She collapsed on wobbly knees and took huge gulps of air, trying to stop the adrenaline-induced panic. Her heart thumped heavy and fast, pumping a fire in her chest. She took more gulps of air but no matter how deeply she sucked in oxygen, she couldn’t get enough. Her lungs felt as though they had been used as a pincushion and had dozens of tiny punctures. This must be what they call a panic attack. Either that or her heart and lungs were going to beat her to death.
You’re safe. The voice was back inside her head, originating from the solar plexus. Waves of peace and light radiated from that same point. Slowly, Skye’s breathing returned to normal and her heart, though still beating too fast, slowed enough that it no longer felt as if it might burn a hole in her chest.
Skye sat long moments, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms covered in goose bumps. She was safe. And she was definitely not dreaming. By all rights, she should have sustained serious injuries, or worse.
Fly. Had she really flown? No, it wasn’t possible. There must be some other explanation for what was happening.
As if in answer, Skye became aware of her back muscles gently rippling and contracting dead in the middle of her spine. She reached a tentative hand behind and grasped something thin and that tingled to the touch – as if it were alive. With great foreboding, she strained her neck around, trying to see what it was.
Wings. A pair of multi-colored phosphorescent wings.
A chilling scream echoed through the trees, only this time the sound tore from Skye’ s mouth, as terrifying as the trio of banshees.
Skye screamed until her head pounded from the noise. When she stopped, in the absolute quiet, her screams hung in the space, inaudible but still pulsing with energy. She staggered to her feet, vigorously rubbing her arms against the cold. Turning slowly in a circle, she saw nothing but darkness and the faint outline of treetops above.
She had no idea where she was.
Her back muscles rippled, the wings fluttered and gave off a magenta aura that allowed her to see a few feet in front.
Fly. The same disembodied whisper inside commanded once more.
It worked once, maybe that was her only way out of this. But how exactly was she supposed to fly? Skye flapped her arms and jumped.
Nothing.
She ran in circles, arms flailing uselessly at her sides. How ridiculous, she must look like a crazed chicken. She was almost glad no one was around to witness this pathetic display of ineptitude. Skye leaned against a tree and cried; part-anger, part despair, and part disgust that she was as much a failure at being a fairy as she was at being a witch.
Her head jerked up at the thought, the tears drying at the sudden realization. She was a fairy. She paced back and forth between the trees, her path lit in magenta, trying to make sense of the situation. One, this was no drug-induced dream. Two, she wasn’t crazy. At least, not the full-blown, hallucinogenic psychopathic kind. Three, she had wings for goddess’ sake.
Skye scooped up a palm-sized pink rock and closed her eyes. The vibration from the stone worked to ease her anxiety and ground her to the earth.
With the relaxation, her body lightened. And lightened. Until gravity couldn’t hold her down any longer. Her feet lifted inches above the ground, and with that, her back muscles rippled, wings fluttered, and she was floating among the treetops.
Heavenly. Weird, but in a good way. As if she had done it all her life, was born for this purpose, Skye raised her arms and tilted to one side to change directions. Not even a mile north, she saw the university football stadium, a giant crater surrounded by brick school buildings. Home’s signpost.
Kheelan turned in his findings to Queen Corrigan’s Seelie Council. He reported the pixie murders were occurring at The Green Fairy, they were being drowned in absinthe, and he included a list of probable suspects.
Claribel was at the top of that list. It was so obvious to him, even if Skye had blind loyalties and trusted those close to her.
But the best part of his report to the Seelie was his implication that he needed more time in Tuscaloosa to pursue a few human leads that might have an even greater significance than the casualties sustained thus far. He hadn’t been raised by the Sly Ones without picking up a few tricks of his own.
Queen Corrigan and her Court Council had been more somber than usual. There were no loud whispers, giggles or yawns that occurred when he had been in their presence before. He tried to tell himself it was because Samhain drew near, yet he still felt a tingle of foreboding. Their eyes had been mistrustful, as if they knew he was withholding information.
“Are ye sure ye have nothing more to tell us, changeling?” Queen Corrigan asked when he prepared to leave.
“That’s it,” he said curtly.
Her eyes flashed a tinge of reproach but she waved a hand in dismissal.