I consider telling her I’d rather just find a way to get regular healthy meals so I don’t feel like a stick figure. But when she looks in the mirror and complains about her large hips and “massive ass,” I decide there’s no winning this discussion. Of course, there’s nothing massive about her. And considering all the images of herself in her room, I have to wonder if she’s fishing for compliments more than actually believing her own propaganda—in fact, I suspect she’s secretly insulting me, the way she keeps mentioning how she can see my bones. I just busy myself pretending to be amazed at a pair of pink sunglasses that are inlaid with what I think are real diamonds.
Aelia barely pauses to take a breath as she finishes dressing me and then takes me to a mirror, painting my face with layers of gunk before draping me in garish accessories. The whole time we’re at the vanity she’s chattering at me about a million pointless pieces of information. My favorite is how some girl named Astrid from the House of Cernunnos—which is apparently not a band but the name of another god’s family—was dating Faelan until she was adopted by the demi leader of that other House. And from what I can tell, Aelia really doesn’t like the girl. She claims Astrid is so full of herself because the girl thinks she’s some amazing style queen and badass hunter, but really she’s just an underling poser. Then Aelia proceeds to describe every dress that this Astrid has ever worn to every event, down to the last thread. She also goes on and on about some guy the girl’s dating, named Duncan, who apparently has “very big-name people in the music industry” on his payroll, and Astrid has him wrapped around her finger even though she’s totally just using him for his yacht.
Whoever this Astrid girl is, Aelia is obviously jealous.
“I mean, she’s an alfar, for Danu’s sake, right?” she asks me, as if I know what she’s talking about. “Who wants to suck face with a girl that tastes like a kale cleanse? I don’t know how Faelan did it all those years. Blech.”
I start to wonder if I’ve really entered a world of gods and goddesses or a live broadcast of TMZ.
The whole process lasts several hours, and I’m a little shocked when I see her fuzzy pink clock reading 5:00 p.m.
“Maybe we should go check on Faelan,” I say as she hands me a purple bag that matches my shoes. “I’m worried he’s not—”
“He’s fine,” she snaps. “Gods. If you’re hoping for some kind of romantic thing with the guy, you’re gonna be super disappointed.”
I just blink at her, feeling like she slapped me. The last thing I need is for this gossip queen rich bitch to hate me. “Okay, well, thanks for the clothes and all,” I say, trying to sound cheery, but I’m likely coming off as shrill. “I should probably go back to my room and, uh, start to clean up the place or something. I made a bit of a mess.” I think. I have no idea what I did, or if I did anything.
I do know that Astrid from the House of Cernunnos—not a band—gets her pubes waxed at Urban Blue in West Hollywood, though. So there’s that.
“Don’t be silly,” Aelia says, back to her casual voice. “My father will be here for dinner in an hour, and I’m sure your cottage is already fixed. No doubt it was finished hours ago.”
Fixed? What? “Are you joking?”
“You are slow, aren’t you? You slept in a furnace of your own making this morning, for goddess’s sake, and you didn’t get singed. Doesn’t that open your mind a little to the impossible being possible?”
She’s a bitch, but she’s got a point. And there goes that excuse to covertly check on Faelan. I smile at her and rack my brain for a replacement. “Cool. I’m, just, you know . . . it’s all very strange here, but you’re being so nice and all”—I clear my throat—“and I’m new, possibly a bit dense, so—can I, uh, go see it? In case it doesn’t meet my expectations.” I look in the mirror and play with my hair, topping the act off with a duck face. Just in case she thinks I can’t be shallow.
“Oh, totally,” she says, not looking suspicious. “Go take a peek, but be back for dinner in an hour. Daddy doesn’t like having to wait.”
The sound of this girl—who’s stunningly beautiful, almost unreal—calling the man I remember from last night Daddy . . . I have to force myself not to wince.
Instead I run my tongue over my teeth, like I’m checking for lipstick. “Totes.” And then I make my escape, slipping out from under her guardianship. As I work my way back through the massive house, I find myself thanking the universe for my horrible hopscotch journey through the foster system. Because if it did anything, it taught me how to become a chameleon and blend in with my surroundings—a gift that, I can tell, will be very handy in my current predicament.
ELEVEN
SAGE
I knock on Faelan’s door, but only silence echoes back. Unconscious people tend not to answer doors.
When I glance across the walkway to my cottage, I don’t see any sign of a fire. The air smells a bit tangy still, but the smoke damage on the outer wall is gone. I’m guessing Aelia is right, and the repairs have already been completed. Do they just move real speedy, like the Flash? Or does time just sorta stand still whenever they need to get stuff done quickly?
I knock on Faelan’s door again. Still no answer.
After standing on the welcome mat for a few seconds and absently watching a blue jay hop around on a nearby branch, I decide that things are way too wacky in this place to give a crap about decorum. So I try the knob, and when it won’t give, I pull one of the bobby pins from my hair that Aelia used to make it look like I had a stylist instead of a pocketknife. I bend the thin metal and wriggle it into the keyhole. The lock’s got pretty old guts so it clicks almost immediately and creaks open a little.
I slip inside and softly shut the door behind me. When I look up, my breath clogs in my throat.
It’s a forest. I’m in a forest—or at least it feels that way. Green drips from the ceiling and the curling arms of ferns crowd around my legs. Tree trunks act like natural pillars, the bowers creating a canopy above, the roots nubby under my feet. The air smells like damp green things. Like rain.
“Faelan?” I whisper, searching the thick shadows. My pulse picks up speed at the strangeness.
I step deeper into the room, hearing nothing but the slight shifting of plants around me as I move. But then I push aside some drooping vines, and the leaves above my head rustle loudly. I look up, hoping it’s just a bird or something. In the house. Or the forest. I don’t know what to call this place. I don’t see anything, so I keep going farther. As I move aside a branch blocking my view, it gets even weirder.
A circular structure made of sticks appears in front of me. It’s a foot taller than me and rimmed in chunks of brown grass at the top. Dead grass. Moss and mushrooms coat the woven white birch branches, dark earth crumbling out of the crevices along the base.
I stare in confusion for a minute, and then I walk around it, looking for rhyme or reason to the thing.
A soft sigh fills the air, and I freeze, looking up. “Faelan?” But the noise sounds too feminine to have come from the burly Faelan.
No answer comes. I should probably just walk away, leave whatever this is alone. Poking around in the unknown is usually a horrible idea—I’ve seen enough curious ditzes die in horror movies to know that. But, apparently, I’ve become a curious ditz.