Secret Worlds (120 page)

Silence. The dream ended. Skye opened her eyes, expecting to be in her own bed and her own room with the familiar collection of crystals lining the top of the nightstand. She stretched her arms upward and hit something hard. Her fingers grasped the unyielding object and tested its rough surface.

Tree bark.

No, she must have dreamed she had awoken. That fairy poison had messed with her brain big time. Skye scrunched her eyes closed, tense with concentration.
Wake up for real this time.

She opened them again and stared, eye level, into neighboring treetops tinged with silver and crimson moonlight. Skye gripped her thighs and felt the rough texture of bark against bare flesh. What the hell? No, she couldn’t be out in the woods stuck up in a tree. No freaking way. Violent shudders wracked her body and she teetered. Her hands and legs gripped the tree so tightly, she felt splinters imbed in her palms and thighs.

Afraid to move, she drew long breaths, exhaling puffs of smoke in the autumn air. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d freeze up here. She imagined some hunter finding her icy body, her long red hair tangled in branches.

Like David’s son Absalom in the Bible, she thought with mounting hysteria.

She’d worry later about how she got here. The first thing she had to do was get out of the tree. She looked down.

The ground seemed miles away.

There must be a way down. She studied the tree but couldn’t make out any more branches to scoot down. It was a straight shot from where she was stuck. She would have to repel to safety. Skye remembered a gym class drill where you were supposed to climb up a rope and repel down. Everyone but her had been able to reach the top of the ceiling. She’d only managed a few feet, but still got a wicked case of rope burn trying to get down. Even from that short distance, she had managed to land on her butt, resulting in a bruised tailbone that made sitting down torture for weeks. At least she’d been excused from gym a whole month.

She’d be lucky to escape from this mess with only bruises. Skye regarded her flimsy nightgown in despair. Not exactly athletic apparel.

An explosion of air and the flapping of wings by her face broke the night silence. Reflexively, Skye’s hands lifted off the tree limb and batted at the attacker. She swayed to the side, made a last, desperate attempt to hold onto something, and then her hands grasped nothing but black air.

She was falling.

Her heart hammered and she wondered how many bones would break when she crashed. If she was lucky, maybe she would go into shock before that happened.

Fly
.

The insistent voice filled her mind, its vibration echoing like an internal drum. Skye’s body slowed and she harmlessly drifted the last few feet, landing upright on a bed of pine needles.

She collapsed on wobbly knees and took huge gulps of air, trying to stop the adrenaline-induced panic. Her heart thumped heavy and fast, pumping a fire in her chest. She took more gulps of air but no matter how deeply she sucked in oxygen, she couldn’t get enough. Her lungs felt as though they had been used as a pincushion and had dozens of tiny punctures.
This must be what they call a panic attack.
Either that or her heart and lungs were going to beat her to death.

You’re safe
. The voice was back inside her head, originating from the solar plexus. Waves of peace and light radiated from that same point. Slowly, Skye’s breathing returned to normal and her heart, though still beating too fast, slowed enough that it no longer felt as if it might burn a hole in her chest.

Skye sat long moments, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms covered in goose bumps. She was safe. And she was definitely not dreaming. By all rights, she should have sustained serious injuries, or worse.

Fly. Had she really flown? No, it wasn’t possible. There must be some other explanation for what was happening.

As if in answer, Skye became aware of her back muscles gently rippling and contracting dead in the middle of her spine. She reached a tentative hand behind and grasped something thin and that tingled to the touch – as if it were alive. With great foreboding, she strained her neck around, trying to see what it was.

Wings. A pair of multi-colored phosphorescent wings.

A chilling scream echoed through the trees, only this time the sound tore from Skye’ s mouth, as terrifying as the trio of banshees.

Skye screamed until her head pounded from the noise. When she stopped, in the absolute quiet, her screams hung in the space, inaudible but still pulsing with energy. She staggered to her feet, vigorously rubbing her arms against the cold. Turning slowly in a circle, she saw nothing but darkness and the faint outline of treetops above.

She had no idea where she was.

Her back muscles rippled, the wings fluttered and gave off a magenta aura that allowed her to see a few feet in front.

Fly
. The same disembodied whisper inside commanded once more.

It worked once, maybe that was her only way out of this. But how exactly was she supposed to fly? Skye flapped her arms and jumped.

Nothing.

She ran in circles, arms flailing uselessly at her sides. How ridiculous, she must look like a crazed chicken. She was almost glad no one was around to witness this pathetic display of ineptitude. Skye leaned against a tree and cried; part-anger, part despair, and part disgust that she was as much a failure at being a fairy as she was at being a witch.

Her head jerked up at the thought, the tears drying at the sudden realization. She was a fairy. She paced back and forth between the trees, her path lit in magenta, trying to make sense of the situation. One, this was no drug-induced dream. Two, she wasn’t crazy. At least, not the full-blown, hallucinogenic psychopathic kind. Three, she had
wings
for goddess’ sake.

Skye scooped up a palm-sized pink rock and closed her eyes. The vibration from the stone worked to ease her anxiety and ground her to the earth.

With the relaxation, her body lightened. And lightened. Until gravity couldn’t hold her down any longer. Her feet lifted inches above the ground, and with that, her back muscles rippled, wings fluttered, and she was floating among the treetops.

Heavenly. Weird, but in a good way. As if she had done it all her life, was born for this purpose, Skye raised her arms and tilted to one side to change directions. Not even a mile north, she saw the university football stadium, a giant crater surrounded by brick school buildings. Home’s signpost.

Kheelan turned in his findings to Queen Corrigan’s Seelie Council. He reported the pixie murders were occurring at The Green Fairy, they were being drowned in absinthe, and he included a list of probable suspects.

Claribel was at the top of that list. It was so obvious to him, even if Skye had blind loyalties and trusted those close to her.

But the best part of his report to the Seelie was his implication that he needed more time in Tuscaloosa to pursue a few human leads that might have an even greater significance than the casualties sustained thus far. He hadn’t been raised by the Sly Ones without picking up a few tricks of his own.

Queen Corrigan and her Court Council had been more somber than usual. There were no loud whispers, giggles or yawns that occurred when he had been in their presence before. He tried to tell himself it was because Samhain drew near, yet he still felt a tingle of foreboding. Their eyes had been mistrustful, as if they knew he was withholding information.

“Are ye sure ye have nothing more to tell us, changeling?” Queen Corrigan asked when he prepared to leave.

“That’s it,” he said curtly.

Her eyes flashed a tinge of reproach but she waved a hand in dismissal.

Kheelan returned home, stopping along the way for his Guardian’s provisions. Finvorra grabbed the pint of Scotch whisky out of Kheelan’s hands the moment he entered the house.

“About time ye showed up, Tacharan. Bring me my mug filled with ice.” He staggered over to the well-worn recliner and fell into its contoured grooves, molded from mounds of resting flesh. Impossible to imagine him shapeshifting back into the fit Sidhe warrior he had been six months ago, before taking on human form to play Guardian. With any luck, the fairies would kick his fat ass out of their world once Kheelan escaped. Queen Corrigan would be none too pleased if she suspected Finvorra’s lack of diligence contributed to losing the changeling.

Kheelan filled the mug and returned to the den. Finvorra was up now, stumbling around the room in a drunken dance, attempting to kick off his pants.

“Don’t just stand there mocking me, boy, help me with these confounded human britches.” Finvorra fell back into his recliner. Kheelan sat the mug on a table and reluctantly helped his Guardian pull off the offending pants. Once Finvorra was comfortably seated in his underwear, Kheelan shoved the mug at him. One of the thick wool socks on Finvorra’s foot had loosened, exposing hairy, crooked toes. They actually looked more like buzzard claws.

Finvorra followed Kheelan’s gaze and swore. Heaving, he pulled up the sock, hiding the deformity. It was the only modesty he ever displayed. The misshapen feet filled him with rage, as if he couldn’t stand for anyone to witness the imperfection.

Kheelan jumped back in anticipation, narrowly missing Finvorra’s swing at his face.

Jerk. Finvorra needed to drink up the entire bottle immediately. The only way out of this foul mood was a full-blown, knockout drunken stupor.

Kheelan went to the fireplace, adding more kindling. Waiting. Finvorra gulped huge quantities and burped several times before finally sighing in contentment. It wouldn’t be long now before he was a goner.

“Fairy fascist,” Kheelan muttered, poking the logs in barely controlled contempt. He waited a good fifteen minutes after the snores started before stealthily digging the desk key out of the discarded pants. He shuddered, remembering Finvorra’s punishment the last time he’d been caught.

But it was a risk he had to take; there was something suspicious in the way the Seelie Court hadn’t pressed him on his relationship to the very redheaded Skye. Frivolous though they may be, they weren’t stupid either. If he had witnessed her rainbow aura and the lighting of crystals around her, they must have seen it too. For some reason they hadn’t captured her straight away and kept her captive until Samhain. That could change at any moment. Skye might be in as much danger from the Seelie as the Unseelie.

Ever so slowly, Kheelan turned the key in the desk and lifted the ancient fairy book, shutting the door closed with a soft click. To be safer, he would take this book in another room to read it. If Finvorra did wake up, he would hide the book until he could slip it back in unobserved.

The book’s words shimmered, ephemeral as bubbles underwater. Kheelan held up the hagstone and painstakingly read the words through its hole. He scanned the table of contents, searching for more information on The One of Legend.

There it was:

The half-fae child, in her 19th year at Samhain, shall be able to activate the celestial crystal, a potent weapon in the war against the Unseelie Court. Various visionaries insist that a human will accompany her into the Realm of Fairy. Others insist she is escorted by one of the Seelie fairies. In any case, all agree that any human who leads her to the crystal shall be granted a boon. No matter what the human requests, he or she must be granted this wish or the half-fae cannot, or will not, perform her magic.

Kheelan drew in his breath sharply.
He must be granted his wish.
Freedom was within his grasp. The fairies would
have
to grant the boon. He didn’t have to rely on their self-serving code of honor. The Fae would be displeased to lose one of their changelings, and they didn’t often grant boons, unless it profited them in some way. His hands gripped the text, maybe the Seelie Court did know Skye was The One and they planned to steal her away at the last minute before Samhain. Before he could escort her and request his boon.

He couldn’t let that happen. They would poison Skye’s mind, promising her a life of luxury and magic. She’d be their freaking hero, beloved, and probably either offered or mandated to stay in the Realm of the Fae. They would play on Skye’s insecurities as a witch and the lack of human love and understanding in her life.

Kheelan stood abruptly. He had to warn her. She was in danger.

“What the —?” An old man rummaging through a dumpster stopped and gaped at Skye as she sprinted the last block to her garage apartment, fairy wings flapping uselessly behind her.

Crap. She’d been so close to making it without anyone seeing her in this ridiculous condition. Skye looked back over her shoulder where he stood, still with the same slack-jawed incredulity, a broken bottle of liquor at his feet.

“Early Halloween party,” she called out. “I’m Tinker Bell.” Skye sprinted up the stairs to her place. With any luck, by morning he wouldn’t remember seeing a real-life Tink running around Tuscaloosa.

She reached for the door handle. Safe at last. Skye turned the knob only to meet the solid resistance of a locked door. Keys! She surveyed her flimsy nightgown without much hope of finding a pocket with keys.

“Aarghh.” She stomped her feet and paced the deck, as much to keep warm as vent frustration. It must be about forty degrees and she didn’t even have a pair of shoes on. She glared at the unyielding door. “Abracadabra, open sesame,” she hissed.

It didn’t open. Big surprise. If she was going to be a fairy she should at least be granted magic pixie dust or a wand or something.
So this is what it means to be hysterical.

“Why dontcha fly to the window?” The drunk yelled, pointing an unsteady arm to her bedroom window on the side of the building.

Skye whirled in surprise. He was still there, still watching.

“Fly,” he shouted again, arms waving. Probably the only coherent thing he’d said all night.

Why not? She had to do something before she either froze to death or he woke up the whole neighborhood shouting. Skye flapped her wings and glided, air-born, to the – thankfully – unlocked window. Once inside she gave a little wave to the wino advisor, and slammed it shut.