The Fairest Kind of Love

by Crystal Cestari

  “Oh right, silly me.” I pantomime bonking myself on the head. “Roscoe, this is my friend Ivy. I told her all about your shop, and she just had to come and see it for herself.”

  “Charmed,” he says, lightly kissing the top of her outstretched hand.

  “This is quite the place you have here,” Ivy breathes, dialing up her charm to the max. “So much power in this room.” She traces her tank top’s low-cut neckline with her finger, easily baiting her prey.

  “Thank you.” He smirks, proud of what he’s created. “What can I help you find? I just got in the freshest batch of baby skin if you’re interested.”

  I throw up in my mouth as Ivy shimmies up to him, doing her best to mesmerize. From the way he hungrily eyes the contents of her tight skirt, I can tell it’s working. “We’re looking for something extremely rare,” she coos, and I have to give it to her; the girl knows how to navigate an uncomfortable situation. I can barely think of anything to say other than “Why haven’t you found my cure already, you fraud?!”

  Roscoe grins like a viper. “Well, I recently acquired the most interesting of pieces. Not for sale yet, but I’d be willing to let you sneak a peek.”

  “Show me.”

  “You won’t believe this,” Roscoe teases, guiding us to the back of the room, where several cases are draped in velvet. One is so tall it almost touches the ceiling, and as our proprietor pulls off the fabric, I almost fall to the floor.

  It’s Peter, curled into a ball, forehead on knees, wings draped around him like a blanket. Trapped inside the glass case he looks tired and broken, like he’s lost all hope in the world. He doesn’t even flinch at the sudden influx of light, eyes unfocused. Dirty and defeated, he’s stepped into the worst of possible traps. It takes everything in me to not start screaming; I have to keep up appearances. Remember, don’t be a hero.

  “A fairy—can you believe it?” Roscoe laughs, so incredibly pleased with himself. “I’ve been trying to catch one for years, but they’re notoriously tricky to find.”

  Ivy takes a sharp breath, her whole body clenched tight. She quickly blinks back a few tears, touching her chest to distract the warlock from the emotion on her face. She places a palm upon the glass as her beau slowly looks up, movements like molasses, but his wings flutter ever so slightly upon seeing his lady. With a huge effort, he manages to meet her hand on the other side.

  “How . . . how did you do this?” Ivy asks Roscoe through gritted teeth.

  Roscoe leans against the case, mistaking her coolness for approval. “There were rumors about a fairy working his way through the black market. I didn’t believe them, of course, because how could a fairy be so foolish? But I guess he didn’t expect my shop to be run by an actual wizard and not some dumb troll.”

  “And what are your plans? For him.” Ivy’s eyes never leave Peter’s.

  “Well, isn’t it obvious?” He shrugs. “To get fairy dust. Not for me, personally”—he gives me a wink—“but to sell. He didn’t have any on him, unfortunately, but I figure . . . after a few days in the box, he’ll be ready to oblige.” Roscoe smiles greedily at his prisoner, dollar signs in his eyes.

  Ivy cocks her head to one side, contemplating how she can destroy this horrible man. “I want you to give him to me.”

  He laughs, shocked. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m asking you to,” she says matter-of-factly.

  His whimsy fades, cocky grin replaced by a cold sneer. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at, siren.” Roscoe reaches out, curling a strand of her golden hair around his tattooed fingers. From his cage, Peter struggles to get to his knees, helplessly watching the scene. “Your magic has no effect on me.”

  Ivy steps even closer to him, pressing her chest up against his. Like a stupid boy, he can’t help but quickly look down her top. “Oh really?” she whispers, and I don’t know how she can stand to let any part of her body touch him.

  Taking advantage of his distraction, she suddenly grabs his head, digging her nails into his temples. He screams as an invisible current seems to jolt through him, his limbs convulsing. Ivy probes deeper, breathing heavy, like she’s using every ounce of her siren abilities to overpower his warlock status and make him bend to her will. I’ve never seen anything like it. Every time I’ve witnessed Ivy siren someone, it’s been completely covert, so subtle that no one, not even her victim, realizes it’s happening. But this is different. This is not magic fueled by a petty desire. This is raw, mystical fury funneled into a passionate plea. It’s awesome, but also frightening, to see this kind of power at play. Magical creatures usually can’t be sirened, but that’s not stopping her now. Teeth gritted, arms clenched, Ivy gives it everything she’s got. Roscoe tries to fight back, flailing to release himself from her grip, but she’s stronger than he guessed, so focused that even his attempts at shouting spells in Latin don’t break through.

  “Go . . . to . . . sleep!” Ivy screams, and the intense influx of magic coming from two very powerful creatures makes all the surrounding cases shake. Roscoe and Ivy collapse just as all the glass in the room shatters. The sound is ear-piercing, and I take cover, burying my face as tiny shards prick my skin all over. It feels like the spray of glass goes on for ages, and when I finally look up, the floor is completely covered in broken, glittering pieces, along with the contents of the glass cages, some of which start to slither and crawl.

  Ivy struggles to a standing position, Roscoe temporarily crumpled at her feet. This defeat won’t last long. We have to hurry.

  “You okay?” I hobble over to her. I have a few small cuts on my arms, but those are nothing compared to the battle scars covering Ivy and Peter. She’s sweating, breathing like she just ran a marathon, skin bright red. She nods, but there’s no way she’s fine. “C’mon.” I grab her hand and pull her over to Peter, who has noticeable gashes in his wings. My barely existent strength is not enough to pull two exhausted bodies to safety, but adrenaline takes over, helping me at least get them both upright. Ivy and Peter reach for each other, neither able to vocalize the fear of the moment, but looking stronger now that they’re together, limbs entwined. We stand in the wreckage, tons of terrible magic effectively destroyed. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure my chances of Roscoe fulfilling my contract are finished.

  “You . . . saved me,” Peter croaks, in a voice so tired he sounds like a mummy recently awoken from his tomb.

  Ivy smiles weakly. “Of course, dummy. We’ll talk about how you can make it up to me later.”

  We start heading down the stairs, but a few steps in, Ivy crumbles, knees buckling as she grabs for the handrail. That magic took a lot out of her, and she’s struggling to catch her breath.

  “Let us help you,” I say, removing her heels. I expect her to resist, but she nods thankfully, bottom lip trembling. I pull one of her arms over my shoulders, and Peter, barely able to walk himself, takes the other. Together we half drag, half carry the depleted siren to the ground floor. Upon opening the door out onto the sidewalk, the rest of our group turns in shock, rushing to our aid.

  “What happened?” Papa cries at the sight of his injured son. Ice-blue eyes flit between Peter and the girl he’s carrying.

  “Ivy saved Peter,” I say, voice trembling, to the shock of the Wisterias. Both Mama and Papa make an O shape with their mouths, for once not ready with a magical insult. They reach for their boy, worried fingers examining his tattered wings, but in a surprising twist, they don’t entirely discount Ivy, cautiously viewing the siren with fresh, curious eyes. There isn’t time to share the harrowing tale right here, right now. Any second, Roscoe will come back to his senses, ready for revenge. We need to get out of the West Loop as quickly as possible.

  Charlie runs to me, breathless, cradling my face in his hands. We make quite the pair right now, what with him and his busted nose and me covered in scrapes, but he kisses my forehead, a fat tear rolling down his cheek.

  “You look terrible,” he tries
to say, but chokes on his joke, swallowing a sob. I want to return the sarcastic remark, yet feeling the safety of his touch makes the danger we just survived all the more real, and I can’t think of anything else except how grateful I am to have him next to me.

  I’m just about to sink into Charlie’s open arms when a light so bright it’s blinding makes everything disappear.

  I’M UPSIDE DOWN, HANGING—or I guess suspended is more accurate—within some kind of invisible bubble a few feet above the ground. The only thing I can move is my eyeballs, and as I strain to get my bearings, I see Ivy floating next to me on my right, Peter on my left. Both of their bodies are contorted in unnatural positions, their faces frozen in silent screams. I can’t feel my fingers or toes, so I can only assume my face is making a similarly strange expression. From what I can tell, we’re in some kind of vacant warehouse. A sliver of windows traces the ceiling’s edge, but it’s so dark, I can’t make out any discernible landmarks outside. That, and the fact that so much blood is rushing to my brain, it’s making it hard to think.

  I want to scream, to run, but I’m trapped in my thoughts, unable to communicate with my fellow captives. How did we get here? Why are we upside down? What is going on?! I can only assume that someone or something associated with Roscoe is behind this; only a truly powerful witch or wizard could have pulled off the spell that transported us here without memory. It happened so fast. One second Charlie was kissing me, the next, the world was blanketed in oblivion. Did he and the others get away? Is my mom here too? I can’t see past Ivy and Peter, but it’s possible the whole crew got kidnapped to this magical prison. This is usually the time when I’d start to panic, but I guess the advantage of being mystically paralyzed is that your breathing remains steady. We hover in silence for the longest stretch of time of my entire life, when I hear a door open behind us, voices echoing throughout the cavernous room.

  “. . . and that’s the advantage of using live specimens over freeze-dried: the freshness really enhances the spell,” says a male voice I don’t recognize. Two other voices laugh in agreement, their footsteps getting closer and closer.

  “Now we have to deal with this,” a female voice says in disgust. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s Roscoe’s assistant, Kasia. “Please tell me we can use them as live specimens?”

  “No, no,” says a third. “They’re much too valuable to use as ingredients. Well, except the matchmaker. She’s worthless.” The longer he talks, the more I’m certain it’s Roscoe, and a few seconds later, his smug face is peering into mine, albeit upside down. “Hello there, did you hear what I said?” He smiles, perfectly white caps in an ugly expression. “Worthless. That’s what you are. I’m not even sure how someone like you would get mixed up with actual impressive creatures like a siren and a fairy.”

  “But matchmakers are cool now, Roscoe,” Kasia purrs. “Don’t you watch that YouTube show? What is it called? The Magic of Matchmaking, or something?”

  He turns in her direction, annoyed. “Does it look like I spend my time watching useless Internet drivel? You know I’ve been working on my Artisanal Wizardry podcast.”

  “Oh right. Really loved your last episode on the magic of avocado toast.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been trying to hit that sweet spot of trendy yet authentic, you know? Keeping it real.”

  Oh my Gods, can they just kill me already?

  Roscoe returns his attention to me. “We don’t have any use for you tonight, matchmaker. Although I should thank you for your contribution. You’ve inspired all of this!” He waves his arms around as if I’m able to turn my head and look. No matter. I’m convinced whatever he’s cooked up is completely terrible. “When you came to me with your box of dust, I initially thought, who could ever be so foolish as to give this away? But, being the entrepreneur that I am, I decided fairy dust is too valuable to waste on a wish. Why not sell it to someone with deep pockets?”

  What? He’s not even going to use it? I thought it would be too tempting for him to pass up, and now he’s going to make a profit? I feel sick, and not just because my stomach is hanging about my heart.

  “And why stop at the dust?” he continues, much to my disgust. “I have a whole collection of items that are purely priceless, and I intend to get the best price. I’m setting up a pop-up shop tonight, and your magical friends will be the pièce de résistance. Can you imagine how much someone would pay for a lifetime of wishes and a personal siren pulling strings? Because I can.” I want to look away from his twisted smile, but I can’t turn my head.

  He never intended to help me at all. How could I be so stupid? I should’ve known—I did know, deep down—but I was so desperate to see clearly, I couldn’t detect what was right in front of me. Now we’re all in danger, for while Roscoe is despicable, I’m sure anyone he associates with is just as bad, or worse. And it’s all my fault.

  “In the meantime, you can go,” he says. “I have a lot to do, and you’re taking up space.” His palms fill my range of vision; then I’m falling, landing with a hard thunk. Instantly my head throbs, but I don’t want to show fear, so I pop to my feet, ready to let this guy have it.

  “You are disgusting!” I shout, anger burning my throat. “A disgrace to the magical community!”

  Roscoe rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure that will haunt me as I roll around in my piles of cash on my private beach.” He chuckles, sighing at his own fantasy. “Sorry about your matchmaking, though I guess if you weren’t broken, I’d try to profit from you too.” He motions to Ivy and Peter, still trapped in their concealed cells, and I look up at them, their pained eyes trained on me. I reach for Ivy, but the invisible barrier that contains her shocks me, propelling me backward a few feet. On the floor again, voiceless and powerless, I mouth an “I’m sorry” to which they only blink.

  There’s nothing I can do here. I can’t perform any helpful spells, but if I’m fast enough, I can get to the people who can, so I take off running, fighting back tears, as Ivy’s and Peter’s lives literally hang in the balance.

  “Feel free to tell anyone you want about our pop-up shop, especially your mom!” Roscoe calls as I reach the door. Cocky bastard. Even if he didn’t use the dust, it’s clearly gone to his head. He must truly think he’s untouchable if he doesn’t think inviting my mom is a terrible idea. “The more the merrier! The fun starts at midnight!” I step onto the sidewalk as laughter spills out behind me. I slam the warehouse door behind me, wiping my cheeks free of the few tears that managed to escape.

  Deep breaths, I tell myself. You can cry later. First, figure out where you are. The neighborhood is dark and poorly lit, nondescript commercial buildings crowding every corner. The lack of light and human presence makes the area feel abandoned, but a rumbling behind me gives me hope. I jog two blocks over to find elevated “L” tracks, the Green Line swaying toward downtown. Any Chicagoan can find her way once the skyline is in sight, and I determine I’m still in the West Loop, but on one of the less populated blocks. A stab of fear plunges through me. I need to make my way north, but how? I gave Charlie my phone to hold, and I have nothing on me: no money, no ID, nothing. GAH! What am I supposed to do? No CTA employee will just let me on the bus or train for free, and even if they did, that will take forever to get up north at this time of night. Although I made peace with the fact that I am not a witch long ago, I really, really, deeply and truly wish I was a witch in this moment so I could just beam my way out of here.

  Instead of wandering alone under the “L” tracks like a person screaming, “Please come murder me without witnesses!” I head a few blocks south to a more populated area. I don’t know what time of night it is, but the foodies are still out in full force, spending top dollar at all the trendy eateries. Though I don’t fit in with this crowd, I definitely feel comforted to have people around as I try to come up with a plan.

  It doesn’t seem like Roscoe is going to hurt Ivy and Peter. He’s clearly the world’s creepiest, most disgusting profiteer, meaning he won�
��t damage his merchandise. But if somebody does end up purchasing them (gross, this potential transaction is making my skin crawl), who knows what they’ll do to their fancy prizes? How does one “own” a fairy or siren, anyway? I can’t imagine that mindset. Oh, I’ll just force my siren to help me take over the world! Everything’s fine. Tra la la! No. A pop-up shop like this is going to attract the worst possible people, so we need Team “Not Jerks” to intervene. And though I can’t vouch for every single creature who walks through the door, at this time of night, the Black Phoenix is probably my best bet to assemble a collection of magical superheroes willing to save the day. There has to be more good than evil in this world, and if we can harness the light, we can stomp out the darkness.

  After a few failed attempts, I manage to hail a lonely cab in a sea of Ubers. We fly through the city streets, whizzing past the bright lights of downtown, until we reach the quiet block disguising the supernatural hotspot. The cabbie gives me a confused look in the rearview mirror as he pulls to a stop, since apparently I’m not dressed like I live in this neighborhood, and the Black Phoenix entrance is hidden.

  “One moment, please,” I say as the cabbie brings up my total. I dash out the back of the cab, running into the Black Phoenix as the driver yells in my wake. As I burst through the door, my eyes scan the room for Vincent, who is at his usual perch behind the golden bar.

  “Vincent!” I yell, causing him to drop the glass he was wiping.

  “Amber? Are you okay?” he asks, searching my person for signs of injury. His vamp senses detect the blood screaming through my veins, and he does his best to comfort me.

  “Yes, I mean, no . . . I mean . . . I don’t know!” Too much is happening for me to even comprehend my state of being. “But could you pay for my cab?”

  Vincent sends one of the busboys outside with some cash as Amani rushes in from the back.