by Carrie Jones
"It's pretty," I admit, as we start trudging up a hill.
"Really?"
"But cold."
Nick bumps my shoulder with his, playfully. He kicks up some extra snow on purpose, whishing it onto my knees.
"You're lucky you're cute," I tell him.
"Really?"
"Especially with that doggy breath."
He scoops up some snow, makes it into a ball, bounces his hand up and down. "Take that back."
I giggle. "Nope."
I bend down to grab some snow and topple headfirst. The cold of it bites into my cheeks. I try to push myself up, but I can't. I'm all awkward and clumsy with the snowshoes on.
Nick laughs.
I struggle some more.
He grabs me under my arms and hauls me up. Smiling, he sticks out his tongue, and with tiny little movements starts licking the snow off my cheeks. It should be disgusting. It's not It's all warm, and good feeling, and amazing. I close my eyes and let him.
"You smell good," he whispers.
"I haven't showered."
"Doesn't matter, you smell good."
His voice, sensual and warm, mellows me.
Our lips touch and part, touch again. I breathe him in. He moves his face away a little and studies me. I smile. I can't help it.
"I like you," I say. "A lot. Even with the whole werewolf thing."
He smiles back. "I like you too."
"A lot?"
"Mm-hmm," he says, leaning in for another kiss. "A wicked lot."
It doesn't matter about the snow. It doesn't matter about the pixies. I could stay here forever, steadied in Nick's arms, kissing his lips, feeling his warm, scruffy cheek next to mine. All the sorrow and the fear don't matter at all anymore. That's it. No melodrama or anything. That's just it.
Merinthophobia fear of being bound or tied up
We kiss for a long time, a good long time. I don't even notice that it's cold and I forget to be afraid because that's just how good a kisser he is. His lips move above my lips. My lips ache for the touch of him, the softness of his skin. We keep kissing. My hands wrap themselves in his hair. His hand presses me close into him, as close as I can be against him, and he is solid, strong, amazing. My hands leave his hair and journey down to the sides of his face, still tingling.
"We should keep going," he says, voice gruff and husky again. I love when his voice sounds like that, deeper than normal. His lips puff out a little more, too. "You're blushing."
I pull my lips in against each other like I'm still trying to taste him. I move my snowshoes off of his snowshoes. It's tricky.
"You're a good kisser," I say.
"So are you."
We walk and walk and walk. We make it out of the driveway and onto the main road, which hasn't been plowed for a while. It's got about four inches on it still.
"I was thinking about Ian," I say, sliding my snowshoes along.
"Great. Just what I want to hear."
"No, no. I was thinking about how he'll be sad about this."
"Oh, poor Mr. Homecoming King." He teases and bumps me with his hip.
I bump him back. "Mean."
An eagle shrieks. Still, I miss all the signs. Somehow Nick does too.
Something falls over our heads and Nick snarls, an animal, guttural sound. It terrifies me more than the thing on my head. But I can't stop the snarl. So I attack whatever is on my hair. I yank at it. My fingers snare into small metal loops. It's a net. Someone has thrown a net over us.
Nick clutches me, still snarling. His eyes have already turned. His forehead creases.
"Nick?" His name comes out slowly. I'm pushing panic away, trying to will everything to be okay. Like I can.
"Pixies," he manages to say as he pushes at the net above our heads, all around us. "The net is silver."
"Silver?"
He shakes his head. All of him shakes as he tries to maintain control.
"Nick!" I shriek at him, terrified.
Hands yank me away from him. They come from behind me and I can't see what they're attached to.
They hold onto me with iron grips, far too tight, menacing.
I twist against them. "Let go."
They don't, they just grab me tighter. It's like they're trying to break my ankles. I'm yanked out of the net. They tumble me toward them across the snow. My body slips over one of the metal snowshoes I've lost in the confusion. I grab it and throw it backward, trying to hit someone.
There is a lovely, satisfying sound of snowshoe hitting flesh and muscle, but the hands don't let me go.
I am obviously no longer a pacifist.
My fingers try to grab onto the net. I'm pulled away too quickly, dragged through the snow. Everything is white and flying and painful.
"Nick!"
I claw at the snow, trying to slow down. There's nothing to hold on to. I kick and kick. The hands clutch my ankles. Flipping my torso over I get one quick glance of their backs. They're wearing parkas and hats and look normal, like people, but faster. I smash onto my face again and lift up my head just in time to see Nick snarling inside the net. He's transformed again.
"Nick!" I yell, but snow pours into my mouth. Sharp cold pain smashes through my teeth and into my skull. I cough and try again. "Nick!"
He raises himself up onto four legs and howls, a long, searing cry of anguish and rage.
My heart breaks for him, caught there. I have to help him escape. I have to get free.
I kick again. "Let me go."
Pain shoots through my head. Fireworks. Explosions. All inside my brain. The white world goes dark and I know what's about to happen. I'm the one leaving. I am the one gone.
Nyctohylophobia fear of dark wooded areas or of forests at night
I wake up in a room that's vacant, large and cold, with just one air mattress on the floor. My head thrums and I lift my trembling fingers to touch a large lump on the side of my head. Did I hit a rock? Or did someone hit me? And Nick? Where is Nick?
I sit up, pushing my hands against the cold blue air mattress. The world spins and I close my eyes for a second, but think better of it. The walls seem made of concrete, with big rivets in them, bolts that once held something. There's one door, but it's large and wooden and shut.
Terror grabs me and doesn't let go.
I pull myself up to a standing position. My feet touch the cold cement floor.
Jesus. Someone has taken my shoes.
And my coat.
"Nick?" I whisper, kind of hoping for the unhopeable.
But he isn't here.
The memory of him, howling, stuck beneath the net, hits me in the stomach, spinning pain into me.
"You better not have hurt Nick!" I yell at… oh, I don't know what I'm yelling at.
Striding across the cold concrete until I come to the door, I try it again. "Hey! You better not have hurt my friend!"
I grab the wooden door handle and yank it. No go. I try pushing it. It doesn't budge. Damn, why am I not stronger? The door has to be barricaded or locked or something on the other side. I step back and run at it with my shoulder, which is not only not helpful, it hurts. It never looks like it hurts when cops do it in movies.
"Hello?"
No answer.
"You guys went to a hell of a lot of trouble to just lock me up in a room," I say and try the door again.
Still nothing.
"This is stupid," I announce. "Really stupid."
Pulling in a deep breath, I try to think of something calming, something that would make me focus.
Somehow, listing phobias dose not seem like a good choice. There is this quote they sometimes use in Amnesty stuff: "The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage."
Thucydides, a Greek philosopher, wrote that a hundred million years ago.
So, I have to find courage.
Walking back to my air mattress again, I survey the room. It isn't much to look at. It's about ten feet by ten feet, all concrete. No window. A b
are bulb hangs from the ceiling but there isn't any light switch to turn it off. There's a heating grate in the floor, the kind that old houses have sometimes.
I crawl over to it and peer between the slats. No heat comes through, but a little bit of light does. The sounds of faraway voices hit my ears.
The opening is about three feet wide and maybe two feet deep. Can I fit in it? Maybe? Hope lifts my heart. I can escape and find Nick, maybe save him.
Four screws hold the grate in place. I stick my nail into one and twist it. It turns. It turns a little bit.
This will take forever, but it's worth it. I pull in a deep breath. I wonder if Amnesty would send an Urgent Action appeal on my behalf if they knew: Maine Teen Unjustly Held Captive By…
How would they fill in the blank?
I move the screw a little more, until I can grab the screw head with the tips of my fingers. I turn it and turn it and it pops off. One down, three to go.
Giggling, and possibly a tiny bit hysterical, I start on the second screw, using the same procedure. I have it halfway out when the locks outside the door slide out of place. I pocket the one screw I've freed and scurry over to the air mattress just as the door opens.
I take a big breath and get ready. I don't know what I expect to come through that door. But I sure don't expect Ian.
"Zara, you look shocked." Ian smiles.
He's wearing normal clothes, a navy sweater with a shirt underneath it and jeans. His reddish hair is rumpled, but in a deliberate I'm-in-a-boy-band way.
He shuts the door behind him and stands there for a second, just staring at me. "You really don't know?"
"Know what?" I ask through clenched teeth. I make myself relax my jaw and uncross my arms. Ian doesn't need to know how angry I am, how scared.
Ian leans his shoulders back against the wall, looking relaxed and happy. "That I'm a pixie?"
My jaw must have dropped or something because Ian starts laughing. "You look shocked."
I don't say anything, just try to adjust to this newest twist. He's a pixie. Ian.
"Where's the dust? I thought you all left dust?"
"Only the kings." He sort of snarls it. Then he changes his face into something calmer, less feral. His voice matches and suddenly it's like he's back to being the nice guy who showed me to classes on the first day of school. "Are you cold, Zara?"
"I'm okay."
Was Ian the one who went into my house the night before? Was he the one who pretended to be my dad? Hate spills into me, useless emotion or not.
"You're lying. I can smell it. You're cold," Ian says. "I'll go get you a blanket."
He turns and starts toward the door. He knocks on it twice and it swings open.
"Wait!"
He looks back and smiles again at me. "Don't worry, Zara. I'm not leaving you. Okay?"
I slump down on my mattress, trying to stay in control, to not tackle him.
"You think everybody always leaves, don't you?" he says, his tone softer. "But pixies aren't like that. We always come back. I promise. We never let anyone alone. Even the ones who get away we hunt down.
Your mother could tell you that."
"What about my mother?"
"Really, Zara? You haven't figured it out?"
He steps out the door and it shuts behind him.
Shivering, I stare at the walls and the blank grayness is too much. I close my eyes and put my hands on my head. It throbs.
Ian comes back with a blanket, a glass of water, and some kind of medicine.
"If I drink this am I stuck in pixieland with you forever?" I ask as he drapes the blanket around my shoulders, tucking it in.
He laughs. "I wish it were that easy."
"I thought I read that somewhere."
"That's fairies. This is just regular bottled water and an aspirin. Your head hurts, right?"
I nod slowly.
"I'm sorry about that."
"Was that you? Did you drag me here?"
He keeps tucking the blanket around me. "It had to be done. Sorry about the rock, though."
I stand up, throwing off the blanket. The movement was too quick and the world sways. Ian catches me by the elbow and steadies me. I yank my arm away, humiliated and furious. God, why can't I even stand by myself?
I turn my anger on him. "Did you hurt Nick?"
"No, he's a snug little doggy in a nice little doggy net."
I raise my fist. Rage curls inside my chest. I can't control it any more. "If you hurt him-" "What would you do? Beat me up?" Ian fake shudders. "Oh, I'm scared. No offense, Zara, but you aren't that intimidating."
He moves toward me and smiles. "But I'm not going to hurt him. We don't need to hurt him, Zara. We already have what we want."
His words sicken me. I swallow the nausea and hold on to the rage.
"And what you want is me?" I deliberately raise my eyebrows, trying to show no fear. "That's a cliche."
"Cliches are cliches for a reason," he says.
"What about Betty?"
He shrugs. "I have no idea where your grandmother is. Look at this place. Do you know what it is? It used to store furniture. It's a concrete room. perfect for holding prisoners, kind of like that Amnesty International crap you're always going on about.
Trying to save the world, that's you, Zara. But you never thought about who would save you, did you?"
"I don't need saving."
"No, you don't. You're perfectly safe here." He comes closer and sniffs the air. He's just a foot or so away from me. I try to back up farther, but I'm already against the wall. He smiles but there is sadness in it. "As safe as any of us can be when we aren't in control, when we aren't in power."
"Did you have to mess up Betty's house?" I ask.
He laughs. "That wasn't us. That was the king. He has a temper, you know, kind of like you. It runs in the blood, no matter how hard you try to keep it down, and I think you have quite the temper simmering under the surface, boiling to get out."
"So he's changed tactics. Made you kidnap me."
"No. He has nothing to do with this. This is all me." He pushes his hand through his hair ultra-casual, and then pulls a Swiss Army knife out of his pants pocket.
He takes a pick out of it and starts cleaning his nails.
"Nice intimidation tactic," I say. "Very textbook. I'd expect something more original from pixies."
He doesn't respond, but he blinks. His jaw gets all rigid. After a couple seconds, he puts the pick back in place.
"You are so sweet, Zara, and so innocent and likeable. But no one can ever save someone else, you know? We can only save ourselves. You know that, don't you?"
He reaches out and his fingertips graze my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw bone.
I refuse to move. "Did you need to be saved once, Ian?"
His fingers stop. His eyes bore into mine and he whispers, "Maybe."
"You weren't always a pixie. They turned you." I swallow and his eyes Hash with the truth. I keep talking. "You aren't the pixie who has been chasing me in the woods. I know that. You feel different somehow."
His fingers move again, slowly. I turn my head, but his fingers keep moving.
"No," he says. "That wasn't me."
I make myself look at him then, his pale skin. His too-deep eyes that aren't human, not really. How come I never noticed that? I was too busy being sad, too busy noticing Nick, too busy being flattered that somebody liked me, I guess.
"Who was it?"
"The king. He wants you. And believe me, you do not want him to have you. It's much better for everyone if you go with us. He's gotten weak and we're having a turf war, really, and you're the key to ending it all." He shakes his head. "Who would know, that someone so short and so sad would be the one we were waiting for. We all want you or hate you."
"Why?"
"It's destiny. You're the one. Zara. Princess. Didn't you ever wonder about what your name means?"
I don't get it. "My mother named me."
"Exactly."
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"You're the continuation of the blood line. Whoever claims you claims the kingdom."
"That's ridiculous."
"No it's not."
He grabs my face with his cold hands. "Do you know what it is to be pixie kissed, Zara?"
I know.
"It turns you," he continues. "It's painful, but if done correctly, the human doesn't die, but she grows. She becomes like us. Some humans, humans like you, already have pixie in your blood. I did."
"Right." It's hard not to be sarcastic. Sarcastic is so much better than scared, anyway. And the thought of having pixie genes terrifies me, God. Is my mom a pixie?
"It makes you more powerful when you turn, and more desirable throughout." lan's fingers tighten on my chin.
"And you're the one who is supposed to turn me?" I ask, trying not to shudder.
"I had to fight Megan for it." He shrugs. "I didn't think she'd let you survive."
I freeze.
"That's right, Megan's a pixie too, and she has her eyes set on the kingdom. You're the only thing in her way, at least, that's what she thinks."
"And the man in the forest…," I whisper.
"He wants to turn you, of course. He must. He's the one who found you, but it's not all finders keepers all the time, is it?"
I swallow hard. "Is he my father?" He can't be my father. My father is some random guy my mom hooked up with in a "foolish moment." My father is not a pixie because that would mean…
Ian laughs. "No one's told you anything, have they? Wolves' cognitive processing is a bit slow. Eagles and tigers aren't that much better."
"But you guys go to school. You… how can you be a pixie? Is everyone in this town inhuman?"
"No. There are plenty of humans here. And there are the weres of course, unfortunately. But we hide our pixieness with a glamour. That's just how it is."
"Are there more of you? In other places?"
"Of course. Shhh…" His other hand cups the back of my head. I can't move. It's like my body just gave up. I try to lift my hands to push Ian away, but they won't go.
"You are such a jerk."
He leans in closer. His mouth is just an inch, the tiniest inch, away from my mouth.