“What’s wrong?”
“It seems that’s one of the memories that has been taken from me by the curse. I can no longer recall how long it lasted nor how it ended. And yet, right in the middle lies a memory as clear as yesterday.”
“Are all the memories the curse has taken like that? In random order?”
“As far as I can tell. Of course, I only realize what I’ve forgotten when I try to summon the memory. I can’t even imagine how many things have fled my mind without notice.” He shudders.
“Go on,” I whisper, more to distract him from his chilling train of thought than anything.
“The thing I do remember that happened in the middle of the war solidified my opinion of humans for good. I already considered them my enemy, but I respected them, recognizing their drive for survival and proliferation of their species. That, at least, I could understand.” His hands, propped on his thighs, balled into tight fists.
“What happened?”
“Iron,” he mutters like a curse. “Humans discovered the fae weakness for iron and began using it against my kind in the battles.”
So, the stories are true. Fae are vulnerable to iron. I know pure iron is forbidden in Faerwyvae, but until now I hadn’t known if it was due to superstition or truth.
“My parents were killed in one of those early battles with iron before we knew just how devastating an injury from the metal can be. You see, short of beheading or the removal of our hearts, fae can survive almost any injury and eventually heal from it. Iron injuries, however, are far more devastating. If iron is embedded in our flesh too long, it will poison our blood and kill us.”
I glance down at his leg, his trousers hiding all signs of the prosthetic he wears. “Is that what happened to you?”
“I’ve been injured by iron several times, and yes, the bullets that tore through my leg were iron. But I fear not even a lesser metal could have saved my leg. There wasn’t much left when—when—”
Again, he blinks.
“Another memory forgotten?”
He nods. “Someone tended my leg and I remember being furious about the amputation. That’s all I remember.”
I furrow my brow. “Fae healing doesn’t include regrowing limbs?”
He shakes his head, and a lock of hair falls over his eyes. “Anyway, my parents were killed in battle. Many lives were lost, so I am not unique in that. However, when I found out about their demise, I sought to avenge their deaths. I hunted down the hands that made the killing blow and I…I found them.”
He brushes a hand through his hair, moving it from his forehead to reveal the haunted look in his eyes. Everything in me wants to lay a comforting hand on his arm, the way he did for me, but I can’t bring myself to move.
His next words come out quiet. “I knew they were my parents’ killers because...because they were wearing their skins.”
Bile rises in my throat. “Theirskins?”
“To a human, I’m sure it looked like nothing. Two men with wolf pelts draped over their shoulders, lifeless canine heads still intact, worn like hoods to rest upon the humans’ brows. But to me…”
It isn’t hard to imagine the revulsion I’d feel if I saw someone parading around with my dead mother’s skin like that. A lump rises in my throat, straining my words. “Saints, Elliot, that’s awful.”
He meets my eyes, and I see his are glazed with a sheen of tears. “Humans are unable to distinguish between unseelie fae and a regular animal. And part of me understands, I honestly do. I too must hunt and eat and survive. I can’t expect humans to have the same ability the fae do, to know at a glance the difference between people and prey. But then there are times when a humanknowsa fae creature is a person…and still fails to see us as such. And after tonight’s display at dinner, I know that disrespect extends even to the seelie fae. In this form, I am but a prize, a spectacle.”
His words strike me like a blow to the heart. They’re too potent. Too accurate. I hastily wipe my cheeks, catching a few errant tears. “You’re right,” I say. “In fact, humans treat each other like prizes, property, and spectacles maybe just as often. Perhaps that will make you feel better.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better.” His voice is cold, flat. “It makes me angrier.”
My heart sinks as I search for words. While I deeply understand his stance and relate to it personally, I’m also desperate to alleviate his disgust in my kind. In…me. I angle myself toward him. “Elliot, you’re right about humans. We are at times just as you’ve witnessed. But there’s so much more to us, and not everyone carries my species’ worst traits.”
He shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “Even after being on the receiving end of humankind’s vilest ways, you seek to defend them? You seek to convince me human society isn’t as bad as I think?”
I study his face for a moment, recalling everything we spoke of tonight. My mind drums up images of dinner, Imogen’s smug grin, and painful memories of my past. For a moment, I want to take back my sentiment, tell Elliot he’s right. But that would be a lie. For alongside these darker aspects, I know brighter ones exist. I find them in my sister Nina, in the kind bookseller, Mr. Cordell. There’s even potential in people I don’t know well, like Imogen’s stepsister, Ember. As much as I desire to rid myself of Vernon and escape the clutches of its society, there’s a part of me that knows—if I tried—I could find admirable people here.
I place a hand on Elliot’s clenched fist. Holding his gaze, I say with all the conviction I can muster, “Yes, Elliot. There is good in humankind.”
For several moments, we fall into a frozen silence. As each second wears on, heat begins to flood my cheeks, the realization of my hand on Elliot’s striking me harder and harder. It seemed vital in the moment, a way to drive the strength of my statement, but as his fist remains firm beneath my palm, I can’t help but recall how revolted he was at Mrs. Coleman’s incessant touches. Terror sends my pulse racing, but I’m too embarrassed to make any sudden moves.
