by AC Washer
“For shoes?”
“Could you mind grabbing it for me? I have to be back for dinner, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
Bridgette stood looking at me for one second too long. When she glanced inside Seelies, something caught her eye. I was about to follow her gaze when she looked back at me, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Sure, Kella. I’ll get what you need.”
Inside, I was cheering.
“Thanks, Bridgette.”
She nodded and left for her car.
Relieved, I hurried into Seelies—only to find Stuart looking at me apologetically, Mickey by his side.
Mickey wasn’t looking apologetic, though. Instead, lightning bolts danced in his eyes, searching for a good target to burn to ash.
“Kella!” Stuart gave a tense laugh. “I, uh, I thought…” He looked over at Mickey helplessly but quickly looked back, not quite liking the sight. “Since he’s yer family and all—and considering who you are—mayhap it’d be a wee bit better if he explained it, since I be saying a bit too much every now and again. Putting me foot in me mouth, so to speak. And knowing what I be knowing and knowing you and what ye don’t be knowing—”
“So,” Mickey cut in, “you came to Stuart—a guy you just met—to ask about portals, magic, and fae?”
I pasted on a sarcastic smile. “Well, who else should I have asked, you? You had weeks to spill the whole magic thing and didn’t.”
“Fair point.” Mickey folded his skinny arms and leaned back against the cashier counter. “But I wasn’t able to say anything before—at least not directly.”
I snorted. “Right. So what was keeping you from spilling everything?”
“Magic.”
I paused. “Oh.” Another pause. “Really? Why?”
“Because the fae council didn’t want to freak you out on top of everything else that’s happened to you, so anyone who was going to have frequent contact with you had to swear not to reveal anything.”
“Oh!” said Stuart. “That’s why ye never said anything. And here I was thinking ye thought she would run when she found out that—” Stuart’s words slowed underneath Mickey’s glare until they came to a dead stop. “Yeah, never mind.”
“Run when I found out what?”
“Well, the truth about everything,” Mickey said, waving a hand around.
“Why? Okay, yeah, popping my head through a shopping portal was a little weird, but after I got over the initial shock—”
“Wait, your head went through a portal? Not just a hand or a foot?”
“Well, no. But it was only my head.”
“Only your head?” Mickey’s eyes looked like they were about to burst.
“Yeah, that’s it. Didn’t Stuart tell you that already?”
Mickey’s mouth worked.
“I may have forgotten to mention that part.”
Mickey closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. “And you will keep forgetting to mention that part, right?”
“Oh, aye, Mickey.”
At Mickey’s doubtful expression, Stuart said, “I swear it.”
When Mickey looked back at me, worry clouded his eyes.
“So it was your head that went through, and you’re fine? There wasn’t any push back? Any negative consequences?”
“Well, ‘fine’ is relative—”
“But you went through a portal that requires magic?”
“Well, I don’t know about requiring magic since I got through just fine—”
“And nothing—no pushback, no pain—nothing?”
“No—”
Excitement lit his eyes, expelling the worry that had crowded in moments before.
“Well, this raises quite a few questions.”
I nodded my head emphatically. “I completely, one hundred percent agree. So, about—”
“Yes.” Mickey grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the store. “We’ll get to the magic soon enough. First, though—”
“First,” I said, snatching my arm away from him, “you can tell me about the whole ‘maybe it’s not a bad idea if she dies’ thing.”
Mickey stilled.
“Yeah, that’s right. I heard the whole thing.”
“It’s not what it sounded like.”
“I hope not, because it sounded like—”
Mickey darted in front of me and covered my mouth with his hand, casting glances around the mall, where a few heads were turned our way. “Not here.”
Half-tempted to bite his hand, I nodded instead. After all, I didn’t know what he could do back to me.
He removed his hand.
“Where, then?”
“Wait until we get home.”
I hated waiting. I ground my teeth as we walked to Maeve’s car.
“Where’s Bridgette? She was getting my bag,” I said, looking around the parking lot, halfway expecting her to pop up from behind a car.
“She’ll drop your things off on her way home. She’s not one for waiting around.”
“Ah.” As soon as Mickey shut his door, I said, “So?”
“Not here.”
“What do you mean ‘not here’? There is no one here to hear!”
He frowned. “Just wait until—"
“I am not waiting so you can figure out how you’re gonna spin whatever it is so everything seems okay when it’s not—especially when you’ve been talking about me dying. I want answers. Now.”
“Fine, but a question for a question.”
“Really?” I crossed my arms.
He sighed. “It’s a fae thing—the way we ensure information exchanges are fair.”
“But I’m not fae.”
“You’re in fae territory, so when in Rome…”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. But I’m going first. And I’m only answering your question if your answer to mine is good enough,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“That’s fair. What’s your first question?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly parched. I didn’t have to rack my brain for which question to ask first. But now that I was about to get an answer, my stomach clenched at the thought that the next words out of his mouth could strip me of the small amount of hope that had bubbled up in my chest since finding out magic existed.
I took a breath, fortifying myself. “Can magic heal my brother?”
Mickey’s eyes widened. “Your brother?” Clearly, he hadn’t expected that to be my first question.
“Yeah. He’s been in a coma for a while now. Deena hasn’t said anything, but I’m pretty sure he’s not doing any better.”
Mickey paused a few seconds while my heart seemed to thud in my chest like it was in an echo chamber. “Well, if he’s already stabilized—”
“He is,” I said, my hopes climbing.
“And if he’d naturally heal by himself, it’s possible to speed up the process.”
I blew out a pent-up breath. That was something, but it still wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for.
“What if he’d naturally stay the same or get worse?”
“Well, that would take more power, and we don’t have much at the moment.”
“Why not?”
Mickey shook his head. “No, my turn, and I get two questions, seeing as I already answered two of yours.”
I gave him my best death glare.
“Hey, it’s one for one. Fair is fair.”
Except that this was Caleb we were talking about, and I wanted answers now. But rules were rules, so… “Fine.”
Mickey’s silence stretched out long enough for me to regret my first question. I should have asked him about his conversation with Bridgette first. For all I knew, Mickey was taking his time to figure out how he was going to make Bridgette and him look better.
“What happened the day they hospitalized you and your brother?”
My eyes snapped over to his. Of all the questions I thought he might ask me, that wasn’t one of them.
“I don’t want to talk about it
.” The words left my lips without me even thinking them.
Mickey shook his head. “Question for a question.”
My fists bunched in my lap. “I can’t answer that question.”
Mickey eyed me before saying, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information. It’s important.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “Question for a question.”
I swallowed. When he’d said that phrase before, it had seemed like a taunt. Now, it seemed like something more. Something with weight.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But my next question is gonna make you pay for this one.”
Mickey didn’t crack a smile. He didn’t even nod. He only sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, waiting.
“It started with my dad’s convertible. He used to be this fancy-shmancy lawyer, and he bought Beauty when things were still going good. Long story short, I borrowed her every once in a while.”
“He never found out?”
“Oh yeah he did, but we had an unspoken agreement. Whenever he got really awful—”
“Really awful?”
I squirmed in my seat. “Like if he hurt me more than he meant to.”
“That happen a lot?”
“Often enough,” I said as I looked out the window, not wanting to see Mickey’s response. “Anyway, I don’t think he ever meant to seriously hurt me. Not when he was sober, anyway. So when he did, I’d heal up for a few days and take Beauty out for a spin when I felt better. He never said a thing even though he loved that car more than anybody. Near the end, he’d sold or pawned just about everything else for bills and booze except that car.”
Mickey shifted.
“Well, um,” I said, clearing my throat. “The day when everything happened was a little different. I came home and found my dad plastered on the couch. Not a big deal until I realized he’d been drinking an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch. We didn’t have money lying around to buy anything like that. When I got to my room and my graduation stash was missing…well, I put two and two together and kind of freaked out.”
“Graduation stash?”
“Yeah, the money I was gonna use to get an apartment or something once I turned eighteen. He wouldn’t cosign on a bank account, so I had to cash my checks when I got them. Well, Dad found it—no idea how—and used it for—” I waved my hand in the air. “Whatever else.”
“I should have waited—cooled off a little, but...” I shrugged. “Anyway, I took his car out for a spin while he was still drunk.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “But when I stopped to grab something at the grocery store, some jerk backed into me.” I shrugged again. There was more to the story, but that was the gist of what happened.
“By the time I got home, I thought Dad would have sobered up enough by then to realize how much of a—well, at least have realized her insurance would cover the damage. But he’d been drinking the whole time. When he saw his car, he lost it and ran at me, screaming.”
My fingers shook. I folded them, pressing them down into my thighs.
Mickey didn’t say anything. He only sat in his seat, waiting, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“I don’t remember much except for the hitting. When I tried to run, I tripped, and then Caleb…” My voice cracked. “Caleb,” I tried again. “He drove up just then. He ran out and jumped on Dad.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what he was thinking. Dad’s twice his size.”
“I remember lying there on the driveway in front of the car…” I kept talking even as I flashed back to the gritty asphalt, my arm twisted behind my back while my cheek laid against the pebbled ground, shredded from the fall I took from the second blow to my face.
I was too tired to move from my dad’s kicks in the stomach. One in the face. On movies, people got back up after punches. Well, I didn’t.
All I could do was stare as Dad punched Caleb over and over and over. Cursing him. Cursing me.
And Caleb took it like he always did. I’d told Caleb a hundred times that not fighting back made it worse, that it pissed off Dad. Caleb needed to at least pretend to resist, give Dad the illusion he beat a rebellion out of him.
But Caleb wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction. He preferred to take a worse beating instead. Not that he got that many beatings, but when he did, they were…bad.
I shut my eyes, not wanting to see anymore, but still, the thud of flesh pounding flesh reverberated in my ears. I wanted to cover my ears to drown out the noise, but I was too tired for even that.
The sounds stopped. I would have breathed a sigh of relief except that I felt none. Instead, I was tired, empty, drained. I cracked my lids open to see Caleb.
My brother stood with his hand gripping the side of the carport to keep himself upright.
Idiot. He should be lying down, not standing. Dad only stopped when you were lying down. But Caleb’s eyes were distant. Maybe he was past thinking.
I closed my eyes again—only for them to spring open at the slam of the car door and the turning of the engine.
My dad was drunk, angry, and behind a wheel.
My panicked eyes flew to Caleb’s—we both knew. I laid sprawled in front of the car, not even a little to the side.
My dad revved the engine and sent the car squealing toward me.
Adrenaline surged through me, bringing me up to my feet even as Caleb darted in front of me like he was superman about to take the brunt of the hit, shielding me from harm.
Except Caleb was no Clark Kent.
Time slowed while as I watched the red convertible plow into Caleb. A scream tore from my throat, my body stiff with pain. Caleb’s body slammed into my left side, followed by the car ripping into my right.
I didn’t remember being flung through the air. Maybe I wasn’t. I could have crumpled to the ground instead. My eyes blurred when I opened them. Caleb laid in front of me, motionless. When I tried to scramble up, I collapsed back on the ground, pain shooting up through my sides. For a second, I couldn’t fill my lungs, my mouth opening and shutting in shock. My heart sped up, hammering in my chest, until I gasped.
I brought my trembling hands to my sides, my fingers probing. They came to a slick hole in my side and paused. I strained to examine my side without moving too much. It looked like when my femur broke in two when I was six, knifing through my skin. The hole looked exactly like my leg right after the doctor reset the bones before he cast it. Blood caked on my side like it hadn’t bled for a while.
I looked back at Caleb. He still hadn’t moved. Blood pooled around his body, and my heart thudded in dread. I tried to move cautiously, ignoring the gravel embedded in my arms as I crawled to Caleb’s side. My hands were wet. I looked down.
I shouldn’t have looked down.
Bright red coated my palms. I lost track of how many seconds I sat there staring at them, dread dripping into the pit of my stomach. I shook my head, wiping the blood off onto my jeans. Caleb was okay.
He had to be okay.
I reached toward his neck, hands shaking.
Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.
There was so much blood. Have a pulse. Please have a pulse.
Please, don’t die.
My hand trembled so much that I wouldn’t have been able to feel a pulse even if he had one.
My breaths came shallow and fast. My tongue was dry and thick, like a wadded-up paper towel shoved in my mouth.
I splayed my hand against his throat, desperate for movement, a small thump—anything.
Give me anything.
Caleb twitched, and I took a sharp breath but stayed still, my gut telling me not to move an inch. Instead, I willed him to live, forcing that will into every finger that touched his skin.
It didn’t make sense, but when someone looks like they’re dying in front of you, nothing does. My will was all I had left.
I knew enough not to move him, so I couldn’t see where he was bleeding from. I used my other hand to sear
ch for Caleb’s phone, easing it out of his side pocket, and called the police.
“My brother is dying. My dad drove his car into him.” My words were distant—robotic, even.
“No, he’s not here anymore. The car’s gone.” I hadn’t even noticed until the dispatcher asked the question. And I found I didn’t care about the answer, either. All that mattered now was Caleb.
“Hurry. He’s dying. I can’t feel a pulse.”
She asked for my address, she asked for my name. But when she asked if I knew how to do CPR, tears blurred my vision, my hand still on his throat as I shifted from kneeling to sitting cross-legged and turned away from his body.
“I can’t,” I said, my voice thick and distorted. “It hurts too much. I can’t.”
She said not to worry, they’d get there as fast as they could. But from her tone, I knew it’d be too late by then.
I dropped the phone and dragged my hand down to his chest, stretching the collar of his t-shirt down, some superstitious part of me refusing to lose contact with his skin. I slid my left hand to rest over the right and shifted my weight on top of them, crowding my knees even closer to his side.
My ribs ached, but when I started to pulse, the heels of my hands digging into his chest, black spots bubbled into my eyes. My ribs screamed in agony. I kept going, in uneven bursts of pulses, frantic I wasn’t doing it fast enough. Cursing myself for taking a break every few pulses. Knowing my weakness was killing him—if he wasn’t already dead.
Snot, tears, and blood mingled, running down my lips, my chin, and dripping into my joined hands.
Pulse, pulse, rest.
Pulse, pulse, rest.
Pulse, rest.
By the time the police and ambulance arrived, I’d draped myself across Caleb’s chest, whimpering because sobbing hurt too much.
Voices circled around me, but I didn’t hear them. Instead, I heard a beat. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. Another beat. And another. Someone put their hands on my shoulders. I wanted to shake them off, to keep my ear pressed to Caleb’s chest, but I was too weak to put up a fight. They pulled me off of him, making me cry out in pain as my ribs shifted. Two people lifted me up onto a stretcher.
“He’s alive,” I croaked. It was part question part statement.
“Yes, he is,” the EMT at the head of the stretcher said. “You help with that?”