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“And Quinn Chapman.” His voice is like nails on a chalkboard, grating down my spine and combining most evilly with the sensation of being called out in front of the entire class. “Please describe for the class, if you would be so kind, what the subplot of Oberon and Titania means?”
My cheeks flush hot and I hang my head, using my hair to cover my embarrassment. I hurry to my seat with everyone’s eyes on me, their whispers and snickers fueling the fire burning across my skin.
“Uh, yeah,” I stutter, trying to collect my thoughts. I know the play, I’ve read it dozens of times and now, having met the actual Fae Queen, my opinion of it is a lot different.
“Uh, yeah,” Haggis mimics, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That is a very insightful analysis. Is there more you care to share?”
Anger flashes hotter than my embarrassment, burning through it. I push my hair out of my face and meet his steady, imperious gaze with one of my own.
You want fairies? I’m stuck in my own version of this stupid story. You want an analysis? Let me tell you.
“Yes,” I say, enunciating my words with sharp, exacting diction. “Yes, there is. Fundamentally, it’s a play about two petulant children who, instead of having a simple conversation and coming to an agreement like adults, decide to play a game that effects everyone around them for their own completely selfish purposes.”
The classroom is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. So quiet I hear the sharp intake of breath that Professor Haggis makes. He purses his lips as his eyebrows draw together. No one else moves. I don’t think anyone breathes. The anger continues burning in my chest as I defiantly meet his gaze.
“Well,” Haggis says. “Miss Quinn, that is,” I wait for his next words, ready to be cut to pieces, “quite insightful. Class?”
He opens the floor to discussion and the other students chime in. My fingers hurt and only now do I realize I’m gripping the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles have turned white. I force my grip to ease and lean back in my seat.
This isn’t me. I’m not an angry, mouthy girl. It’s exhaustion. I haven’t slept a full night in so long I can’t remember. That and the Fae. I’m so angry with them. All of them. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I slip it out only far enough to glance at the message.
We’re on for tonight – Bridgette.
Desperate. I’m really grasping at straws.Doubts spiral through my head as I traverse the path to the unassuming ranch-style home.Waste of time. Should be studying. Should be sleeping is what I should be doing.
I push the negative thoughts down. What right do I, of all people, have to be down on witches? Or their modern-day incarnation. Still, this doesn’t look like a witch’s coven. It’s a typical, middle-class, mid-America home like every other one on the block. The driveway is full of economy cars and several more are on the street. My stomach flutters as I approach, my nerves telling me to forget this insanity.
Except I can’t. The Fae, it seems, abandoned their interest in me and, along with them, I’ve lost access to that… something that gave me power. I don’t know what that something is, but I need it. I need to get back, back in time to Duncan. To the MacGregors. Need doesn’t encompass it though, it’s too weak of a word. Must. I must get back.
There are three steps onto a small concrete porch that has black wrought-iron railing. The screen door has bird poop streaking down it. The doorbell has a crack in the middle of its ivory-colored plastic and isn’t lit up. I doubt that it works. Reluctant, I lift my hand to knock then change my mind. I drop my hand and turn to leave.
Stop it. I can do this. It’s a chance. A desperate one, but still, a chance.
I take a deep breath in, hold it, then open the storm door and knock before I can give in to the impulse to run. I hear footsteps coming from inside. Nerves jangling like I’m on the edge of a jump scare, I do my best to appear cool, at least on the outside.
The chill night breeze picks up and, for a moment, the door feels as if its tilting. Feels is more accurate then seems. It’s turning like the door on the opening credits ofThe Twilight Zone.A wave of nausea grips my stomach, then it snaps back to right and opens. Bridgette stands there with a warm, welcoming smile.
“Quinn, I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me in. My reluctance is so thick I can’t speak. I swallow to force it down and try to open my throat, but it doesn’t help. Fortunately, she’s happy to talk so much she doesn’t seem to notice my silence. “You’ve got to meet everyone. We’re going to do a spell later, but right now I want everyone to know you. You’re so interesting, I love your energy, you have a beautiful vibe.”
“Thanks,” I manage to say as she drags me around the living room.
A solid baker’s dozen are in groups of two to four, engaged in their own conversations with one another. It’s a fairly even split between men and women, but women have the edge if only slightly. She introduces me to the first group, three women and a guy. We exchange pleasantries but they don’t seem interested in me and I don’tfeelanything from them. No hints of power.
“I thought it would only be girls,” I observe as she moves us away from the first group.
Bridgette laughs without pausing. “That’s a common misconception.”
We approach two women who are sitting at a breakfast bar drinking something pink. A flash of red in the peripheral of my vision catches my attention. When I turn to see it straight on it feels like the world jumps gears, jarring into the next hard.
Across the room, emerging from a hallway that I would guess leads to the bathroom, is a beautiful redheaded woman, but it’s not her looks that jerk my attention to her. When I see her, the hair on my arms stands on end and I seemore.
There are no words for what happens. It’s as if she’s realer than everyone else in the room. All these other people are shadows in comparison, much like I’ve felt I am since I returned from Scotland, and for the first time I kind of understand it. This girl and I exist on a different layer of reality. Weknowtruths that are only ephemeral dreams and hopes for the rest of these people.
Curly red hair floats around her, outlining her face like a halo of fire. Pale skin with a heavy sprinkling of freckles, a tiny nose, and rich emerald eyes that sparkle with delight. Two guys intercept her, and she smiles. I try to tear my eyes away from her but as I do she shifts her gaze to mine.
A tingle races across my arms and I inhale sharply. The room between us stretches like a hallway in some old horror movie, the laws of time and space breaking as we look at each other. I feel drawn towards her, but when I take a step in her direction Bridgette tugs my arm and the moment breaks.
“You’ve got to meet Claire,” she says. “She’s outstanding. You two are going to get along so well.”
