22. Helene #2
I mix the brownies until my arm aches, and more tears burn the waterline of my eyes. The strange prickle of eyes on my skin hits along my spine.
I straighten, scraping the sides of the bowl into a buttered metal tin. “Wren?”
There’s no answer, only another gust of wind rattling through the eaves of the house.
My gaze snaps toward the open sill. Please. Not another troll. Or something equally wretched.
Three attacks in three days is too much to handle.
Within the hour I have brownies, melty in the center, cracked along the edges. Audra and I make a feast of them but none of the men have returned with news. Or for company.
My cell remains curiously dead as hours tick away. Seven, eight. Nine.
Once eleven p.m. rolls around, the drape of attention on my skin is a nuisance, and a chill seeps through cracks like October has attention issues. The window is long since closed, there’s nothing freaky about our view.
The roof of The Hollow Grind is already blanketed in white, and the rest of the road shrouded, snow painting the sins of the town clean.
A spike of adrenaline cuts across my collarbone. Misplaced? Maybe. I hope.
Something is waiting out there.
The storm landed too quickly to be normal. But it sure is charming, with the world taking on the blue tint of a blizzard.
Peaceful, and quiet. Even the hum of tires on the street below slows and muffles with the accumulation.
I turn to Audra, curled in on herself, her curls spread over a pillow.
She and Mom always loved winter. We never had much of it on the west coast, but our slow creep east left us in Tennessee for six months.
Mom would take her outside, Audra insisting kids don’t get cold.
Then her disease made it harder for her to make snow angels and to build igloos out of drifts from the plow.
It isn’t fair.
Movement flickers from the street and my nostrils flare.
Wren separates from a cone of shadow cast by the lamppost at the corner. My brows furrow together in a deep V. The man’s still wearing a black T-shirt and jeans.
Another gust of wind pelts the side of the Victorian.
Through the swirl of snowflakes comes a second form, freakishly tall. Skin tinged the color of the world, a light blue, his hair long and ashen like coal. Even from this distance it’s impossible to ignore the pointed ears and the sharp teeth.
A gasp strikes like a flint and stalls behind my tongue. I jerk up to my knees, my forearms resting on the frigid sill.
“What is that?”
The man-creature lopes closer to Wren, his spine curved. His head reaches the top of the lamppost with a few inches to spare.
I can’t look away.
The male is awful, unnaturally lean and slender. And his skin...
Without the bulk of the troll, I can’t categorize this being. Surprise widens my eyes when Wren walks out to meet him. When Wren wraps his arms around the man’s chest. The two embrace, the dark Fae dwarfed by the male’s longer limbs.
And when they pull back, their mouths move, snow obscuring their features.
Tonight, the streets are conspicuously empty of life. Even the lights inside the cafe are muted and dim. Is it natural? Or has someone purposely worked a spell to keep the crowds away?
I’m too far to make out their words. Fascination keeps me watching the two.
And when the blue-skinned man scans the street for the fifth time, I duck down to stay out of view. Paranoid?
If they are, they should have picked a better spot for a conversation. The weather is no dependable shield.
What kind of covert, duplicitous shit are they saying?
I flip the window lock shut, grooves dug in my fingers. Wren is clearly comfortable with these creatures. He watched the troll attack.
What if they aren’t here for me, but because of him?
A dull ache spikes between my eyes. Stupid.
I was stupid to trust the three of them, and stupider yet to invite them into my home. I know nothing about them. If they were human, I’d run a background check.
But try finding information on a vampire thousands of years old. Or a dark Fae. Or a fucking raven shifter. Those kinds of things won't be on the first page of an internet search, I guarantee it.
Wren had called himself something, though...
I glance at Audra, sleeping peacefully in her fort of blankets with the fabric tucked up to her chin.
Unseelie? Is that what he’d said?
What are the chances my best buddy Google will have some straight up facts for me? It never hurts to do a quick browse. The library is not going to help, and tromping outside in a snowstorm isn’t high on my list of priorities.
Leaving Audra, I head to the ancient laptop positioned on the console and pull it free. It takes a second to warm up but the screen flickers to life.
I carry it into the bedroom, fluffing the pillows into a comfortable wall. “All right. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
I type out a few keywords that don't sound absolutely insane and my heart thuds painfully when I press enter.
The AI overview fills up half of the first page. Ignoring it, I scroll down, past the Reddit threads and Wikipedia. Those won’t tell me what I need to know.
A disbelieving chuckle worms its way out of my mouth. “Sure, like any of this is legit.”
Except it might be.
The internet has a lot to say about the Unseelie. Most of it is romantasy and fanfic. Wading through that takes me a couple of pages of searching.
I click on the first result that doesn’t look like it was written by a fan.
...it’s not good.
It’s not good at all.
“Unseelie Fae are inclined to darkness and evil. They serve a ruthless monarch...” I trail off, my voice stalling.
Malevolent and hostile. Malicious and indifferent toward humans.
Deceit, trickery, violence.
Each new entry has something negative to say about the subsect of Fae, and by the time I click off and close the laptop lid, my mouth has dried and the coppery taste of fear cracks across my tongue.
Not good is an understatement. Every search gave identical information. Whatever Wren is, it’s dangerous and not to be trusted.
Who the hell did I let into my home? How would I go about getting him out again?
And worse...do I want to?