Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

“You’re in a good mood today.” He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, looking in his rearview mirror. “I’m self-conscious. You’re seeing me without my make-up on.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You’re hideous. I can’t see how you stand yourself in the morning.” With careful fingers, I lifted the very edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the gold band just under it, beaten into a multitude of different facets. “I didn’t see this before.”

He looked away, out the window, voice oddly dead. “It was always there.”

I touched it, rubbing a finger against one of the beaten facets, and noticed that the skin just at the edge was all smoothly calloused and that the muscle of his arm was contoured around the band; the torc had been there a long time. I looked at it for longer than I needed to, wanting the excuse to run my finger along his skin. Staring, I saw something else: pale, shiny marks running perpendicular to the torc. Scars. My mind recreated the dozen slashes running down the length of his upper arm, gashes that sliced his biceps to ribbons of flesh held together only by that torc.

I ran a finger down one of the scars, toward his elbow. “What’s this?”

Luke looked back at me and answered with another question. “Do you still have my secret?”

For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, and then I gestured to the chain around my neck, lifting it to reveal the key. “One of them. Can I have another one?”

His lips lifted into a smile. “Sure. I’m still fascinated by you.”

“That’s no secret.”

“Maybe not, but it’s fairly stunning, all things considered.”

I pouted. “I can’t consider all things, because I don’t know most of them.”

“Don’t pout. Sing me another song. A real one. Something that makes people cry.”

I sang him “Fear a’ Bhàta”—“The Lonesome Boatman”—and it was sadder and more beautiful than I had ever sung it, because it was for him. I’d never wanted to sing for someone else before—was this how Delia felt every time she walked on stage?

He closed his eyes. “I’m in love with your voice.” He sighed. “You’re like a siren, leading me into dangerous places. Don’t stop. Sing me something else.”

I wanted to lead him into dangerous places, if I was included in said dangerous places, so I closed my eyes and sang “Sally Gardens.” A car’s not the greatest place for acoustics, but I wanted it to sound beautiful, so it did. I don’t think I’ve ever sung it better.

I sensed him, close to me, a second before I felt his breath on my neck. I was surprised at the emotion that flashed through me in the instant before his lips pressed against my skin. Fear—only there for a second—but there nonetheless.

My treacherous body had betrayed me with a start, and Luke pulled away as I opened my eyes.

“Do I scare you?” he asked.

Strange way of putting it. Not “did I.”

I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his face. I felt so strongly that I could see myself mirrored in his eyes: something about my obsession with music and my battle for control of my life. I wasn’t sure why, but I just felt in my gut that whatever made me me resonated in harmony with whatever made Luke him.

I answered with a question. “Should you?”

He smiled mildly. “I knew you were clever.” Then the smile vanished; he gazed past me, and I turned.

Sitting outside the car, ears pricked and unmoving, staring at us with unblinking black eyes, was a pure-white rabbit.

My stomach turned over.

Luke stared at it for a long moment before speaking, and when he did, his voice was tight and low. “You’d better go.”

Go? “What about—?”

“What about what?” he asked flatly.

I stared out at the rabbit, and when I answered, my voice was cold. “Nothing. You’re right. I have a gig today anyway. Mom will have my head if I’m not back soon.”

I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to get out, but Luke reached over quickly, below the level of the window, and touched my other hand where it rested on the seat.

I understood. Nothing in view of the rabbit. Climbing out of the car, I shut the door; as I did, the rabbit hopped slowly into the underbrush, as if that would convince me it was ordinary, not some peeping-tom-supernatural-killer-bunny.

Rye trotted up from the other side of the road and joined me, without a glance toward where the rabbit had gone, and I headed down the road, not looking back. I had gone a hundred feet when I swore I heard the car door open and shut. I snuck a look back, shaking my head and pretending to swat gnats away. Sure enough, the car was empty.

Where was he?

Focus. This telekinetic crap has to be good for something useful. I listened hard. Nothing. Just the repetitive twittering of cardinals in the trees overhead. It was hard to concentrate on something abstract like sound; I needed something concrete. I pictured Luke carrying a cell phone, calling me and forgetting to hang up. I imagined the crackling of underbrush as he pushed after the rabbit, the sound of his breath. The sound of his voice, faraway and low.

“Have I ever failed before?”

Another voice, earthy and gravelly. Chillingly plural yet singular. “It’s never taken you this long.”

“I have my reasons for taking my time.”

The single voice that was too many sounded contemptuous. “Screw her and be done with it.”

There was a pause, a second too long, and then Luke laughed. “Right. That obvious, is it?”

The gravelly voice didn’t laugh. “Just f**k her. Finish it.”

No pause this time. “I can’t wait.”

I broke into a run, bare feet slapping the pavement. I didn’t want to hear anymore. My imaginary phone hissed and dropped the call. He was lying. He was lying to the gravelly voice. Lying. If I said it three times, it had to be true.

eight

Mom drove me to the gig. Since she was a caterer, every wedding planner in a two-hour radius knew us, and it hadn’t taken long for them to find out that she had given birth to wedding music, as well. It actually wasn’t a bad deal. Usually I would arrive on the scene thirty minutes early, spend half that time barfing, and then emerge to play gracefully for a couple hundred bucks. It was worth the barfing; two hundred bucks would support my CD-buying habit for several more months, until the next gig.

But I didn’t want to do it today, and it wasn’t because of the puking. I wasn’t even thinking about the gig. I was thinking about Luke’s laugh. Analyzing every angle of it … deciding I was overthinking it … and then deciding I hadn’t been thinking about it enough.