Apparently, everyone in the worldexceptmy mother knew better than to make a deal with them.
In the end, though, the only facts I could really trust came from experience. If they could force Mom to abandon us, prevent me from telling anyone, and somehow stop everyone else from questioning their ridiculous story, that told me two things: They were cruel, and they were dangerous.
With a huff, I shoved the stack of library books off the nightstand. They crashed to the floor with a thunk. Pearl would be furious if she knew how I treated the books, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Moving to prop my feet up on the wall, I stared up at my bare toes without really seeing them.
I’d discovered I could talk about Mom as long as I didn’t try to tell anyone what had happened. I could also talk about the fae from my books until I was blue in the face. But I couldn’t talk about my actual encounter with them unless I wanted to spout random observations instead and sound like a crazy person.
With a groan, I flung an arm over my eyes.
I stayed that way for a good chunk of the day, getting up to eat lunch and then falling back into bed to stare aimlessly out the window.
I picked up my phone multiple times out of habit, frowning at the cracked screen.
At this point, the cracks had spread so far it was nearly unusable, forcing me to do most of my research at the library, which limited me since they often closed early.
Still, I’d found dozens of articles on Selmo disappearances, and many had family claiming the fae took them. So, how was it possible that all of Selmo, myself included before this week, thought the fae were just a funny story we peddled because it was good for tourism?
The weirdest part though? When I tried to find people who’d seen the fae, I couldn’t track down a single one. I’d spend hours gathering information, only to stumble into a dead end. Each of them had just... disappeared.
Like they'd been taken too.
I paced across my small bedroom, unwilling to go out into the living room where the Christmas tree was still up.
For every answer, I uncovered a hundred more questions. Yes, Mom had made a deal, but what exactly was it? How did they enforce it? What were the consequences that one fae had mentioned? How long did it last? Was she gone forever, or would she randomly come back in a month, or a year, or a decade?
That last thought was new, and a burning need to find out if anyone else had ever “come back” from a fae encounter washed over me.
While I’d managed to move the most important apps to the bottom of my phone screen and couldtechnicallyaccess them, the idea of trying to read an article through the spiderweb of cracks made my head hurt.
I grabbed my coat and boots, heading for the library.
School wasn’t out yet, but it wasn’t hard to sneak by Pearl, who was on break, watching a soap on her phone. I went straight to the computers in the back.
Pulling out my notebook, I opened the page with a list of names and started searching each person who’d disappeared to see if anyone had ever been found.
Not one.
Crossing off each name on the list as the search came up empty, I frowned at the final name at the top: Raines. He’d been my first lead. Tracking him down at the post office, I’d demanded to know who gave him the letter.
He’d squinted at me, genuinely confused. “Young lady, I haven’t delivered mail to your route in months.” Pointing toward the man behind the post office counter, he’d added, “That’s Oliver’s route. You could ask him, but, uh... You do know how letters work, right?” His voice took on a mocking tone. “There are these newfangled inventions called mailboxes that people drop letters in. If you can believe it, we never even see them—”
Face flushed, I’d snapped, “ ‘Kay, thanks,” and left.
He obviously didn’t remember delivering it, so he wouldn’t remember who—human or fae—had written it either.
Now, I flipped the pages in my notebook to my bullet-point list of fae details that seemed somewhat believable, where I’d made a few notes beside them:
Fae are allergic and/or vulnerable to iron (and other metals).Not sure? There’s metal in our kitchen and they didn’t seem to care?
They like to mislead humans into making ill-fated deals.This has to be what happened to Mom.
Fae are often depicted as having an ability to change their appearance and disguise themselves, creating an illusion of something else.Seriously creepy. If this is true, we could be seeing fae all the time and not even know it.
Some websites and books called the last one shape-shifting, while others called it illusion. Even fiction books mentioned it, calling it a glamour, as if the ability were charming and elegant.
It was mentioned frequently enough that my gut said it was probably genuine. That was terrifying.
I closed the notebook and tucked it into my backpack. It was late enough now that Pearl shouldn’t question why I wasn’t at school. Turning off the computer, I went back to the front desk to find her.
