"Stop creating reasons for why you were wrong," Delano said.
My head jerked off his chest. "How'd you know?"
"Because I did that after my changeling life, and constantly excused people's bad behavior."
I nodded, frowning. "Yeah. Brain herpes."
"Brain herpes?"
"That's how I think of my mother and Sam's influences. Whenever I feel they're out of my life I suffer another flare up." He chuckled. "I guess the Realm's purium was only a bandage for helping me with my hang-ups. It hardly lasted a month."
"Most Realm promises are temporary or false. Shiny lies used to manipulate, to make their people feel as if they need them and are incapable of handling problems themselves." Delano stood, smirking in the flashlight's flaxen light. He pulled my wrists, and my soles found cool bricks. "Come. Sleep eludes us, and we have hot chocolate."
I lingered in the kitchen's entryway; the scent of struck matches filled the tiny space. Delano set a saucepan of milk to simmer on the camp stove, then returned the carton to the cooler where ice never melted. The carbon monoxide detector glowed its green battery light. He fetched and opened the hot chocolate canister. My thoughts became lost to his dance-like movements, and my warmth slipped toward him like iron dust to a magnet. His hand trembled and brown powder toppled off the spoon. I clamped my magic to stop the flow, then cleared my throat and asked: "Which nightmare woke you? The pits?"
He stirred the chocolate mix into the saucepan. "No. My fae parents."
"That's new."
"Actually, old. It's been decades, though, and—" My heart sparked, expecting he'd divulge his past's details. "—I assume another changeling around is stirring that mental mess to the surface."
My shoulders drooped. "Sorry."
"Don't be. I enjoy living with someone who understands. I'll have nightmares regardless. These mean I have you, too."
"What happened in your dream?"
"It doesn't matter," he said, as he always said when the nightmares jolted him awake, sometimes panting, sometimes screaming, always wild-eyed until reality swirled in.
"Of course it matters."
Delano groaned. "Why?" He tapped the spoon on the saucepan and killed the flame. "Why focus on ugliness when there's beauty in the world?"
"Because—" I want us to emotionally connect. "—discussing past hurts can heal."
"My past is seventy years dead."
"Del…"
"Your shoulders look stiff. Let's alleviate that."
My mouth twisted. "You're avoiding."
"Nonsense," Delano said, his eyes wide with innocence. "I'm just so over it. I've soul searched, read the self-help books, meditated, and found my Zen."
I crossed my arms, unconvinced.
"I'm happy, see?" He grinned and did a jitterbug hop-kick-spin straight from American Bandstand, then cupped his hand beneath the sink's faucet and added water. Two ice cubes formed in his palm with a crick. He plopped them into the hot chocolate, then handed me the mug with the cockatoo image. We headed to the music cavern.
A forest green love seat filled the space at the bottom of the room's V walls. Above hung a framed, autumn dogwood leaf mounted on black felt. A month ago, Delano looked at me cockeyed when I suggested painting the wall a deep maroon. But after our paintbrushes finished bopping to Genesis and Johnny Rivers, he admitted it did make the cavern more striking, actually, and showcased the leaf's hues quite nicely.
"Dogwood colors remind me of a sunrise," I'd remarked.
"Huh. I've always seen a sunset," Delano had said, rolling the blue tape into a sticky ball. He studied the dogwood leaf, then me. "Wait, no. You're right."
Now, Delano programed an instrumental playlist into his laptop. The high notes of a piano bounced along the stone walls, their notes invoking mental images of music boxes, reminding me of Vina. I hope she's okay.
Delano flopped sideways onto the love seat, one leg against the backrest, one foot on the floor. He beckoned me to him, patting the cushion between his legs.
"You were serious?"
"I'm always serious about touching you."
I bit my lip, my chest humming, then nestled between his legs, my bare feet pressing an armrest. One of his arms wrapped around my waist, holding his mug. His other hand kneaded my shoulder. My head rolled to the side with a moan.
"Better?" he asked.
"I'm fine. It's you I worry about."
"You prefer to rub me? Well! If you insist—"
"You know what I mean."
Delano groaned. "Look, I refuse to be like Bavol or every other whining darkling who lets their histories control them."
"It doesn't need to be like that."
"No? I swear, every darkling acts afflicted with dead pasts and numbs themselves with alcohol, drugs, or religion. It's pathetic. I don't want a life of escapism."
I decided to not point out his towers of books and music. Delano sipped his hot chocolate, slid his hand along my neck to work the muscles beneath my ear. I groaned, my head lolling.
"What do you want then?" I asked.
"I told you. Hot chocolate and my hands all over you."
"I meant for your life."
His rubbing froze abruptly. I glanced at him, his expression suggesting I asked: Hey, Del. What is the quantum mechanical model of the atom? "Uhhh…" He scratched the back of his head. A piano version of Memory began to play. "Not much." He spoke meekly, as if answering a pedant eager to punish errors. "To fulfill my purpose well, I guess. Without someone slitting my throat would be a bonus." His hand continued kneading. "But I'm off duty, so I'll settle for chocolate and rubbing a woman in her bedclothes." His fingers slipped briefly through my hair, then to my shoulder. Steam coiled from our mugs. "What do you want?"
"Nothing unique. A home. Something worth living for." Delano pulled my hair to the other shoulder, slid his hand along my neck. I yawned. "And world peace, of course."
Delano chuckled. "Well, that last is impossible. Old fairytales warn of fae viciousness for a reason." He paused in thought. "Hmm. Maybe that's why your nightmares about killing Sam are increasing."
"You lost me."
"Your dreams might be preparing you for what's coming," he said. "All faeries become ruthless and savage when pressed. It's in our blood."
"You're not vicious. Unless your victim is a taco or a mug of hot chocolate."
Delano faced me, serious. "I don't care how bright faeries appear, the deeper you delve, the darker their culture gets. I am no exception. And neither are you."
I laughed. "I can't even correct waiters who screw up my order."
"You've only recently hit magical puberty, but trust me. You will become ruthless when pressed. The sooner you accept it, the better."
Flutes trilled to a lively beat, my imagination conjuring a songbird flittering between the mineshaft walls. "So I'll, what? Turn psycho like Raina?"
Delano shook his head. "Raina is a sociopath, incapable of empathy or compassion. You'll never be like her. But one day you will feel an injustice. A trigger. And your gut will burn."
"I've experienced anger before, Del. I never rampaged."
"It's not merely anger. It's not even rage. It's—" He looked at the ceiling, thinking. "It's an intense feeling of vengeance and survival and passion wrapped into one. It burns slow, then grabs the magic inside you, the fae inside you, and ignites. It's impossible to repress, and you'll do anything to ease its burning and set things right. If the human anger you understand burns red, then this burns black. A dark ember capable of setting worlds ablaze."
My brow furrowed. Maybe I shouldn't have told Orin to embrace his anger. A strung light blinked against the bookshelves. I tucked my upper lip. Potentially overpowering Delano was one thing, but combining it with an uncontrollable aggression? Impossible. I'm incapable of such violence. I stared at my hands, curled as if strangling the cockatoo, then swiveled the chocolate sediment and downed the final gulp.
Delano rubbed my biceps. "You've fel
t this?" I asked.
He stiffened. "Weldon and I would otherwise still be slaves."
"So it's sometimes good?"
"Like everything, it can be used for good or evil. And, like everything, those definitions depend on the person." Delano stretched. "But when it happens, your changeling identity—the piece clinging to the belief you are human, and this is all a fantastic dream—will burn to cinder, and you'll see the fae you were born to be. I hope I'm there when you experience it. I'm eager to see if you're as strong as I believe, or stronger."
I grunted noncommittally. "Well, your odds are high considering how much time we spend together."
"Unless my death triggers it."
My breath hitched. "Why would you say that?"
"I experienced it when Lydia died. It's a real possibility."
My shoulders tensed. Delano pressed on them, but they refused to desert my ears. I imagined sniffers with whips and knives, Raina shooting him in the back. My words shook. "I won't need magic to hurt someone if you died."
Delano's chest braced as if expecting a punch; his breathing thinned. Cellos billowed like war banners on a slogging December march. Delano set his mug on the floor. Both hands massaged. Minutes later, the rocks in my shoulders crumbled. I slumped against him, yawning and rubbing my eyes. His grip tightened when my warmth seeped into him. He exhaled a raspy breath; his fingers kneaded above my breasts. Cellos became guitars. I squirmed against his chest. His magic lapped my leaking warmth, creating a joining sensation which made me tingle.
"It was their betrayal," he whispered.
"Mmmm? Whose betrayal?"
"In my nightmare."
My eyes snapped open; my skin tightened. I swallowed and hoped I sounded casual when I spoke. "Your fae parents betrayed you?"
Silence. Except for my heart in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. I measured my breath, as if I was a fox and Delano was a rabbit sniffing the air for any reason to skitter into his burrow.
"They said they'd help me," he whispered. Thump. Thump Thump. "But they loved the Realm more."
Flares and sirens ignited in my brain. In three sentences, Delano mentioned more about his Realm life than in the past months combined. Is he discussing being sent to the mines? I swallowed—Thump. Thump. Thump—and spoke as delicate as a stalking paw. "How so?"
Water pipped in the dark. "They … called a … sniffer."
Thump. Thump. Thump. His parents betrayed him? They believed their darkling-destined son had, what? Turned evil? Traitorous? Crazy? I'd wondered about my own fae parents since learning I was a lost changeling, imagining them as a loving storybook family, the complete opposite of a changeling's human upbringing. How could they choose the Realm over their child? Would my parents have also? The fantasy of my faerie family pulverized into dust as the atmosphere tensed. Delano's hand hardly tapped my collar, his strength drifting with his thoughts. His heart pumped hard enough to transmit into my skull, as if bone became an empty drinking glass pressed to eavesdrop into his soul.
My tongue itched to burst into questions. I wish it was purely to comfort him, but living with a mute who'd lived the life I'd been denied was frustrating. I craved elaborations about my glimpse of the Realm's eternal sunshine and summer love sky, the sweet exotic smells and dragonfly air. I felt as if someone had gifted me a Tiffany Blue Box, only to discover it empty.
Oboes soothed. Delano's throat clicked. I bit my tongue, knowing I pranced through a memory minefield. I nuzzled my cheek against his wrist and said: "That's terrible of them."
Delano sighed as if a boulder rolled off his chest. Harps hummed along the mine's stone and rotting boards. His hands rubbed. My shoulders. My biceps. My clavicles. Shadows leaked from him, coiling along the cushions and my skin. I let my warmth slip into him, felt Delano's body tense against mine. His fingers worked. Harps yielded to violins. I swallowed audibly; my fingers curled into Delano's thigh. His hand slid down my side, and something pressed my hip. My eyes widened and I jerked forward, realizing he was growing har—
Delano lurched himself onto the armrest with a wiggle of his hips. He cleared his throat, then grabbed our empty mugs and bolted to the kitchen.
Water gushed into the sink, the pump groaning. "Let me do that," I said from the entryway, watching him scrub the saucepan.
"I got it." He glanced over his shoulder, the light plating the four flogging scars across his miner-wings in silver. "You should try to catch more sleep. I'll do the same soon."
I nodded and agreed and we said our goodnights. I crawled into bed, feeling his magic slip along my skin, a songbird fluting inside my ribs. Mugs clinked. Delano clicked off the music and lights, shuffled around the mine, opened and closed a cabinet. Darkness weighted my eyelids and, soon after, the pattering sound of a lengthy shower lulled me to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
I pulled into Kohl's parking lot, feeling confident and chipper. Puffy pink and lavender clouds filled the early sky in a candy cotton swirl. I'd eaten a good breakfast with two extra cups of coffee, determined to prove my life-choices made me strong. Better. I needed Orin to know his sacrifices to help me hadn't been wasted.
Orin sat on the hood of a beater Chevy pickup, the bed half-full with cordwood, sucking the last of a green tea Frappuccino. He wore gray cargo pants, his garish luau shirt open, a white tee beneath.
The coyote hopped out of the Beemer, bristled at Orin, then chuffed unimpressed.
"Sorry I'm late," I said, locking the car.
"No problem." His Converse shoes struck pavement, the left toe patched with duct tape. He chucked his empty cup into the cab. "You feeling okay?"
"Uh huh." I slipped a collar and leash onto the coyote. I hated restraining him, but feared California's strict leash laws. "The car got stuck in a rut."
Orin opened his mouth, then paused as if debating what to say. "You need four-wheel-drive."
"Yeah," I agreed. If we could afford it.
Mud daubers circled my head, then Orin's, forming a figure eight. I tied my hair into a ponytail. "So what's the surprise?"
Orin smirked. "You'll see."
He grabbed a black backpack from the cab; the contents clanged as he flung it over his shoulder. I followed Orin to the shopping center's rear lot, the coyote trotting at my side. We passed trash bins and pallets and loading docks, then jogged down a weedy embankment and turned left. Orin ambled atop train-tracks, his arms out for balance, blathering about his recruits and a local bakery he loved. The mud daubers darted in and out of sight as we strolled behind apartment complexes, mechanic garages, and secluded patches of weeds and oaks.
Orin hopped off the tracks as we approached a stopped freight train. He halted beside a Santa Fe boxcar. "Here it is," he said, grinning and clapping. "We're going on another adventure! Yay!" I must've looked how I felt—ready to barf or cry—because he lifted his palms and blurted: "Kidding!"
I released a held breath. The mud daubers sped off to fatten themselves on spyders. Orin unzipped the backpack and tossed me two cans of spray paint. Red and black. "You told me you used to paint." He shrugged and shook cans of neon pink and green, the balls rattling. "It's not oil painting, but…"
"We're graffitiing the train?"
Orin nodded. His grin faltered. "If you're feeling well enough, that is."
I lifted an eyebrow. "I feel fine, Orin."
Orin studied me. My eyes narrowed, questioning. He handed me two colorful sketches from the backpack, which looked like typical gang graffiti with cartoonish, ineligible lettering. "It's code," he said, "to deliver intel to field scouts along the train's route."
"What kind of intel?"
Orin opened his mouth. Then closed it. "Just intel."
Great. He trusts me for labor, but not details. Although, I couldn't blame him, being under Cham's authority and all. I often questioned Cham's sanity myself.
Orin cleared his throat. "Actually, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about this."
"Why?"
"
Well, you know, you're not a rebel," he stammered. "They'll be angry if I, uh, let you help."
"Oh. Okay."
The coyote curled into a ball beneath an oak tree. I rattled my cans. Orin handed me one sketch and studied the other. He then stepped up the air and swooped large strokes on a neighboring coach—a carrier for something like grain or coal. I glanced over both shoulders, wondering if we committed infractions or misdemeanors. Only the rear of a cement building and oak trees surrounded us. My heart quickened, but revenge and the desire to defile a boxcar overpowered my guilt. I climbed air and sprayed red onto the brown, metal side.
"Check you out," Orin said with a laugh. I eyed him, confused. "Little Miss I'm Horrible at Magic is flying!"
I felt myself blush. "It's gotten easier. Delano can only teach night magic, so I'm bumbling in daytime. I'm not great or—"
The air condensed, fast, as if barometric pressure funneled into a bullet, and shot straight at me. I swung my arm, my magic expelling air. The pressure-bullet ricocheted toward the weeds. My ears popped. The coyote sprung to his feet, fur on end.
I dropped to the ground, heart pumping and fists up. "What the hell was that?"
"I knew it. You're a natural."
My eyebrows jumped. "You did that?"
Orin shrugged, chuckling, and concentrated on his graffiti.
"Fine. Be mysterious." I climbed the air. He grinned with the warm delight of cherry pie. My insides glowed as I bit my smile. Orin seemed proud of me.
The coyote settled. Nozzles hissed as I recreated the illustration onto the boxcar. Red sprayed in the arch of an M … or maybe a funky N. Fumes thickened the air. I hadn't painted in a decade (holy crap, a decade?), and although I'd only used brushes before, each stroke of the can lightened my chest. Soon, I beamed, black and red staining my fingertips.
"You're different."
I started with a gasp. I'd forgotten Orin was near. He leaned against the boxcar, a day-glo MOSSY (NOSEY? UOGGY?) drying overhead. If he approved of my finished graffiti, he made no indication. His gaze locked on my face.
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