by Rainy Kaye
Cars go by. Some honk, a few slow down for the passenger to shout asinine slurs, but none of them stop to pick us up.
I lean against the tree and don't bother trying to help catch us a ride. As torn up and dirty as I am, no one is going to be stopping even if I show some leg. So I let Faux Hawk do his thing, though he's not having any luck either.
My gaze wanders over the black wisps from his upper back, a subtle indication of him not being exactly human. He's a fae, except he has yet to contort and try to rip out my internal organs. I'm not sure where to start in dissecting this situation.
“What's your name?” I ask over the roar of traffic. Might as well get the basics out of the way.
He looks at me, face scrunched up like he's uncertain he wants to answer. Finally, he says, “Remy.”
“Ember,” I reply in truce, minding my manners.
He nods in a way that says he couldn't care less if my name was Huckleberry Ramsbottom.
“I'm not a fae,” I continue, then stop. That was the worst lead in of the century. No one would mistake me for a fae, so it just became obvious I was planning to pry about him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't acknowledge I had spoken, and I contemplate how to continue. “I haven't met a nice one before.”
I realize how dumb it sounds after I said it. No wonder I don't go out of my way to be polite.
“Who says I'm nice?” he asks casually as a beat-up blue car slows. The passenger window rolls down, and someone chucks a fountain drink at him. He jumps out of the way, then shouts, “Yeah, fuck you, too!”
The car drives off, laughter streaming behind it.
Remy wipes off the front of his pants. “God, I hate people.”
“I like them more than faes,” I mumble.
His head snaps up to glare at me. “I don't like those, either.”
He starts to say more, but stops as another vehicle, a red truck with an extended cab, heads toward us. He sticks out his thumb, angry scowl in place.
I'm about to tell him no one is going to pick us up if he looks like a serial killer, but then I shut my mouth as the truck slows to a stop.
The driver leans over to roll down the passenger side window. “Where you headed?”
“Phoenix,” I say, coming up behind Remy, careful to avoid the wisps of his wings, which probably makes me look a little awkward to the drive. No one else ever seems to notice the fae right in front of them; they look just like normal humans, I'm told. That makes it even easier to lure people to their death.
“Hop in,” the driver says.
I hesitate, but Remy is already pulling open the back door. “You first, Ember.”
I glance at him sideways before sliding into the seat. Inside smells of old food, cigarette smoke, and cat piss, but people who have been kidnapped by fae and then run their own vehicle off the side of the road can't be choosers.
Remy takes the front seat, and the driver glances in the rearview mirror before merging back into traffic.
“What's a nice pair as yourselves doing out on a night like this?” he asks.
I lean forward to correct him that Remy and I are not a pair, but Remy says, “My bike broke down, and her mom is in the hospital, so we're in a rush.”
Who the hell is Remy? He's three steps ahead of every potentially deadly stranger, and I haven't even figured out financial aid paperwork for college.
“Oh, well, then, what happened to your mama, missy?”
I hate the tone he's using—something between condescending and creepy—but my options are few, so I play along. “Appendicitis, real bad. Any chance we can get there in a straight shot, or do you have to make any detours?”
“Nah, we headin' straight to your mama,” the driver says. “How long ya'll been together?”
“Two years,” Remy says without missing a beat.
Why the hell would he let this guy think we're a couple?
“Just proposed to her last week,” Remy embellishes, and I want to smack the back of his head. “Getting her ring when I get paid on Friday.”
I roll my eyes and slump against the back seat, but the stench is just worse that way, so I rest my head against the cool window pane. Remy and the driver ramble away, but I tune them out as I watch the dark landscape pass by.
I have so many questions. About the fae. About Panama Hat and his companion. About the bikers. About Remy. About everything. But none of it really matters at this moment, because I'm in too vulnerable of a position to start pushing buttons. Further, anyway. I've pushed some already. In hindsight, hunting the fae was probably not a great idea, but, well, they started it.
No, Remy started it. He was the one in the convenience store that night. I had popped in to buy taquitos from the roller grill. Late night cravings will be the death of me. I didn't know what he was at the time; I just saw him with a gun aimed at the clerk and smacked him upside the head with my baton. It knocked him down long enough for the clerk to get the upper hand and call the police. He took off before anyone arrived. I didn't figure out the fae-thing or the benefit of sage oil until later.
Not until they started showing up in my city by the dozens. Slinking along the sidewalks, giving me knowing side glances. They radiated something dark and nasty. I tried to ignore them, but they didn't go away. Finally, I set out to confront them.
Instead of the showdown with the rehearsed strong-willed speech I planned to give, I discovered their true form. They were killing people in the shadows. My presence did little to deter them; they would laugh and rip flesh from a limb like a turkey leg while staring me in the eyes.
It wasn't like I wanted to take on human flesh eating fae. Nothing heroic, no esteemed membership, no family curse. They had come to recognize me, and I just didn't want them creeping in through my bedroom window at night and ripping out my heart. Not so much to ask.
Anger starts to course under my skin. How dare Remy put me in this situation! Not only was I happily fae-free until that night at the convenience store, but now that I've seen the crowd he runs with, I have no doubt he really is responsible for this mess.
Which takes me back to: who is he, anyway?
“Ember?” Remy says, breaking my thoughts. I look up at him as he stares at me, twisted in the front passenger seat. “Chuck says there's a bathroom coming up. Need it?”
My gaze darts to the driver. Chuck.
“No, let's just go home,” I say. “To the hospital. With my mom.”
I don't want to be with these two a moment longer than necessary, and it is difficult to say which one bothers me more.
Remy doesn't notice what must be clear outrage on my face, just rights himself in his seat and goes back to babbling with Chuck. Like they're long lost buddies.
My stomach drops. Maybe they do know each other. Maybe this is some big ruse for a reason I can't imagine. Everything else to this point has been beyond my understanding, too. I need to get away from them for a few minutes. Have a silent moment to myself to go over this situation more thoroughly. Maybe I am falling for another trap, or maybe I'm paranoid.
“Yeah, can we go ahead and stop?” I speak up from the back seat.
Remy turns long enough to give me an angry glare, then plasters on a smile for Chuck.
“Sure thing, missy,” Chuck says without a care in the world.
He probably hasn't seen fae scavenge human corpses.
I grow more uncomfortable with each second. I don't want to be here with Chuck and Remy any longer, but I also don't want to face the night alone, especially since Panama Hat is probably still on my ass. I really just want to get home, curl up with the covers over my head, and block out this entire night.
Chuck takes the next exit, and in moments, we're pulling up to a small gas station.
“Bathroom's 'round back,” he says with a nod. “I'm gonna step inside and get some coffee for the road.”
He and Remy pile out, and I follow, less enthusiastically. Remy adjusts his jacket and disappears with Chuck inside the store. Relief
spreads over me, thin and brief. I only have a few minutes to decide what to do.
My head down, I hurry to the side of the building and dart inside the long empty bathroom. The tiles and walls are equally unclean, but at least there's no fae in here. The door doesn't latch, so I scoot the wastebasket against it to keep it from popping open, then I go to the sink, turn on the faucet, and stare at myself in the mirror.
My black hair is frizzy, my brown eyes are bloodshot, and my clothes are dirty and torn. I look like I've been traveling by foot for months.
Add a hot shower to the list of things I want to do. Hot shower, bed, and then give up the fae hunting forever. I'm never going to leave the apartment again after I get home.
Home. I rub my hand over my face and try to will my brain into formulating a coherent strategy on the safest way to get there. I could try to get a plane or bus ticket, but even that requires me to escape these two and find my way to Flagstaff. The other option is to hitch hike alone, but that sounds like a bad idea. In fact, every option sounds like the worst choice, which leaves me with. . .
The wastebasket scoots against the tile as the bathroom door opens. I see it in the mirror.
I turn around and head for the door. “Occupied!”
Chuck slips inside, pressing the door shut behind him.
I halt in my step, heart kicking up. “Uh, I was just—”
He lunges at me, grabbing me by the throat, and pushes me up against the wall. I expect his face to contort, but he has no wisps. He's not a fae. Just run-of-the-mill human scum.
I grab at his wrists, scratching at his arms. His other hand goes to my pants. He yanks at the button and zipper. I try to call for help, but all that comes out is a strained screech. My nails claw at his face, but he turns his head to avoid the brunt of it.
The door slams open. Remy barrels toward Chuck, swinging. Chuck's hold on me drops. My knees buckle, and I crash to the floor. I spring back up, going for my baton, but Remy already has Chuck down, kicking him in the face. I stare blankly, trying to catch up with what just happened.
With a final bash, Remy turns, grabbing my arm, and hurries us out the door. “Fuck that guy!”
“Where—where are we going?” I'm panting, unable to breathe, unable to see anything but a blur as Remy ushers me away. That's all I know; we're headed away.
Then we're at Chuck's vehicle. Remy crams me into the passenger seat. He slams the door and goes around to the driver side, ducking inside. Keys jingle in his hands, then the engine starts. The truck swings out, onto the road.
I'm silent, trying to sort through the rush of garbage in my brain. A single thought pushes to the forefront: Remy—a fae—saved me.
I turn slightly to study him as he concentrates on the road, all faux hawk and ire, and I have no idea what to say.
At length, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He doesn't respond, and I'm not sure if he even heard me. I lower my head, staring at my hands on my lap.
He's really not like the other fae, the ones I've been hunting. I'm not sure how or why, and I still know nothing about him besides his name. I'm not convinced he even wants to talk to me, but I'm sure my microaggressions haven't been helping.
I take a deep breath and try to measure my voice. “How did you get hooked up with that gang back there?”
“Long story,” he replies with a rush of breath. “I needed their help, but things went sour.”
“Help with what?”
He hesitates, scratching his cheek with his pointer finger. His hand drops back to the steering wheel. “My brother. Disaster struck while I was away, and he came up missing. I've been trying to find him, but I keep running into dead ends.”
The worry creasing his face silences the rest of my questions. I had intended to find out everything I could from him, then ditch him as soon as we got back to the Valley. But I can't just leave him behind like that.
Life had thrown me one good fae. Well, a relatively decent one. What sort of person would I be to abandon him? He's rare among his own kind, even though I'm not yet sure why, and he needs all the help he can get.
Besides, the other fae—the darker ones—aren't going to leave me alone. As much as I want out of this, a part of me says that isn't even an option and never was.
I wrap my arms around my torso and close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
I'm not leaving the fae behind; I'm going in deeper.
3
When we pull up to my apartment complex, I stare at the windshield for a long, thoughtless moment before turning to Remy. On the drive back to Phoenix, I had determined he could crash at my place until we made a plan—about his brother, and my fae-dilemma. Now that we're here, I'm skeptical all over again.
He's a fae. But a fae who has now helped me twice. . .and he's a point up on the saved-your-ass scorecard. I owe him one.
Dammit.
“Wanna come inside?” I try to sound casual and not at all like I'm suddenly afraid to bring him around my family.
But I can't give it much more energy, anyway. For tonight, I have no battles left in me. I'm so worn and tired that even my eyelids hurt.
Remy's scowl is undiluted as he steps out of the car. I follow suit, pulling my jacket tighter against the cool breeze, and then lead the way up the stairs to my third story abode. As I reach the door, I catch the living room light through the window. Someone is up. Probably Cassia.
I fumble in my jacket for my keys, then unlock the door and step inside. Cassia and her third trimester baby belly are sitting on the couch, watching TV. She glances up and smiles, then her gaze darts to Remy. She wiggles her eyebrows at me.
I try to look unamused, which isn't too difficult at this point. Remy is not on my to-do list at any point in this lifetime or the next.
“Baby Madison throwing a party?” I point at her belly.
“Feels like a rave,” Cassia says, rubbing her roundness. “I swear I can even hear the oomp, oomp, oomp.”
“Well, tell her to keep it down,” I say with a forced grin as I pass by the back of the couch. “I need my beauty sleep.”
I stop behind Cassia, lean down, and plant a kiss on the back of her head. She reaches up with her arm to pat my shoulder, turning to look at me. I’m not worried about questions. I always look like hell these days.
“Your mom's already out cold.”
“Not anymore,” my mother says from the hallway.
I turn to look at her, stepping in front of Remy—not to hide him, but to protect her if he suddenly develops an appetite for human flesh. He stands rigid, fists clenched at his side. I'm not sure what that is all about.
“I got paged,” my mother continues, holding up her cellphone. “Heading into work.”
She pauses to size up Remy. Normally, I would hope someone would recognize him for what he is. To verify that I'm not alone in this. I've been torn between wanting to tell my mom about the fae and not wanting to subject her to a new fantastic horror in the world, the latter winning, but not by much. Tonight, I'm glad they are all oblivious. I don't have it in me to explain what has consumed the last six months of my life. I can keep my secret a little longer.
Her phone beeps a message, no doubt a reminder that the NICU staff is impatiently waiting for her. She sighs, fluffing her hair with one hand as she dips into the kitchen. Dishes clank around as she prepares a cup of coffee.
I can barely make out as she recites the Serenity Prayer in a low voice. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
She has said it every day before work for as long as she has been with the hospital. It's like she's paying a life long debt to them for saving my life.
My eyes burn, and I rub them while muttering, “I'm off to bed.”
I shuffle toward the hallway, gesturing for Remy to follow me.
“Good night, Ember,” Cassia calls. “Good night, strange handsome boy.”
I can't help but chuckle.
“That's my family,” I say to Remy as I open the door to my bedroom. “Cassia has been my best friend since I pushed her off a swing in third grade. It's a pretty good indicator how her dating life wound up going, too.”
I gesture at my belly, though I'm pretty sure it doesn't convey that Cassia's baby daddy punched her in the face, and I had to make her come stay with us until she could get on her feet, literally and figuratively. Her health took a turn for the worse, and she's unlikely to move out anytime soon.
I remove the baton and set it on the dresser to the left of the door, cluttered with empty vintage perfume bottles. They're mostly the cutesy thrift store finds. The shelves on the walls display my favorite delicate Egyptian bottles with pointed tops, hand-painted Oriental pieces, and beautiful Czech glass with filigree.
The only bottle I hate is the little brown one full of sage oil.
I bat at the fringe on the shade of the standing lamp while Remy takes a cursory look at the room. His shoulders relax a little. I want to be offended that he considers me a threat, but to be fair, he doesn't know me any better than I know him.
I shut the door and cross the room to my bed cluttered with clean laundry, anticipating falling face-first into the mattress. My stiff bruised body requires a slow, steady descent. It's almost embarrassing. My muscles pinch and tingle and generally remind me of all the awful that has occurred tonight.
Before I pass out, I turn to face Remy. “You can have the bed, being the guest and all.”
Even as I say it, I don't want to actually move. Can't he shrink to pocket-size and sleep in a thimble or something? I try to push myself up, but he waves his hands at me and shrugs.
“No matter,” he says. “I can take the floor.”
I glance doubtfully at the thin carpet discolored with large stains, not wanting to sentence either of us to it. If I give him the bed, does that put a point ahead on the scorecard?