Flicker (6 page)

Inhuman
eyes studied Nasser closely
as he passed a large oak tree
, gli
nting in the half-light
with curiosity and mischief. Feathers and insect wings stirred in the shade, and Nasser shivered, a tingling cold spreading through him. Some of the faeries were covered i
n matted fur; some had
weeds for hair; some wore beautiful dresses and tunics woven from the rich colors of autumn.

Jason was not among them.

Nasser turned away from the faeries, disappointed. They had begun to whisper amongst themselves, and he knew he h
ad already stayed too long.
Faeries were dangerous at the best of times, especially the more powerful Court faeries. The last thing Nasser needed was to be hassled any Summer Court faeries in a revel.

He sighed.
If Jason wasn’t here, there was nothing
to do
but return to Bridgestone and wait
. Nasser started toward the tree line,
hoping to leave the revel without incident,
then froze.

A girl sat in the shade of a nearby tree, her legs tucked underneath her
, entirely alone. Her long copper-colored hair glowed
faintl
y in the patchy shade. R
ectangular strips of white bark were spread out on the grass around her, along with small earthenware bowls filled with thick, bright paints. The girl held a brush in her left hand—not a conventional paintbrush, but some sort of flower—and was moving it in smooth arcs over the bark strips as if they were canvas.

Most of the strips were already painted upon. They all showed the too-perfect faces that were common
among
the Daoine Sidhe, the faerie
nobility
. Portraits, Nasser deduced. She was painting portraits.

She wasn’t a faery—her energy was clearly human, though somewhat masked by the revel magic in the air. It was unlikely that she had th
e Second Sight
, like
Nasser
did. If she had that much magic, he would have sensed it already.

Was she some sort of captive, spirit
ed away to Faerie? He knew the fey
were partial to talented mortals, especially artists and musicians
, which they kept as entertainment.

Nasser tiptoed toward the girl. She never looked up fro
m her painting
, not even when he knelt in the grass beside her.
He examined her paintings, and found himself mesmerized by the rich colors and skillful brushwork.
It was no wonder the Summer faeries had chosen her
to be one of their revel painters.

After a long minute, Nasser pulled his gaze away from the paintings and studied the artist instead.
She was
maybe sixteen
or seven
teen, and she seemed completely unaware of him
.
A
spray of freckles arched over her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose.
Her green eyes were dreamy with magic, yet strangely focused.
If she were to look up, he thought she would able to see straight into him.
There was paint on her hands, smears of it on her
face; he wanted to wipe the paint away, or find som
e other excuse to touch her
.

An energy entered
Nasser’s consciousness:
warm and earthy,
of summer
. He turned.

A female faery stood beside the tree trunk,
trailing
her fingers over the bark. Strange flowers bloomed along the trunk wherever she touche
d it. Her long hair was an
earthy green, and her skin was brown
, traced with faint markings reminiscent of the patterns of tree bark
. Her green wings were shaped almost like leaves. A dr
yad, he identified immediately. A
tree nymph.
Like rab
bits that changed their coats
, a dryad’s appearance reflected the season.
It was autumn in the human world,
but in the Summer Court, she still wore her summer colors.

“I don’t know you, boy,”
the dryad
said, her voice low.
She regarded him through eyes that moved through a dozen shades of green.
“How are you called?”

Nasser shook his head, standing. He’d been taught better than to give his name to faeries, even
his
first
name.
Any number of harmful spells could be wrought on him using his name.
His true name—first, middle and last, spoken from his own lips—was the most precious thing he owned.

“I don’t know you,” she repeated. “You
aren’t one of ours.”

“No.”

“A wanderer, then, stumbled through our door uninvited.” Her wings twitched. “You would do well to leave before someone stakes a claim. You aren’t handsome enough to tempt me, but not everyone is so particular.”

Nasser hesitated. His gaze flickered to the copper-haired girl. Her painting faltered for a moment, almost as if she’d felt him, and she looked up. Her gaze slid between Nasser and the dryad, catching on him for a moment before returning to the canvas. The brush began to move again, slowly and carefully, as if she were distracted.

The dryad narrowed her eyes. “Did you not hear me?”

Nasser shook his head again. “I
…
” He almost asked if she’d seen a
nother human boy who
looked like him, but he caught himself. He made a quick de
cision. “How much for the girl
?”

“You’re Sighted,”
trilled the dryad, following his gaze to where the girl still painted
. “A Seer, perhaps? How very rare.”

“How much?” Nasser pressed. “I’ll trade you for her.”

The dryad’s sm
ile dripped venom. “Y
ou’ve overstayed, boy.”

“Please,” Nasser
insisted
, surprising even himself. “A trade for her.”

“What could you possibly have that would interest me?”

Nasser grimaced.
He kept various trinkets on hand in case he
needed to make some small deal
with a faery, but nothing of an
y real value. A couple of shiny
knick-knacks weren’t going to do the
trick
.

He
pushed up his rig
ht sleeve and held out his arm. A bracelet of dark wooden squares hung from his wrist, each square carved with a different protective rune. Alice had made it for him years ago, as well as nearly identical ones for Jason, Filo and herself.

“Interesting,” the dryad allowed. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

The
brush had fallen into
the girl’s
lap; smears of paint stained her dress. Something had sparked in her green eyes
, an awareness
that wasn’t there before. Nasser could
feel the veil of magic hanging over her; he
thought he felt something
else stir beneath
. The girl obviously had
some
magic—everybody had at least a touch, even if they didn’t realize it, and artists tended to have more—but did she have enough to trigger his senses just now, or was it his imagination?

There was too much energy in the air. He couldn’t be sure.

“I have an idea,” the dryad piped. “You might play the gallant and offer yourself up.” A smirk twisted her mouth.

He said nothing. All he could do was try to summon the color back to his face and look as steely as possible.

“Do you want to
rescue
her, boy?”

“I
…
”

She scoffed.
“You lack the heart. Leave
this place.”

When he neither answered nor left, an annoyed expres
sion pinched
the dryad’s face.

“What would you do?” she asked scornfully. “Wou
ld you take her
with you?
She’
s
useful
only for a pretty picture.
She
does no good to anyone.
I don’t see why Umbriel is so fond of her.” Frowning, the
dryad waved one
dismissive
hand toward the girl. “
She’s magic-sick. Addled
. I doubt even you could find amusement with her, and you humans have such warped ideas of fun.”

Nasser fumbled for something, anything. He
didn’t understand why he felt
intent upon
bargaining for the girl’s freedom—but something told him that she was worth it. Something about her tugged at him as if they were tethered by a rope. He couldn’t just leave her here, a captive in Faerie.

“Here.” He
dug through his backpack and pulled out a leather-bound book w
ith
a
cracked
brown cover.
He opened the book for the dryad to see.
The
first page
was stamped with a pair of crows in flight,
mirror images of each other,
surrounded by a circle—the symbol of Neman and Morgan, his old masters—and the
remaining
pages were covered in instructions for complicated spells.

“
Temping
,” she murmured
, eyes glinting
. “
But the scales aren’t balanced.”

He should’ve seen this coming. When it came to the fey, all exchanges had to be exact. Nothing could be traded for more or less than its value.
Even a book of magic
wasn’t worth the same amount as a talented human pet. “What more?”

“Just something
small. You hardly ever use it,” said the dryad coyly.

“What do you want?”

“Your name.”

“What use
could you possibly have
for my name?”
he
asked, trying to disguise his trepidation.

“One never knows when one
might need a Seer for a favor,” she purred.

Nasser felt himself pale.
It was a terrible risk to run. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if the dryad ever came calling for a “favor.” Or if she passed his name along to someone else.

But there was nothing else to do.
Only Nasser’s name would balance the scales, for he had nothing else to give. And he couldn’t just leave the girl here. He wouldn’t.

Nasser
offered
her
the
book
, but
the dryad
didn’t take it. She was waiting
—waiting for his name.
Nasser didn’t allow himself to hesita
te
.
He spoke quietly and clearly,
though the words burned in his throat
like a punishment
:
“Nasser Ethan Rew.”
The dryad sm
iled, eyes
gleaming
.
Her face seemed very narrow
and very cold. Nasser felt a wave of binding magic pulse through the air, and he knew. It was done. They had a deal.

Nasser
watched as the dryad pulled the copper-haired girl up by one shoulder, shoved her in
his
direction, then turned away. She disappeared around the
trunk
of the
flower
-covered tree, without reappearing on the other side.

Gently taking the copper-haired girl’s shoulder, Nasser
led her across the
clearing and out of the revel.

The sun had moved, Nasser observed
, when they were back on the path
. He always forgot about the time
distortion
between the mortal realm and the places inhabited by faeries.
What felt like a momen
t to Nasser could span years
in
Otherworld, and vice-versa.

“What’s your name?” he inquired, as they worked their way slowly back to
Bluewood
.

She gave him a quizzical look. Her green eyes were starting to clear up. That meant the magic was starting to lift off her. It would continue to dissipate until it was gone entirely, and
then she should be completely normal.
In theory, at least.

“Your name?” he repeated, speaking slowly and
clearly.

She just shook her head.

* * *

“Go away, Rodney,” Filo
growled, glancing down
at the sidewalk
. A large tortoiseshell cat had sidled up beside him. It trotted along with him, even when he quickened his pace. “I’m not in the mood.”