Ferrous (Fae's Folly Book 1)

by Valerie Mars

  “Safe to say that won’t happen here,” she says, wiping her mouth. “But if somehow I stay here forever and the land isn’t devastated by war, I’ll consider sharing what little I know about tacos with the realm.”

  “Our people would be blessed to have you, I’m sure.”

  She snorts, taking another bite. “Speaking of outsiders, I’ve got a weird one for you.”

  “Sorry, I don’t do the weird stuff.”

  She scoffs at me. “Do fae know if aliens are real? I don’t know if you guys call them that, or if this is just a weird human thing, but I’d regret not asking a supernatural being about the existence of other supernaturals while I have the chance.”

  “You mean intellectual life from other planets, correct?”

  She freezes mid-bite. “Oh my gosh, are they real? I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I gotta put down my taco.”

  “As far we know, this planet hasn’t received visitors. In either realm.”

  Her nose crinkles. “Boooooo. I was hoping to take the intel home and cash in on it. Pay off the student loans and do history shows on TV.”

  Now it’s me laying down my taco. “History shows? How does that even work?”

  “They’ll speculate on if a given marvel was created by aliens, like the pyramids.“

  “Those were human.”

  “Hmph. Stonehenge?

  “Fae and human collaboration to mark an old gateway between realms.”

  “Is that still open?”

  “Stars, no.”

  “Atlantis?”

  “Fae settlement before iron forging became a thing.”

  “So our ancient aliens were fae all along?”

  “Looking that way.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to spin that to the documentary guys, Kai.”

  “Finish your tacos, mortal. You don’t want to make an Everhart wait.”

  She shivers. “Not Twyla, at least.”

  “She’s the Georgiana to your Darcy, that’s for sure.”

  “She can be my Georgiana, but he is for sure not my Darcy, sir,” she shoots, flipping her nose to the air in outrage. “His personality fits the bill, though.”

  “In more ways than you realize, I suspect.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she garbles through another mouthful of taco.

  We quickly finish eating, and Mallory moves onto frantically rummaging through her wardrobe while I arrange the dishes for their journey downstairs.

  She peeks her head out. “Kai, I really enjoy our time together and am thankful you thought to bring by the clock and breakfast today.” She must have noticed the time piece after getting some coffee into her system. “How’d you know I would sleep in so late?”

  I hadn’t considered that in all my scheming this morning. I don’t know why, but I refrain from divulging that I saw her and Bash walking back. “Eh, it’s a classic rookie move after their first digestif, which obviously affected you.”

  She throws a hand on her hip. “Why? You don’t think I’d remove my shoes and run across the grounds toward a cliff while sober?”

  “I don’t think you’d call me yummy, either,” I say with a bit of a smirk.

  Her playful smile dissolves as her entire face melts into mortification. Ah, piss. That wasn’t the desired outcome. This is what happens when you grow up in shadows and dungeons.

  Her self-preservation kicks in before I can clear the air. “Well, you and your tacos were both exceedingly delicious today, and I thank you once again for bringing the yummy.” She ushers me out the door, rambling about how she has to wash her hair and so on without pausing for a breath. I attempt to butt in, but the force of her wordy deluge is unstoppable. She bows to me twice while continuing to verbally vomit her thanks and apologies, leaving me standing in the hall with a tray of half-eaten tacos and empty drink vessels when all is said and done.

  My shoes are still in there.

  26

  Mallory

  His shoes are still in my room.

  They catch my attention as I turn the handle to leave, waiting as patiently and unassuming as their owner. I peek into the hall, but no Kai. Not even a hint of minty pine lingers. He isn’t here. I ate his tacos, barely thanked him for finding me a clock, shoved him out the door, and made him walk home without shoes. Smooth, Brooks.

  He’s probably confused as all hell right now. That makes two of us. I didn’t handle the guilt that flooded me after he mentioned the brazen comments I made before proceeding to make out with his friend. I wish it were as simple as feeling like I’ve betrayed him, but a part of me feels betrayed by my actions, too. The part of me that wants to marathon The Lord of the Rings while playing with his hair, or collapse into a fit of giggles as he attempts to teach me yoga poses. But that was always presumptive of me to fantasize.

  I don’t regret kissing Bash. I just don’t want it to cost my relationship with Kai, fledgling though it is. But I’m acting presumptive a second time to assume he would care.

  As far as Bash goes, things are good. Sublime, even. We didn’t make vows to each other or profess our love in the moonlight. We both know how many days are in a week. He walked me to my room and gave me his signature bear hug before swaggering off to the stairwell. I fell asleep knowing no dreams would rival what I had just experienced.

  The sight of Twyla waiting at the base of the citadel staircase—can’t wait to climb that later on when we return—sends a kick to my gut as I remember her promise to divulge more info on her brother. I’ve been walking the halls torn over a potential love triangle while forgetting its potential to become a square. Or a triangle with an unwanted orbiter, even if the fit of his pants and pout of his lips are exquisite.

  Saying I’m thirsty would be an understatement.

  Twyla waves me over. “How was the date with Kai?”

  “It ended up being a date with Bash, actually.”

  “Well, that was plain as day. What happened?”

  “We made snacks in front of a fire. Kai was stolen by his father, and then…well, the digestif took effect.”

  “I suspected I should have held you back considering your heritage,” she says with a guilty look before leaning toward my ear. “Your human heritage.”

  My shoulders immediately lighten. “Holy moly, you have no idea what a relief it is to know that you know. Now I can just be myself.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all about you,” she says, grinning. I momentarily collapse my frame, which she pays no mind. “Would you say the portal worked out in Bash’s favor?” We pass beneath the Autumn gate, entering the greater capital city. The streets are bustling, and I make a note to keep an ear out for suspicious conversations.

  “Eh, for now. I’ve been informed he’s a bit of a scoundrel. Is that true?”

  “I’ve heard he’s known to have a good time, but hasn’t been around in over a decade. Once his brother married, he moved back home and was seldom heard of. I couldn’t say.”

  “I guess it’s silly for me to worry about, anyway. This is all temporary.”

  “That’s right,” she says, pointing to a shop. “Let’s find you a souvenir!”

  “As long as it isn’t lavender or periwinkle,” I say, and she responds with an Everhart pout.

  We spend the next few hours combing through shops and stalls, starting with the high-end boutiques closest to the inner ring. There were luxuries and glitters aplenty, and the barrage of fine goods was second only to Twyla’s relentless desire to purchase me something exorbitantly expensive. But I, already thoroughly uncomfortable with our friendship from the get-go, agreed to only one item on the upper hillside: a beautiful leather satchel I can use every day on my commute. I could never afford a quality bag like that, otherwise.

  Amongst couture gowns and precious jewelry, she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want something more showy, but there’s no room in my life for a showy souvenir. What am I going to do with a one of a kind dress at a preschool? I’d probably gift it to Clara.
A bag, though? I can remember Twyla and my time in Faerie every time I use it.

  I can’t say some items didn’t tempt me, though. There was a crazy cool French horn-looking instrument carved from wood, treated with magic to never mold or warp. I wanted to carry that specimen home and try hard to play it, despite only barely playing ukulele and piano for the daycare.

  After saying goodbye to the horn, we descended into the markets and shops more accessible to my senses and proceeded to have a ball. We’re currently perusing a Spring couple’s candle and soap shop. The husband uses his magic to grow cotton for wicks that withstand fire longer and encourages the plants used for fragrances to become more fragrant. His wife, able to communicate with insects, assured me the beeswax would be the slowest, cleanest burn of any candle I’ve known. I’ve decided to buy a wood fire candle to represent Bash, spruce for Kai, and am begrudgingly considering a rain one as Ryland when Twyla drops a candle into my hand.

  “What’s this one?”

  “This one’s me,” she beams. I haven’t announced what my intentions with the candles were, but I guess it isn’t hard to figure out.

  “Question of the day being whether I should sniff you first or the candle first.” I still don’t know what she smells like.

  There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Candle first.”

  I hold it to my nose, and I should have known: it smells like roses. I laugh, remembering the way Ryland’s horse was all over my rose and grass-scented boots he had found. “Is that what your mother smells like?”

  “Close to it, but there’s something more.” She tilts her head to one side. “Come sniff me.”

  “You said it.” She giggles as I breathe on her neck, but it’s clear once I’m close that she possesses the same earthy rain that Ryland does, with a hint of rose instead of cardamom. “Spring and Autumn really are a winning combination,” I say with a sigh.

  “I think so, too. You ready to grab something to eat and drink?”

  “Heck yes, I am. Take me to your favorite place.”

  She pays for the candles, and we lug our bodies and bags a few blocks over to a tavern. Well, I lug while she floats effortlessly.

  “Not what I expected,” I say, eyeing the mossy exterior and gambling parlor next door. But it’s just the place for hushed conversations to be overheard by girls pretending to be spies.

  “They have the best food,” she explains, “and there’s always someone performing. None of Father’s stuffy political acquaintances come here, either. Let’s gooooo!”

  I grip the door handle, feeling the smooth depression carved by the hands of countless patrons. That’s a good sign, right?

  It’s mostly one giant room, with a bar to the left side and the kitchen and restrooms tucked behind a dividing wall in the back. There’s a small stage in the far right corner, where a female performs on the piano. Problem is, I know we typically make piano strings from steel and now my mind’s spinning from what could be inside the Faerie piano case. It’d have to be strong enough to handle the tension, but light enough for the frame to support its weight.

  I’m going through the periodic table in my head as Twyla leads me to an actual table by the windows, whereupon arriving the question tumbles from my mouth.

  “The piano strings. What are they made of?”

  She frowns, my sudden query catching her off guard. “Titanium…maybe. I’ve never given it any thought.”

  “I hadn’t either, until now,” I say sheepishly. There are a lot of things I hadn’t considered until recently. Like the pressing issue of my bladder that’s patiently waited throughout our shopping. “Is there a restroom here? I won’t mind if you order while I’m gone, as long as you promise not to include eggplant.”

  She points me in the right direction. “I have no idea what an eggplant is, by the way.”

  Oh, come on. We’re having a language block now? I dig through the recesses of my mind, trying to locate alternative names for eggplant. I know it’s in there, but I’m about to burst.

  “No purple vegetables outside a cabbage or onion or carrot or…cauliflower, okay?” She cocks a brow. “On second thought, I’ll take the risk. Order your favorites! Or don’t. I’ll be right back.”

  I skedaddle to the restroom to find it’s locked. Someone announces their presence upon my knocking, so I lean against the wall and try to think dry thoughts. Two males at a table on the other side of the wall carry on with their conversation, and I take advantage of the distraction they’ve offered me from the potty dance. And maybe a smidge of that is me spying in earnest so I’m not locked in Faerie forever.

  “We had Techies ask our village for medics around two months ago, which they’ve never done. Isn’t that counter to the narrative?”

  “Anecdotally? Yes. But I haven’t heard anyone else mention that.” Thank you, tiny bladder. You’ve led me to promising intel.

  “Take this with a grain of salt, but a young’in climbed one of the great maples three weeks ago and told the village that when he looked over the wall of the settlement he had seen scores of recent burials. I don’t think it’s just us, Griff.”

  “Maybe they scavenged an x-ray machine again. Look, I think—” A lady with lime-green hair slips out of the bathroom, looking down her nose at me like I should have known someone was in there. A true fae probably would have. I ignore the disdain and slide in behind her, scrambling onto the toilet in a hurry. Spies don’t piss their pants.

  During a moment of mid-stream relief and clarity, it comes to me: aubergine. That’s what the Brits call it. I bet Twyla drinks tea with her pinky up and calls them aubergines.

  Bladder empty, I decide to push my luck. The conversation I overheard doesn’t exactly fall under rebel activity, but the one guy’s point of dissent is an opinion I hadn’t heard until now. Maybe it’s noteworthy. I round the corner and eye the one with light blue hair.

  I strike a hand to my chest, pushing my breasts together. “Oh my stars. Perry, is that you? I haven’t seen you in half a decade. How the heck are ya?”

  His companion turns around, looking me up and down with a lascivious smile. The male I accused of being Perry moves his hand from side to side. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, miss. My name is Tristan.”

  I shake my head…and tits. Ryland’s strategy of deploying my feminine wiles appears to be affecting Griff. “No, you’re Perry! How cruel of you to leave me in the barn waiting for you that night, you scoundrel.”

  Tristan gapes, but Griff is hooked. “I’ll be your Perry, honey.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask while leaning forward to offer my hand.

  “Griffith Talonwood,” he says to my cleavage.

  “Oh, a Talonwood,” I gush. “Well, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance.” I squint at Tristan. “Looking at you up close, I can see the nose is entirely wrong. Wow, this is embarrassing. Thank you for being so gracious about it, I’ll be out of your hair now.” I turn to leave, but freaking Griffith catches my wrist.

  “Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

  “Oh, no. That’s fine. I’m meeting with a friend and—”

  “The more the merrier, then. They can sit here, too.” Sticky Fingers is getting to be a bit much.

  “That’s a lovely thought, but unfortunately her favorite pet just passed and she isn’t in the mood for merrymaking. I have to go comfort her now.” I try to regain possession of my wrist, but he has supernatural strength on his side. Tits only get you so far.

  “Why don’t you stay and we’ll all cheer her up together?” Boy, this really backfired.

  “Perhaps another time?” I try to leave again, but the slimeball’s locked in. I take a deep breath to call for Twyla, but her name dies in my throat when someone’s hand darts from behind and wraps around Griffith’s wrist.

  “Sorry, lads. She’s scheduled to teach me a few Techie songs today. Maybe tomorrow?” I can feel the heat of him, the scent of laundry bringing brightness to this dark corner of the ro
om.

  Griffith drops his hand, eyes flaring. “Didn’t realize she was a sep. You can have her, mate.” Really? All I had to do was announce that I’m a dirty sep?

  Noted.

  “Will do. Cheers.” I spin around, pleased to find it’s indeed Enzo. “Did you come to hear me perform, after all?”

  “Huh? I’m here with a friend.” He turns to lead me away, and I notice the guitar bag slung over one shoulder. “Oh shit, you really are! When?”

  “Next, if I make it in time,” he says, sticking his tongue out at me. “Want to hang out after?”

  Do I ever. “Even if I’m a dirty sep?”

  “Especially if you’re a dirty sep,” he scoffs. “And I’m holding you to that song, Meadowbrook.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” I salute. “Have a good show! I’ll be in the audience eating something that hopefully isn’t aubergine.”

  He chuckles. “Good luck with that,” he says while heading toward the bartender.

  I return to the table where Twyla has coffee and water waiting. She looks up from admiring the bracelet she bought, the two of us confirming it at the same time: “Aubergine.”

  “Yep,” I cackle. “Do you know what cashmere is?”

  She freezes, eyes nearly crossing from the effort of searching her mind. “Cashmere,” she repeats, sounding very much like Ryland when he said it to me. “Is that in…the Himalayas?”

  “What the—actually, maybe. It’s spelled differently, but that might be the origin. Cashmere is a luxury wool made from a certain type of goat.”

  “Chèvre wool! I see, I see. And aubergines are eggplants? What a mundane name.”

  “Yet oh-so practical,” I dismiss. She rolls her eyes upward and I doctor my coffee.

  “I also dislike eggplant, so you’re safe for this meal.”

  “Works for m—”

  “Your secrets, however, are not,” she says, pursing her lips in victory. “Who’s the guitar guy you were talking to?”

  “That’s Enzo, and I’ve been looking for him everywhere. Go figure he’d happen to be here. I ran into him—literally—climbing up the stairs to my room the other day and haven’t been able to find him since. Seems like a nice guy.”