Stunning statues, hand-painted pottery, galleries filled with paintings with gilded frames, each piece capturing a moment in time or a scene only one’s imagination could convey.
What a beautiful terror that was to behold.
That terror stuck with me, even after I returned to my village in the unseelie forest. It burrowed deep inside my heart until it transformed into a thrill. A thirst. An unrelenting hunger. I needed to see that art again. To understand it. Like the first time I sought to hunt prey larger than a squirrel, I was invigorated.
I feel some of that now. A need to know what’s inside that building. A pull drawing me closer to my source of fear and fascination.
Before I can lose my nerve, I take a step toward the gap in the fence. “Let’s go.”
We follow a pair of seelie fae with humanoid bodies and mossy hair through the fence and head toward the building until we merge with the back of the crowd. I flutter my fingers at my sides, expelling some of my anxiety. I’m tempted to shrink into my pine marten form, an urge I always get when I’m nervous, and it grows when I spot a pair of raccoons—fae in their unseelie forms—darting between ankles and sneaking toward the front. So badly I want to shift and call after them,Wait, I’m like you! We’re the same! Let’s go together.
But we’re not the same, and I’m not going to shift. When I decided to adopt seelie form full-time, I vowed to stop shrinking when I’m scared.
We reach the front of the crowd, and a fae male greets us from behind a ragged podium perched just before the closed door. So far I’ve only glimpsed a sliver of dim light during the short intervals when the door opens to allow guests, so I still haven’t a clue what lies inside. The buzz of conversation around me hasn’t given me any indication either, as most are talking about their workday or other casual topics.
The fae male extends his hand over the podium. I glance from his open palm to his face. He’s slightly taller than me and covered entirely with golden-brown fur. His ears are pointed, though in a completely different way from most seelie fae. Instead of a fleshy angled shell, he has elongated fur-covered ovals, shorter than a rabbit’s but longer than a mouse’s. Like a kangaroo, perhaps? That would explain his broad torso and the bulge of his biceps beneath his shirt. It suddenly occurs to me how much he looks like the male figures I draw. Human-shaped, but quite animal in nature.
If only Edwina wrote about heroes like him, I’d be a stellar artist.
I assess his open hand again—his very human-shaped hand, albeit a hairy one, so maybe I can’t draw heroes like him after all—but still don’t know what he wants. A handshake? I hesitate before placing my palm in his, then startle as a chuckle escapes his lips.
“Payment,” he says. “It’s six emerald chips tonight.”
I snatch my hand back. Damn it all. Leave it to me to misunderstand such a gesture. I smooth my palms over my waistcoat, seeking which pocket I might have put my chip purse in. Did I even bring it? “I, uh, I wasn’t aware this was a paid event. I was invited by someone, and he didn’t tell me?—”
“You’re on the guest list then? What’s your name?”
“Oh, uh, it’s Daphne.”
“Right,” he says, nodding at a list upon his podium. “There you are. A special guest indeed. You’ve even got your own table. Number eight on the second floor. And your friend?”
Araminta flutters her lilac lashes and sinks into a formal curtsy. “Lady Araminta of the Shining Waters.”
His mouth quirks sideways. “I don’t see a Lady Araminta, but Miss Daphne has a plus-one. Go ahead.” He raps his knuckles on the closed door, and it swings open.
I exchange a glance with Araminta, who beams back at me. Before I can think better of it, she ushers me inside the building. The lighting is so dim I almost miss the enormous fae male who stands beside the door, curling horns on each side of his head. “Enjoy your night,” he says in a surprisingly sweet tone.
Araminta links her arm through mine like she did on our walk here, and this time I don’t mind. Because I need to hold onto something as the narrow hall opens to an enormous space. Chatter and laughter fill the air, along with shouts of “Place your bets here!” from figures holding large rectangular boxes. The scent of sweat, ale, tobacco smoke, and the distinct aroma of year-old cinders invades my nostrils, yet there’s no sign of the burned-down textile factory this place once was. Instead of being crowded with machinery, the floor is open save for the bodies mingling animatedly, an air of anticipation sizzling around them.
My shoulders climb high as I fold in on myself, my senses overwhelmed by all the new sights, sounds, and smells. Araminta’s arm through mine is all that keeps me from covering my ears.
“Second floor,” Araminta says, pointing to the side and dragging me toward a rickety metal staircase. We weave through bodies until we reach a balcony that lines the interior walls of the building. There’s a third-floor balcony overhead, and neither this floor nor the one above offers more than a flimsy metal railing to keep its occupants from spilling over the ledge. I give the edge a wide berth, pressing myself close to the safety of the wall as we proceed down the walkway. My pulse increases the further we go and the more people I brush against in my attempt to reach our destination. The kangaroo fae from the entrance said I have a reserved table, but the only tables I see are farther down. Thankfully, that’s also where the crowds are thinnest.
My nerves settle somewhat once we reach a faded velvet rope that partitions the table area. I have to give my name to a human female dressed in a black suit before we can pass it. I’m sweating by the time we settle in at table eight, a crooked piece of furniture with a tattered red tablecloth. My pulse begins to calm now that I’m seated, but I’m still struggling to process the sounds, sights, and smells that assault me from every angle.
I pull my attention to my immediate surroundings, seeking a narrower range of view to give me some semblance of comfort. My gaze lands on a glass lamp at the center of the table. It’s filled with fluttering orbs of yellow light—fire sprites. As I lift my eyes, I find more flying overhead or filling the enormous glass orb that hangs from the ceiling, providing the only source of illumination. Only now do I realize there’s no electricity in this building. Electricity is a relatively modern invention, harnessing the magic of the ley lines that crisscross the isle of Faerwyvae, yet most modern establishments use it. Certainly Tamisen’s Textiles does.
Or…did.
Wouldn’t the electricity still work despite the fire, since all that burned down was cloth?
Then it hits me. We’re in an illegal operation.
The rundown building, wire fence, and lack of event signage should have tipped me off.
I leap up from my chair, sending its legs screeching behind me. “We need to go,” I hiss at Araminta.
“What? Why?”
