“The sooner the general masses see you, the better.” She shrugs. “And if you make your debut with me, no one will mess with you—no one who counts, anyway.”
God, she’s so full of herself. But she might also have a point. I have no idea who to trust—I definitely don’t trust this bitch, with her willingness to blather to Marius that I’m some evil creeper who was trying to burn down his property and suck the life out of his employee.
Basically, I’m screwed either way. I may as well take the road I can at least try to have some control over. Once we’re out of this house, maybe I can get some space, get my head clear, even if it’s only for a minute.
“You’re sure this spell can keep me from doing anything horrible?” I ask.
“Of course. I wouldn’t let you melt any of my friends.”
If she can really do that with a spell, why didn’t Marius put something like that on me sooner? All I got was this necklace, and it’s apparently useless.
I reach up and touch the gold trinket, my finger brushing the orange stone in the center of the design. “What’s this thing for, then?”
“It’s a torque. Some demis wear them in one form or another.”
“Marius said it would help hold back the worst of my powers. It’s obviously not working.”
She seems to be confused by that idea too. “Weirdly, no. Not if the charred cottage is any indication.”
“Well, why? And how are you sure this spell will work if this torque thing won’t?”
“It uses a different kind of magic—every torque is spelled with blood magic by a druid from the House of Morrígan. But my spell would use gravity magic instead.”
“What’s that mean?”
She releases a long-suffering sigh. “Look, new girl, I’m a druid, I know what I’m doing, okay?”
A druid? This girl? I thought druids looked more like Gandalf than Chanel models.
“Maybe your torque is faulty or something,” she adds. “I can look at the spellwork later. I’m getting much better at reading blood magic. But,” she says, moving a little closer, whispering, “continuing to push back at me isn’t recommended.” Then she begins to sing quietly. “Faelan and Sage nesting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N—”
“Whatever!” I’m so done with this insanity.
She smiles her slinky smile again. “Such a smart new girl.” Then she takes my hand, leading me out the side door, into the evening air.
The spell she supposedly puts on me as we’re riding in the back of the Lincoln Town Car seems pretty lame. She does a little chanting—glowing again—and then tosses this dried green plant in my face. After all of that, she grabs my chin and looks in my eyes before declaring it done.
I’m fairly sure she’s bullshitting me. I just wish I knew why. Is she up to something underhanded, or is this really some misguided attempt to help her dad? I’m going to have to be more than a little careful. And on the off chance the spell is real, it’s still only going to help protect people from me for a few hours, so I’ll try to use every available second to get a break from the crazy.
We drive quite a ways down the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10, then head into Downtown. Our driver doesn’t seem to mind Aelia’s weird chanting, so it makes me think he’s used to the freaky. Maybe he’s a vampire? Or a pixie?
“Are there male pixies?” I ask.
Aelia gives me a tired look. “Tonight isn’t a factoid mission. It’s meant to be fun. But yes, there are guy pixies, though they tend to be rare.”
“What other kinds of creature things are there?”
“Are you serious? You’re going to ruin my night, aren’t you?”
“You’re ruining mine, so fair’s fair.”
“So rude.” She pulls a compact from her clutch and opens it, examining her makeup in the tiny mirror. “Our world isn’t some show on TeenNick. It doesn’t fit in a Hollywood box.”
She could’ve fooled me. “Fine, we’ll talk about how you’re a psycho manipulator who may be trying to get me killed, then.”
She glances at the driver like she’s worried. “Whatever, let’s not.” She pauses, then says, “It’s not that complex. I hear you already met Ben, a shade, so the bloodsuckers are checked off. And then you met Niamh, and she’s a pixie—though pixies are thick on the ground in LA, so you’ve probably met a few of those. There are also alfar, wraiths, and selkies—which are like mermaids, except they don’t have fins.”
I’m suddenly ten years old again. Part of your world . . . plays in my head. “Mermaids are real?”
“Don’t get too excited. Selkies aren’t anything like Ariel. Unless Ariel bit off people’s tongues.”
A shiver runs through me. Okay, I don’t really want to know more on that score, and she’s probably just trying to shock me, so I pretend I didn’t hear and ask, “What are alfar?” I’ve never even heard the word before.
“They’re earth-based beings, sort of like pixies—which are actually air based—but alfar are way more rare and a whole lot smarter. Tricky little bastards, usually. I guess you could say they’re similar to those elves from Lord of the Rings. They’re warriors and guards for the demi lines.”
“And wraiths are like ghosts?”
“No, ghosts are from human spirits. Wraiths were never human. They’re where humans got their legend of demons from, and alfar are sorta how they got angels. But trust me, you don’t want to run into either of them. Not while you’re so unaware. If you see one, just walk—or run—in the other direction.”
Nice. I want to tell her I don’t have a freaking clue what either look like, but realize it’s pointless. “So, where are we going exactly?”
“The Fitzgerald. Super exclusive.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a club.” She makes a duh face. “Humans don’t end up there much—or, I should say, not many are let in. Just enough so it’ll feel real. And the blood attracts the shades, which is good for business because shades tend to be . . . pretty.”
“That James guy is a shade,” I say, trying to link it all together.
She looks uncomfortable. “Yes, but remember, you never saw him at my house.”
Well, looks like I’ve got dirt on her too. Not murder dirt, but something to hold on to for later, in case I need ammo.
The car pulls up in front of a building, and I realize I’ve been so focused on getting information from Aelia that I didn’t even notice we were smack-dab in the middle of the city. It’s only nine o’clock, but there’s already a line down the street along the building; the figures are lit by the sign above, which in large cursive letters reads “The Fitz.” It looks like something from old Hollywood. And then it dawns on me—the club is named after F. Scott Fitzgerald, the author of The Great Gatsby. I assumed she’d be taking me to some gaudy neon palace of techno, but this place actually seems classy.