you."
As he walks away, I can't help noticing how very, very well he fits into that tux. I'm a terrible person. I have a boyfriend. Stop it, hormones!
Nonchalantly I saunter after him— at least I try to saunter, but my heels are actually worn down from all the dancing, and my feet are killing me. I make it halfway to the lot before slipping them off and walking barefoot the rest of the way.
When I reach the lot, the Far Darrig is nowhere to be seen. Then a car beeps once from a spot at the far end of a row. I trudge toward it, open the door, haul up my dress, and sink into the front passenger seat. I can't help sighing in relief.
"Darn shoes." I throw them into the back seat.
There's a yelp of pain, and I whirl around. Two leprechauns are crouching back there, snarling at me. One of them spits at me, narrowly missing my face and hitting the back of my seat instead.
"Oh my gosh, really? Why do you hang out with these things?"
"I told you why. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. They provide me with information, and I provide them with protection and— intelligence. And a conscience."
I laugh. "You're their conscience? That's so reassuring. Can they poof themselves away now?"
Korrigan (Secrets of the Fae Book 1) Page 17
