Love Struck

by Melissa Marr

  This faery was even worse: he had donned a glamour between one step and the next, becoming suddenly visible, as if revealing himself didn’t matter at all.

  He stopped at the counter and talked to Eddy—leaning close to be heard over the music that blared from the speakers in the corners.

  Eddy glanced her way, and then back at the faery. He said her name. She saw it, even though she couldn’t hear it.

  No.

  The faery started walking toward her, smiling, looking for all the world like one of her wealthier classmates.

  She turned away and picked up an old issue of Nightmares and Fairy Tales. She clutched it, hoping her hands weren’t shaking.

  “Aislinn, right?” Faery-boy was beside her, his arm against hers, far too close. He glanced down at the comic, smiling wryly. “Is that any good?”

  She stepped back and slowly looked him over. If he was trying to pass for a human she’d want to talk to, he’d failed. From the hems of his faded jeans to his heavy wool coat, he was too uptown. He’d dulled his copper hair to sandy-blond, hidden that strange rustle of summer, but even in his human glamour, he was too pretty to be real.

  “Not interested.” She slid the comic back in place and walked down the next aisle, trying to keep the fear at bay, and failing.

  He followed, steady and too close.

  She didn’t think he’d hurt her, not here, not in public. For all their flaws, the fey seemed to be better behaved when they wore human faces. Maybe it was fear of the steel bars in human jails. It didn’t really matter why: what mattered was that it was a rule they seemed to follow.

  But when Aislinn glanced at him, she still wanted to run. He was like one of the big cats in the zoo—stalking its prey from across a ravine.

  Deadgirl waited at the front of the shop, invisible, seated on her wolf’s back. She had a pensive look on her face, eyes shimmering like an oil slick—strange glints of color in a black puddle.

  Don’t stare at invisible faeries, Rule #3. Aislinn glanced back down at the bin in front of her calmly, as if she’d been doing nothing more than gazing around the store.

  “I’m meeting some people for coffee.” Faery-boy moved closer. “You want to come?”

  “No.” She stepped sideways, putting more distance between them. She swallowed, but it didn’t help how dry her mouth was, how terrified and tempted she felt.

  He followed. “Some other night.”

  It wasn’t a question, not really. Aislinn shook her head. “Actually, no.”

  “She already immune to your charms, Keenan?” Deadgirl called out. Her voice was lilting, but there was a harsh edge under the words. “Smart girl.”

  Aislinn didn’t reply: Deadgirl wasn’t visible. Don’t answer invisible faeries, Rule #2.

  He didn’t answer her, either, didn’t even glance her way. “Can I text you? E-mail? Something?”

  “No.” Her voice was rough. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, making a soft clicking noise when she tried to speak. “I’m not interested at all.”

  But she was.

  She hated herself for it, but the closer he stood to her, the more she wanted to say yes, yes, please yes to whatever he wanted. She wouldn’t, couldn’t.

  He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and scrawled something on it. “Here’s mine. When you change your mind…”

  “I won’t.” She took it—trying not to let her fingers too near his skin, afraid the contact would somehow make it worse—and shoved it in her pocket. Passive resistance, that was what Grams would counsel. Just get through it and get away.

  Eddy was watching her; Deadgirl was watching her.

  Faery-boy leaned closer and whispered, “I’d really like to get to know you….” He sniffed her like he really was some sort of animal, no different than the less-human-looking ones. “Really.”

  And that would be Rule #1: Don’t ever attract faeries’ attention. Aislinn almost tripped trying to get away—from him and from her own inexplicable urge to give in. She did stumble in the doorway when Deadgirl whispered, “Run while you can.”

  Keenan watched Aislinn leave. She didn’t really run, but she wanted to. He could feel it, her fear, like the thrumming heart of a startled animal. Mortals didn’t usually run from him, especially girls: only one had ever done so in all the years he’d played this game.

  This one, though, she was afraid. Her already-pale skin blanched when he reached out to her, making her look like a wraith framed by her straight blue-black hair. Delicate. It made her seem more vulnerable, easier to approach. Or maybe that was just because she was so slight. He imagined he could tuck her head under his chin and fit her whole body in the spare fold of his coat. Perfect. She’d need some guidance on attire—replace the common clothes she seemed to prefer, add a few bits of jewelry—but that was inevitable these days. At least she had long hair.

  She’d be a refreshing challenge, too, in strange control of her emotions. Most of the girls he’d picked were so fiery, so volatile. Once he’d thought that was a good indicator—Summer Queen, fiery passion. It had made sense.

  Donia interrupted his thoughts: “I don’t think she likes you.”

  “So?”

  Donia pursed her blue lips—the only spot of color in her cold, white face.

  If he studied her, he could find proof of the changes in her—the blond hair faded to the white of a snow squall, the pallor that made her lips seem so blue—but she was still as beautiful as she had been when she’d taken over as the Winter Girl. Beautiful, but not mine, not like Aislinn will be.

  “Keenan,” Donia snapped, a cloud of frigid air slipping out with her voice. “She doesn’t like you.”

  “She will.” He stepped outside and shook off the glamour. Then he said the words that’d sealed so many mortal girls’ fates. “I’ve dreamed about her. She’s the one.”

  And with that Aislinn’s mortality began to fade. Unless she became the Winter Girl, she was his now—for better or for worse.

  Ink Exchange

  Chapter 1

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING YEAR

  Leslie slipped into her school uniform and got ready as quickly as she could. She closed her bedroom door softly, staying quiet so she could get out of the house before her father woke. Being retired wasn’t good for him. He’d been a decent father before—before Mom left, before he’d fallen into a bottle, before he’d started taking trips to Atlantic City and gods knew where else.

  She headed to the kitchen, where she found her brother, Ren, at the table, pipe in hand. Wearing nothing but a pair of ratty jeans, his blond hair loose around his face, he seemed relaxed and friendly. Sometimes he even was.

  He looked up and offered a cherubic smile. “Want a hit?”

  She shook her head and opened the cupboard, looking for a tolerably clean cup. None. She pulled a can of soda from the meat drawer in the fridge. After Ren had doped a bottle—and thereby doped her—she’d learned to drink only from still-sealed containers.

  Ren watched her, content in his chemical cloud, smiling in a perversely angelic way. When he was friendly and just smoking pot, it was a good day. Ren-on-Pot wasn’t a problem: pot just made him mellow. It was Ren-on-Anything-Else that was unpredictable.

  “There’s chips over there if you want some breakfast.” He pointed to a mostly empty bag of corn chips on the counter.

  “Thanks.” She grabbed a couple and opened the freezer to get the toaster waffles she’d hidden. They were gone. She opened the cupboard and pulled out a box of the only type of cereal her brother didn’t eat—granola. It was nasty, but his pilfering stopped at the healthy stuff, so she stocked up on it.

  She poured her cereal.

  “No milk left,” Ren mumbled, eyes closed.

  Sighing softly, Leslie sat down with her bowl of dry granola. No fights. No troubles. Being home always made her feel like she was walking on a high wire, waiting for a gust of wind to knock her to the ground.

  T
he kitchen smelled strongly of weed. She remembered when she used to wake up to the scent of eggs and bacon, when Dad would brew fresh coffee, when things were normal. It hadn’t been like that for more than a year.

  Ren plunked his bare feet on the kitchen table. It was covered with junk—news circulars, bills to pay, dirty dishes, and a mostly empty bottle of bourbon.

  While she ate, she opened the important bills—electric and water. With relief, she saw that Dad had actually paid ahead on both of them. He did that when he had a good run of luck at the tables or a few sober days: sent extra on the big bills so it wouldn’t be a hassle later. It didn’t help for groceries or the cable bill, which was overdue again, but she could usually cover those when she had to.

  Not this time, though. She’d finally decided to go through with it, to get a tattoo. She’d been wanting one for a while but hadn’t felt ready. In the last few months, she’d become near obsessed with it. Waiting wasn’t the answer, not anymore. She thought about that act far too often—marking her body, reclaiming it as her own, a step she needed to take to make herself whole again.

  Now I just need to find the right image.

  With what she hoped was a friendly smile, she asked Ren, “Do you have any money for cable?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. What’s it worth to you?”

  “I’m not bargaining. I just want to know if you can cover cable this month.”

  He took a long hit off his pipe and exhaled into her face. “Not if you’re going to be a bitch about it. I have expenses. If you can’t do a guy a favor now and then, make nice with my friends”—he shrugged—“you pay it.”

  “You know what? I don’t need cable.” She walked over to the trash and dropped the bill in the can, fighting back the sickness in her throat at the mention of making nice with his friends, wishing that someone in her family cared about what happened to her.

  If Mom hadn’t taken off…

  But she had. She’d bailed and left Leslie behind to deal with her brother and father. “It’ll be better this way, baby,” she’d said. It wasn’t. Leslie wasn’t sure if she’d want to talk to her mom anymore—not that it mattered. She had no contact information at all.

  Leslie shook her head. Thinking about that wouldn’t help her cope with her current reality. She started to walk past Ren, but he stood up and grabbed her for a hug. She was stiff in his arms.

  “What? Are you on the rag again?” He laughed, amused by his crass joke, amused by her anger.

  “Never mind, Ren. Just forget I—”

  “I’ll pay the bill. Relax.” He let go of her, and as soon as he let his arm drop, she stepped away, hoping the scent of pot and cigarettes wouldn’t cling to her too obviously. Sometimes she suspected that Father Meyers knew exactly how much things had changed for her, but she still didn’t want to walk into school reeking.

  She put on her fake smile and murmured, “Thanks, Ren.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You just remember it next time I need you to come out with me. You’re a good distraction when I need credit.” He looked at her calculatingly.

  She didn’t reply. There wasn’t an answer that would help. If she said no, he’d be a prick, but she wasn’t saying yes. After what his druggie friends did—what he let them do—she wasn’t going anywhere near them again.

  Instead of rehashing that argument, she went and grabbed the bill out of the trash. “Thanks for taking care of it.”

  She handed it to him. Right now, it didn’t matter if he did it or not: she couldn’t pay the cable bill and get ink, and really, she didn’t watch cable enough to justify paying for it. Mostly, she paid it because she was embarrassed by the idea of anyone finding out that her family couldn’t pay a bill, as if by keeping it normal as long as possible maybe it’d get normal. It kept her from facing the inevitable pity and whispers if everyone found out how lame her father had become since Mom left, if they found out just how low her brother had gotten.

  By fall she’d be in college, escaped from here, away from them. Just like Mom did—escape. Sometimes she wondered if her mother had been escaping something she didn’t want Leslie to know about. If so, her mother’s leaving made more sense—but her leaving Leslie behind made less sense. It doesn’t matter. Leslie had already sent out her first-choice applications and applied for a bunch of scholarships. That’s what matters—getting a plan and getting out. Next year she’d be safe, in a new city, in a new life.

  But that didn’t stop the wave of terror she felt as Ren lifted his bourbon in a silent salute.

  Without another word, she grabbed her bag.

  “Catch you later, sis,” Ren called, before he turned his attention to packing another bowl.

  No. You won’t.

  By the time Leslie walked up the steps to Bishop O’Connell High School, her fears were safely tucked back in their box. She’d gotten better at watching for the warning signs—the tense calls that meant Ren was in trouble again, the strangers in the house. She worked extra if there were too many warning signs. She’d put locks on her bedroom door. She didn’t drink out of open bottles. Her safeguards didn’t undo what was, but they helped avoid what could be.

  “Leslie! Hold up,” Aislinn called out from behind her.

  Leslie stopped and waited, schooling her face to be bland and calm, not that it mattered: Aislinn had been lost in her own world lately. A few months ago, she’d hooked up with the all-too-yummy Seth. They’d been practically dating anyhow, so that wasn’t so weird. What was weird was that Aislinn had simultaneously developed a very intense relationship with another guy, Keenan. Somehow neither guy seemed to object to the other.

  The guys who’d walked Aislinn to school stood watching her from across the street while she caught up to Leslie. Keenan and Niall, his uncle, didn’t move from their post, seeming far too serious—and apparently oblivious to the number of people watching them like they were members of the Living Zombies. Leslie wondered if Niall played an instrument. He was sexier than any of the Zombies. If he played or sang too…he’d be halfway to success just by looking so delicious. He had a mysterious aura, plus he was a couple years older than Leslie and Aislinn—a college sophomore maybe. Add that oddly sexy responsibility thing—he was one of Keenan’s guardians, an uncle, but still young—and he seemed like a perfect package, one she was staring at again.

  When he smiled and waved, Leslie had to force herself not to go toward him. She always felt like that when he looked at her. There was an illogical urge to run toward him, like something was coiled too tightly inside her and the only way to ease the tension was to go to him. She didn’t. She wasn’t about to make a fool of herself over a guy who hadn’t shown any genuine interest. Maybe he would, though. So far, their only contact had been under the watchful eye of Keenan or Aislinn, and that was usually interrupted by Aislinn’s flimsy excuses to go somewhere away from Niall.

  Aislinn put her hand on Leslie’s arm. “Come on.”

  And, like they had so often, they walked away from Niall.

  Leslie turned her attention to Aislinn. “Wow. Rianne said you were crazy tan, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Aislinn’s perpetually pale skin was perfectly tan, as if she’d been living on a beach, as tan as Keenan always was. It hadn’t been that way on Friday. Aislinn bit down on her lip—a nervous habit that usually meant she was feeling cornered. “It’s some winter thing—SAD, they called it—so I needed to get some sunlight.”

  “Right.” Leslie tried to keep the doubt out of her voice and failed. Aislinn didn’t seem depressed at all—or to have reason to be depressed lately. In fact, she seemed like she’d become rather flush with money and attention. A few times when Leslie had seen her out with Keenan, both of them had been wearing matching twisted golden necklaces that fit snugly around their throats. The clothes that Aislinn wore, the new winter coats, the chauffeurs, and—let’s not forget—Seth’s being cool with all of it. Depressed? Yeah, right.

  “Did you go over the reading for Lit?
” Aislinn pulled open the door and they joined the throng of people in the halls.

  “We had a dinner thing out of town, so I didn’t finish.” Leslie gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Ren even dressed with all the required pieces of clothing.”

  They both continued to steer the conversation away from topics they didn’t want to address. Leslie lied easily, but Aislinn seemed determined to direct the conversation toward neutral subjects. Eventually, she glanced behind her—as if there were someone there—and made another random topic switch: “Are you still working over at Verlaine’s?”

  Leslie looked: there wasn’t anyone there. “Sure. It drives Dad mad that I wait tables, and you know, gives me a good excuse if I need to explain my weird hours.”

  Leslie didn’t admit that she had to work or that her father didn’t have a clue what she did for money. She wasn’t sure her father knew she had a job or that she paid the bills. He might have thought Ren was doing it, although he probably didn’t realize Ren was dealing—or selling me—to get his money. Talking about money, home, and Ren was so not the sort of conversation she wanted to have, so she took a turn shifting the topic. With a conspiratorial grin, she looped her arm around Aislinn’s waist and assumed the facade she adopted with her friends. “So, let’s talk about Keenan’s sexy uncle. What’s the scoop on him? Is he seeing anyone?”

  “Niall? He’s just…he’s not, but…” Aislinn frowned. “You don’t want to mess with him. There’s prettier…I mean, better…”

  “I doubt that, sweetie. Your vision’s clouded by staring at Seth too long.” Leslie patted Aislinn’s arm. “Niall’s top shelf.”

  His face was as beautiful as Keenan’s but in a different way: Niall’s had character. One long scar ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, and he wasn’t shy about it. His hair was cut so short that there was no chance of anything detracting from the beauty of that jagged line. And his body…wow. He was all sinew and length, moving like he had been training in some long-lost martial art since birth. Leslie couldn’t figure why anyone would notice Keenan when Niall was around. Keenan was attractive enough, with his unnatural green eyes, perfect body, and sandy-blond hair. He was gorgeous, but he moved in a way that always made Leslie think he wasn’t quite meant for civilization. He frightened her. Niall, on the other hand, was luscious and seemed sweet—kind in a way that Keenan wasn’t.