Facets of Feyrie Box Set, page 23
part #1 of Facets of Feyrie Series
“So what kinda milkshake do you want?"
He laughs at my question.
Chapter Forty-Five
Somehow Michael manages to drink three milkshakes. It started as a contest, but he beat me because I bought fries too. Lots of fries. Smothered in chili and cheese and hot peppers and a bunch of other stuff I picked off the toppings menu. I’m pretty sure the waitress thinks I’m on drugs because of the way I’m eating. And a cradle robber if the dirty looks she’s giving me are any indication. She looks at Michael’s smiling face and then glares at me.
It isn’t my fault; he’s all googly-eyed. He ate; it made him intoxicated. Wait, I guess it is my fault. I made him eat the sap, but I’m not a cradle robber. That would be gross. And Michael has pit hair too, I lifted his arm and looked because I was curious about it.
“You’re not like the other shifters I’ve met,” he says, blushing. Michael needs to lose that timidity.
“I’m not a shifter. You gotta stop being so shy. You’re a fucking dragnor. Where I come from they’re feared.” They were one of the first races the Schoth went after because they were afraid of them. Oddly enough, he smiles.
“Where do you come from?” Well, shit.
“A galaxy far, far away. Do you want another milkshake?” He nods, and I order him another. Hopefully, he will stop asking questions while he drinks it.
Nope. ”Why did you help me instead of killing me?”
“You’re one of mine.” Where the fuck did that come from?
“Your what?”
“Uh… why are you hanging out with them instead of eating them?” Ha, ha there!
“Not everyone is as badass as you are, Iza. Some of us are just… different. You don’t need to be like you to survive, or be happy.” Well, I got told.
“You’re wrong there. You can be different and still be badass, or you’ll be dinner. Something you should be aware of at your age.” I look at the clock on the wall. One a.m. “Okay, I have to go.” Grabbing my backpack, I stand and toss a fifty on the table. Without looking back, I walk out of the restaurant, the bell tinkling loudly as the door shuts behind me.
Two-seconds later I hear it tinkle again. Rolling my eyes, I keep walking. This one is going to be difficult. He isn’t going to go away. I already sense that about him. Maybe he isn’t as timid as I first thought?
I can hope.
Chapter Forty-Six
Three weeks later, I’m walking around some town in western Virginia. Following my nose because alcohol is beckoning me. The real kind. Not the ‘grown in a pot under your bed in prison’ kind. I’ve tried that type, and it’s awful. Tonight, I can smell the real deal, wafting down the street. Along with some more rather unpleasant smells. Pee among them.
No matter where I go, there’s pee. I have a pee curse. I sigh at my thoughts. I need more alcohol than I realized. Following my nose, I find what I’m looking for. A seedy, run-down dump of a bar. A perfect place for me to get rip-roaring drunk and not be noticed.
Double-checking the rolled-up wad of cash in my pocket, I enter the building, noting the smoke that rolls out the door. The blast of the combined smells of the occupants hits me all at once. This place caters to a little bit of everyone. Well, everything. The occupants are mostly not human.
A quick look around and I take it all in. The duct-taped chairs, the trashed tables. The beat-up floor with sawdust all over it. The super shiny, brand new jukebox against the center of the far wall. Without pausing, I cross to the bar and climb onto one of the rickety bar stools. The bartender is a big hairy man, with a ratty, brown beard down to his belly button. His big brown eyes stare at me in amusement, glowing with the Magiks within them.
A Feyrie. A woodsman of some type to be more specific. The glamour that he wears tightly around himself fades as I look at him. For the most part, he looks the same, except his skin is made of bark and his beard of twisted branches.
His eyes widen in surprise when he realizes I can see him for what he is. When my Magiks brush lightly against his own, he shivers. This Feyrie is old and not used to the truth being found out. He recovers quickly.
“What’ll it be, girl?” His voice is deep and a fuzz accented.
“Fey-Ale.” Slapping a few hundred on the bar I pull my cell phone out of my backpack. I sit on the bar as well. “Keep them coming until I’m doing bad Karaoke.” He chuckles at this, and within seconds a frothy cold glass of ale is in front of me.
The minute it hits the bar, I pick it up and chug it in a few gulps. My eyes water from the burn of the ice-cold liquid. I slam the empty glass down on the bar. It’s refilled immediately. Six more in, I’m hitting the relaxed stage. A slight buzz is warming my body.
“So, big guy, if I pay you extra will you stash my backpack behind the bar and promise no one will touch it or steal any of its contents?” I ask, knowing exactly the boon I’m requesting. A promise is big in some Feyrie circles. He studies me closely.
“Can you promise not to break any of the good furniture?” Unable to help myself, I laugh. A belly laugh that feels good and tapers off slowly.
“Define good?” I ask, looking around at the odds-n-ends furniture in the bar.
“The jukebox and anything behind the bar.”
“Then I vow it.”
“I, as well. Give me the bag, girl. No harm shall come to it.” I pass him my bag and smile all dopey.
“Now, keep in mind I didn't get a vow to protect anyone dumb enough to try and harm ya.” This is said more quietly but holds a deeper meaning. Well, trouble will be afoot. Cocking my head sideways, I study him like the predator he recognizes me to be.
“The dark runs deep in you. I see it. Feel it. One day soon it will call me, and I will answer.” With those mysterious words, he wanders off to serve other people.
Well, I won’t be giving him a note. He already knows where to go. Chewing this over, I drink several more ales that are delivered without comment. My metabolism burns them up so fast that it’ll take a while to get the level of drunk I want. When the drunk does hit me, I smile in satisfaction.
“Music!” I whisper. And magically, the jukebox turns on. With a sideways look to the woodsman who winks at me, I spin around on the stool and hop down. Skipping like a little kid, I head to the center of the room, the closest thing to a dance floor. Modern music is still growing on me, but I like most of it. The bass of it reaches up inside of me and makes me want to dance.
Now I understand the euphoria I have seen the humans try to reach before. It could also be the alcohol assisting in that.
Not one to be nervous, I ignore the fact I’ve never actually danced in public and start swaying my hips to the beat. I spin around, and at the same time take in how many shifters and more half-half-half breeds are now inside the bar. Probably most of a pack at this point. They’re all focused on me. The darkness inside of me wakes up and weaves around me, tendrils flicking out, as if ready.
What is up with that? I giggle.
As I turn again, the eyes around me reflect in the light. Giving a toothy grin, I let my own eyes flicker. The growls are so loud they drown out the music. Now that isn’t any fun—big whiner babies. Ignoring them, I keep dancing. Not sure, or caring, of the reason for their hostility. Suddenly, the Magiks flare, giving me that weird pulling feeling in my chest. It lashes out from me and grazes the auras of everything Feyrie present.
Everything. Even those that think they are hiding in the shadows. The minute my Magiks touch some of them, their hostility ceases. Surprise written on their faces they step back, away from the others.
What in the world is my weird Magiks shit doing now? Thoughtful, I return to the bar for another drink. The woodsman puts another cold drink in front of me, leaning his elbows on the bar.
“Brought some of those puppies to heel. Been a long time since I’ve seen that.” Speaking quietly, he looks toward where they gather at several tables in the corner. “They are aggressive cos they dunno what ya be. Ya make ‘em nervous.”
I contemplate him a minute. Nervous shifters are never a good thing. I’ve met a few of those. Can be a fun thing though. Smiling, I down my fresh drink and my buzz renews itself.
It won’t last long, so I need to enjoy it.
Walking back out to the small dance floor, I look over my shoulder at the jukebox. A purple, Magikal tentacle slices through the air and gently taps the machine. A song I’m partial to comes on. The owner has good music on his jukebox. Feeling alive from my Magiks, from the buzz giving my skin goosebumps and the rhythm pulling at me, I begin to move. My dancing is different this time. Unrestrained. Not just for fun.
I stomp my foot, and the empty tables and chairs in front of me slide to the wall. Twisting to the side, I repeat the same movement. Now the only parts of the room left furnished are the ones the shifters occupy.
My arms climb into the air, and the volume of the music goes up with them.
Again, my hips began to sway. Side to side. Sinuously. Picking up the tempo as the music does. Inside me, something is building and growing into something that brings a smile to my lips. Happy to be free, alive, I give in to the temptation and dance with jubilation that I haven’t felt before.
As I dance, moving so fast I am a blur to the few human occupants of the bar, phantom, clawed hands work their way up my body. Cradling my hips and then circling to rest on my flat stomach. It is my Magiks giving form to a drunken wish, maybe an unspoken longing, but it still comforts me.
For three-seconds.
Just like that, my buzz, my feeling of euphoria is gone. The dancing stops as suddenly as I began. Almost like it’s the catalyst, with a roar of growls they charge me. The first one to me, the alpha, is caught in my clawed hands and thrown over my head and against the front wall.
Laughing wildly, I look up, and the lights go out.
From the ceiling, I watch them in the darkness below me, fighting with each other, confused about who is who. Doggies can’t see very well in the dark. Reaching down, I grab one by the hair and gave a quick twist. A crunch and he won’t be troubling me anymore. After doing this a few more times, I grow a bit bored by it and jump down into the melee.
Soon enough, the noise dies down, the lights come back on, and I’m the only one standing. A few of the bodies groan, but most are unmoving and will never get up again. Picking my way through them, I head straight to the alpha, who’s still alive. Kneeling, I pull his face up to me by his hair. His baby blues open and start to lighten. I shake his head.
“Now, now. Don’t make me kill you.” The eyes go back to a bright blue at my words. “I wanted a nice night of bad singing and dancing. You ruined that for me. The bartender is a witness. There will be no vengeance attempts on me. Or I swear to the One God, I will annihilate every single one of your pack except the children. Do you understand?” It’s a promise I will keep if he starts some stupid war.
To enforce it, I let a bit of the bad peek out. His eyes widen, and he nods. “Good, now pay the nice man to repair the damage you caused.” Climbing to my feet, I cross to the bar and sit down.
The woodsman, surprisingly, has a smile on his face.
“Have another ale?”
“Na, I’ll take a cold soda, though.” Taking the cell phone, I deliberately left on the bar; I start up a game.
“You have the look of a wanderer to ya.” Shrugging, I take a drink of the soda and kept playing. He keeps cleaning the drink glasses as he continues. “Up the road a bit there’s this hotel, not a big one mind ya, but as I understand it, they will give a room without any kinda questions.” So nonchalantly that a reluctant smile comes to my face.
A hot shower would be spectacular; it’s been a long day.
“Which way?”
“Out the door and right, ‘bout three miles.” He studies me a moment. His ancient eyes are holding the knowledge that I know he’d share if I ask. I’m not ready to ask. “Do ya have a ride?”
“Legs work just fine.”
He chuckles at my answer. “I think he finally got something right,” is all I hear him mutter, as he puts my backpack up on the bar. “Last call!” he shouts, walking off from me.
Tossing five more one-hundred-dollar bills on the bar, I grab my backpack and walk out the door, heading in the direction of the hotel. About ten minutes into the walk, I look over my shoulder at the three shifters following behind me. Stopping, I wait for them to catch up.
“What are you guys about?” I ask, prepared to fight if I need to. My Magiks seek them out. They look at each other and then come tentatively closer.
“We just need to follow you,” they answer in unison.
Gods, they’re just kids.
“Why is that?” I ask. But I already know. The Magiks mumbo jumbo shit.
“To be honest, you’re better than the pack anyhow,” the braver one of them answers. Pulling my backpack around, I dig into it looking for a piece of paper and a pen. Scribbling the ‘I’m not going there’ address on it, I hand it to them, along with money to get there.
“Go there, tell a man named Jameson that Iza sent you. You’ll be safe there.” I’ve said it at least twenty times in the last few weeks.
“But we need to go with you,” the boy insists.
“I’ll be there eventually,” I answer. It’s an inevitability; I have already realized that. Weeks ago. I’m just taking the long way there. “Go on, now, shoo. It’s late. Should be able to catch a bus from the stop there.” I point to the corner. The one good thing about my mumbo jumbo, they tend to listen when I say to do something.
Watching until they get on the local transit, I turn and head up the deserted road to the hotel.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I glance at the map held out in front of me. I’m currently somewhere in Bell County, Kentucky. Right smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by mostly bare trees blossoming with the buds of spring and the occasional call of an animal brave enough to be out in the night.
My eyes drift back to the map and the big red X on it. That red X is a long way from where I am now. A place I’m not ready to go but am inevitably drawn to. I fold the map and shove it back in the backpack. Doggedly, I keep walking along the road trying to enjoy the night and telling myself over and over that I’m not heading directly towards that stupid big red X.
The goal isn’t to get there fast, at all. I prefer walking. Slower the better.
A car flies by in the darkness. A piece of paper rattles by me, and I ignore it and keep going. There are plenty of critters out there in the woods, but they’ll leave me alone. It’s the ones in cars that tend to be stupid.
Since the woodsman at the bar, I’ve not had any more direct contact with Feyrie. It’s mostly been, half-breeds. The last town had a few shifters, but I avoided them. There was no reason to introduce myself. No pull to. Other than being hillbillies, they were lawful ones. I even picked up a pamphlet describing lore from the area. It looks like ‘werewolves’ are abundant in the mountains. They have first-aid directions on what to do if you’re bitten by one and everything.
This is amusing but complete fiction. Unlike human lore, shifters or furries, or werewolves as some call them, aren’t made. They’re born. It isn’t an infection passed around through a bite. Silly to think it is. They also don’t turn in the way people think, either. Instead, they take on traits. Not the actual shape.
Just like the vampire lore, it’s mostly wrong. I should write a book about it. Shifters and vampires don’t know their lore. It could be their Paranormal Lore for Dummies book. I smile at my humor.
Speaking of vampires—or something that eats them, anyhow—that boy from the club, Michael, is still following me. He has been for weeks. At a distance, yes, but I can feel him back there. He is one of mine. It’s why I’ve done nothing yet and let him follow me.
I make a face at my thoughts. When did I start thinking of them as mine?
A loud car engine breaks the silence around me. It’s breaking the speed limit given the rate it’s moving closer to me. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and slow my pace down to leisurely. Following the normal vein of bad luck that follows me, it rolls to a stop beside me. It would’ve been good luck for them to keep going. I don’t have good luck. Ignoring it, I keep walking. I can smell what’s in the car.
“Hey, lady!” one of the shifters call. I continue walking, and the car keeps pace with me. “Do you need a ride?” I ignore that too. “Bitch! I’m asking you a question.” I keep walking. I’ve been called worse by better.
A muffled thump from the trunk catches my attention. This time I stop. Slowly, I turn to look at the occupants of the car. They reek of alcohol and shifter pheromones. But that isn’t all.
Scowling, I walk around to the back of the car. Levering my fingers under the lip of the trunk, I force it open in a screech of metal.
A girl with bright pink hair and a busted lip looks up at me. Her brown eyes plead with me silently for help. A shifter in the trunk of a car full of shifters? What the hell is this? A now familiar feeling tightens my stomach. My Magiks come out on their own accord and connect with the girl.
“What are you doing?!” the driver shouts, coming to the back of the car. He tries to grab my arm to pull me away, but I sidestep away from him, my eyes staying on the tears coursing down the girl’s face.
“Why do you have her in your trunk?” I ask quietly, anger burning in my gut.
He tries to shut the trunk, but I hold it open with my hand. I turn to look at him, reluctantly pulling my gaze from the fear-filled one of the girl. He’s probably in his late twenties, still young and stupid. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Probably thinks he’s the leader of the pack too. His companions climb out of the car and surround me.
