Wicked Lovely

  She nodded. She could if she didn’t let her doubts get in the way. She straightened her shoulders and peered up at Evan. “If I allow another early spring, Summer will grow stronger, closer to an even balance with our court. I will speak to Aislinn. You will find out what you can about the Dark and send word to the Hounds. Sasha and the Hawthorn Girls will see me home.”

  “As you wish.” With a fiercely proud look, Evan nodded and walked away, leaving her with the wolf and the trio of Hawthorn Girls, who were silent but for the whirring of their wings.

  “COTTON CANDY SKIES” Short Story

  COTTON CANDY SKIES

  The sky was the color of cotton candy. Tish would like that. Rabbit hadn’t made it through a day yet without thinking about his sister. She’d been dead for two months now—two months during which he’d watched his other sister become one of the rulers of Faerie. Ani and Tish had been the children he’d never expected to have; they’d been his to raise since Ani was a toddler, chin jutting out, Hunt-green eyes narrowed, clutching seven-year-old Tish’s hand.

  The paintbrush in his hand hung limp. Some days he was able to paint, but this morning didn’t feel like it was going to be one of them. He stared at the sky. The clouds were thin wisps, stretched-out bands of darker pink woven into a pale pink background. Trees, some familiar and others peculiar, popped up in the landscape, not always where they’d been the day before—or perhaps the moment before. Few things were predictable in Faerie. That part he liked. Feeling lost, however, was a lot less appealing. In the mortal world, he’d had a function—he’d raised his two half sisters, been in the employ of the Dark King, and had a thriving tattoo studio. There, he had belonged.

  “It’s hers.” One of the other artists, a faery woman with stars always slipping in and out of her eyes, leaned against a low wall outside his cottage. “The sky. She colored it today.”

  Rabbit looked away from the artist. When he stared too long, he had trouble remembering to breathe. He watched falling stars, comets that whipped past, entire nebulae all glinting in her night-sky eyes. Every time he looked at her, he had to force himself to pull away. Something about her intensity made him fear that he’d get trapped in her gaze. He wasn’t sure if such a thing were truly possible, but he was living in Faerie, a land where the impossible was more likely than the expected.

  “Not your her,” she said.

  “My her?” Rabbit asked.

  “The Shadow Queens. The girl who is two girls.” The artist walked toward him. “It’s hers, the High Queen.”

  Talking to the artist was one of the few joys Rabbit could count on. She was unexpected in the way that not even the fluid world around him was, but she had a sense of calm about her that he craved. Before, when he was the person he’d been for all but these past two months, he’d have asked her to grab a drink or dance, but the idea of doing something so free now made him fill with guilt. Logically, he knew he wasn’t at fault for surviving, but if he could trade his life in for Tish’s he’d do so in an instant. With conscious effort, Rabbit stopped pondering that.

  “Will you tell me your name today?” he asked.

  She smiled. “You could ask the queens.”

  “I could,” he agreed. “It’s your name, though. I told you mine.”

  “No.” She took his brush, touched the tip of it to her lips, and started painting in the air. Glimmering bits of light hovered in the empty space in front of him. “You told me a name that is not what I should call you.”

  Silently he watched as she created a flower in the open air, and beside it a small rabbit that lifted its head and watched them. The rabbit she’d drawn seemed to be rolling in the grass in front of a cluster of yew trees. The illusory rabbit startled, then ran under the lowest branches where it peered up at the sky.

  She handed him his brush. “You do not need to be a lonely, lost animal.”

  “My father called me ‘Rabbit,’ and my sisters did, and . . . it’s who I am,” Rabbit explained to her again.

  She sighed. “It is not all of who you are.”

  “They were my life,” he whispered. “Before my sisters . . . I wasn’t worth anything, and if they don’t need me . . . I am nothing.”

  Gently, the artist covered his hand and he felt cold flow from her skin into his. When she touched him, he felt as if he wanted to grab her and never let go. For all of his mortal traits, he was still half-Hound. He wanted closeness, but he was afraid.

  “Starlight,” she murmured, “close your eyes so you can see.”

  The words made no sense, but the press of her body against his made him feel a happiness that was absent the past two months. She filled his emptiness with something pure, filling him, pushing away the grief. He felt that light slide into his skin, and he was afraid. If I let go, will I lose Tish’s memory? As a half-fey creature, he’d lived long enough that he’d forgotten the faces of long-gone mortal friends. Will I forget Tish? Sometimes he thought he could still hear her laughing, and he didn’t want that to end.

  “Paint,” the artist urged. “Keep your eyes closed and paint.”

  He felt tears slip from his closed eyes as he moved his brush. There was no canvas, nothing that would contain the images that he saw in his mind, and he wasn’t sure if he’d see them hovering in the air if he opened his eyes. Unlike tattoos, these images were temporary at best. The paintings the artist created in the air were visible, but he wasn’t sure if his would be.

  Her hand rested atop his as he painted. He could hear Tish’s voice, her laughter, and then finally, he thought he felt her hand brush away his tears. In the images he created, Tish was smiling at him. She wasn’t dead.

  He opened his eyes then, gazing at the starlight that looked like his little sister, and the artist stepped away. Without thinking, he grabbed at her hand. “I . . . you . . .” He stumbled. Faeries didn’t use mortals’ empty words of gratitude, but he wanted to say something.

  But the artist was already walking away, humming a song that he’d once sang to his sisters when they were scared late at night.

  As he watched them, Devlin considered intervening: Olivia was a perplexing creature on her most lucid days. She turned to stare directly at him, and then held a finger to her lips.

  He startled. While he was hidden in the shadows cast by the side of the cottage, she shouldn’t see him. It was a trick that he found useful for observing the workings of Faerie without the fey or mortals noticing him.

  Olivia continued walking toward her own home, and after ascertaining that Rabbit was as fine as he seemed to be on most days, Devlin followed her.

  Once they were inside, she sat on the floor. The main room had no furniture at all. It was a bare space with pillows scattered over a woven-mat floor.

  “The shadows hurt my eyes today.” She waved her hand at him. “Make them go.”

  At a loss, Devlin did so, letting the darkness he wore to hide himself sink back under his skin. No longer hidden, he motioned at the floor. “May I?”

  “For a moment.” Olivia kicked a few pillows toward him.

  “You can see me.”

  “I have eyes.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Do you not see you?”

  “I do, but I was hidden. The others—”

  “Are not me.” Olivia sighed and reached out and patted his knee. “I’m glad you have the girl who is two. When one gets confused, it is good to have help. Do you need me to take you to her? It can be confusing to walk alone when you are not meant to be on your own.”

  “You are kind, Livvy.” Devlin put his hand atop hers. “Do others see me when I wear shadows?”

  Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. “Why would they? They are not me.”

  “True.” Devlin smiled then. “Will you tell me if Rabbit needs me? You see what no one else can.”

  “I see him. I have always seen him.” She sighed. “He needs me, but he’s not sure of it yet. Soon, though.”

  For a moment Devlin watched her. Years ago, he’d learned th
at waiting was useful when dealing with Olivia. Her sense of time was unique, as was her sense of order. Present, past, and future sometimes blurred together for her. It made her both helpful and utterly incomprehensible sometimes.

  Hours passed. Of that, Rabbit was fairly sure. What he didn’t know was how many hours passed. The sky didn’t shift as it had in the mortal world, and between the irregular landscape and the clinging grief, he wasn’t ever entirely certain of the time.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Ani stood in a band of shadows that seemed to flex and pulse like water.

  Idly, Rabbit wondered if she noticed the shadowed air.

  “Rab?” His sister walked up to him and took something from his hand. He realized that he was still holding the paintbrush he’d picked up when he’d started the day. The image of Tish was long gone, but the comfort that image had given him lingered.

  “You need to . . . I don’t know.” Ani wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her face against his chest. “I need you well, Rab.”

  “I know.” He stroked her hair. “I’m lost. The world I knew was over there. My family, my girls, my father . . . my art. My court.”

  His sister looked up at him. “You have family and court and art here, too. I’m here still, and you’re a part of my court. You can create here. Whatever you need. We can find it or make it here.”

  He forced a smile to his lips. “I’m sorry. Losing Tish . . . and not knowing what happened to Dad or Irial . . .”

  “I know. I love them too, but we are alive. They, of all faeries, would want us to laugh and—” She broke off as tears filled her eyes. “I want you to snarl at me. I want you to laugh. I need my brother. . . . I lost them too. Don’t make me lose you.”

  “I’ll always be with you.” With his thumb, he caught a tear on her cheek and wiped it away. It was past time to try to figure out where he went from here. “Come inside. Tell me about your day.”

  Ani snuggled against him and together they went into the little house that was his. She’d invited him to live with her, offered him a replica of their old home, even offered him the right to design whatever he wanted. Instead, he stayed in the artist’s area.

  Where I could wallow in my grief.

  He’d lost his sister, seen Irial stabbed, and had no word from his father. In truth, he wasn’t sure if he would, either. The gate between Faerie and the mortal world was sealed now. It wasn’t that Rabbit wanted to go to that world, but he wasn’t sure what he was to do here in Faerie. I need to try to move on. That means doing something. That was who he was: he took care of things, people, tasks. It had been more than a decade since he was without a responsibility. You do have a responsibility. He looked at the Shadow Queen, his baby sister, and smiled. She still needed him. That much was clear.

  So stop this, he reminded himself.

  “I was thinking about building a few tattoo machines. No one tattoos here, but the High Court and Shadow Court are filled with faeries who love art.” Rabbit stepped away from Ani and opened a squat, dingy white refrigerator that was covered with stickers for old-school punk bands. He pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. “I could open a shop here.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Ani sat at the garish lime-green kitchen table and watched him as he dropped ice cubes into two jelly jars that served as drinking glasses.

  The ice popped as he poured the tea in, and he paused. The tea he had just removed from the refrigerator was warm.

  Why?

  He opened the fridge; it was still working.

  “Did you make the tea?” he asked.

  His sister shook her head and Rabbit raised his hand. “Don’t drink it.”

  After taking the glass from her and emptying both glasses, Rabbit walked out of the kitchen and into the tiny living room. It was empty. He checked the bedroom, bathroom, studio, and even the patio. No one else was here.

  The side door, however, was wide open.

  Cautiously, he stepped outside and heard the artist’s voice. “You’re late.”

  “Late?” he asked.

  “Possibly early.” The artist gave him a once-over, and then she frowned. “I find your timeliness troubling tonight.”

  “Oh.” Rabbit looked around. Although he saw no one else, he still asked, “Did you put tea in my fridge?”

  The artist laughed. “I knew it was somewhere.” She took his hand in hers as she walked past him and into his house.

  Bemused, he let her lead him to his kitchen.

  Once there, she nodded to Ani and retrieved the glasses that he had emptied. She poured tea into them. The first she slid to sit in front of her, the second she handed to Ani. “Queen.”

  Ani accepted the tea with a smile. “Olivia.”

  “Olivia,” Rabbit repeated.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Olivia.” He went to the cupboard to get a third glass, but as he grabbed it, the faery—Olivia—said, “No.”

  He turned.

  She held her glass out to him. “You will share my glass.”

  Neither Olivia’s gaze nor her hand wavered as he stepped toward her. He knew that this act, that this choice, was important. In his life, he’d known enough faeries to understand that sharing food was significant. Do I want this? He thought over the time he’d spent with her the past two months. Aside from Ani, Olivia was the only faery he’d felt at ease with. No, not at ease. There was something unsettling about her. Letting Olivia into his life would mean moving forward. It would mean feeling joy again.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, as if she understood the thoughts he hadn’t spoken. Maybe she does. She was unlike anyone he’d met before, and she was waiting for him.

  “Yes.” He took the glass and drank. As he did so, he felt a strange peace slide through him. He took another tentative sip. “This is . . . What is this?”

  “Tea and starlight.” She motioned with one hand, lifting it as if she were able to direct the glass from her seat.

  Obediently, he drank the rest of the glass. “Why?”

  Olivia shook her head. “If I am to stay, you must get used to starlight.”

  “Stay?” he repeated.

  “You require me. I waited until you decided, but you knew”—she pointed at the glass— “that you were accepting me. . . . Didn’t you?”

  Rabbit nodded. “I knew I was accepting something with you.”

  Olivia turned to look at the doorway. “I will need the house grown larger and my studio brought here.”

  Rabbit looked to the empty doorway as Ani started, “I can call Dev—”

  The door opened, and Devlin walked in.

  “What . . .” Devlin took in the small group. In a blink, he took the glass from Ani. “Don’t drink that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not for us.” Devlin upended the glass, pouring the contents back into the pitcher. “We cannot drink starlight.”

  “I forget that you are only in the now, not in the later. I’m sorry.” Olivia smiled at Devlin and Ani. “My studio should be here by this time. You arrive, and then you bring my studio. I think that is now, not before-now. Is that right?” She looked at Devlin, and when he nodded she bowed her head to the Shadow King and Queen. “Give the other queen my greetings.”

  Rabbit watched them with a growing sense of peace. This was the family that would be his. It wasn’t the Hunt or the Dark Court, but he was with his sister and the faery who loved her. He was with a faery who made him feel closer to normal than he expected. They were in his home—which might have just become Olivia’s home too.

  “You may come to my studio,” Olivia told Rabbit, and then she walked toward a door that hadn’t been there before. It opened as she approached it, lengthening into a hallway.

  For a moment he hesitated, but it was only a moment. “Did Olivia just move in with me?”

  “It appears so,” Devlin murmured.

  After Rabbit was gone, Devlin turned to Ani and gently suggested, “We ought to leave them.”

/>   “What if she hurts—”

  “Ani?” Devlin took her hand in his and pulled her toward the door. “Olivia wouldn’t hurt Rabbit.”

  “She might not mean to, but—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “She wouldn’t hurt him. I’m not sure she could now.” Devlin leaned in close to Ani. “She fed him starlight, and it didn’t injure him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She gave her some of her energy, her peace, herself.” Devlin trailed his fingertips over Ani’s jawline and onto her throat. “They are both being nourished by the starlight that is her essence. She will protect your brother above all others.”

  “Why?” Ani’s gaze darted to the doorway that now led to Olivia’s studio. “I’m glad, but why?”

  Devlin traced the edge of Ani’s collarbone. “Why do you nourish me? Why do I feed you?”

  At that, Ani stared up at him. “So they . . .”

  “Are together,” Devlin finished.

  “Together,” Ani echoed. “Is that what we are?”

  “No.” He brought his fingertips back up the path they’d traced, along her collarbone and to her throat. He paused there. “We are much, much more than merely together. You”—he felt her pulse speed under his fingers—“are the faery who gives me strength, who gives me reason to wake in the mornings, who infuriates me, who enrages me, who enthralls me.”

  “Oh.”

  He leaned down and kissed her throat. “You are my passion, my fury, and my soul.”

  “Ooooh,” she breathed.

  “Shall I explain further?” He leaned away so he could look directly at her. His beautiful Hound gave him a dangerous smile. “And to think you used to try to be a creature of reason.” She drew his lips to hers and kissed him with the sort of consuming intensity that was uniquely Ani.

  Rabbit stood for a moment, not sure of how to proceed. He understood that something had happened, that it was peculiar to drink starlight, that having a faery decide to move into his home was . . . unusual. At the same time, he’d become caretaker to his sisters the same way: one day he was alone, and the next he was a big brother, acting as parent to two tiny hellions. He was a Hound, not completely but not mortal. Olivia was not Hound, but she was very much not mortal. Her actions were unexpected, but he couldn’t deny that the result felt very right.