The Faerie War

Chapter 2

Two

Jamon’s eyes move from the arrow in the guard’s chest up to my face. “You … you shot him.”

I shot him.

I uncurl my fingers from the sparkling bow, and it disappears. “Of course,” I say, sounding a lot calmer than I feel. “What was I supposed to do? Let him kill you?”

Jamon frowns. “I could have taken him out on my own.”

“I doubt it. Before I shot him, it looked like he was about to take you out.”

Jamon eyes the fallen faerie. “Is he dead? I know it’s supposed to be difficult to kill your kind.”

His words trouble me, but I try not to show it. “If you leave the arrow in, the magic will eventually fade from his body and he’ll die. But if you remove it within the next hour or so, his magic will heal his heart and he’ll be fine.” How do I know that? I ask myself. I just do, it seems. It’s general knowledge, like knowing the sky is blue and that faeries live for centuries.

Jamon narrows his eyes at me. “Did you mean to kill him?”

“Of course not. What do you think I am, a cold-blooded killer?”

Jamon raises an eyebrow. “Well …”

“I’m not a killer.” What I don’t say is that I’m more than a little disturbed that I just shot someone in the heart. The only thing keeping me from freaking out is the knowledge that if we act quickly, the guard won’t die. I walk over to him and lift his legs. “I’m also not stupid,” I tell Jamon. “If we get the arrow out of this guy quickly, he’ll survive. Then you’ll have one of Draven’s men as your prisoner and you can ask him whatever you want.”

Jamon stares at me.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “Are you going to help me carry him, or should I push him down the stairs like you pushed me?”

At the bottom of the steep stairway, one of the reptiscillan guards takes over from me and helps Jamon carry Draven’s faerie to wherever prisoners are kept. I’m left to wander through the tunnels back to Farah’s home. The home that’s been mine for the past month. Jamon doesn’t mind letting me out of his sight down here; he knows the numerous guards on duty at the bottom of the stairway would never let me out. And if I continued along one of the tunnels in hopes of finding another exit, I’d probably run into some other guardian-hating creature before I found a way out from Underground.

Underground. It surprises me that there are things I remember about this place. I remember that it’s a network of tunnels, dangerous because many of the fae who reside down here aren’t the friendly type. There are various hidden entrances and many different communities. Some mix, while others keep to themselves. I also remember that I’ve been here before. My memories of exactly what I did down here are absent, but I do remember flashing, colored lights and hazy rooms of dancing fae.

Interesting. I can’t imagine myself as the partying type, but maybe I am.

I walk along the edge of one of the wide tunnels, trailing my hand along the sandy wall. After almost winding up flattened like a faerie pancake, I learned that wagons and other transportation devices can travel down these tunnels at remarkable speeds. It’s best to stay out of the way at all times. Fat glow-bugs of the bright white variety are stuck to the ceiling at regular intervals, ensuring that no matter where anyone chooses to wander, their path will always be lit. The smell of wet earth fills my nostrils, mingling with a hint of spices and incense.

I hear laughter behind me as three reptiscillan children run past: a boy dragging a toy cart behind him chased by another two boys. They disappear around a corner into one of the tunnels with homes along it. I look up as I pass the tunnel and read the sign hanging above the entrance. Slippers Way. I remember that one. Farah has a friend who lives down there. We visited her for tea one afternoon.

I pass several other people on my way to Farah’s tunnel. They’re all reptiscillas except for the dwarf carrying a lumpy bundle on his head. Most of them ignore me, but two or three glance warily in my direction before crossing to the other side of the tunnel. Only one person smiles as I pass: a girl about my own age with green ribbons tied in her black hair. Natesa, I think her name is. I’ve seen her with Jamon. It’s the only time he ever smiles.

Farah’s tunnel has a warmth to it that the main tunnel lacks, probably due to the orange glow-bugs on the ceiling and the tiny flecks of yellow light glinting inside the paving stones covering the tunnel floor. Baskets of flowers hang here and there between the doors. Flowers that never seem to wilt. There must be different people in charge of different tunnels because some are so pretty while others are completely bare.

I reach the door to Farah’s home and push it open. “Hello?” I call. No response. She’s obviously out. I shut the door behind me and cross the kitchen to the small bedroom that’s been mine ever since I woke up in it a month ago. I light the lantern with a flick of my finger—Farah doesn’t believe in using glow-bugs—before flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. Like all the walls in this home, the ceiling is covered in a creamy-colored paint that Farah told me heats up in winter and cools down in summer. And like every other time I’ve stared at it, my heart starts racing with the impatient need to be out there, figuring out who I am and doing my part to bring Draven down. Every day that passes is more wasted time.

I sit up and run a hand through my hair. The note in my front pocket makes a crinkling sound as I cross my legs. I carefully slide it out. I don’t want it to get too crumpled or I won’t be able to read the words anymore. Not that it matters, I suppose. I’ve read it so many times I know every word by heart. I start to open it once more, carefully unfolding the softened edges of the paper, but I’m interrupted by the sound of Farah’s front door opening.

“Grandma, are you here?”

“No, it’s just me,” I call out to Jamon, sliding the note back into my pocket. I climb off the bed and walk to the kitchen. “I don’t know where she is. She wasn’t here when I got back just now.”

“Actually,” Jamon says as he pushes his hands into his pockets and looks at the floor, “it’s you I wanted to speak to.”

“Oh.” I lean against the small wooden table in the center of the kitchen and try to figure out why Jamon isn’t giving me one of his death stares.

“Yeah, uh, I thought about it and figured that Draven’s guard probably would have defeated me if you hadn’t shot him, so … thanks.”

“Oh,” I say again. “That’s … unexpected.”

“Yeah, well, I know you think I’m an awful person because of the way I’ve treated you, but I’m not above thanking someone for saving my life. Even if I’m still not sure I should be trusting that someone.”

I reach for the key around my neck and move it back and forth across its chain. “Um, okay, sure. You’re welcome.”

Jamon finally raises his eyes from the floor and looks at me. “Anyway, Draven’s faerie is locked up now. The arrow has been removed from his chest. As soon as he wakes up, I’m sure my dad will want to interrogate him.”

I’m sure he will, considering Jamon’s father is the main leader of the reptiscillan community residing in Creepy Hollow. “Well, I hope he learns something useful.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I need to go.” Jamon turns toward the door, but before he can reach for the handle, the door swings open and Farah steps inside, a basket weighing her arm down.

“Jamon,” she says in surprise. “Why aren’t you at the meeting?”

“Meeting?”

“The leaders’ meeting.” Farah heaves her basket onto the kitchen table. Her eyes flick to me before returning to her grandson’s. “The one about Violet.”

The one about me? I feel suddenly sick, as though I’m whooshing through winding tunnels on one of the reptiscillas’ high-speed transporters.

“What?” Jamon’s eyebrows are drawn together, and his greenish-blue skin flashes lighter, then darker. “I thought the meeting was tomorrow.”

Farah lifts her shoulders. “I suppose you got the days mixed up, dear boy.”

“The days mixed—I couldn’t—ugh!” He rushes out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Farah chuckles and shakes her head while I reach across the table and pull the basket toward me. I start unpacking the food. “This is the meeting where they decide what to do with me, right?”

Farah nods, pulls a chair out, and sits down with a sigh. “But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Vi. You’ve been down here long enough for them to see that you aren’t a real threat to anyone.”

Right. I wish I could be as sure as Farah. “Does Jamon really need to be there? Didn’t you say he isn’t a leader yet?” I hope the meeting finishes before he gets there. He’d probably try to convince everyone to lock me up right next to the faerie I just helped him capture.

“He’ll become a leader in a few months when he turns twenty,” Farah says as she pushes her long grey hair off her shoulder. “But since The Destruction he’s been attending all the meetings. He’s desperate to do his part to protect us all from Draven. Since he’s the son of the Leader Supreme, no one has objected to his presence at meetings.”

“I see.” Please, please, please let the meeting end before he gets there. I’m desperate to be set free. It would be a little scary above ground on my own, with most of my memories gone, but at least I could do more to find out who I am than simply chilling Underground. If I’m honest with myself, though, I’d probably be a little sad to leave here. The reptiscillas are the only people I know now, and they don’t all dislike me. Farah’s been very kind. She asks questions to try to jog my memory, and when it becomes clear that I don’t know what she’s talking about most of the time, she explains things to me. She told me about the guardians. She told me what Creepy Hollow was like before The Destruction.

“Violet?”

I blink and realize I’m staring at a pumpkin in my hands. “Yes?”

“It goes in the drawer next to the sink, remember?”

I smile. “Yeah, I know.” I carry the pumpkin to the large drawer and add it to the collection of vegetables already there.

“Thank you, dear.” Farah catches my hand as I walk past. “It’s such a help to have you here. I’m always so tired after visiting the market that all I want to do is lie down.” Her roughened hand squeezes mine before she stands and heads to her bedroom.

After packing away the food, I sit at the table and try to read one of Farah’s books and not think about the leaders’ meeting. I rub absently at the scar that encircles my right wrist like a bracelet. My right leg jumps up and down. One of my fingers taps against the table.

When the restlessness inside me threatens to explode, I stand up. I can’t just sit here while a group of people decide my fate. I have to know what’s going on.

I close the door quietly behind me so I don’t wake Farah. Then I run. I run because I don’t know how soon the meeting will be over, but I also run because it feels good. Not the desperate, Draven’s-guards-might-catch-you kind of run Jamon and I did earlier, but a comfortable jog that gets my blood moving. I wish I could run more often, but everything feels too cramped down here. And Jamon might think I’m trying to escape if he saw me moving at any speed faster than a walk.

Fortunately, I know exactly where the leaders have their meetings. There’s a large open area—and by ‘open’ I simply mean the ceiling is much higher there than anywhere else—known as the Circle where a number of tunnels meet, like a giant wheel with spokes coming off it. It’s the area where the weekly market is set up and where the children’s playground is. It also happens to have a ‘spoke’ that leads straight into a large hall. A hall where all important meetings and gatherings take place.

I slow down as I near the Circle; I don’t want to draw attention to myself. As I walk into the Circle, though, I realize I needn’t have worried. There are so many people bustling about doing their weekly shopping that I doubt anyone would notice a single running person. It’s easy to slip unnoticed down the tunnel leading to the hall. I follow the tunnel as it winds around a corner, leading away from the Circle’s noise toward a large wooden door.

I crouch down and press my ear to the oversized keyhole. “All right, at least we’ve decided that,” an authoritative male voice says. Jamon’s father, Asim. “But now that we have to keep her here, we need to determine whether she is our guest or our prisoner.”

I close my eyes as my heart sinks. They’re not letting me go free.

“If she’s too dangerous to be allowed to leave,” another voice says, “then surely she’s too dangerous to be allowed to walk freely among us.”

“I don’t agree,” a woman says. “She isn’t dangerous; it’s what she knows. We can’t let her leave because she may give away our location to Draven or his followers, but she isn’t a threat to us while she’s living among us.”

“But if she isn’t on our side then she should be locked up.”

Multiple voices chime in, arguing and muttering, and it becomes difficult to decipher what’s being said.

“May I say something?” My heart jumps into my throat as I recognize the voice. It belongs to Jamon.

“Of course,” his father says. “Go ahead.”

“I think she is on our side. And I think we should do more than simply let her live freely here. I think we should ask for her help.”

What?

Apparently I’m not the only one shocked by Jamon’s words because silence fills the room for several moments after he speaks.

“I thought you didn’t trust her,” Asim says eventually.

“Well, I’ve had a change of heart. I didn’t want to say anything when I arrived at the meeting because you were already in the middle of discussions, but Violet saved my life earlier today.”

More silence. I imagine raised eyebrows and doubtful expressions. Undeterred, Jamon goes on to describe our encounter with Draven’s faerie. I shift my position so I can listen more comfortably. “We now have one of Draven’s guards as our prisoner,” Jamon finishes. “We can find out all the things we’ve wanted to know since The Destruction, and it’s all thanks to Violet.”

Mutterings fill the hall. “It’s probably some kind of trap,” someone says. “Violet probably plans to free this faerie.”

Oh, for goodness sake. Why would I want to free someone I just shot?

“Then why didn’t she shoot me instead of him when we were above ground?” Jamon counters.

Exactly!

After some more arguments and a whole lot of internal groaning on my part, Asim says, “All right, that’s it. We can’t afford to spend all day arguing about this. It’s time to put the matter to a vote.” I hear the sound of a chair scraping against stone tiles. “Everyone in favor of allowing Violet to live freely within our community please raise your hands.”

I peer through the keyhole, but all I can see are chair legs and reptiscillan legs. Ugh, why is this stupid keyhole so low? I plant my backside on the ground again and take a deep breath as I wait. I tap my fingers against my arms. Man, he’s taking a really long time to count. Perhaps there are more leaders than I thought there were.

Finally I hear the chair scraping again. “Okay. It’s settled then.”

What’s settled? Why can’t he just say it?

“Jamon, please fetch the guardian and bring her here.”

Oh crap. Things are not going to end well for me if I don’t move my butt right now. I scramble to my feet and dash down the tunnel as fast as if Draven himself were after me.