The two-story Tudor style home exuded solid upper middle class respectability, from the well-manicured lawn to the silver Corvette in the driveway. Someone had a bit of a sporty streak. Dad? Kheelan’s heart constricted and his breathing became harsh and labored. A light was on in the living room and he saw a man sitting in a recliner, watching a large flat-screened television mounted over an elaborate stone fireplace. It was hard to make out details since his chair was in the shadows.
A woman joined him, placing a tray of food and drinks on the coffee table in front of the man. She sat in the chair beside him, more in the open. Kheelan could make out her brown eyes, same as his. She passed a tired hand over those eyes and yawned, stretching out like a cat.
What would they do if he went up, rang the doorbell, and identified himself? They couldn’t help but see his resemblance to the child they thought of as their own. Maybe they would think Kyle had undergone a miraculous healing, his autism gone into some kind of instantaneous remission. How cruel it would be if they believed that, only to find it untrue at Kyle’s next home visit.
Most likely they would think he was some kind of nut. Even if they did believe his story, it would pain them as much as it did him, the truth would be a searing sword of loss that pierced with a stabbing bitterness. In every way but a biological one, Kyle was their son, the one they had raised and supported and agonized over while dealing with his developmental disability.
The best thing he could do for his parents would be to leave. To never see them again. Kheelan had never felt so alone in his life. With a sudden violence that made even the nearest goblin pull back in surprise, he put up the kickstand, turned on the switch and peeled out of the street in a deafening roar. He raced through the subdivision as if he were on an interstate freeway, needing to put as much distance as he could, as fast as he could, between himself and the human parents he never knew.
***
No answer. Skye’s lips upturned slightly. All the inner angst on whether or not to call Kheelan and when she did, he didn’t answer. Fine, she could do more digging on her own, starting with going back down to the basement. If any fairies were still trapped, she would try to communicate with them.
Filled with resolution, she strode out of the office, pausing only to pick up an amazonite crystal for extra courage. She opened the door, flipped on the lights, and hesitated at the landing, gripping the amazonite. Calmness radiated through her body like a sedative. Head held high, she clomped down the pine board steps, the sound echoing against the concrete walls.
“If anyone is down here, I came to help.”
Nothing.
“I promise I won’t hurt you. If you’re trapped, I can get you out to safety.”
Again, the floor was littered with the brown casings of dead fairies and unexpected nausea rolled in her stomach. She bent down and tenderly touched one. Some monster had been hurting these innocent creatures right under her nose. All those voices she’d heard before – she had to assume they were all dead.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
A sudden whoosh of air brushed across her face, followed by a metallic thud at her feet. Skye jerked back, falling on her butt. She scrambled backwards with her arms and legs like a demented crab.
A silver key glistened on the floor in the fluorescent light, as if out of thin air.
“O-kay. I see someone’s around after all.” She looked up at the ceiling and then did a quick scan of the entire room, but nothing else was different. Skye tentatively picked up the key and examined it, her mind racing with questions before reaching a logical conclusion.
It had to be the key to the locked room in the back, the only one missing from her Green Fairy key rings; the one Kheelan took from her last night. Or another key just like it.
Her mouth watered as she pictured the glass bottles filled with absinthe. The sudden craving returned, stronger than before. She’d never tasted it, but she envisioned the green potion enveloping her mouth with the bitterness of wormwood tempered by the sweetness of burnt sugar.
She wanted it. No, she had to have it. She might never have another opportunity.
Skye scrambled to her feet. When she reached the door and inserted the key, it fit at once, giving a tiny cling as she turned the lock. She opened the door and pulled the switch for the overhead bulb. She blinked against the sudden illumination, then saw everything appeared the same, except a half-empty bottle of absinthe next to the crystal carafe. It beckoned her forward, its teal contents as placid and enticing as a pool of Gulf ocean water.
No one would know if she had a taste. She pulled out the cork and the scent of licorice and menthol teased her nose. With a quick glance behind to make sure she was still alone, Skye poured about a quarter of a cup into a crystal glass. She laid the silver slotted spoon over its mouth, unwrapped a sugar cube and placed it over the spoon. Striking a long match from a nearby book, she lit the sugar and watched it flame. As the flame died back, the caramelized drops of browned sugar plopped into the waiting absinthe.