Faery Tales: Six Novellas of Magic and Adventure (Faery Worlds Book 3)

by Phaedra Weldon

Higher education isn’t the typical path for our kind, but I’ve been crafting the arguments for it in my mind recently. I’ll work on strengthening my Sway, and I’ll influence other art students. I’ll become a famous artist and have my own weird artsy fan pod.

  I knew all along it was probably a futile dream. Now there’s no chance at all.

  “Well, you are one convincing man, Davis. You can count on my vote,” the graying senator says as he pushes back from the table twenty minutes later, the plate and wine glass in front of him empty, his belly protruding a bit further over the waistband of his slacks, his eyes glazed and peaceful.

  “Mine, too,” says the other visitor, a quieter man, but powerful within the Senate Science and Technology committee. “And give my compliments to your chef. I’ve never had such a meal.” He stands and pulls on the jacket he’d draped over his chair back. “I hate to leave, but unfortunately, we’ve got to get to the airport.”

  Pappa rises and shakes each of their hands in turn, smiling widely. “It’s been a pleasure having you in my home. I’ll see you next week in D.C. and we’ll push this thing through, boys.” He’s putting on the thick Georgia drawl he saves for special good-ole-boy occasions like this one.

  The well-fed humans are obviously buying the act, smiling and back-slapping like old friends instead of his political rivals. I’ll bet their constituents would just spit if they could see them now. My stomach turns sickly at the victorious glint in Pappa’s eyes.

  The minute the men are out of the room, satisfied laughter begins around the table, the musical sound more perverse than pleasant. Only the Council is left—its six members representing the inner circle of Dark Elven power on this continent. One of them, Thora, lives here in the Southeast. The others live in the West, North, and spread throughout the center of the country.

  Though the conversation now is relaxed and jovial and the saol water is flowing, I still don’t join in. Being around the Council gives me the same feeling I get when the school nurse announces a lice outbreak—a sort of shivery, creeped-out, get-me-out-of-here reaction.

  I’m not sure if it’s their constant scheming, their disdain of humans, or just the Council members themselves, but the Elves Pappa chooses to surround himself with almost make me wish I wasn’t Elven.

  “… don’t you agree, Vancia?” Audun, the Northeastern councilor is staring at me with penetrating light gray eyes that always make me squirm and question whether he can actually see my thoughts.

  I’ve never seen human eyes like that—maybe it’s all the centuries they’ve seen—maybe it’s just a Fae thing. Audun’s high cheekbones, dazzling smile, and blond curls give him a benevolent god-like appearance, but he’s my least favorite Council member by far.

  “Um, excuse me?” I say, fighting not to recoil from his intimidating gaze.

  “He asked you about fan pod interest in the high schools here,” Pappa interjects. “Do you think it’s increasing?”

  “Oh yes. Definitely. Pretty much everyone I know has applied for one or plans to.”

  Except for Carter, but he’s not like everyone else anyway. He doesn’t have a TV at home or a computer of his own. He works nights and weekends to pay for gas and his phone. But he’s turned his impoverished background into a benefit. He’s read almost every book in the school library and has the brains to show for it.

  “Well, I know we can count on you to do your part,” Audun says in that smarmy way of his, adding a knowing laugh as he reaches for his newly re-filled wine glass.

  I nod and lift a forkful of food to my mouth, hoping it will remove my obligation to converse further. My part. Right. In addition to marrying a boy I don’t know in the service of Elven unity, I’m expected to spend my time with humans being all “fabulous” and influential and talking up Elven celebrities and their fan pods, pushing my peers to join.

  My natural Elven appearance is supposed to help in this mission, though I’m not sure the glances my unusual height draws are admiring ones. And if the Council—and Pappa—only knew what a social outcast I am at school, they’d probably yank me out and send me to the woods of Mississippi even sooner.

  “What about modeling, like my Ava?” Thora suggests, referring to her flashy ginger daughter and nodding her own shiny copper curls toward me. “Several of our models are finding their fan pods to be quite popular. We need everyone’s participation. We don’t have the numbers we need yet, especially with the Lightweights refusing to participate. Ava’s here for a visit, but she’s flying back to Los Angeles next week.” A delicate brow lifts toward her smooth forehead. “Perhaps Vancia could go along?”

  A new light enters Pappa’s eyes. “Yes, that’s something that might work well for her. I’ll talk to Alfred about arranging a portfolio shoot. She really should have a pod in place before she’s married, and there’s not much time left.”

  My face heats as the others nod in agreement, and the conversation about my future continues without me. Several of my Elven friends have moved to L.A. or New York recently to model. I guess if you can’t sing or act or play sports with inhuman talent, at least you can look good wearing their designers’ unrealistic ideas of fashion. In fact, when I recently flipped through this year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, I noted that most of the models were Elven. Feeling heavy with guilt, I deposited the magazine in the nearest trash can.

  It seems rather sad to sell the Elven figure as the ideal to human women and men. It isn’t attainable for most, and why should it be? But most Dark Elves see it as an effective way to gain human attention and adoration, and obviously it’s working.

  Pappa turns to me with an expectant grin. “You wouldn’t mind a trip to L.A. for spring break next week instead of coming to Washington with me, would you darling?”

  Ooh. He has no idea how tempting that sounds—a week without Pappa constantly looking over my shoulder. But there’s a problem. “I have no idea how to model. I don’t even like having my picture taken.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he insists. “You’re my daughter. You can do anything you want to do.”

  Of course, what he really means is that I’ll do anything he wants me to, and we both know it.

  Chapter Four

  Light

  A touch of cadmium yellow—that’s what it needs.

  I smile to myself, adding delicate sun-dappled highlights to the swaying grasses of the meadow scene on my canvas. The art room comforts me with its familiar scents of paint and turpentine, the slightly burned tinge of freshly sharpened pencils. It’s quiet. Only Mrs. White and I are left in the room, and she’s packing up her bag to go home for the day.

  She stops behind me to survey the nearly-finished work. “It’s beautiful Vancia—luminous—your best yet, I think. It should round out your portfolio perfectly.” After a pause she asks the question I know is coming. “Send any applications yet?”

  Without looking up at her, I respond with a quiet, “Not yet.” I don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. Mrs. White is my biggest cheerleader, and I know she doesn’t understand my apparent foot-dragging about applying for art school.

  She lets out a heavy sigh and her heels click across the tile toward the classroom door. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. See you after the break.”

  “Okay. Enjoy your vacation,” I say, my words colored with guilt. I hate knowing I’m letting her down. I admitted my secret dream to her after she suggested I pursue art as a career.

  She’s been so caring toward me, expressing such an interest in my future and my talent, suggesting schools for me. But her disapproval is nothing compared with Pappa’s.

  I don’t have to live with Mrs. White every day and navigate her moods and whims for my survival.

  At the sound of the door opening again, I glance up. “Forget something? Oh… hi.”

  Carter’s shaggy head protrudes through the opening. “Ah, the artiste at work,” he says, putting on a very bad fake French accent. “I thought I migh
t find you in zee studio.”

  He lifts his phone, and the camera flashes in my direction.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Capturing your light.” Coming into the room, he stands near the doorway and snaps another picture while I throw up a hand to hide my face.

  “What are you talking about? All this art theory is going to your head, I think.”

  “No, I’m serious,” he says. “You glow when you’re painting. You have this little light inside you, like Tinkerbell.”

  “Someone has seen too many Disney movies—and it’s not me,” I mutter, embarrassed but also pleased by his observation. I actually feel warm and glowing inside when I paint.

  Carter strolls over to stand at my shoulder, one hand stroking his chin and one eyebrow raised over a stuffy pursed-lip expression. “C’est magnifique. A masterpiece.” He lines up his camera phone again and takes a photo of the canvas. Then gesturing at the painting, he further slaughters the French language. “See how she uses zee elements of light and dark to convey emotion, zee internal struggle of all humanity expressed in pastels on canvas.”

  I laugh, elbowing his side with my non-paintbrush arm. “They’re oils, silly, not pastels. And I only paint light subjects. I don’t like the dark. I never even use brown or black.”

  “Other than that I was dead-on,” he quips. Dragging over a nearby chair, he straddles it and leans over its straight back to face me. “So, you excited about heading to D.C. for break—cherry blossoms and all that stuff?”

  “Um… well, actually I’m going to Los Angeles instead.”

  “Los Angeles? When did this happen? Dad got a big Hollywood fundraiser or something?”

  My face heats as if being fired in the pottery kiln. For a moment I consider lying, but then decide on honesty with my one and only friend. “Well, this is going to sound kind of weird, but I’m going to have some pictures taken. For uh… modeling.” Squinting my eyes and cringing, I wait for his response.

  He bobs his head up and down, his bottom lip coming out and in as he appears to think it over. “Yeah. I can see that. Cool. You’re full of surprises, Van. I didn’t even know you wanted to be a model—thought you were all into the artsy fartsy stuff.” He gestures toward the paint pallet on the table beside him.

  “I don’t. I am. I mean, it’s not my idea. It’s my dad’s. He knows an agent out there, and he’s setting the whole thing up.”

  “Oh. So… maybe I’m missing something here, but why are you doing it if you don’t want to be a model? Or maybe you really do want to, and you’re being all modest or something?”

  “No. I definitely don’t want to do it. I just—I can’t say no to him. It’s what he wants… and I owe him.”

  His face screws up into a comical scowl. “You don’t owe him. He’s your dad. What—you do every single thing he wants you to do all the time? You’re going to have to turn in your teenage rebellion card, young lady.”

  I laugh. “No, I mean, well yes, I guess I kind of do what he says all the time. You know I’m adopted. And… I guess I appreciate that he took me in when most people wouldn’t have. And he probably does know what’s best for me. I mean, he’s practically running the country, right? He’s pretty smart.”

  “Yeah, but big difference between making laws for the masses and planning someone else’s future. For what it’s worth, it’s your life, and I think you should do what you want to with it.”

  If he’s this impassioned about the modeling thing, what would he say about the arranged marriage? I’ll never know because I’m certainly not going to tell him about that mortifying turn of events. In fact, a change of subject is in order.

  “What would you do if you could do anything?” I ask. He’s registered for fall classes at a nearby junior college. He told me he’ll live at home with his mom and keep working to pay for tuition.

  He rocks the chair back then lets the legs fall to the floor again. “Anything? Easy—I’d play for the Braves. But since I struck out pretty much every time I ever got up to the plate in Little League, I’d say that’s out for me.” He chuckles.

  Then his smile falls and he rests his chin atop his folded hands on the chair back. “Honestly, I’d get away from here—go to a good school, you know? Somewhere maybe up north or out west, somewhere nobody knows me or where I came from. And I’d work my ass off to be the top of my class and graduate in three years and get an awesome tech job—maybe Silicon Valley or something like that, make a fortune, run for President. Along the way, buy a cool car, a house or two.”

  The longing in his voice makes my chest tighten. “Why don’t you do that?”

  “You know why. Hey—your turn. What would you do?”

  “If I could do anything?” My heart flutters at the idea of saying it aloud. But what’s the harm? Pappa can’t hear me here. I’m ninety-nine-point-eight percent sure Carter won’t laugh at me. “I’d get away, too, go to art school, sell my paintings, buy a cool car and a house or two.”

  He laughs. “You already have a cool car and a house or two. But seriously, why don’t you do that? I’d kill to have your choices.”

  I shake off his words. “Just because I have money, that doesn’t mean I have choices. My dad is the one with all the money. And he makes all the choices. He doesn’t like my painting. He says it makes me a recluse, and it’s never going to go anywhere. He wants me to make a name for myself, like he did.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t buy it. A girl like you—I think you can do anything—and you don’t need anyone. I mean, if money for art school is the issue, you could do both—model and make your dad happy, then take the money you earn and pay for tuition.” He nods toward my bare legs. “That’s what I’d do if I had stems like yours.”

  I gasp and swat at him, and he jumps back out of his chair, striking a cheesy modeling pose. “And those cheekbones.” Another pose. “And pouty pink lips.” Pose. “And a booty like—”

  He lets out a cackling laugh, dodging as I leap out of my chair and go after him with a loaded paintbrush.

  “Shut up, you idiot!”

  Running toward the door and throwing it open, Carter whips around and backs into the hallway, facing me with his hands up in the surrender pose and laughter still in his eyes. “I believe that’s an unauthorized use of school supplies. I gotta get to my job. See you after break, Tink. Have fun in Never Never Land.”

  He spins around and saunters down the hallway, loudly singing “You Can Fly.”

  Chapter Five

  Wipe Out

  I place the painting on an easel in my home studio, stepping back to survey the finished picture. It was probably stupid to carry it home before it fully dried, but I didn’t want to leave it at school over break.

  As Mrs. White said, it’s probably my best work so far, and honestly, part of me wants Pappa to see it. Maybe he’ll look it over and say, “You know, I can see it now—you’re not wasting your time—you are meant to be an artist after all.”

  Right. And maybe the Hemsworth brothers are human beings and not Elven. Ha.

  Ah—you’re home. Why were you late?

  Pappa’s question makes me jump. He entered the studio without me hearing him.

  I spin around to face him. “Just wrapping things up before spring break.” Stepping to the side so the painting is no longer obscured by my body, I gesture to it. “I was finishing my latest piece.”

  He glances at it. “The meadow near the lake. Yes, well, it looks like it, I guess.” Then he turns and heads for the door. “Don’t waste too much more time in here. You need to pack—you have the early flight out tomorrow.” And he leaves.

  Hope drains from my chest like air leaking from a beach ball with the plug pulled out. Slowly I turn to face the painting again. In the afternoon light coming through the wall of windows, the colors appear even more vibrant than they did in the art room at school. The grasses seem to dance with their own energy, and I can practically smell the breeze across the meadow, hear the tin
y insects moving among the spring flowers that dot the landscape.

  I suppose it does “look like” the meadow by the lake near our home. Something any cheap camera could capture.

  Crossing the room to the supply closet, I lift a can of white paint and a roller tray and carry it across the room. I pry off the lid and pour it, filling the well of the tray. Then I go back to the closet and find the tool I need. A roller brush.

  As I dip the roller into the tray and rock it back and forth, a tear plops into the paint, raising a tiny splash. Lifting the brush, I roll it across the center of the canvas. Vertically. Horizontally. Diagonal slashes back and forth, up and down, until the meadow scene has disappeared entirely behind a wall of blank visual silence.

  Some masterpiece.

  Chapter Six

  Questions

  They look so young. My mom. My dad. Though I know they would have appeared no different today, I still smile at the youthful images of my parents, the photos five years old now, and imagine them looking more mature, like the parents of kids at my school, like Mrs. White.

  I touch my mom’s image, my throat tightening with a familiar ache. She was beautiful. Well, all Elven women I suppose are technically beautiful, but to me she was especially so. My platinum hair came from her. She wore hers in its natural curls while I usually opt to straighten mine to better fit in with my human classmates. Her bright blue eyes smile at me as if to say I approve of you. I love you just as you are.

  My dad was tall, of course. He seemed like an oak tree to me back then. Now, I guess I’d be only a few inches shorter than him. His loose chocolate brown curls frame his smiling face in this photo taken out by our pool in California. Carter would probably have been impressed with that house, too, if he could’ve ever seen it.

  I haven’t told him who my parents were—he might recognize their names from the oldies radio station and start asking questions. Questions are bad.