by Emery Skye
I search the normal-looking cabin for anything weird or wizardly and find nothing that would tip me off that these two are magical beings. Pots and pans, a stove and oven for cooking… Couldn't they zap something into a meal? They have two huge, plush couches, big enough to fit eight of me. There's a large chair, an old, oak bookshelf; to my right, sits another bed much like the one I'm in. Yeah, nothing magical about this place. Sure, they could use an interior decorator maybe, seeing as it looks like all the pieces of furniture came from a different country, but hey, everyone has his or her own tastes, right?
Not only is the cabin very "un-magic-like" the brothers seem like typical guys. Duffy's wearing a black, graphic tee sporting a star-trek logo and his brother looks like a young, mountain man in his flannel shirt and jeans. Boys guys are rather tall and stringy in appearance, almost like spaghetti noodles. Yeah, nothing seemingly magical about them.
I curse myself. What exactly would I know about magical beings and their appearances? Hunter’s magical and sure, to me, he’s slightly magical in a sort of way that I need to not admit. but there wasn't anything tattooed saying, "magical being here." I'm an idiot. What do I know about any of this? Nothing.
"Not wizards and damn that Potter. Don't ye know a thing?" Allen says with an acid edge to his already super-sweet tone. Yeah, right.
Heat rises from somewhere down deep in my belly.
"Look," I throw my hands up, no longer clutching my safety blanket, "I woke up after being attacked by some creature I just found out exists like a week ago to find myself lying on someone's bed in a random cabin with a red-headed mountain-man staring me down. Give me a break! I didn't mean to offend your oh-so-magical self. This is all a little new to me," I poke Allen in the chest, causing him to frown deeply, but I don't care. "Okaaay! So back off!"
I exhale deeply. My muscles relax a bit and I'm feeling better.
All these hybrids, magical and whatever else, can deal with my crazy.
The brothers and Hunter exchange a few baffled, beady looks and after a moment pregnant with tension, they erupt in laughter.
Oh, good grief. Are you kidding me? I throw my legs over to the side of the bed.
I'm a little chilly, so I wrap one of quilts around my shoulders.
Still laughing deeply, Duffy points at me and says, "Yoo're alrecht, Flicka. Allen ye shood've seen yer coopon, brither," and he continues laughing the sort of stomach devouring laughs.
Allen isn’t laughing anymore, but that fuels Hunter and Duffy to laugh harder. My heart warms; Hunter’s carefree attitude is a welcome reprieve from his usual stoic-self.
As hard as I try and contain myself, a small, pesky chuckle escapes.
"Where are we?" I ask once the boys stop their cackling.
"Near Aspen," Duffy says cheerily.
"Why?"
"You had a punctured lung, broken ribs and some other ailments," Duffy says in a forlorn way, his face falling into a gloomy frown. It doesn't match his otherwise cheerful demeanor. "We thought we lost ya, Flicka."
Flicka? I knew it wasn't my imagination. That's what he and Allen keep calling me. I'm about to ask what it means, but then again, they told me that I was broken beyond belief. Priorities, Lexi. Priorities.
The truth of his words seeps into his voice. I know he's not lying. So, why am I here and not in a hospital and if it was that bad? And, wouldn't I feel a lot worse than I do?
"Mages are good with healing. That's why I brought you here. Duffy is especially decent," Hunter explains, noting my confused expression and of course, already knowing what I'm thinking. Note to self: find out if Hunter is telepathic.
Duffy frowns at Hunter's word choice.
"I can heal anything," Duffy counters, then he glances at me with the same perplexed expression his older brother had earlier. "Althoogh, ye did most th' healin' oan yer ain," he says and glances skeptically at Hunter. Hunter’s eyes darken. There's unspoken conversing between the hybrids.
I raise a brow. Righty-o then. "What do you mean? And what's a Flicka?"
"Flicka is a lucky bit, and what I mean," a growl form Hunter cuts him off, for a second.
"Usually, only mages an' faeries have healin' powers. Some other hybrids, but nae most. Ye dorn’t seem mage, but ye dorn’t act fae, either. Whit are ye, Flicka?"
My jaw drops, but I make no attempt to catch it. "I'm...ummm..." I stutter like a buffoon. So, this mage is on crack. Good to know.
"I told you, she's nothing more than human," Hunter snaps. The way he says I'm nothing more than human with a hit of revulsion, stings a little. Okay, let's be honest, a lot. It stings a lot.
Duffy shakes his head, causing his fiery curls to dance.
"Umm, sorry, but I'm a typical human. Nothing special about me," I bite and glare at Hunter.
"No humans ever heal like you. It was like something came alive..."
Hunter snaps, "Enough!” before Duffy can finish.
I'm staring at the two of them in a complete bout of confusion. My mind whirls around what Duffy said. Allen's still probing me with squinty eyes, like I’m a creature about to rip his head off. Great. Even mage-hybrids are freaked by me. Lovely.
"How long have we been here?"
"A few hours," Hunter tells me. “There's a blizzard, so I thought it would be best to wait it out before heading back. Should be a good time to talk,” he says the word "talk" bitterly. He’s probably planning to scold me about my trip to Rabby's for a game of poker. If only he understood.
"Right, well then, let's play some zombies, 'en while we bide," my eyes widen to the size of saucers. Zombies?
My heart rate increases; I squeeze the quilt tighter around my shoulders. Ugh, no way. The mages don't seem bad, but I've seen enough movies to know that zombies are not okay. Not cool.
Duffy hoots. "Not real zombies, there's no such thing," he points to the TV; a black, video game counsel is below it. My heartbeat slows and Hunter chuckles under his breath.
I scowl at Hunter and rub a hand through my hair, which is as coarse as the end of a broomstick. I’m sure my cheeks are red in embarrassment. It’s not that much of a stretch to belief in zombies at this point.
The boys played "zombies" for the entire afternoon. It was entertaining to watch them yell at one another for not having the other's back; their words, not mine. Duffy wins every game.
Hunter accuses him of cheating and, at first, I thought Hunter was being a poor-sport, but from the mischievous smirk on Duffy's face and the sardonic laugh he bolstered, I began to second-guess whether cheating on a videogame was a possibility for him and for magic.
Duffy made weird, snarky comments that caught me off guard. For one, he continuously referred to Hunter as "your highness" or "your majesty" or "my lord"; and every time, Hunter shot him a death glare smacked him upside the head.
Allen continued staring at me the way a rabbit stares at a wolf or maybe more like a scientist staring at his latest conundrum. At some point though, he did talk with me.
I found out that Allen and Duffy are both from Scotland, not Ireland; good to know. Caity would kill me for confusing the two. When I asked about their family or where their parents were, I quickly found out that conversation was verboten.
I made a mental note to ask Hunter about it, but now that I'm sitting next to him in the passenger seat, I can't bring myself to talk about the last twenty-four hours. I'm afraid once I do, Hunter will admonish me about Rabby's and he'll find out more about me than I want him to. He already knows so much; do I really want him to know about my stupid gambling trips? No, I don't. Not really.
THIRTY
Hunter’s been focused on the road for a couple of hours. The aspens and shrubbery are cloaked in a blanket of white powder. Thin rays of light seep through the massive tree limbs. The sky's a mix of grey and red. The lifeless, dirty grey in the sky a known harbinger of night that will soon eradicate the remaining crimson and light.
Sometimes after a blizzard, Pierce, Caity and I would m
ake a snowman or snow angels. A cord tightens around my heart when I think about them. I miss them so much it hurts.
I’ll do what it takes to find them when I return to school. They wouldn’t just leave me without saying a word.
“A bar?” Hunter says.
I swallow. This is it.
He’ll think I'm an idiot for going to the bar and playing poker. I probably am.
Still, the feeling I get knowing my money is on the line, the thrill of reading people's faces, expressions, gestures is invigorating. Plus, I can get lost in the game. I become so focused on everything happening around the table; from the smallest inhale of a cigar, to the slight rumbling of shoulders, that everything else slips away. Temporarily, I’ve free from the pain of losing my family; of losing everything. The best part— no one at the table cares about my life or me. There's no questions, no snide remarks, no prying. I like it.
I breathe quietly. Everything is comfortable and warm inside the SUV. Snow-blanketed shrubbery rims the paved road we travel, at a cautious speed of maybe twenty-miles-an-hour. That's snail speed compared to how Hunter has been driving. I'm grateful though; the empty road is packed with black ice.
We've been away from the school for longer than I thought, but high school is a whisper of worry against every other ordeal. I know that tomorrow, school will still be here.
I glance at Hunter from the corner of my eye when I feel an electric tingle glide along the plane of my neck. I know his eyes are watching me, but when I take the unknowing look, his sapphire gaze is already fixed on the road again. I wonder if Hunter will be a constant in my life. The simple thought is far from easy on the mind and I slap myself mentally. People come and go; and die. That's the gist of it; any other thought, is naive. My mind, my already shattered heart and my shadowed soul can't afford thoughts like this one. Not anymore.
He turns off the road, away from Fairmont.
My eyes glance left, then right.
I swallow. "Where we going?" I ask.
"I was thinking food." When is Hunter ever not "thinking food"?'
"What about school?" I shift in my seat so my upper-body faces him, that way it's more natural when I stare at him. Right? Right.
"We're already going to be in trouble. We might as well get a good meal out of everything," he says with a smile in his voice.
"Makes sense," I respond. I wonder if he's excited about the opportunity to harp on me and that's why he has a smile in his voice, or could it be because the first day we met he told me he'd stay out of trouble if I kept him busy and look at us now.
Miss Lawry may murder me. I was supposed to keep this baboon from missing class and instead, we miss class together.
Yay.
Not.
The situation speaks clearly of how much things have changed in only a matter of days. I guess a brink with death by the supernatural and the discovery of your brother as the ultimate bad guy can do that.
He drives for a little while, able to pick up speed on the main highway that's also deserted; the red stain in the sky becomes muddied with billows of black and I can no longer see more than ten feet off the road to the side, as everything fades into darkness.
We eventually pull into a cleared parking lot, a strong indication that the establishment has money. Most lots don't get plowed this quickly and stay clear on a day like this.
I reach for my door handle the second Hunter put's the SUV in park. I'm not fast enough; the door opens before I get a chance to make the connection. Hunter's standing outside my opened door in all his rugged glory wearing his token boots, destroyed dark jeans and insulated, black jacket with a faded black shirt underneath. He makes dark and dangerous look good. It sings to me like my own personal siren.
My eyes trail his body. When they make it to his face, he wears a snide grin and a playful glint dances in his eyes. My stomach’s like schmaltz.
"See something you like?" He asks as his smirk morphs into a wicked grin.
It takes a fraction of a second to collect myself and frown at his arrogance.
"Hardly," I huff and jump down from the seat into a puddle of slosh that pinwheels onto Hunter's jeans and boots. He shakes his head at my immature tactics.
The jump causes me to wince in pain, damn this broken, human body and my totally mortal limitations.
Hunter reaches for my arm to help me, I don't know what he plans to do when every inch of my body radiates pain, but the gesture is enough to partially mend my wounded heart.
He holds onto my arm awkwardly for a while.
"Can I help you?"
"Are you all right?" he asks.
I gaze into his sympathetic eyes and warm up at his concern. "I'm in a little pain," I tell him.
He frowns. "Where?" his eyes run over the length of my body as if he has x-ray vision.
I bite back a groan, but it comes out sounding like a moan. His eyebrows swindle suggestively. "My arm, numb nuts," I spout off.
Concern etches his forehead. "Why?"
"You're cutting off my circulation.”
Why hello, Stormy eyed Hunter.
He releases my arm.
It's slightly eerie walking through the empty lot.
I don't know why, but I take cautious peeks over my shoulder, as if there's someone or something out there. Maybe my paranoia is progressing with the constant attacks on my life.
The crooked front door of the restaurant hangs loosely off its hinges. Maybe my first impression of the place having money was wrong.
I'm worried the place might be infested by rats or beetles. I'm about to say something to Hunter, but don’t.
The words never make it off my tongue. Surprised doesn't begin to describe my feelings. My jaw noticeably drops a few notches.
The massive foyer looks like it was a painted portrait by some famous artist with a love and affection for Tuscany, Italy. Warm tans and browns flow throughout the room. The wall's a feminine beige stucco. The ceiling is a tall dome with an enchanting portrait something akin to the Last Supper, but with different characters sitting at the large, oak table. There are no windows, but a soft glow mists the large area. An enchanting, symphonic melody reverberates off the walls and adds to the mystique.
I circle around twice, totally awestruck. I can only imagine how out of place I look. It's almost ball-busting. My bloody eyes, crimson-streaked hair, oversized shirt from Duffy, bloodstained jeans and muddied boots. I self-consciously stare at the mounds of mud that now sit on the rectangular, ebony rug.
I tug on the sleeve of a seriously poised to perfection Hunter. He glances down at me and my eyes widen to convey the unnerving feeling sinking in the pit of my stomach. Hello, I scream mentally. He only raises a brow and offers me an arm.
Ha!
Me hanging on his arm, I'll look like his charity or pity case.
I grimace at his gesture of hospitality and he smirks in return.
We walk side-by-side to the marbleized podium where a prim, tall girl in a pantsuit stands.
"Mr. Daniels. How nice to see you again," she says a little too overenthusiastic for my tastes. She shifts her mocha eyes to me. The look of disdain obvious.
"Two?" she asks a little less cheerily.
"Yes," he says in a more authoritative tone than I've ever heard. It suits him. His chin tipped up, posture rigid, shoulders tight and pulled back. His scars and hair are his only features that looks a little out of place.
"Right this way," Prim pivots on her leather, high-heels and takes us through two French doors.
She click-clacks the whole way as we meander through the small tables seated for two to four. It's almost bistro-style, only VIP bistro for gods maybe. Expensive beige, linen tablecloths blanket the tables; and the chairs, although wooden, look comfortable.
She leads us to a separate room, through another set of French doors. This room is dimly lit with three tables and a few booths. It's an entirely different atmosphere. The lighting has a rather romantic feel, but also, this area s
creams professionalism.
Still, all the tables and hefty leather booths are void of patrons. No one here but Miss Prim and us.
We take our seats at a booth on the back wall. I sink into the plush leather that molds to my body like a glove. Good God, I could live in this booth. More mud falls from my boots to the floor. Yeah, so maybe I couldn't live here.
Hunter takes two menus and hands me one.
Miss. Prim smiles brightly before leaving us to look over the fancy menu with cursive writing and written in a language I'm not familiar with.
What the hell is this place doing isolated in the mountains? It belongs in some magazine with a chef on the front sporting a groomed mustache and a fat, white hat. Not here lost in the mountains. I wonder if magic has anything to do with our dining experience this evening.
Hunter clears his throat.
"Yes?" I ask.
"You can close your mouth now, Lex," he says.
"Ha, ha, very funny. Where are we? What is this place?" I survey the million forks, knives, spoons and plates on the table. This is way too much. I'm not supposed to know how to use any of these, right? Right?
Crap.
He chuckles. "Mysticum."
"Umm...I know these mountains real well and happen to live with a bunch of trust-fund brats," I gesture around the place like it's got trust-fund written on the walls, "and I'm pretty sure I would've heard of some place called Mysticum at some point," I tell him with a ton of disbelief.
"You've never known what to look for," he says with an air of nonchalance.
Man, he has no idea how right he is.
I have no idea what I'm looking for and not just for a good dining experience. I want to know what or who I am. Why my brother is hunting me? If he really is or not? Who killed my parents? Why I'm having stomach pains? Where my best friends disappeared too? If I'm going to live? If I'm going to be hunted for the rest of my life? Why me? Most of all, I want to know how and why Hunter makes me feel the way I do.
As if sensing where my train of thought is headed, Hunter interrupts.
"Do you know what you want?" he asks, practically salivating. Guy can't go an hour without food, I swear.