The two of us sleep most of the day away, waking up only to eat and use the bathroom before going right back to bed— Well, me? I go to couch.
I hate being so vulnerable in the house of my old enemy, but now that the Grimmacle’s been cast, Georgina eases up on the toxic glare-fest.
We’re on the same page as far as protecting Syl is concerned. And she knows I’m in a better position to do just that.
Late Sunday evening, I wake up to find Syl gone. She’s not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not in her room. I’m just about to call in reinforcements (aka wake Georgina up) when a breeze lifts the hair from my neck.
The window’s open. A fire escape beyond. And there, huddled on the top landing is Syl, knees to her chest, chin on her knees.
I move to the sill and lean out. “Room for one more?”
She looks up, pleasantly startled, blushing adorably. “Uh, oh! Yeah.” She scooches over as I climb out the window. I sit on the metal slats, stretching my legs down the rusty steps, vaguely glad the fire escape is steel and not iron.
I’ve had enough of iron to last me forever.
Syl stretches her legs out too, wincing a bit. I’ve noticed she favors that right leg of hers, and when it brushes my thigh, I feel the iron lodged there, even through her jeans, her skin.
Instinct screams at me to jerk away, but she’s warm, and I like the way she leans against me, all subtle and yet not so subtle.
She sneaks a shy look at me as if to say, Is this okay?
I don’t move an inch. Hells yes, it’s okay. I could become addicted to her touch. I smile reassuringly at her.
Long moments pass with us sitting there in the cool night air, the heat from her leg making me burn and burn and burn… I don’t speak. I don’t want to push her. Besides, any number of things could be bothering her—her status as a sleeper-princess, trying to Awaken, the Grimmacle, the crazypants plan we’ve concocted to spy on Agravaine, all of the above…
She shifts so more of her leg is against mine. The iron makes me a bit swoony. If I don’t move away soon, I’ll start to feel sick, but I love the feel of her more than I hate what iron does to me.
“Rouen?”
I’m so startled that she calls me by my real name I nearly fall off the fire escape. It takes me a sec to regain my bearings. “Yes?” I know it sounds eager, and I don’t really care.
I’ve never felt so connected to another person before. In her presence, I feel alive.
“I talked a good game the other night.” She nods at the window, and I know she’s referring to the talk with her mom. She looks down at her hands. “But I…I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t know how”—she meets my gaze, those grey eyes so honest and open it makes my black heart ache—“how to Awaken.”
Now, Dark Fae are not known for having a softer side. My people are tough as nails, stoic and unmoving as mountains. We don’t coddle and we don’t comfort.
That means one thing: I’m going to blame this on the iron.
I clear my throat. “I was born Awakened to my power. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
She slumps her shoulders, defeated.
Way to go, Rouen. Stubbornly, I press on. “But I do know what it’s like to second-guess yourself.” Throwing caution to the wind, I slip my arm around her shoulders, draw her in close to me. “To be unsure of what you’re doing.” Like right now. My heart is jack-hammering against my ribs. My throat’s gone dry, and I’m trembling at the feel of her in my arms.
But she doesn’t pull away. In fact, she edges closer to me, looking up, innocent, vulnerable. “I feel like…like everyone’s expecting me to be a certain way, to be the old Syl. Fiann wants the old Syl who followed along and never talked back. My mom wants the old Syl who didn’t know what she was and was content to be protected.” She sighs heavily.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
Her eyes swim with misery. “I don’t know.” She slumps into me, and I hold her. Even though I’m the one in the protective pose, I feel vulnerable, exposed.
Wild thoughts careen in my mind. I’m so blaming this on the iron.
The words tumble softly from my lips. “As a child, I was expected to suck it up and push on. On my own. For most of my youth and into my teen years, I was alone. A symbol to my people—the dark Fae princess, untouched and untouchable. At least…that’s the old Rouen.”
Syl looks up at me, longing in her eyes. “And what about the new Rouen?”
“No one’s ever asked me that before.” But, looking at Syl, I realize…I don’t want to be the old Rouen anymore, swallowing my feelings, hiding every emotion.
I don’t want to be alone. I want to feel, to live, to love.
I want to be the Rouen that laughs at a joke, that flirts, that fights fang and claw against the darkness. I want to be the Rouen I am when I’m with her.
A new Rouen.
But I’m still a dark Fae, and no amount of iron can pull those words out of me. At least, not yet. Instead, I ask, “What about the new Syl?”
She smiles, so bright it nearly blinds me, but she’s shy as she says, “Maybe new Syl and new Rouen can find out…together?”
She holds out her hand.
I take it, interlacing our fingers, squeezing hers. “Together.”
It sounds like a vow, and when she squeezes my fingers back, I know she makes it too.
Monday morning, I’m woken from a sound sleep by a horrible screeching wail like a bain sidhe caught in a spin cycle. It rings in my eardrums, and I’m up like a shot, kicking aside the blankets and My Little Pony coverlet of my makeshift bed. My heart is a riot of pounding, my hands itching for my knives, my violin—some kind of weapon.
Agravaine? Hell-hounds? Dark Fae—who?
Syl’s soft chuckle brings me back down to planet Earth. “It’s okay.” She hits a small white box near her bedside table.
The alarm, of course. I take a few deep breaths, trying to play it off. No, I didn’t just jump out of my skin because of a Wal-Mart Special alarm. Nope. Not me. I’m cool, super-cool, cucumber-cool. And trying way too hard, Roue.
Then I realize…it’s six a.m. A groan works its way all the way up from my toes.
I forgot. Syl actually goes to school on time, whereas I…I usually sashay my way in around noonish. Fee, the old buzzard, never says a peep. Agravaine told him not to pay any attention to our comings and goings.
I’m sure my new identity—what was it again…Minnie Maven? By the Hunt’s hounds, I sound like a comic book supervillain—won’t get such special treatment.
I guess we’ll see.
“Are you okay?” Syl asks, and I realize I’ve been spacing out, all emo again.
“Yeah. Of course.” I try to lean against the wall and shove my hands into my pockets, but I slowly realize with that creeping dread you sometimes have in dreams… I’m not wearing pants.
My hands travel up to my face to feel the scorching-hot blush there. My pants practically wink at me where they’re draped over Syl’s chair, my boots stacked neatly nearby. I’m wearing my torn Throwing Muses band tee, my boyshorts, and nothing else.
And…Syl is staring.
We lock eyes across her bedroom, the Goth-band posters on the walls the only witnesses to our mutual checking each other out. She’s wearing a tank top and cute red bikini-bottom undies.
My heart seizes, and all other thoughts fly right out of my mind. I force my gaze to her face.
Those grey eyes like a storm at sea. I’m a goner.
Being apart from her was hard. Being close to her is even harder.
You’re still half-naked, Roue, that oh-so-helpful part of my brain nudges. But I hide my sudden shyness like a pro, stalking my way over to my pants and pulling them on.
“Wait, ummm…” Syl clears her throat, looking anywhere but at me.
I stop, one leg awkwardly in my pants, one leg out. “What?”
Her own blush creeps up her neck. “Do you want to s
hower? Mom’s probably getting breakfast ready, so you have time.”
“What about you?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I showered last night after…” She blushes. “After we talked.”
Officially still blaming that on the iron. I share her blush, and we’re super awkward for a second until I get my act together. “Ummm…yeah…a shower.” I look down at my ragged band tee. I do not want to risk an experimental sniff. “Probably a good idea. Thanks.”
“Great.” She smiles, and it lights her face up so my heart aches and that heat between us flushes through my entire body. Suddenly, a cold shower sounds like the perfect thing.
She opens the door and pads down the hall. I shadow her.
Her apartment is small, but it’s a damn sight better than the hotel rooms Agravaine and I were holed up in. Those were convenient, close to the ley lines, but they weren’t as…warm as Syl’s place. It’s small and cramped, a bit cluttered, but there’s a hominess to it.
Well, maybe if she took all the iron nails out of the windows.
“We’ll have to get you some different clothes, but for now…” She shyly presses a T-shirt into my hands. “You’ll need pants ‘cause mine are all too short for you, but at least my shirts should fit. Even with the Glamoury, you can’t go around wearing the same thing.”
She stops and jerks her thumb at the bathroom. “There you go. You can use anything in the white container. That’s all my stuff.”
I nod, standing there like a dork until she leaves me, smiling shyly. Girl is seriously adorable.
Unofficially, I regret nothing about last night.
I go in and close the door behind me. The T-shirt in my hands is soft, and I bring it to my cheek, feeling the soft cotton, smelling the feminine vanilla scent of her. I slump against the wall, heaving a sigh. You’ve got it bad, Roue.
Pushing that thought away, I look around. The bathroom is small—toilet, sink, shower stall. It, too, smells like Syl, and I inhale deeply. Really bad. Thinking about using her bodywash, her shampoo, her shirt… It sends a shiver down my spine. The idea of wrapping myself in her scent makes me warm and fuzzy inside.
I look at myself in the mirror—fangs, pointed ears, glowing eyes.
I am not a warm and fuzzy girl.
I use the toilet and then skin off my clothes and shower. Washing the grit and dried blood from my body, my hair, is a blessed relief. Why didn’t I last night or the night before? Georgina’s Grimmacle took it out of me after the fight with the hell-hounds, the chase, resisting Agravaine’s Command… I passed out as soon as my head hit my borrowed pillow. And yesterday was a total blur.
I step out of the shower, my skin steaming, smelling like Syl.
I tense as a clattering comes from the kitchen, then chide myself. Relax, Roue. It’s only breakfast.
The sounds of plates clinking and silverware, and the smell of flavored coffee—it’s all so alien to me. It hits me. Syl grew up like this. We’re so very different. And then the scent of buttery waffles wafts through the door. My stomach growls, blotting out my other thoughts.
This is alien and different, but that’s not a bad thing.
And if there’s one thing I love, it’s human food.
Agravaine hates it. But what does he know?
I mean, who hates waffles?
An idiot, that’s who.
He’s gotta be losing his mind by now, thinking we got away scot-free. We did. I smirk. And now we’re going back, right under his nose. At least I won’t have to worry about him ogling me anymore.
Syl’s theory floats in my mind as I towel off. He doesn’t want to be prince. He wants to be king, to create his own realm right here in Richmond. A dark Fae realm on Earth, with all the mortals as his Moribund-infected servants.
Even now, the black circuits in my hand stretch and pull. I yank my glove on so I don’t have to look at it.
The Grimmacle will keep him from sensing our true forms, and Georgina claims she’s strong enough to sustain it. I guess we’ll see. The first time he lays eyes on us, that’ll be the true test.
I pull Syl’s T-shirt on, wrapping myself in her scent and trying not to feel too guilty or weird about it. I mean, I needed a fresh tee, and at least this one’s got a logo of a sassy unicorn with the words, I will stab you in crimson over its head. I finish dressing and use a little gel to tousle my thick, dark hair. I like the messy look.
Stepping out, I let the delicious smells of waffles and coffee guide me. I feel odd, like an intruder walking into their kitchen nook. My own family setup was very different—a lot of secret family meetings across dark, polished tables; Mother and Father talking of ruling, of kingcraft and matters of the Winter Court. Never a needless word, never an easy word.
From time to time, my mother would squeeze my hand under the table. That was the extent of their overt kindness, but I know she loved me. I miss her so much.
“Good morning.” Georgina looks wary but hopeful.
I force a smile, but it comes out wrong. Then I catch Syl’s eye, and the smile breaks through, stretching my lips into a goofy grin. Here I go again.
One minute serious, the next I’m acting like a fool. As emo as Kylo Ren.
Syl slides a plate across the bar top. Their breakfast nook is tiny, a small stove and cabinets and a teeny island opposite with two barstools.
Syl’s mom gestures, her voice gruff. “Eat. It’s just frozen waffles and dollar-store whipped cream, but at least it’ll fill you up.”
“Mom took the day off,” Syl says. “In case anything…wonky happens.” She and her mom share a nod. I can feel the love between them, and my stomach clenches.
I look at the plate and swallow hard.
Syl touches my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says, misinterpreting my dire look. “We’ll be fine. The Glamoury will hold.” Her hand is soft and warm, and her cheerfulness dispels the gloom within me.
I feel like I can do anything, as long as she is with me.
She plunks down next to me, her knee touching mine, casual and yet absurdly intimate. Should’ve taken that cold shower.
Syl starts shoveling waffles into her mouth. “Oh!” She covers her mouth as she finishes her bite. “Do you want tea instead of coffee? I have some caramel crème brûlée in the pot.”
“Please and thank you.” I say it formally since I’m taking food at her table. Dark Fae take sharing meals seriously. It’s like a covenant of trust.
She pours me the tea, and the rich caramel smell is wonderful, the taste heavenly. I take a bite of waffle, and Dollar Store or not, the buttery goodness and creamy sweetness burst on my tongue. By the Wild Hunt, I could eat this every morning and never get tired. I dig in and shovel food in my face just as fast as Syl.
She giggles and touches my cheek, wiping away a bit of cream. She licks her finger, and I almost pass out on my barstool.
Who knew something that simple could seem so…intimate?
Georgina clears her throat. “Bentos are in the fridge, girls. Now, let’s go over the plan again.”
Oh, right, the plan.
I remember it foggily from late Saturday night. I listen as Syl details it.
We’re transfers students from Richmond Public High. Syl’s going undercover at the school newspaper as a junior photographer, and I’ll be the nerdy violinist for band.
In the wee hours of the morning, this plan sounded great, but now in the light of day, with some caffeine and calories in me, I’m totally doubting it. I lick the cream off my fork. “It’s not going to work.”
Syl looks at me, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Why not?”
“It sounds crazy. I mean, we’re basically going in as ourselves, with different names—”
“The Grimmacle will hold,” Georgina says. “It’s Glamma’s custom-made seeming. Not only will everyone who sees it believe it, they won’t even think to ask questions. Your presence there will be one hundred-percent natural.”
I raise an eyebrow, giving her
the dark Fae glare, but she counters with disapproving-mom stare. I’m thinking Agravaine’s lucky that Georgie isn’t coming with us. But no…she has her own part to play—worried mom waiting for her little girl to come home. After all, Syl and Euphoria are just going to vanish for a while.
We’ll be Minnie Maven and Susan Scurry.
Syl smiles at me. “And under the Grimmacle, I’ll use my hall ‘press pass’ to spy on Agravaine, and, Euphoria, if we need to, you can cover me with your personal magic.”
“Right.” My gramarye. If we get in trouble, I can spell everyone with euphoria. They’ll be so blitzed out, they won’t care what’s going on, or likely even remember. “Except…it won’t be as powerful without my violin.” I left it behind in the fight. I hate to think of it lying on the tracks, abandoned. Agravaine probably smashed the crap out of it once it was clear Syl and I had joined forces and escaped.
Syl gestures behind me, and I look.
It’s not my violin sitting on the threadbare couch, but it’s a violin. “Where did you…?”
Georgina takes a sip of her coffee. “This morning I went around to one of the schools I clean. Their band didn’t get funded this year, so the violin was just sitting there with all the other instruments. I thought you might be able to use it.”
I go over and pick it up reverently. The body is battered and scarred, but intact; the strings need replacing, but I can do that easily enough. The bow is a bit ragged. I pull some of the horsehair off to streamline it. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
It’s a thoughtful gift. Even if she is playing it off.
“Consider it a peace offering.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” I crack the joke—playing it off with her is safer—but I mean it. Georgina’s kind of…okay, I guess. After all, if she didn’t give up her sleeper-princess power, I might not have ever met Syl.
I look at Syl. And yeah. I’m super-glad I met her.
Syl clears the plates and put them in the sink. “We’ll clean up when we get home.” And then she takes out two small boxes from the fridge. “Mom made us bentos.” The pride in her voice is evident. “I showed her how.”
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