Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  making them stick to where my shirt has slid up just enough to expose my wet skin.

  It is early summer, which means there is no obliga- tion to go to school, but there is an early shift at the diner that I am running late for. The Kents' encour- agement to constantly keep busy always makes me feel unwanted and isolated. Halsey usually stays at her friends’. She has so many, I can never keep up, but my ability to build a meaningful relationship, or any re- lationship, has been a struggle. So many times I tried to interact with kids at school, but they never took to me. It made me quiet, and for the most part, I’ve kept to myself, experiencing isolation not only at home but at school and work too. Even at the diner, my failure to connect and build any type of relation is apparent. I have nothing in common with my coworkers, and I don’t understand their humor. These past few months, the only relationship I have is with Halsey.

  Staring up at the white, bubbly ceiling, I see its ne- glect, its age where it is flaking in spots. Thoughts of last night’s dream fills my mind. Dreams tend to stay imprinted in my mind, although not always vividly. There's at least an understanding of what the dream was about. But this dream feels different, more per- sonal, whereas previous dreams always had a lingering disconnect of feeling distant.

  For just a second, Hal goes totally quiet, and I peer over to watch her chest slowly rise and fall. When she starts snoring again, I let out a breath I didn't real- ize I'd been holding. Huffing through my nose, I push

  back the sheet, determining it is time to get myself to- gether and spend the next seven hours at the dingy diner, serving dingy customers their greasy food and burnt coffee.

  I swing my feet over the side of the bed; the cool hardwood floor is a welcome relief from the heat my body still carries. My arms reach high overhead. Arch- ing my back, I lean to one side, then the next, to release my tight muscles from the poor mattress. Yawning loudly, I scratch my curls, taking another look at Hals across from me. Surprisingly, my noise did not wake her.

  Another snore escapes her throat as I finally push myself up and make my way into the tiny bathroom at- tached to our room. The water warms up while I pee. Leaning against the white countertop of the sink, I study my reflection in the mirror. My skin is pale and dull; it looks tired. My auburn hair is vibrant, stick- ing out like a warning signal atop my head, curls flying away at all directions. It makes me appear paler. But my blue eyes are a good feature. They stand out bright and clear. I turn my face this way and that as the mirror fogs over from the shower steam.

  I peel off my nightclothes and toss them into the laundry basket before stepping under the scalding stream of water flowing from the grimy showerhead. It turns my pale skin red in spots, but the warmth envelopes me and weighs down my curls into a sop- ping mass. The steam is comforting, and I want to stay there, to allow the steam to open my sinuses and

  cleanse my soul as it bears down on me, but then I hear the soft chirp of the alarm clock and a grumbling Halsey struggling to shut it off. If her alarm is going off, I am very late.

  Leaning my head against the plasticky wall, my body basks in the soothing water a moment longer before I rinse off and step up over the tub. I grab a scratchy white towel lying on the vanity and dry my- self off before tiptoeing back into the bedroom and finding some clean jeans, a shirt, and my apron, all of which pass my smell test. I stick my damp curls into a bun (they will dry frizzy, but it doesn't matter), slip into my Bobs, and rush downstairs.

  The smell of sausage with a greasy, smoky aroma floats through the house. Routine proves Meredith is making breakfast for her husband. It runs through my mind to avoid her altogether and sneak past the kitchen. Some toast and fruit at work would be a good breakfast for me. But then I would feel guilty if I don't try to speak with her, even though I really am running late. Maybe deep down she wants us to like her too, she just doesn't know how to talk to us.

  Decidedly, I step off the last step and wait in the doorframe of the tiny galley-style kitchen. It is tidy but outdated and cramped. The refrigerator hums loudly and the dishwasher no longer works, so Meredith washes everything by hand as she goes. Her brown hair is braided and hangs over one shoulder, and she is in a fluffy black robe and old once-white slippers. She is

  a fair woman, but she isn't beautiful. She is slim, with large, doe-like eyes, and she rarely ever smiles.

  I wait for her to get to a point where I know I won't startle her. "Good morning, Meredith." A cheerful smile greets her. She swipes some stray hairs from her eyes and looks at me in the doorway. She doesn't smile back.

  "Oh." She turns to the sink and rinses off her hands, drying them on a faded blue dish towel. "Hello, An. Off to work?"

  "Yes. I just thought I'd say hey." My arms hang awk- wardly at my sides as I lean against the doorframe, un- sure if I should fully enter her space or not.

  "Okay, sure." Her eyes roam over me. "Where are you going after work?"

  I don't want to share the place I often visit after work. There is this part of me that holds my tongue from lying. No matter how much I want to, I can never lie. So I try to hide the truth in plain sight and allow others to draw their own conclusions. Reluctantly, I answer, "I'll go for a walk. But I'll be home before din- ner."

  "Well, can I get you some breakfast?" Her hands rest on her small hips. She offers with the burden of polite- ness, not because she actually wants me to say yes.

  "Ah, nah. I gotta go, I'll grab something at the diner." She nods once.

  "Thank you, though. Next time." I shrug and smile again, hoping to get something more affectionate from her. But she just turns back to the stove and acts as

  though I am no longer there. I need to go anyways, so I brush off our little awkward encounter and nearly sprint to get to the diner and get the coffee started.

  Chapter 4 Aiden

  The place is filthy and gray. A musty scent snakes through the air, hangs thickly around me. Houses push one right on top of the other, drab and run-down. Red brick, dark, and ugly. There's no grass, little greenery at all. It simply goes from the faded black asphalt streets to beige concrete sidewalks and paths leading right up to the front doors. The sun is even hiding behind the clouds, not wanting to waste its precious golden edge on this part of the earth. Not even the sun could melt the ice in my bones from the Second Court. A light dusting of frost clings to my shoulders, leaving me cold and stiff where I stand across the street. I shrug my coat tighter around my body.

  Whatever ideas the humans have of beauty, it is clear their eyes are shut to that which is truly glorious. Their world lacks color, luster, and significance. Their intelligence always seems to waver, and they’re igno- rant to alternate realms, to even the possibilities of such things. Do they truly believe they are the limits to living beings? That humans reign as superiors? It makes me nauseous to remember that I left her here. In this deceitful realm, alone. I have kept as close a watch on her as I have been able to. But even that has been

  difficult without arousing Queen Mable’s suspicions. Now that ruse and our time are up. Whatever Queen Mable has planned, I need An back with me where I can protect her and teach her to protect herself. Not in some dingy hovel doing whatever it is she does among these humans, lower than even the lowly goblins.

  Watching her now, I can’t contain the low growl that rises from my throat. From the small gray home she resides in to the crummy diner she goes to each day, she bustles about, blending in yet sticking out from the humans around her.

  Work. A chuckle rumbles low in my chest. That's what it is. My princess, currently the humans’ servant.

  My laughter quickly turns into a snarl that catches on my tongue I consider the foul thoughts running through these humans' heads of my betrothed. She is in human form, but she is every bit as beautiful as when she is in her true form. She still has a sense of re- gality about her. Her eyes are the same, bright and blue like her mother’s, and I see determination and kind- ness even in her human face. To them, she is a poor young waitress, unwan
ted and left behind. But they have no idea the power she possesses.

  I watch her leave the decrepit two-story home later than usual, as the sun has already risen from its hiding place behind the clouds. It is as if her presence out in the public coerced it to make an appearance and bless the earth with its warmth and glory. Her curls are wet and tied back from her face, making her cheekbones more prominent and her eyes seem larger. She wears

  typical human attire, jeans and a white T-shirt, looking so casual and in place here, at this moment. I remain hidden in the shadows of the early morning, follow- ing her steps as she pads down the empty sidewalk, across the pavement, and down a few blocks to the still-empty diner.

  The old building stands quietly, as if it too isn't ready to stir from a peaceful slumber. I know her rou- tine now; my worry isn't of losing her. I watch as she knocks on the glass to the front door that fogs with the rising sun. A stout middle-aged woman comes from the back to let her in. An waves to the woman as she enters and turns the front sign that reads CLOSED around to a side that reads OPEN. From my position, I wait and listen as the birds wake and chirp a long, happy conversation in the trees. Cars empty from the roads to fill the diner's large parking lot. Patrons file in quickly after opening time, and the once-empty diner is soon full and buzzing with activity.

  Making sure my coat is secured and pulling the high collar up around my face, I keep my head down and walk smoothly across the broken gray pavement with fading yellow lines and into the diner, taking up space in the back. Inside, the place is far cleaner than I ex- pected from the outside. I've never been inside before; I've always kept a broader distance and stayed across the street, but now, with Queen Mable on the move and her little devils hunting for An, I need to be closer. The tiled floor is clean and gleaming. The booths are bright-red laminated upholstery but in great shape,

  without tears or debris. Tiny tables line the wall, far too small for my nearly seven-foot form to fit into, but I make it work. The top of the table shines as the sun fades in from the window, making a yellow path across my table and bouncing back off the chrome to the counter at my side. I conceal myself to human eyes, knowing they would stare at the ethereal stranger with the sharp features, long black hair, glistening skin, and ears that end in delicate points. I can sit in the booth undisturbed and watch An for her entire shift, always present to protect her, never straying far. Nothing and no one can keep me from this. My breath catches as she waltzes up to me, and I duck deeper into my coat subconsciously.

  "Good morning, stranger." She places a cream-col- ored mug with a deep chip on the side in front of me and fills it with something from the pot in her other hand. Steam curls up from the cup. She pulls out a plastic menu from the black apron tied around her waist and lays it on the table in front of me. There are too many bright pictures of food; it's overwhelming.

  "I'll give you a moment to look over the menu and come back to take your order, okay?" She smiles, but my eyes are glued to the unrealistic photo of a stack of pancakes with a perfect square of butter melting neatly over the side.

  Once she's gone, my eyes watch her again. The mat- ing bond, a special invisible link between two fae, never snapped into place for us. Maybe we haven't been around each other enough. Maybe we aren't even

  mates. But we love each other, that is for certain. Noth- ing could stop me from seeing her safe and claim her rightful throne. Then we could continue with our wed- ding plans and join our courts. As for Queen Mable, I often question how far she would truly go and what it will take to put an end to her intentions of destroying An. Queen Mable's ruthlessness has gone far beyond murder—that's child's play. The torment and suffering she provokes, she relishes, the tearing Folk apart piece by piece—that’s what she revels in.

  The smells of something bitter and something smokey weaves their way into my nostrils. The diner is full of people conversing among themselves. Sizzling drifts from far behind the counter in another room, sil- verware clinks and clatters against dishes, and a tiny bell chimes from time to time when a customer walks in or out of the diner.

  An walks back over to me. "So? Have we decided?" "Ah, no, I'm good with, uh, with—" I motion to the

  mug. "Just this for now."

  She nods and takes the menu I haven’t touched from the edge of the table. "Okay. Just flag me down if you change your mind."

  As I watch the bustle, my thoughts continue to dis- tract me. The clock above the door ticks by quickly, the black plastic hands passing by the hours.

  Now, with Queen Mable starting on her rampage and lengthening her list of murders, I have to get An back and train her. There is still so much I need to tell her, so much she needs to learn and relearn after hav-

  ing been here for so long. And how would I bring up the king and queen of the First Court? The Folk are in an- guish, as Queen Mable has swarmed in and taken over. An will blame me, and I will endure it. I will endure her wrath, her hate, her disappointment if it means hav- ing her safe. I will bear the look of pain that is sure to consume her beautiful features. But together, we could end Queen Mable's rule; I know that much is certain.

  Whatever happens after that, I’m sure I will accept and deserve. I was never certain I made the right deci- sion by sending An to the mortal realm, but I had to act quickly, and it seemed to be for the best at the time. I wonder if I have failed her. If I have failed her court and everything we both believe in. Peace among the fae. I laugh at my own naivety. Maybe we are both dreamers in our own way.

  Andryad sets down a plate, piled high with puffy yellow items with a putrid smell, in front of a couple with graying hair—eggs. My nostrils flare in disgust. An's curls fall around her face, lying against her perfect cheekbones. Her scent overpowers everything else. She smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

  "You guys need anything else, just let me know okay?" She smiles at them, but they've already turned to devour their meals. Oh, the power she could have over them. Through her beauty and ability, she could rule Earth if she chose to. They would bow before her in admiration, lust, and fear. My beautiful princess, my betrothed, never understood her strength in any terms. Clearly, she believes her dreams are just that:

  dreams, and nothing more. She has yet to notice they are her memories—bits and pieces of Faery that get mixed with the present. If I reveal myself here to her, I'll scare her, overwhelm her. At the same time, I realize I need to make a move soon.

  Her eyes find me watching her, and I act disinter- ested, not wanting to attract too much of her attention for fear she might comment to another. A crease in her brow tells me she is uncomfortable in my presence, as if something about it is unnatural. As she turns away, the stone at her throat winks in the light. Sniffing at the liquid in the mug she has placed before me, I im- mediately turn up my nose at the bitter smell of that black pit in a cup. What humans consume is disgusting beyond belief. Other than the similar pale yellowish- tan color of many of their foods, the smells are revolt- ing. How does she do it? How does she put this stuff into her body and not miss the taste of fae decadence? The brightly colored flesh of the foods, the sweet tang of faery wine that lights a fire in the belly. Some part of her subconscious must cry out in deprivation.

  But looking at her now, she appears to be blissfully unaware. Aside from conversing with the customers in the booths, she keeps to herself and shies away from too much human interaction. I feel a sharp tug in my chest, a deep desire to pull her to me and let her know that I am here. To stand with her, to fight, and to take back what is hers. To intertwine my fingers in her hair and breath into her neck before brushing my lips over hers, tasting her sweetness. But I clench my fists in my

  lap and stay diligently in my seat and tuck deeper into my coat as she walks toward me, empty-handed this time. My heart pounds in my chest. She is studying me; I can feel it.

  Her eyes flick to the still-full mug, the liquid now gone cold. "I'm leaving for the day. Is there anything I can get you?" she asks politely, a smile upon her
lips.

  Again, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon hits my senses, driving my brain crazy. I push back the mug. "Thank you, but I am leaving myself." I throw a handful of tens on the table.

  "Oh, that's okay. Coffee’s on the house."

  I'm about to rebuke, but she turns for the kitchen. I dash out the front door quietly, leaving the money, knowing she'll see it on her way out and pick it up. I cross the street, tuck myself behind a tree, and watch as she steps out of the diner, which is less busy in this early afternoon. She takes off at an easy pace in one direction to my left. I hold back; I don't need to follow her yet. I can so easily track her scent.

  I find her at a portion of the small town that is quiet and slightly isolated. Off the beaten path of a nearby park, she lies on the ground with the sun peek- ing through the trees, alighting her in a glow. Human or fae form—my heart doesn't care about the difference, as it beats wildly and my blood heats with the need to be with her again. How can I do this without scaring her? It is possible that she might remember me as soon as she sees me fully, but if not, I might frighten her.

  And how am I to explain exactly what was happening? She looks so peaceful, as if she might be sleeping.

  I keep back among the trees, transforming to my phouka form. My dark fur will blend better with the leaves and the trees. Andryad has always had an eye for detail. Her body is rigid; she senses something amiss almost as soon as I am in place. She lifts, and her eyes roam over her surroundings, through the trees. I freeze as blue eyes meet mine.

  Do I approach her? Do I tell her?

  Instantly, I rethink the scenario and decide better of it. I glamour myself invisible and am gone within the blink of an eye, leaving her with even more questions than before. Maybe reaching An in the human world isn't the best solution, but her dreams will provide a viable one. There, she imagines anything is possible, whereas here, her reaction could be detrimental. Last night, she wasn't afraid of me exactly, not like how she would be right now. If I can't approach her here, I need to end this in her dreams and get her back. It is the only option.