Entice (13 page)

“Spotted him,” I say and point. “I think …”

“Where?” Issie asks.

Listening, I take in snippets of people’s conversations.

No. I swear. I heard someone whisper my name when I was walking into the house. It was coming from the woods.

Dude. Get your hand off my—

It’s creepy. That whole freaking town is creepy.

[_ Why does it never stop snowing! It’s so $#%& cold. _]

Baby girl, I’ll keep you warm.

Eww. Look at his sideburns.

I hop up on a chair so I can get away from all those voices and see around all the tall men who don’t seem to want to sit down. My heart stops as I look at him. He’s so off, so menacing. “Is that him?”

Cassidy jumps on the chair with me. “Yep, it’s the guy from the fair.”

“Look,” Issie says, elbowing me in the thigh and pointing at one girl who has fake pixie wings and cleavage showing down to her belly button. “It’s like a sexified version of you.”

“You mean Tinker Bell,” I disagree.

“No. You. You’re the real pixie here, Zara,” she whispers. Her big eyes get even bigger. The standard black witch hat perches over her reddish hair. She’s placed her rainbow hat into the pocket of her coat, which she still hasn’t taken off to reveal the rest of her witchy ensemble.

“Don’t remind me.” I push my back up against the wall made of wooden planks. The roughness of it scratches against my skin. I’m dressed up like a fairy too. Only I don’t need to pretend to be otherworldly. I
am
otherworldly. I wonder if the fiddler guy is too.

Cassidy leans toward me. Her braids swing with the movement as she ducks her head a bit. She’s so much taller than I am that she always bends when she talks to me, like I couldn’t possibly hear her from her height even with my new ultra-strong hearing. Her voice is gravelly as she says, “You look pretty human for a pixie.”

“You’re one to talk, Elf Girl,” I say and tap her long swirly skirt with my finger. She’s dressed up like a demon, all leather and horns. “We’ve got to talk to him, not scare him off … We’ve got to—”

The fiddling guy abruptly stops playing and points at me with his bow. People turn to stare.

“You,” he says into his microphone.

I tap my finger on my chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you, sweet thing. Come up here,” he orders.

I hop off the chair. Issie grabs my arm as I start to move forward. “He’s so icky, Zara.”

“Stay by the door in case we have to run, okay?” I say. All my pixie senses are on full alert, telling me
Danger, danger
with every goose bump. Still, this is the lead I’ve been waiting for—this man could be the key.

Issie keeps her tiny fingers clutched around my bicep. I could break free pretty easily—but I don’t because it’s rude and, truthfully, because I am a bit freaked out.

BiForst points again. “I said to come here, sweet thing.”

His voice is staccato and rough and almost irresistible.

Cassidy leans forward. “I don’t like his energy. He’s hostile.”

“Duh,” Issie murmurs. “I’m
human
and I can tell that.”

Instead of getting annoyed, Cassidy just smiles. “That’s because you are an exceptional human.”

Issie loosens her hold with the compliment and I move forward as the music starts back up. I push through the crowd, turning sideways to get through the narrow spaces between the chairs and brown circular tables, making my way toward the fiddling man. Some people grunt while others just keep swigging down their beers and munching on their chili cheese fries. The smells are overpowering and diverse: sweat from bodies, yeast from beer, Scotch, rum mixed with Coke, perfume, breath, shampoo, lemony floor cleaner. If I were claustrophobic, I’d pass out from all the closeness.

I have no fear of closed-in spaces, though.

My only fear right now? Failure.

So I push on through and get to where the guy on the stage is perched on his rickety metal stool with his fiddle. It’s an electric fiddle. All I can think of is this old country song about how the devil went to Georgia looking to steal somebody’s soul and he got in some fiddling contest. That song always freaked me out when I was little.

The guy sneers down at me. He keeps playing. There’s some chili in his brown curly beard. I look away from it because I will vomit, and instead I force myself to stare into his eyes. One is silver. The other is the blue of Siberian huskies. I shudder. He sees and smiles. There are more chili remnants in his teeth.

Focus on his eyes,
I tell myself.
Do not vomit. Do. Not. Vomit.

He pushes the microphone aside. “Well, sweet thing, aren’t you a little young to be in bars?”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare up at him, at his brown cord pants and green corduroy shirt. He’s wearing red suspenders. It’s not the best ensemble. I sniff. He’s pixie too, I think, but his smell is off a little bit.

“No point trying to figure me out,” he says. “You don’t have the brains for that or the experience.”

I bristle. “Tell me how to get to Valhalla.”

“Not even a please?” he taunts.

“Just tell me.” I take a step forward.

He raises his bow and starts playing again. “Sorry. No can do.”

“Please.” I say the word through gritted teeth and he laughs.

“Sweet thing, I’m a dead end for you. In more ways than one. Whoever told you to come here steered you wrong.” He leans toward me. “Who
did
tell you to come here?”

“I refuse to say.”

“Was it maybe the Internet?” He chuckles like this is some five-star joke.

I uncross my arms and hop up on the stage with him. I hunker in close and whisper in his ear, “Don’t play games with me.”

“You don’t scare me, sweet thing. You and your boy king are harmless. True power doesn’t lie on your side.” He snarls at me but keeps playing, fiddle tucked beneath his chin, fingers moving as fast as they possibly can. “True power never lies on the side of weaklings and do-gooders, afraid of change, making sure they play by the rules. Now run along before I’m forced to kill you.”

I decide to call his bluff. “You’re so tough? Why don’t you kill me now then?”

He lifts his right foot and motions toward the crowd in front of us, dancing, drinking, eating, looking for each other’s tonsils, all while dressed up like us, like the fae. “Not in front of the humans, dear. So much cleanup to do afterward.”

I let that sink in for a second, assess his strength. Power pretty much ripples off him in waves, but I don’t step back. I don’t step forward either. I’m smarter than that, I hope. Instead I just repeat what I want. “Tell me how to get to Valhalla.”

He smiles a slow, deliberate smile while his hands keep up the frantic playing. “Why don’t you tell me who you lost?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you know I lost someone at all?”

“Sweet thing, nobody wants Valhalla unless they’ve lost a warrior. Tell me who your warrior was.”

There are some windows along the right side wall. If I look past the heads and costumes and beer signs, I can see out and it makes me feel better. The outside always makes me feel better now that I’ve changed. It’s snowing.

Behind me I can smell Issie and Cassidy getting closer. Issie is lilac. Cassidy is that kind of incense you always find in New Age stores. I forget what that’s called. It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting the information.

Focusing on him, I try to make myself seem more powerful, tougher, to project the image of a pixie you do not want to cross. “Just tell me how to get there.”

“Are you gritting your teeth?” He laughs. “You don’t want to do that. It files them down. Pixies need sharp teeth.”

“Just tell me,” I insist, and add for good measure, “please.”

“What will you give me in return?”

“Anything,” I blurt.

He lifts an eyebrow and I swallow down regret.

“Anything,” he repeats. “Any
thing
... I’ll have to think about that.”

I wait and he finishes his tune. People clap. Someone hoots and yells for more. He smiles, waves his bow at them, and then turns his attention to me. “How about I give you a tidbit now?”

Hope surges in me. “Okay.”

“The queen you replace has returned to the apple. Does that help?” He slaps his thigh like he’s so funny and clever and he starts playing again. The queen I replace has to mean Astley’s mother. But what does the apple mean? Before I can ask, the pixie clears his throat and says, “A word of advice, newbie. We aren’t all on your little star king’s side. Got it? Nope. Some of us are in it for ourselves, and some of us—like that one in the corner there—are just in it for evil.”

“What do you mean by ‘the apple’?” I ask as I eye the woman in the corner. She’s not glamoured. Instead her real self shows. Her teeth fang out of her mouth. Her blue skin clashes with her sequined red dress. She has her hand wrapped around a mummy’s waist. The mummy is human, male, and probably about to die. I can’t let that happen, so I start heading toward her but stop midway and yell back to the fiddler, “And how about you? Who are you in it for?”

“Me. I am in it for me.” He lifts an eyebrow and adds, “Same as you.”

We eyeball each other for a second. The world seems to still, go slow motion, as we try to sniff out each other’s intentions. His pupils flare for a second. It’s almost like he’s trying to hypnotize me, but he can’t. I am not so weak. For a second I wonder if I could do that to him, break his will, but that is not what I do. I may be pixie, but I am still good.

Right?

I am still good.

“What do you mean by ‘the apple’?” I ask again.

“
Zara!
” Issie’s shrill scream breaks through the crowd. Pivoting back toward her, I take in the scene in an instant: the unglamoured pixie has Issie’s head in the crook of her elbow, ready to snap Issie’s fragile neck in two.

Boys in Bedford, Maine, are going missing. Yet the freaking town is acting like everything is all hunky-dory. It’s like the whole place has its head in the sand—or rather the snow. From what I hear, it’s been snowing for three weeks straight. Folks are looking for a serial killer, but I say that the perps are from out of this world. Best be looking for mutilated cows and crop circles, folks, ’cause you got aliens there.

—
THE
CONSPIRACY
BLOG

While Issie’s trapped in the headlock, the pixie’s mummy companion points a gun toward Cassidy’s side, just barely hidden from everyone’s eyes, thanks to the dangling costume bandages. Cassidy gasps and becomes unnaturally still. Shock and terror elongate her beautiful face.

A growl rumbles through the bar, low and fierce and primal, like a wild animal cornered and ready to fight for her life. That growl comes from me, I realize as I leap over tables and land in front of the pixie. Someone yells, “Girl fight!” and people nearby scatter as I wrench Issie free with one move and fling her behind me. She must land on someone, because there’s an
oomph
and an apology. I can’t look. I have to focus on Cassidy and the pixie.

“Stand down or I’ll kill her,” the mummy says. His voice is low, cowboylike. He’s thin. He’s human. I could break him in a second, but I don’t because I am not evil or soulless. I realize right then: I am still me.

“Let her go or I’ll kill
you
,” I say. My fingers are claws. How? They curl toward him.

“Iron bullets, pixie.” He sneers at me while he speaks. The pixie with him doesn’t say anything. She just smiles and it is so creepy.

My eyes meet Cassidy’s eyes. She’s trying to look brave even though her long skinny fingers are shaking by her sides. I love her for that, for trying to be brave.

“You hurt her, I’ll kill you before you get a chance to breathe,” I threaten. I take a step closer. His finger twitches on the trigger. His pixie companion steps forward.

“Wow. That costume is awesome,” some random woman says. “Hey! Does he have a gun?”

People have started to notice something bigger than a girl fight is going on. They’re gathering around. Some guy yells, “Cool! Entertainment.”

The mummy looks away. It’s the break I need. I lunge forward before either of us can think, which, I have to say, isn’t always the best move when fighting.

My stepdad always said my biggest problem was a failure to look before I leap. I have to say, he might be right, because I bash into the mummy hard without really thinking about what might happen. The guy’s head knocks against the wall below a Budweiser mirror, but he keeps his grip on the gun. Right away, Cassidy’s body twists as she tries to yank herself free from him, but it seems like she’s moving slowly, way too slowly.

Issie screeches and I yell for Cassidy to hurry as I wrench the guy’s thick arm. At the same time, his pixie companion reaches for me, her claws slashing my cheek. Pain scissors through my skin.

“That better not scar,” I’m saying as the gun fires. The boom of it echoes throughout the entire room. People scream and scurry backward. It’s like dynamite has gone off next to me. My whole body wrenches away from Mr. Mummy Guy, but I don’t let go of his arm and instead try to kick toward the pixie and scream, “
No!
”

Simultaneously, I look up at Cassidy. Her face is twisted and terrified. She starts forward toward me, her arms reaching out, and I shout to warn her off. That is when the pain hits. It’s like something has exploded into the side of my chest. My legs lose their purpose and I fall to the floor. Waves of tingling rush through me and the world suddenly goes into super-slow motion.

Cassidy’s mouth is screaming, “Get away from her!”

The mummy raises his gun again, and this time it’s Cassidy who blindside tackles him. The gun flies through the air. I don’t know where it goes. I can’t see it land. Instead I’m focused on the waves of tingling, the bomblike pain centered inside of me. Some random man with a wicked Maine accent yells, “I’ve got the gun. Get on the floor. Now! On the floor!”

But instead the pixie girl snarls, wraps her arm around the mummy, lifts him from the ground, and leaps out the window. Glass shatters as snow and cold burst inside, but it’s like a whole separate me is noticing even that. The main me is focused on breathing, because my right lung suddenly feels deflated. My breaths are short and sharp and hard. Another part of me is floating above it all, just watching.