Fear and fury spiraled through her
like a tornado. “Where are you?” she said through gritted
teeth, her voice taut with spite. She stood and turned in a
slow circle to survey the room.
“I’m right here,” the Voice
answered, still soft but with a ruffled note to it. He
was getting ruffled? He could at least see
her!
“Keep talking,” Aimée said, her
eyes narrowed, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Well, um. I’m not really quite
sure what to say. There once was a man from Nantucket…” the
Voice stopped. “Well, that’s hardly appropriate.”
Then her eyes landed on him. “Oh,”
she said, and nothing more for a long moment while she drank
him in. He was stunning—a well-built man with ivory white
skin. He stood about the same height as her, though his
shoulders were broad, which made him seem shorter. Dressed
like any of a million Goths in black pants with silver
zippers, and a ripped black shirt, he didn’t look anything
like anyone else she’d ever seen. His Goth uniform was
complete with piercings in his ears, eyebrow, nose—she
thought she might have seen the glint of a barbell-piercing
in his tongue. Despite the fact it was a clone-Goth look, it
didn’t look like a uniform he wore for kicks. The darkness
suited him. That might have had something to do with his
wings. They were the colour of shadows and torn at their
edges, like a moth’s. Despite their ragged edges, they
looked as though they’d be soft to touch. “What are you?”
she whispered.
He sniffed. “I’m a faery.”
Aimée felt her forehead scrunch as
she looked at him in disbelief, and heard the sarcasm in her
tone. “Cadence was a faery too, but she was only about the
size of my thumb.”
Lael shrugged, his feathers
ruffling with the movement. “Would you prefer me small?”
Aimée blinked, and suddenly there was nothing but an
ordinary moth floating in the air where he’d been. For a
long moment she stared. Then she began to wonder if she’d
imagined him. “If you’re real, please come back.” The moth
flitted into the darkness of the room.
She sank
into the chair and pressed the heels of her hands to her
eyes. No. She refused to go insane. Just say no.
Laughter bubbled on her lips, but she refused to let it go.
Laughing for no reason was a definite sign you were going
insane. Of course, seeing people who didn’t exist wasn’t a
sign of mental health, either, but she’d ignore that for the
time being. The laughter escaped in a short burst that
sounded more like a sob. Tears leaked from her eyes. Fear
lanced through her like a pain. Maybe this is the big
secret about dad. He went insane, and she didn’t tell me
because she was afraid it was genetic. More tears
followed the first rush, dropping onto her shirt like a
gentle rain.
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