chapter ten

I locked myself in the bathroom and stayed there for the better part of an hour. Kimber and Ethan each made one attempt to get me to come out, but they gave up when I didn’t answer. I’m sure they could have forced the door open if they’d wanted to, but luckily for me, they left me alone.

I’d always despised my mom for her drinking, but I swear, if there’d been any alcohol handy, I’d have tried some in hopes that it would make everything go away. I sat on the closed toilet, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs, wondering if there was any way I could get myself out of this mess. Aunt Grace had said that even if I left Avalon, I’d be a target now that people knew about me. And since Grace had my passport, it wasn’t like I was getting out of Avalon anyway.

Tears stung my eyes. Why couldn’t my mother just be a normal mom? Why couldn’t she just go to some stupid twelve-step program and dry out? She’d never even tried. If she’d only tried to stop drinking, maybe I never would have gotten so fed up I had to run away, and none of this would have happened. I didn’t need her to be perfect, I just needed her to be sober. Was that too much to ask?

I sniffled, then dashed the tears from my eyes. If there was one thing I’d learned in my life, it was that tears didn’t get me anywhere. I was the one who always had to keep my head while my mom had hysterics over the crisis-du-jour. I’d gotten very good at setting my own feelings aside to be dealt with later, so that’s what I did now. It was harder than usual, but eventually I managed to pull myself back together.

Ethan was gone when I finally ventured out of my cave. Kimber was clattering around in the kitchen again, and I headed toward the sound. I smelled something cooking. At first, I thought it smelled like rice, but I realized that wasn’t right. My stomach, having thoroughly emptied itself of its meager contents, thought whatever it was smelled pretty good.

When I entered the kitchen, Kimber was mashing something the color of paste and the consistency of vomit through a strainer. Suddenly, it didn’t smell quite so good anymore. Thick, off-white liquid dripped through the strainer into a small pot sitting on the stove. When she’d forced every bit of liquid she could out of the strainer, she dumped the contents into the trash.

“Almost ready,” she said, not looking at me, her whole concentration fixed on her task. Steam wafted into her face, and I saw that a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin. Whatever she was doing, it was hot work.

“I’m afraid to ask,” I said, “but what’s almost ready?”

She poured a good-sized dollop of honey into the pot and stirred it around. Then she turned on the stove, and low blue flames caressed the bottom of the pot.

“Your hot posset,” she said, reaching into the cabinet over the sink and pulling down a bottle of something that had the distinctive amber color of alcohol.

“What’s a posset?” I asked as I watched her pour a generous dose of—I squinted at the label—whiskey into the pot.

“It’s what you give someone if they have a cold. Or if they have a headache. Or if they’ve had a bad day. Or if they can’t sleep. Or if’”

“Okay, got it. Cure-all remedy. But I’m too young to drink.”

She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. “Legally, I am, too, but that’s not going to stop me. I had my first posset when I was five. You’re older than five, aren’t you?”

I sniffed the air, trying to identify the smell, but all I could recognize was the whiskey. “But what is it? What’s in it, other than enough booze to make me wear a lampshade on my head?”

She shrugged and stirred the posset, which was steaming merrily. “Milk. Oat meal. Honey. A bit of nutmeg. And the fine Irish whiskey, of course.”

Oh, gross! Oatmeal? Who puts oatmeal in a drink? I wondered how I was going to get out of drinking it without being completely rude.

Kimber turned off the stove and got out a couple of mugs, filling each one to the brim with the thick, milky liquid. I’m sure I was making a face, but that didn’t seem to discourage Kimber. She thrust one of the mugs at me, and I took it almost by reflex. Then I just stood there staring at it, wondering if I was going to have to make another run for the bathroom.

“I promise it’s not poisonous,” Kimber said as she blew on her posset, then took a delicate sip. “And there’s almost no situation a good, hot posset can’t make better.”

I hesitated a moment longer. Then I thought about being attacked by Spriggans last night, about looking through the Glimmerglass this afternoon, and finding out that I was the one and only Faeriewalker currently in existence, and I decided that drinking the posset couldn’t possibly be such a big deal after all.

I took a tentative sip, and, of course, instantly burned my tongue. And the sip continued to burn as it slid down my throat and spread into my chest and stomach. I pounded my chest with my fist.

“Smooth,” I said in an exaggerated croak.

Kimber grinned, the expression making her look more like Ethan than ever. “Have some more. It’ll grow on you.”

“What, like mold?” I asked, but I took another sip anyway. The whiskey and honey tastes were both very strong, so I was able to halfway forget I was drinking milk with oatmeal in it. And, though I would never admit it out loud, the stuff was definitely warm and soothing, with a decadent, creamy texture that told me not to even think about how many calories were in it.

We drank in companionable silence for a while, Kimber cleaning up the kitchen so it was once again pristine in its never-touched perfection, me just leaning against the counter. The posset burned less and less with each sip, and I tried to tell myself that the alcohol was steaming off. I’d never had more than a sip or two of anything alcoholic before, but I doubted it was the warm milk that was making my limbs feel all loose and warm.

“You really drank this when you were five?” I asked. Did my words slur a little bit, or was that my imagination?

“I’m sure the ones my mother made me were considerably weaker. And I think she used wine instead of whiskey. But yeah.” She smiled again. Gee, the posset seemed to be having a nice effect on her, too. “You can see why it’s a cure-all, huh?”

My head felt woozy when I nodded, but it wasn’t too bad. The posset had calmed the last of my nerve-induced nausea, and I was now positively famished. Luckily, Kimber had anticipated the return of my appetite, and before I had a chance to ask her for food, she produced a plate of sliced fruit and finger sandwiches from the refrigerator.

Still standing in the kitchen, we took turns picking goodies off the plate. I particularly liked the little cucumber sandwiches and the fresh strawberries, and I probably could have eaten the whole plate myself. Then again, that posset had been filling.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked as Kimber popped a couple of raspberries into her mouth. She gave me a droll look, and I remembered her dumb joke the last time I’d asked her that. I didn’t wait for her answer this time.

I examined the strawberry in my hand with great concentration. “Is Ethan really flirting with me, or is that just how he is with anything female?” Kimber’s reactions suggested that it really was flirting, but I couldn’t fathom why he’d bother.

Kimber didn’t answer immediately, so I stole a cautious glance up at her face. Her lips were pursed, and there was an unhappy look in her eyes that I didn’t understand. So much for the positive effects of the posset.

“It’s no big deal if he is,” I assured her. “I can handle it.” I said that with all the confidence of someone who has to fend off horny boys right and left, but of course I was lying. I’d forgotten to breathe when he’d looked at me with those hungry eyes of his, and my skin still felt the phantom warmth of his side against mine.

Kimber shook her head and looked me straight in the eye. “No, you can’t handle it,” she told me bluntly. “He’s charmed lots of more experienced girls than you out of their knickers.”

I gave a pseudo-offended sniff. “For all you know, I’m the school slut.”

She laughed. “Yes, and that’s why you blush every time he looks at you.”

Busted. I decided to try a different tack. “Okay, so he’s really flirting with me. Why? I didn’t think guys his age were interested in high school girls.” Especially not half-human high school girls who weren’t all that pretty.

Kimber got that tight look around her eyes again, and she thought a long time before answering. “Ethan likes to think of himself as a big manly-man, but he’s only eighteen. I know you’re younger than that, but he’d still consider you to be fair game. Besides, you’re not a typical high school girl. You’re a Faeriewalker. You have the potential to be … very powerful. And Ethan’s very fond of power.”

I looked quickly away from her face, not wanting her to see my expression, whatever exactly it was. I don’t know what I’d hoped she’d tell me. Maybe I’d hoped she’d stroke my ego a bit, tell me I was so clever and witty that Ethan couldn’t help but fall at my feet and worship me. Of course, I’d have known she was lying. I wasn’t all that clever and witty in normal life, and around Ethan I acted like I had an IQ of about seventy.

But to think he was flirting with me because I was powerful, or could be in the future …

My opinion of him lowered considerably, although I suspected when I saw him again my common sense might go right back out the window. I mean, just because he was attracted to power in general didn’t mean that was why he was attracted to me, right? The fact that I might be powerful could be just a coincidence. Besides, he hadn’t known for sure about me until this afternoon.

I shook my head at myself. None of this mattered anyway. As long as I was with Kimber, Ethan wasn’t going to do more than give me the occasional smoldering glance. And maybe after dealing with Ethan for a bit, I’d be more ready when a boy who was actually in my league was interested. Best to act like a gibbering idiot around a guy who was unattainable than around one I actually had a shot at.

“I’m sure Ethan really likes you,” Kimber said gently. I guessed she’d figured out that telling me Ethan was attracted to my power didn’t give me warm fuzzies. “He wouldn’t be flirting quite so much if he didn’t. It’s just…” She shook her head. “It’s just that there’s always more than meets the eye with him.”

“You and he don’t get along so well, huh?” I asked tentatively. It wasn’t really any of my business, but even a moron could see they had issues.

Kimber’s face closed off and she looked away. “Let’s not talk about Ethan anymore, okay?”

Kimber’s cell phone chirped, and I was strung so tight I jumped and let out a little screech. Kimber banished her glum look, suppressing a smile.

Kimber grabbed the phone from the counter and read a text message. Her eyes widened, and she said something in a language I was completely unfamiliar with. I felt sure it was a cuss word, though.

Kimber slammed the phone down, then grabbed my arm and started hauling me across the kitchen.

“Hey!” I protested, stumbling along after her.

“Shh!” she hissed. “That was Ethan. Your aunt just stormed his flat, and you can bet she’ll come here next.”

I swallowed my next protest and allowed Kimber to drag me into her room. I balked when she opened her closet door and tried to shove me in. The rest of her apartment may have been obsessively neat, but the closet was a nightmare of clothes, shoes, boxes, and assorted other junk all crammed in willy-nilly. It looked like I’d need a crowbar to get in.

“You have to hide!” Kimber insisted. “Quick. Or would you prefer to spend more quality time with Grace and Lachlan?”

I wasn’t sure I bought the theory that Aunt Grace wanted to make me disappear, permanently. But I had no desire to be locked up again, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hated Aunt Grace, I thoroughly disliked her.

I shoved my way into the crowded closet, Kimber pushing and pulling to get me past various obstacles. I ended up wedged in a corner between a stack of shoe boxes piled from floor to ceiling and a big, billowy, froufrou dress trimmed with feathers that tickled my cheeks.

The doorbell rang. Kimber hastily stuffed everything she’d moved back into the closet. I was buried deeply enough that I couldn’t even see the door, but it sounded like getting it to close was something of a struggle.

And then the closet door clicked shut, and I was alone in the dark. I sighed and shut my eyes, trying to forget that I was hiding in a dark, claustrophobic closet while my wicked aunt Grace was way too close for comfort. Every time I breathed, the feathers on Kimber’s ridiculous dress fluttered against my skin, the tickle growing more annoying with each breath. I tried putting my hand between them and my cheek, but it turned out my hand was just as ticklish.

I couldn’t hear anything. I hoped that meant Aunt Grace wasn’t actually searching the apartment for me. If she wasn’t searching, then maybe I could get out of this closet before I lost my mind. Assuming I hadn’t lost it already. If she was searching for me, it occurred to me that she might be able to do some kind of magic to find me. Note to self: ask Kimber for more details about how magic works if and when you have a chance.

It’s hard to keep track of time when you can’t see or hear, but it felt like I was in that closet forever. It grew stuffy almost immediately, and sweat trickled down the small of my back and between my pitiful excuse for breasts. I was seriously tempted to tear the feathers off of Kimber’s dress, but I was afraid someone might hear me and I’d give myself away.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if Kimber had left me here long after Grace had left just for a practical joke, I heard voices approaching. My breath caught in my throat and my heart started to hammer when I recognized one of those voices as Aunt Grace’s.

I let my breath out slowly and quietly. My heart hammered against my chest, and sweat beaded on my forehead.

“Would you like to look under the bed?” I heard Kimber ask, and she sounded drily amused. “Or how about in the closet? Though I’d open that door carefully if I were you. Things have a tendency to fall out. I don’t think she’d fit in one of my drawers, but you’re welcome to check there too if you’d like.”

Was Kimber nuts? Why was she actually suggesting Aunt Grace search the closet?

I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping when I heard the closet door swing open. No matter how much I told myself I didn’t think my aunt would kill me, there was no denying I was terrified. I pressed myself harder into the corner, but just as we’d had to move a lot of junk to get me in here, Aunt Grace would have to move a lot of junk before she’d be able to see me. I held my breath as I heard hangers clanking together and shoes hitting the floor. Kimber laughed as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and I wished I could reach her to smack her.

The closet door slammed shut, and I could hear the fury in Aunt Grace’s voice.

“Fine!” she snarled. “You or your brother have hidden her somewhere else. Don’t think I won’t find her! And you and whoever else was involved in her abduction will spend the next twenty years behind bars.”

Kimber said something in answer. I didn’t catch it, but I guess Aunt Grace did, because the next thing I heard was a loud slap, followed by Kimber’s gasp. I clenched my fists and bit my tongue to keep from shouting a protest. I’d disliked—and feared—Aunt Grace since the moment I’d met her, and it seemed my instincts had been spot on. I started groping blindly in search of a weapon. If Grace hit Kimber again, I was fully prepared to charge out of the closet and come to her defense. (Yes, I knew that would be dumb, but I would have felt like a coward if I’d hidden in the closet while Kimber got hurt.) Luckily, there were no further sounds of violence before the angry stomp of Grace’s footsteps told me she was leaving.