Lara
Whenever I remember Mom, I think about how her legs looked the last time I saw her—thin, grotesque branches covered in striped stockings and red boots, twisted and broken beneath the wheels of an inner-city delivery truck. Like the Wicked Witch of the East in that old kids’ film, The Wizard of Oz.
I’d just turned fifteen.
She’d just turned dead.
Even though we were complete opposites, my mother, Ella, was my happiness, my home. My everything. Now four years after her death, I rely on photos and videos to remind me of what she looked like because staring in the mirror doesn’t help.
She had black hair and serene dark eyes. Her face was tanned, and she was always, always calm. And, me, I’ve got strawberry-colored hair, freckled skin, moss-green eyes, a quick laugh, and an even quicker temper. We were summer and winter.
At least once a day, I long for her so badly I clutch my stomach to ease the ache, like I’m doing right now as I make my way to work, crossing from one end of the city to the other, imprisoned in a metal firecracker.
The train goes clack, clack, clack, wheels shooting sparks as it hurtles over a bridge and slices through the sky like a curved silver blade.
I stare at my reflection in the dark window, my pale face merging with the city buildings we pass, and I allow memories of Ella to fill the cold spaces inside my body.
Mom was a game coder obsessed with fantasy games about fae kingdoms where elven warriors and all manner of strange creatures got up to no good together. She justified her obsession as work, which in a way it kind of was. My father never justified anything. He’s just a loser I’ve never met—a sperm donor. If I sound like a sad sack little orphan girl, trust me, I’m not. After I found singing, everything made sense again.
More on that later.
Ella was also a digital artist, and the walls of the house I grew up in were lined with magical paintings of fae kings and queens, ethereal creatures with flowing limbs, dancing hair, and frighteningly pretty smiles. Each one a beautiful, terrible nightmare.
“It’s real you know, Lara,” she told me when I was thirteen.
“What is?” I’d asked, not glancing away from the jigsaw puzzle of the emerald castle she’d made, a gift for my twelfth birthday.
“The castle, the king and queen—all of them.”
A bright-green piece of jigsaw grass held suspended in my fingers, I asked, “Honestly?” At the time, I was still naive enough to believe in fairy tales.
Mom’s smile was steady. “Honest, peanut. Their world is just as real as ours, separated by a mere shimmering veil that’s as easy as peeling back a layer of onion skin to look inside. Don’t be surprised if one day you trip down a forest pathway and find yourself falling into their world. Believe me some people are prone to it.”
“That sounds fun. I hope I do go and visit someday.” I giggled, and she tickled my ribs.
“Well, I hope you don’t. But if it ever does happen, remember these three things: One, never be fooled by fae beauty because they’re all jerks. Every last one of them. Two, don’t ever promise them anything. And, three, no matter how much they’d like to, they can’t lie. That last point is important. They will twist and omit and evade until the cows come home. So listen carefully to every single word the sly snakes hiss at you, because doing so may save your life.”
The jigsaw piece slid from my fingers, plunging into my glass of milk.
Mom laughed at my goggle-eyed expression and ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry too much, sweetheart. I’ll tell you more about them when you’re older—when you’re in greater danger.”
“In danger of what?”
“Falling,” she said, whisking away my empty bowl of popcorn and heading for our cramped and messy kitchen.
No matter how hard I begged her, she never spoke of the fae—the Elementals as she liked to call them—as if they were real-live beings again. When she died, I hid her seductively spooky pictures in the basement and tried to pretend they’d never existed. I wanted to forget them. But, of course, I didn’t.
After the accident, I moved into Aunt Clare’s uptown apartment where I’ve lived with her and my cousin, Isla, ever since. They’re both great people, and I love them dearly. But, as I said, not a day goes by where I don’t long for my mom’s special brand of kindness and warmth. The smell of her jasmine perfume.
With a loud rumble, the train pulls into a grimy subway station. Finally. I check the time on my cell as I leap out of my seat. Seven thirty. Cousin dear is going to murder me. I’m so freaking late.
Zigzagging around a drunk guy who’s swaying in the middle of the doorway, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and bounce down onto the platform.
I trudge along graffiti and tile-covered passages until I climb stairs and exit onto a cracked sidewalk. The scent of piss and misery from Forest Stand Station is replaced by the pleasant aromas of garlic and basil and something else I don’t recognize, reminding me I skipped lunch today because I was feeling out of sorts. Wired and jittery.
Smoothing the purple waitress’s uniform over my jeans and my loudly rumbling stomach, I prepare lame excuses to offer my co-workers.
My singing lesson went over time.
That’s a lie.
Stan, my elderly teacher with the drooping mustache, is as punctual as a sunset, just nowhere near as pretty.
My train was late.
Nope, it had been early.
On the journey to the station, I’d had headphones clamped over my ears. I got lost in a dreamy tune, dawdled, and arrived just in time to watch the train I should have been on pull away from the platform. Darn things, they’re only on time when you don’t want them to be.
Across the road, a green and red neon sign flashing the words ‘Max’s Vinyl City’ blinks a warning on top of the diner where I should have started my shift twenty minutes ago. I hate being late.
Oh, well, there’s no other option but to get in there and face the wrath of Isla and a long, tedious lecture from my boss.
As I dart down the steps and then over the crosswalk, I can’t help noticing how packed the booths are inside the brightly lit interior.
Crap. Max is going to baste me alive, and then stuff me into the pulled-pork sandwiches.
Cheeks flaming with guilt, I trip through the door, greeted by the sounds of clattering dishes, a retro rock and roll song distorting out of the speakers, and the smell of frying bacon. My belly grumbles again.
Shabby art deco is the vibe inside Max’s joint. It’s like a 1940’s movie theater faded several decades past its glory days. The floor is checkered, the booths and barstools ruby red, flashy metal trim decorates most surfaces, and the overhead lighting is garishly bright.
“You’re late, Lara,” calls Max through the kitchen hutch, steam rising around his barrel-shaped body. A Neanderthal brow is framed by messy hair, the dark tips curling around his grin as he works the grill with finesse.
“Hey, you’d better put a hairnet on, or you’ll get busted by the food inspectors again,” I tease, before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Max. I got lost in a song and a dream, dragged my feet and ended up missing the train,” I admit, going with the truth. It’s simpler. “I won’t do it again.”
Across the floor, my cousin, Isla, tucks buttery-blonde hair behind her ears and sets a plate of waffles in front of a customer whose tongue practically lolls out onto his necktie. Not sure if he’s slobbering over his dinner or the pretty waitress who’s serving it. “You’d better not make a habit of this, late-girl,” Isla says. “Remember who got you this job.”
“How can I possibly forget when you remind me so often?” The swing door whacks my butt as I escape into the kitchen, and Isla’s laughter washes over my back like a balm.
“Okay, Princess,” says Max. “Cease the trash talking and take over the fryer. Joe, now Lara’s deigned to join us, you can get your ass back to the sink and wash those pots like your life depends on it.”
I dump my coat and bag and greet our regular kitchen hand, a sixteen-year-old local kid who somehow supports his terminally sick mom and younger sister on his barely minimum wage. “Hi, Joe. I know it’s going to be hard to leave behind the excitement of dangerously sizzling fat and charred animal remains, but I need you to move aside.”
“No problem,” he says, sweeping a regal bow toward the deep fryer. “It’s all yours, Scary Slayer of Burgers. You know I find cooking too stressful anyway.”
“You’ll get a handle on it soon. Sorry for being late.”
“It’s cool.” He plunges his nail-bitten fingers into soapy dishwater and attacks the soup pot with gusto. “But you owe me a song during pack-up. One of those weird ye olde medieval things where you sound like an angel.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “I’ve just learned a spooky new one about crazed lovebirds who go on a gory murder spree. You’ll like it.”
He snickers as our assistant cook, Mandy, strides out of the freezer and dumps a tray of frozen meat on the stainless-steel bench.
“Oh, hey, Lara,” she says, waving a frozen chicken wing in greeting.
“Hi,” I say. “I like your new hair. Are you taking it out partying after your shift tonight?”
Shaking her platinum pixie cut, she says, “I’ve got term papers to work on this weekend, so I can’t—”
“Hey, you two, is this some kind of cheese and wine night or your place of employment?” Max scowls over his shoulder. “Table five’s order needs plating. Now would be a good time to hop to it.”
We quit socializing and start working our butts off.
Busy is great. Busy makes the shift fly by, and in only four hours’ time, I’m wiping down the grill. My back, feet, and head all ache, but I’m so close to going home I don’t mind.
Out of nowhere, warm breath gusts my ear and bony fingers dig into my waist, making me squeak like a trodden-on kid’s toy. “So, tell me about the dream you got lost in on your way here, Lara,” demands Isla, turning me around to face her. “Hope it wasn’t another one about those creepy fairy things again.”
Damn. Isla knows me too well. She’s aware I’ve been plagued by those dreams since Mom’s death. They may frighten and unsettle me, but I’ve never admitted to her how much I like them.
“Um…” Stalling, I flip a stack of frozen burger patties into a plastic container. “How can you call them creepy? Those fae boys are hotter than these here ghost peppers.” I flap a bright red example of the pain-inducing chilies under her nose.
Blue eyes narrow at the pepper. “And they’re probably just as fatal.” Cranky frown in place, my cousin folds her arms between us. “Your mother never should have stuffed your head full of all that fantasy land garbage. Babbling incessantly about Elementals this, Court of Five that. No wonder you’re not interested in any normal guys, Lara.”
“Hey, that’s not fair. I go on dates every now and again.”
“True—when I line someone up for you, choose your outfit, and push your disinterested butt out the front door.”
As my mouth opens to remind her I had an actual boyfriend for three whole months last year, my head spins like a pinwheel, and I have to clutch the bench to stay upright.
Isla steadies me. “Lara! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Never better,” I fib. The whole day long, my brain’s been in a pressure cooker, and it feels like it’s about to explode.
Looking skeptical, Isla raises an eyebrow.
“I promise I’m okay. It’s only hunger. All I ate at break time was a piece of buttered toast, and I skipped lunch.”
She sighs. “You’d forget to eat entirely if Mom and I didn’t remind you. Listen, I’ve got a date with Sam tonight, and he’s picking me up here after work. I’ve got time to kill before he arrives. Joe and I will cover cleanup for you. You should go home and rest.”
I swallow a moan of relief. It’s not just the lack of food affecting me. I do feel strange. I must be getting sick.
“Hey,” yells Joe, furiously mopping the floor as I make a dash past him to collect my bag from the storeroom. “What about my song?”
I hold back a groan. I’m too worn out to do the murder ballad I’d hyped him up on earlier. I’ll have to think of something else to sing. “Sure. Give me a minute.”
When I return, I stand in the center of the room and grip my belongings tightly as I close my eyes, the pound of my heartbeat rising above the clatter and clang of the kitchen. I wait for inspiration. Unfortunately, none comes. Okay, seems like I’ll have to wing it, then.
Joe leans on his mop handle. Isla and Mandy smile. And even Max stops scrubbing to lean back on a bench and watch.
Mouth opening wide, I draw in a long breath that spirals through my body, chest to feet, then back up again, soothing my headache and bringing peace and calm.
My boot stomps the floor. Once. Twice. And I sing in a low creepy voice, aiming to make them laugh.
Sorry, Joe.
Tomorrow.
I’ll bewitch you with a scary song.
But tonight, I have such a headache that it’s sure to all go wrong.
Tonight.
I’ll probably sing the wrong spell.
And it may not go very well.
Tonight.
You’ll cry and cry a river, if I turn you into a snake.
Hush, I’m so sorry, Joe.
Tomorrow.
I surely won’t make that mistake.
Cracking my eyes open, I laugh at Joe’s dopey grin and struggle into my snug autumn coat.
“Don’t worry, Lara,” he says, dancing the mop over the floor once again. “If you’re singing to me, I don’t think I’d care if you turned me into a rat and kept me in one of those cages with a hamster wheel.”
“And then who’d look after your family if that happened?” I scold.
Joe’s dark eyebrows draw tight. “Oh, yeah. Maybe don’t make me a rodent, then.” He turns to Max. “Yo, boss. Gonna walk Lara to the station. I’ll be back before you even notice I’ve left.”
Grabbing his arm, I stop him from dumping the mop in the bucket. “Don’t bother. It’s barely a five-minute walk, and loads of people are out partying at this hour. It’s busy. Safe.”
Everyone rolls their eyes. They know there’s no point arguing with me.
I give the crew quick hugs, and before Isla can start up another lecture, I exit the diner at the speed of light.
Relieved to be outside, I inhale a big breath of fresh air. Gone are the tangy food odors from earlier. The night smells earthy and crisp, like rotting leaves blown in on a sea breeze. It’s strange.
My temples pound in sync with the beat of my boots as I head for the subway, still smiling at how Joe is always keen to hear me sing. He’s convinced I’m part magic, that I’ve got a witch for an ancestor somewhere in my bloodlines.
But, unfortunately, I can’t cast spells or turn people into animals, although, sometimes, I really wish I could. The diner’s resident ass-pincher, who haunts table seven, coincidentally on the nights either Isla or I work, would look a little nicer as a beaver or a raccoon.
A car horn beeps as I cross the street, then climb concrete steps leading up to the station’s entrance, the night air brisk and energizing. Hands stuffed deep inside my coat pockets, I stare up at the swirling wrought-iron patterns on the arched gates and the sign that reads Forest Stand Station, wishing I were as special as Joe imagines.
Magical.
Powerful.
But I’m not. I’m an average, passably pretty nineteen-year-old who’s boringly practical and sensible, most of the time. I’m neither too loud nor too quiet. And even though, at times, I can be snappy, I try hard to be kind.
Week to week, my life is fairly uneventful. Most nights, I work shifts at the diner, only to spend all my hard-earned money on singing lessons. And that’s basically my world in a nutshell.
Work. Sing. Work. Repeat.
On the singing front, I join amateur vocal groups and choirs, always searching for the perfect fit, seeking people I can unleash my unusual voice on. Ethereal yet strong, it can be quite a shock on first listen.
So, yeah, all I want to do is sing. From retro rock-and-roll classics to ancient tunes about forest creatures and lands beyond the veil, I love them all. Wow. Listen to me sounding as eccentric as my own dead mother!
The wind collects my ponytail, fluttering it over my eyes. Sighing, I drag it away and gaze up at the station’s clock tower. It’s nearly midnight, and I have at least fifteen minutes to fill until the next train arrives.
Out of nowhere, a girl’s screech rips though the air, causing me to flinch. I tug my coat tighter around my body and search for the source of the noise. When I find it, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Gathered around a bench at the top of the steps, four girls huddle close, laughing as they take selfies, a long gauzy veil whipping around their bodies. They’re a bachelorette party getting giddy in the wind.
I heave myself up the stairs. The bride-to-be spies me passing, and her mouth gapes open.
“Hello?” she calls out. “Excuse me, miss, can you help us? Please come here.”
Miss? No one’s called me that in…well, I don’t think I’ve ever been called that. They must be drunk.
I stop walking. I’m too darned tired to take happy snaps for them, but still I force a smile and head over.
The wispy beauty covered in white grins at me, tottering on her heels as if she’s not used to wearing them. Her cool fingers grip my coat sleeves and pull me close.
She dips a strange curtsy. “Hello! Please allow me to make introductions. That’s Terra down there playing in the dirt, Undine bathed in blue, Salamander with her hair on fire, and I, of course, am the bride, Aer. Did you notice we look alike, you and I?”
“Er… no. Do we? Hi, I’m Lara.” I wave awkwardly while I hear my name repeated, little whispers slithering on the breeze.
Lara. Lara. Lara.
Dramatically dressed and pouting scarlet-painted mouths, they look the same as a million other party girls—but not quite. There’s something disturbing about them. Something wrong.
“We need your help,” repeats Aer. “When we passed through the alley beside the station, our sister, Ether, cut herself on a piece of old tin. See over there?” She points to the empty, lamp-lit alleyway that, in the daytime, is full of city suits eating lunch in trendy cafes. “We can’t bear the sight of blood,” Aer continues. “And Ether needs tending to.”
“Red blood. Red blood,” says dark-haired Terra, nodding furiously. “I don’t like red blood.”
Blue-haired Undine smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry about her. She’s lost nearly every one of her marbles.”
Okay.
“It might be best if you call 911,” I suggest.
“No. No. No. It’s just a small cut seeping tiny threads of blood. She needs a little bandage, that’s all. You can use this.” Ruthlessly, Aer tears a strip from her veil and thrusts it at me. “You, Lara, can put it on her. We’ve drunk too much, and we don’t like blood. We might faint and hit our heads.”
I glance around. A few people are trudging up the steps, and some are entering the station. The streets aren’t busy anymore, but it’s hardly deserted. These girls seem pretty helpless, and they don’t look like muggers.
“Please?” begs Aer, the breeze blowing her golden locks from her face, revealing a kind and hopeful expression.
“Okay, sure,” I say, taking the makeshift bandage.
“Oh, thank you. Once you enter, she’s not far in. You’ll see her quite easily.” Salamander claps like I’ve done something amazing, and I wonder what her real name is. It’s probably Sally or Susan.
“Ether?” Aer yells. “Our new friend, Lara, is coming to see you. You’ll be very happy to meet her. You will. You will.”
Well, I don’t know if I have the power to make her happy, but I can definitely slap on a bandage and try to cheer her up a little.
“Ether?” I call. “What’s your actual name? Is it Esme or Elaine?”
I hear a whimper followed by a cough. That’s encouraging. At least it wasn’t a guy’s voice, the girls’ pimp hovering nearby preparing to attack me.
“Hold on, I’m bringing a bandage.”
Warm light pools around the cobblestones, illuminating my path. A bell tolls in the distance. That’s weird. Must be a local church ringing in the midnight mass.
Or something…
I keep walking, but there’s still no sight of the injured girl.
“Ether?” I try again.
Silence. Maybe I imagined the whimper before.
I stop and glance behind me.
“Hey, Aer?” I call toward the street. “I can’t see your sister. She’s not—”
“Go farther. Go father,” the girls cry in unison. “Help her. We can’t bear the blood.”
Carried on the rising breeze, their voices sound shrill and not so sweet anymore. Shivers roll over my skin as my boots fall softly on the ground.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
Suddenly a girl appears out of the shadows. Dressed in silver, she raises elegant arms toward me. “Hello, Lara. It’s so very nice to meet you.”
Wow. Okay. She shines like a diamond in the sun, and it’s currently nighttime.
“Hi.” Standing two yards away, I ask, “Are you alright? You don’t look hurt, but your sisters insisted you need this bandage for a cut.”
A smile dances over her face. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Come hither. Bring me your medical aid, and I shall show you I am well.”
What?
Dread churning in my gut, I hobble forward. I don’t want to go any closer to this shining girl but can’t stop my legs moving. The sound of my heavy steps bounces off the brick walls, echoing around us.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
As I walk, my eyes skim her body, searching for a wound. I don’t find one, so I smile dumbly and keep moving forward.
Need to help her. Need to touch the shine. Feel if it’s—
What the hell is wrong with me?
Raising her arms toward the stars, she smirks, purses her lips, and blows out a long breath.
And then keeps blowing.
My hair takes sudden flight, strawberry-colored ribbons streaming behind me. My coat becomes a cape, billowing like a wet sail, nearly toppling me over.
In a panic, I turn back toward the sisters, blinking furiously to clear my vision. What I see just cannot be right… they look… changed. They’ve grown taller, elongated into willowy, stick-limbed creatures, half beauties, half horror show. I must be seeing things.
Okay. I really, really need to get out of here. Now.
But I don’t move. Instead, my feet sprout roots into the ground as I’m buffeted by the wind still blustering through silver-girl’s lips. Angry now, it spins like a mini cyclone around my limbs.
Winding faster and faster, it lifts my arms, spreading my feet, my legs—wider and wider—until I’m raised aloft, speeding through the air while stretched out like I’m relaxing on a comfortable bed, toward the glittery sky.
I am freaking flying.
Or dreaming.
Or crazy.
I should be terrified, screaming, howling, wailing. But, no, I simply open my eyes wider and wider to take in the glory of the stars as they rush to greet me.
Oh, they’re so pretty.
This is lovely.
Lovely.
So lovely.
The wind surges around me, but I’m not cold. I feel perfectly warm. Perfectly safe. Perfectly happy.
Perfect.
A voice like a bell rings in my ears. It says something that sounds like, “Say hello to forever for us, won’t you, Lara dear? Sing him a pretty song. Aer’s very jealous, you know. She wanted to be the one.”
What? How can I say hello to forever. What does that even mean?
“Who’s Forever?” I cry to the planets spinning by.
Someone laughs, the sound like violently shattering glass.
Then everything is black. My mind, my heart, my soul.
Black.
Black.
Black.
