The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity (14 page)

What the hell am I doing here?
I stared out at the bright fall sky until my eyes watered, then returned to my chapter on viral marketing.

Marketing wasn't a favorite subject, but I muddled through the four hours of quiz and lecture and breakout
session. The instructor's name was Magory, a wrinkled walnut of a man with the scant remains of a brogue. He had once owned a chain of landscaping companies, according to the faculty directory. Now, he paced back and forth in front of a roomful of doggedly rapt adults, the sleeves of his overlarge sweater flapping as he gestured like a conductor and tried to impress upon us how quickly an idea could snowball once planted in a single mind.

I had taken my usual seat by the window, and glanced out every so often at the fading day. The classroom overlooked a picnic area that we had claimed as our own during the summer. It stood deserted now, a rise of still-green lawn dotted with red-berried shrubbery, shaded by a surround of oaks. The umbrella tables and chairs had been stored away for the winter, leaving a pair of stone benches the only furnishing. As the sun set, the gold light of dusk filtered through the leaves, casting the scene in sepia. The place looked older than old now. Ancient. Timeless.

The side of my face tingled. I turned to the front of the room to find Magory watching me. He made no comment about my inattention, but continued to lecture, eyes glittery as flint.

“All it takes is one. If you remember nothing else I tell you, remember that.” A corner of his mouth twitched. Then he flipped off the lights and tried to turn on the VCR, struggling with it until Neil took pity and helped him.

“Modern times.” Magory stood to one side and shook his head, the technically challenged old timer, and waited until Neil inserted the tape and got the thing going.

*    *    *

The following Saturday morning, I ran into Jo Tate in the coffee shop. Like me, she had settled on the management track. Unlike me, she braved the occasional foray into the world of finance, which this semester meant Ashford's derivatives class.

“It was horrible.” Jo hugged her coffee cup. “Sheryl never showed, and Ashford just let them have it in front of everyone. I mean, they tried to wing it, but what could they do? Sheryl had everything.” She dug through her handbag, pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen. “ ‘Failure to plan,' Ashford said. ‘Failure to anticipate.' You know how red Jerry's face turns when he's pissed? I thought he was going to have a stroke right there at the podium.” She shook out a couple of tablets, tossed them back and chased them with the last of her orange juice. “I didn't see him at the dorm last night. Every Friday, he checks in by 7:30, then stakes out a table in the break room and works until all hours, but last night I didn't see him.”

“Maybe he couldn't get in until this morning. He's got a crazy job.” Jerry had never been my favorite classmate, but he had only been at his company a few months and had a fresh divorce under his belt besides. I may not have liked him much, but I felt sorry for him. “We have the same class this morning. Keep an eye out.”

“We all have crazy jobs.” Jo looked around the coffee shop, filled wall-to-wall with continuing ed students forcing carbs and caffeine in preparation for 8
AM
classes. “No, I bet he quit. I wouldn't be able to face anyone here ever again if Ashford chewed me out like that.”

As if on cue, the door opened and in walked the dreaded Ashford, followed by another instructor. Hawthorn, his name was, a tall, pale counterpoint to his companion's rounded brunette bustle. The sea of bleary-eyed
bodies parted before them as they made their way across the room, leaving lowered voices and sidelong glances in their wake. They slipped through gaps in the crowd to the counter, snagging the attention of one of the clerks and placing their order before anyone could complain. Assuming anyone would.

“Must be nice to live in a world where lines are for other people.” Jo shook her head. “Eight more weeks of her royal highness.” Her eyes widened as Ashford turned, cup in hand, and fixed on us. “Oh, shit. Incoming.”

Ashford maneuvered to our table, Hawthorn at her shoulder. “Ah. The quiet ones.” She set down her coffee and grabbed a handful of sugar packets out of the serving dish. “Every time I see you, you are in a corner, watching.” Ripping sounds punctuated every word as torn paper and sugar crystals scattered across the tabletop. “Or looking out a window, dreaming.” She shot me a look and her eyes reminded me of Magory's, tiny, dark and stone-like, the whites barely visible. “Kincaid, I believe. Lee Kincaid.” She nodded to me. “Hawthorn here has told me something of you.”

“Really?” I looked up at Hawthorn, met eyes the clear green of the edge of glass, and wondered how he could have learned anything about me. He taught special topics, industrial espionage, Ponzi schemes and scandals of various types, and I had never taken a class with him.

“Magory likes you,” he said, answering my question. His voice was deep and quiet, barely audible above the din.

“That's good to know.” I felt my face heat, broke eye contact, ripped pieces off my bagel just to have something to do with my hands.

“Is that any good?” Ashford pointed at my plate. “What kind is it?”

“Cinnamon-raisin.” I glanced at Jo, who bit her lip and stared at her coffee. “Toasted. With butter.”

“I must try that some time.” Ashford stood next to an empty chair, yet made no move to sit. She looked older than she sounded, older than she behaved, and had taken no pains to cover the years. Her sallow skin bore no trace of make-up. Her clothes were dull, gray trousers and a plain blouse, the only hint of color an odd necklace of red and pink beads. “I thought I might see you in Derivatives with your friend.” She nodded toward Jo. “I want more females in my classes. Instead, I have males who all want to be multimillionaires by midterms.”

“You have Sheryl.” I fielded a blank look. “Sheryl Quade. She's in your class.”

“She has dropped.” Ashford sniffed. “She will not be back.” She sipped her coffee, frowned, then grabbed the last sugar packet and dumped it in. “The talents of some are better applied elsewhere.” She tried her coffee again, shrugged, then turned and headed for the door.

“Good morning.” Hawthorn nodded, then followed after her.

“I don't know where in hell they find them,” Jo said as soon as they were out of earshot. She gathered up empty packets and dropped them in the bowl, then swept off the spilled sugar. “They must work cheap.”

I watched Hawthorn step off to one side as Ashford stopped to harass another unlucky soul. He scanned over the heads of the assembled with occasional glances toward the door, raising his head as though sniffing the air.

Then he looked back over his shoulder at me, and at
that moment I knew how the deer felt when the wolf met its eye.

Eventually he smiled, breaking the spell. Ashford beckoned to him, and he followed her out of the coffee shop like a pale shadow.

“I think Hawthorn must have worked in security.” I tried to eat my bagel, but nerves still had me by the throat, and I pushed it aside.

“I'm not saying they don't know the subject matter.” Jo pulled a packet of wet wipes from her bag, and went about cleaning her hands. “But you have to admit that they lack people skills. I mean, isn't that something they're supposed to teach us, and not the other way around?” She checked her watch, and sighed. “If you had told me on the day I graduated that ten years later I'd be going through the same old crap all over again, I'd have said you were crazy.”

We dumped our trash and headed outside. The morning had dawned cool and gray, the air heavy with hair-frizzing damp. Jo pulled an elastic band from her jacket pocket and bound her mass of black ringlets. “I checked the weather in Atlanta this morning. 70s and sunny. Tell me again why I left.”

“Hypothermia slows the aging process.” We walked down the tree-lined street to our building, and climbed the four flights to our classroom because the elevator was out of order yet again.

“I don't see Jerry.” Jo stood in the doorway and counted heads. “He always sits in the front row and he is not here.”

We took our seats, and readied for four hours of Management Principles IV. At the stroke of eight, our instructor entered. Alder, a tall, pale, willowy woman, who
looked enough like Hawthorn to be his twin. Funny that I never noticed it before.

That evening, the gang went to dinner at an Italian place off-campus. I begged off, claiming a day job crisis, but the truth was that I just didn't want to go. I knew they would pick over every bit of gossip they knew about Sheryl and Jerry—Sheryl had also recently gone through a divorce, and was worried about being laid off—and I didn't want to hear it. Restlessness had claimed me, and I needed to walk. Needed to clear my head.

She has dropped. She will not be back.
Ashford's words about Sheryl kept looping through my head. That clipped, cool voice of hers.

“Bet you know what happened, don't you, highness?” I left the dorm, and walked up one tree-enclosed street and down the next. There weren't many people out and about, but I felt safe enough. Had my phone in my pocket, and my car keys in hand.
Never go anywhere without your keys
, my late father had always told me.
Good for fighting off all kinds of things, keys are.

I thought about my father as I walked. I thought about a lot of things. The night held a bite, an early taste of winter. There was no wind to speak of, and fog laced the air. I had worn the wrong coat—leather isn't worth a damn in the cold—and I shivered as the damp chill seeped through. I couldn't tell where I was. I had never learned the campus street names and all the buildings looked alike, amorphous smears of black that loomed on either side.

Then I saw a couple of patches of paleness in the distance, which resolved into stone benches as I moved closer. I had arrived at the picnic spot. The low hill.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, wished like hell that I had worn a decent coat. The air felt even colder here, the fog heavy enough to mist my skin and drip from the leaves. I ducked into a building entry and was about to go inside and grab some paper towels from the bathroom when I heard voices from the direction of the street. A man and a woman, arguing.

I hid in the shadows and squinted into the murk, picked out the shapes moving toward me. The woman was tall and very slim, her coat belted tightly and her hair hidden beneath a brimmed hat. The man stood half a head shorter, his leather jacket zipped to the neck, a backpack dangling from one shoulder.

“I don't believe—I let you talk—me into this.” The man struggled to keep up with his companion, his breathing rough, chubby legs moving like pistons. “Couldn't we just do an extra paper? Clap erasers?” Then the muted light of a streetlamp washed over him, and smears of color snapped into sharper relief.

“Jerry?” I stepped out of the entry. “Jerry!”

Jerry Pope stopped short and stared at me, his mouth agape.

“Where have you been?” I trotted down the sidewalk toward him and his companion. “We all thought you dropped out.” At that moment, the woman broke into a run, dashing across the street toward the rise. She tried to skirt the light, but just enough touched her to illuminate her face. “Sheryl?” I ran into the street. “Where the hell have you been?”

Jerry bolted after Sheryl, and together they darted toward the rise. I charged after them, the soles of my shoes sliding on the slick pavement, the damp grass. “Wait for me!” Just as I came close enough to grab Jerry's coat, I
slipped and fell, my face mashing into the cold wet. I scrambled to my feet just as they disappeared behind the shrubbery. Heard a sound like the slam of a door. Circled to the rear of the rise and found—

—nothing. No one. I hunted through the surrounding trees, then returned to the rise. Perched on the edge of one of the benches and listened for any sound, the crack of a twig or muffled voices or the wheezing of a man unused to running. But I heard nothing except the steady tick of dewdrops on leaves, and the pounding of my blood in my ears.

“I know you're out there.” I rose slowly, turned, stared into the fog, straining for any hint of movement, color, or shape. But I saw only a world wrapped in gauze, silent and pale.

I'm losing my mind
. I shook my head.
No. I saw them. I did
. And then they vanished as though they'd never been.

I remained atop the rise for over an hour, hunting for any proof that I had seen Jerry Pope and Sheryl Quade. But I found nothing, no convenient dropped wallet or information-laden phone. Finally, I gave up and descended the slope, inching sideways to keep from skidding. Made it to the bottom intact, and started up the street. Saw something at the far end, and stopped.

It began as a curl in the mist, a pearlescent gleam, which darkened to a shadow, tall and slim. Then the fog split like a curtain being swept aside, and Hawthorn stepped through the gap. He said nothing, made no move to come closer. He just watched me, hands tucked in his pockets.

“I saw them.” My voice rose and fell, wobbling from whisper to cry, buffeted by something that I couldn't see.
But I could sense it, oh yes. It brushed the hairs on the back of my neck, touched my fingers. Spoke in my ear, a language I had never heard before and couldn't understand.

All the while, Hawthorn remained still and silent, watching me. Then another wave of fog swept across the road, and he was gone.

By the time I got back to the dorm, Jo and the others had returned from dinner and had staked out a corner of the lobby. They had dragged every available chair and couch to form a circle, and huddled in conversation like conspirators planning a coup. They all turned to look when I entered, took up where they left off when they realized who I was.

“Day job crisis solved?” Jo patted the empty chair next to hers. “Saved you a seat.”