Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

Awesome. Everything was friggin’ awesome. I could call Rye in my mind, and Luke kissed me. With Rye, I walked out onto the road, sticking mostly to the side, though at this time of the morning I didn’t think I’d meet any cars.



My bare feet making no noise on the asphalt, I led Rye to a quieter back road near the house and together we walked down the dead middle of it, watching the mist move and shift slowly over the cow pasture to our right. I slowed, fascinated by a snowy white rabbit that was watching me. Its perfectly colorless ears were pricked, unmoving. Aside from the rabbit, I was alone with Rye and my thoughts.



So Rye was a faerie dog. And faeries wanted to steal me away. It was kind of flattering, actually. Nice to be noticed.



Where did that leave Luke? Why did he know about the faeries, anyway? Were they trying to steal him as well? And why had Granna talked to him like she did? It wasn’t the malice in her voice that was the most puzzling. It was the familiarity. Sort of like how Mr. Hill, the band director, had seemed to recognize him at the competition as well. My mind skipped carefully away from the subject. Remembering how little I knew about Luke definitely cut into my morning giddiness. I knew I ought to care who he was and what he was when he wasn’t with me, but I didn’t want to. I wanted simple.



Deep down, I knew he wasn’t a high school student. But was it wrong that that was part of what I liked about him?



By my side, Rye growled and dropped back, and I followed his gaze. Up ahead, backed into an unused dirt driveway, was a familiar beat-up Audi. My heart leapt—it’s Luke!—and my brain turned over the information a second later—what’s he doing here?



Padding quietly up to the car, I saw Luke in the driver’s seat. His arms were behind his head, his eyes closed. Sleep erased all care from his narrow features, making him look young and fresh—almost believable as a high school student. His raised right arm exposed a beaten gold band around his biceps, partially eclipsed by the edge of his shirt sleeve. I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen it before.



I glanced down. His doors were unlocked. When I pulled the passenger side open, Luke jerked to immediate life, his hand flying down to his ankle.



“Shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked,” I advised. “Never know what kinda weirdos will get into your car.”



He blinked at me for a long moment before pulling his hand away from his ankle and thumping his head back on the seat with closed eyes.



I pulled the door shut behind me, watching Rye glare at Luke and then retreat to the side of the road. “I didn’t sleep in my own room, either.”



He didn’t open his eyes. “It’s hard to sleep while you’re being watched, isn’t it?”



I wanted to ask him why They would watch him, but I was afraid he wouldn’t answer. I wanted to ask him why he was sleeping in his car a stone’s throw from my house, but I was afraid he would answer. I thought about his hand darting to his ankle and wondered if there was something hidden beneath his pants leg, something a bit more deadly than the golden band his shirt sleeve had obscured. Sudden doubts crowded in my mind during his silence, but then he opened his pale blue eyes and smiled at me, and the doubts were swept away like so many cobwebs.



“You’re a nice thing to see first thing in the morning.”



The giddiness came rushing back as if it had never gone. I grinned. “I know.” Why did I become this strange, light creature when I was with him?



Luke laughed. “Well, sing something for me, nice thing.”



Entirely shameless, I sang a made-up song about walking without shoes and strange men sleeping in cars, to the tune of “The Handsome Cabin Boy.” Seeing his face lighten, I added another verse about the dangers of cow pastures and men who stayed near them. “Lure” and “manure” rhymed nicely.



“You’re in a good mood today.” He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, looking in his rearview mirror. “I’m self-conscious. You’re seeing me without my make-up on.”



It was my turn to laugh. “You’re hideous. I can’t see how you stand yourself in the morning.” With careful fingers, I lifted the very edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the gold band just under it, beaten into a multitude of different facets. “I didn’t see this before.”



He looked away, out the window, voice oddly dead. “It was always there.”



I touched it, rubbing a finger against one of the beaten facets, and noticed that the skin just at the edge was all smoothly calloused and that the muscle of his arm was contoured around the band; the torc had been there a long time. I looked at it for longer than I needed to, wanting the excuse to run my finger along his skin. Staring, I saw something else: pale, shiny marks running perpendicular to the torc. Scars. My mind recreated the dozen slashes running down the length of his upper arm, gashes that sliced his biceps to ribbons of flesh held together only by that torc.



I ran a finger down one of the scars, toward his elbow. “What’s this?”



Luke looked back at me and answered with another question. “Do you still have my secret?”



For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, and then I gestured to the chain around my neck, lifting it to reveal the key. “One of them. Can I have another one?”



His lips lifted into a smile. “Sure. I’m still fascinated by you.”



“That’s no secret.”



“Maybe not, but it’s fairly stunning, all things considered.”



I pouted. “I can’t consider all things, because I don’t know most of them.”



“Don’t pout. Sing me another song. A real one. Something that makes people cry.”



I sang him “Fear a’ Bhàta”—“The Lonesome Boatman”—and it was sadder and more beautiful than I had ever sung it, because it was for him. I’d never wanted to sing for someone else before—was this how Delia felt every time she walked on stage?



He closed his eyes. “I’m in love with your voice.” He sighed. “You’re like a siren, leading me into dangerous places. Don’t stop. Sing me something else.”



I wanted to lead him into dangerous places, if I was included in said dangerous places, so I closed my eyes and sang “Sally Gardens.” A car’s not the greatest place for acoustics, but I wanted it to sound beautiful, so it did. I don’t think I’ve ever sung it better.



I sensed him, close to me, a second before I felt his breath on my neck. I was surprised at the emotion that flashed through me in the instant before his lips pressed against my skin. Fear—only there for a second—but there nonetheless.



My treacherous body had betrayed me with a start, and Luke pulled away as I opened my eyes.



“Do I scare you?” he asked.



Strange way of putting it. Not “did I.”



I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his face. I felt so strongly that I could see myself mirrored in his eyes: something about my obsession with music and my battle for control of my life. I wasn’t sure why, but I just felt in my gut that whatever made me me resonated in harmony with whatever made Luke him.



I answered with a question. “Should you?”



He smiled mildly. “I knew you were clever.” Then the smile vanished; he gazed past me, and I turned.



Sitting outside the car, ears pricked and unmoving, staring at us with unblinking black eyes, was a pure-white rabbit.



My stomach turned over.



Luke stared at it for a long moment before speaking, and when he did, his voice was tight and low. “You’d better go.”



Go? “What about—?”



“What about what?” he asked flatly.



I stared out at the rabbit, and when I answered, my voice was cold. “Nothing. You’re right. I have a gig today anyway. Mom will have my head if I’m not back soon.”



I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to get out, but Luke reached over quickly, below the level of the window, and touched my other hand where it rested on the seat.



I understood. Nothing in view of the rabbit. Climbing out of the car, I shut the door; as I did, the rabbit hopped slowly into the underbrush, as if that would convince me it was ordinary, not some peeping-tom-supernatural-killer-bunny.



Rye trotted up from the other side of the road and joined me, without a glance toward where the rabbit had gone, and I headed down the road, not looking back. I had gone a hundred feet when I swore I heard the car door open and shut. I snuck a look back, shaking my head and pretending to swat gnats away. Sure enough, the car was empty.



Where was he?



Focus. This telekinetic crap has to be good for something useful. I listened hard. Nothing. Just the repetitive twittering of cardinals in the trees overhead. It was hard to concentrate on something abstract like sound; I needed something concrete. I pictured Luke carrying a cell phone, calling me and forgetting to hang up. I imagined the crackling of underbrush as he pushed after the rabbit, the sound of his breath. The sound of his voice, faraway and low.



“Have I ever failed before?”



Another voice, earthy and gravelly. Chillingly plural yet singular. “It’s never taken you this long.”



“I have my reasons for taking my time.”



The single voice that was too many sounded contemptuous. “Screw her and be done with it.”



There was a pause, a second too long, and then Luke laughed. “Right. That obvious, is it?”



The gravelly voice didn’t laugh. “Just fuck her. Finish it.”



No pause this time. “I can’t wait.”



I broke into a run, bare feet slapping the pavement. I didn’t want to hear anymore. My imaginary phone hissed and dropped the call. He was lying. He was lying to the gravelly voice. Lying. If I said it three times, it had to be true.



eight



Mom drove me to the gig. Since she was a caterer, every wedding planner in a two-hour radius knew us, and it hadn’t taken long for them to find out that she had given birth to wedding music, as well. It actually wasn’t a bad deal. Usually I would arrive on the scene thirty minutes early, spend half that time barfing, and then emerge to play gracefully for a couple hundred bucks. It was worth the barfing; two hundred bucks would support my CD-buying habit for several more months, until the next gig.



But I didn’t want to do it today, and it wasn’t because of the puking. I wasn’t even thinking about the gig. I was thinking about Luke’s laugh. Analyzing every angle of it … deciding I was overthinking it … and then deciding I hadn’t been thinking about it enough.



Mom was silent for most of the trip, probably thinking I was nauseated. But I could tell she was cooking something, and I was right. She turned down the radio.



“Last night—” Here it came. Frustration welled inside me like a red, ugly blister and exploded.



“I don’t want to talk about Luke,” I snapped.



I might as well have slapped her. She even put her fingers to her lips, as if I really had. I was violating another rule, of course. I was supposed to sit and just let her ream me out, and then nod mutely and do whatever she said. Screw that.



Bad choice of words.



Just screw her. I can’t wait. Finish it. I angrily tugged down the edge of the fitted blue dress Mom had bought for me. I hated the dress. Made it look like I’d raided an old woman’s closet. All I needed was a big gaudy string of pearls and I’d be ready to hit the Moose Lodge.

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