Chapter 4 #2
All his scribbled notes on the Myrtle Queen.
Fragmented stories about fools who’d made deals with her, who hadn’t been specific enough in what they wanted.
When I first read those passages, I wondered how he knew, where he’d gathered all his intel if we were the only two around who could see the fae.
He knew because he was the fool who’d asked first. A fool warning the foolish.
Or perhaps his journal was never meant to be seen by anyone but him. Maybe it was just a diary to remind himself of things the Myrtle Queen compelled him to forget. In the span of seconds, I’ve come to the horrifying realization that I know nothing about my dad.
My world spins and shifts like I’ve just been dropped into an alternate universe where everything is different but somehow the exact same.
Maybe this is an alternate universe. Or maybe the mortal world is.
All those weeks away from me and my mom with his logging company.
He was with the Myrtle Queen. Working for her.
Killing dryad kings for her.
“What did he ask for?”
She smirks down at me. “That is not for me to say.”
“Well, I can’t exactly ask my dad, since you dryads murdered him, now, can I?”
“We dryads did nothing of the sort,” the queen snaps. “The Myrtlewood is not the only kingdom in Sylveris, after all. Deacon killed the Redwood King and the next day found himself dead by dryad hands. Now, who do you think would most likely be responsible for that?”
My eyes narrow. I’ve read stories that suggested the fae cannot lie. But there was no mention of this in my dad’s journal. Seems an important fact to note. “Did he even get the thing he asked for? Was his wish granted?”
Was it worth it?
The Myrtle Queen folds her hands in her lap, shoulders shimmying slightly. “Yes, he did. I fulfill all pacts made with me. A woman of my word.”
The telltale sound of a backpack being unzipped meets my ear.
A dryad with moose-like antlers removes the contents one by one, passing them to the others mingling around a heavy wooden table built from what appears to be a slab of a massive, multiringed redwood to my left.
They laugh gleefully at each new object.
A brunette with a mohawk hangs two pairs of my underwear on her antlers, waving her head back and forth.
Another takes the bag of Skittles and picks one out, popping it into his mouth before making a show of choking and spitting it onto the ground.
One of them pulls out my old competition throwing axe and drops it in disgust. Yet another snatches up my ukulele and plucks violently at the strings.
The mohawked dryad rips the instrument from her hands and slams it into the stone wall, splintering the delicate wood.
My nerves sizzle, every muscle in my body tightening. Then a dryad with blue hair pulls out my bag of diabetic supplies, and fire erupts in my core.
“Stop.” I try to release myself from the dryads’ grip, but they just hold on tighter. Blue Hair keeps her hold on my bag of supplies, but doesn’t move to open it, her stare traveling to the Myrtle Queen.
“You are angry, Maddox Sinclair,” the Myrtle Queen purrs. The way her lips curl upward tells me my anger pleases her.
“Am I allowed to ask for a favor or not?” I snarl, dropping the false niceties.
The queen shakes her head slowly, smile still painted across her face. “No favors are free.”
“I’ll pay,” I counter. “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” the queen parrots. “That is quite an array of options you’re offering me.”
I cast a sidelong glance to the Skittles sprinkled across the ground, surrounded by the nosy dryads still rifling through my things. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other viable options.”
If I gave it more thought, maybe I would be able to find some government program that helps people like me, down on their luck.
Handouts for penniless and jobless type 1 diabetics.
But would I have the time to fill out the paperwork?
Would I survive the grueling wait to see if my request would be approved or denied?
Am I needy enough for them? As a former foster kid, it’s hard for me to trust any government programs. To trust anyone at all.
Better to traipse into the forest and make a deal with a dryad queen.
Because bargains with the fae are two-sided.
Both parties benefit. The government has to be bullied into giving aid, and even then, has a million hoops to jump through in order to receive it.
The queen steeples her fingers beneath her chin. “What favor are you asking of me?”
“My life is…a fucking mess. I have no job, no money, no health insurance, no home, no family. I’m—” I’m about to say, type 1 diabetic, but regular mortals don’t even know the difference between types 1 and 2, so I doubt a dryad royal would even know what it is to begin with.
“I’m…sick,” I say instead, “which wouldn’t be that big of a deal if I had piles of money, or if the American health-care system weren’t such a greedy fucking—”
“Yes, that is all very sad,” she interrupts, “but what do you want, precisely? Piles of money?”
Locking down emotions that threaten to show themselves, I give myself a moment to think. Loads of money would be nice. But would it be worth whatever she’s going to ask of me, like she did my father? No, I’m going to need more than just that. Call me greedy. I call it pragmatic.
“I want to be cured.” This is all I truly need to survive, but I don’t trust this dryad woman to not twist my request into something she could benefit from.
And my dad’s journal said specificity is key in deals with dryads, so I elaborate.
“I mean—of my diabetes. I want enough money to be able to afford to live on my own. I don’t want to ever have to rely on drugs to keep me alive.
” They could just kill me and that would essentially fulfill my wish.
“And I want to live for a very long time.”
She seems almost impressed by my thorough request; a crooked smile lifts one side of her mouth. “And in exchange for these things, you would do…?”
“Anything.” I hate the desperation in my voice. Though, what could a person who begs a favor from the Myrtle Queen be other than desperate?
She taps her chin with a long, thin finger. “I will have to think about our bargain. There are so many options, you see. Meanwhile, Drosera and Atlas will take you to the visitors’ quarters.”
“Visitors’ quarters?”
“You are our guest now.”
Whether I want to be or not, it seems.
“To your feet, axeling,” the dryad to my left snarls—Drosera or Atlas, I’m not sure which. I only know I truly don’t like her one little bit.
I turn to the queen. “So you’re considering granting my request, then?”
She stands from her throne, showing off her full magnificence: crystal-encrusted leather armor, golden bodice dotted with rubies, thin leather weapons belt strung low across her hips, muscle cording her arms. She looks like a warrior queen. I don’t fear many people. But I fear her.
I glance down at my own ensemble: combat boots, baggy ripped jeans, and a cropped T-shirt decorated with a skeleton hand making the rock on sign.
She looks like a force, and I look like a troubled youth who never grew up.
Somehow, though, the queen’s eyes gleam as they skirt over me… as if she sees something I don’t.
“I’d be a fool not to consider a bargain with the daughter of Deacon Sinclair.”