Entice (23 page)

“Look,” Becca continues, “I’m cool with trying to save anyone who can help us kick Frank’s ass, but what I’m wondering is, why don’t you just ask the council how to get to Valhalla?” She stares me down, but her eyes aren’t unkind, just tough.

“I have via phone and I am going there to ask personally after the meeting. As of yet they have not responded,” Astley says. He looks around the room to see if there are any more questions.

“Does the queen have anything to say?” Becca asks. She smiles at me. She’s so pretty when she smiles. Her parents are from Hong Kong, Amelie told me. “She has been so quiet.”

The energy in the room changes. I know they’re all remembering how I ran off, how I was weak and scared. That’s not what they need right now. I can tell from the feeling in the room that all of them are nervous, on edge about the treachery and the attacks they’ve been dealing with here.

“This is not about Zara,” Astley says, but then he looks at me and adds, “but if you would like to say something, you most certainly can.”

My knees shake a tiny bit as I stand up and move toward the podium. I adjust the microphone down. It’s beyond awkward up here. Wishing that I’d taken speech or debate or something, I force a slow deep breath through my lungs and out.

“I am honored to be your queen. Every day I become more and more honored by what you all risk just by being here. You know what Frank’s pixies do: they torment, they torture innocent people, they drain their souls, rip their skin, ravage their minds. They do this as pixies. When they do this they ruin who we are. Show the world, show me, show your king, and most importantly show yourselves that you are better than that, that you are
not
that. Continue to protect the people of this town. Use your power for good. Be proud to be on the side of good. Be proud of your king and yourselves. I know that I am, and I am so thankful for all of you.”

Sitting back down, I start smiling, because I know—without the smallest of doubts—that if my dad—the one who raised me, my stepdad—were here, he’d be really,
really
proud.

After the meeting, Astley drives me home and we stand on the front porch talking for a minute.

“You did a very good job,” he says.

“Was it too rah-rah?” I ask.

“No, not at all.”

“You did a good job too,” I say, deliberately avoiding looking at his lips. We have said nothing more about the kiss.

As soon as we are out of the car, my mother opens the house door and snaps, “What are you doing here?”

“Discussing,” Astley says.

She raises her eyebrows and tells us in no uncertain terms that Astley needs to leave.

“Give us a minute, Mom,” I beg.

She crosses her arms over her chest and doesn’t budge, except for her foot, which is tapping her anger into the floorboards of the porch.

“A minute alone,” I add.

“Lovely. Love pixies. Love ’em.” She moves toward the door.

“Mom, I’m a pixie.”

“You don’t count.” She says this, but I know I do.

When I turn back to him, Astley gives me sympathetic eyes but kindly doesn’t say anything about the exchange. “I should go,” I say.

“Okay.”

As we stand there another minute, everything becomes quiet and awkward between us. Finally I clear my throat and say, “Stay safe, okay?”

He reaches up his hand, touches my arm. “You as well.”

And then he goes.

The rest of us, the ones left behind, spend the days trying to carry on, remembering goofy things about Mrs. Nix, planning how to defend people from Frank and his pixies, trying to figure out how to keep people from killing me, trying to figure out a way to get Betty to come home. None of it seems good enough. None of it seems to avenge the deaths, the injuries. I do homework and go to track, even though I can’t run. Only four people show up for our Key Club meeting; only five show up for
AFS
.

Cassidy works on all of us and we heal much more quickly than we would normally. All the exertion tires her out. Blue smudges rim her eyes. Her hair gets so limp that no amount of teasing or conditioner gives her braids bounce. Her hands shake from simple tasks.

Issie doesn’t talk for three days. When she finally does, it is only to Devyn, but then she slowly starts talking to all of us again. First, it’s just a word or two, and then it’s whole sentences.

I don’t even tell Issie about what happened between Astley and me. People are dying. I can’t think about kisses.

And then Astley comes back one night when I’ve just finished patrolling with Devyn. My mom and I are sitting on the couch watching bad reality television when he knocks on the front door. When I open it, he smiles at me. It’s a small, hesitant smile. The cold air rushes inside our warm house. He smells of wool and outside. My heart freezes midbeat.

“May I come in?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say as my mother spits out, “No.”

He had started to step inside, but he pauses. I grab his arm and yank him in, shutting the door behind him, ignoring my mom’s protests. He stomps the snow off his boots on the plastic pad Betty put by the door.

My mother harrumphs.

“What did they say?” I try to take his coat, but he won’t let me. “Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?”

“No, but thank you.” Astley clears his throat awkwardly. His eyes are shiny, excited. “I found out how to get there, Zara. I went to the council. I made our case. I cited my mother’s deception, Frank’s renegade thwarting of all our rules, and his attacks on this kingdom. I explained that I could not create stability in the region without my queen’s happiness, which is dependent upon the return of her wolf.”

A silence pulls at both of us until I finally say, “He’s not my possession.”

“Yes. Right,” he sputters. He doesn’t unbutton his coat or take off his boots. “Anyway, it is a ceremony. It requires a lot of magic and some special guests, but we can do it.”

For a moment I let that register. We can do it.

“Really?” My voice is a tiny squeak. I study his face.

He nods and I fling myself at him. His arms wrap around me in a super hug. We can do it.

“How do you know it’s not a trick?” I ask into his coat.

“The council itself told me, Zara. It is no deception. I just wish they could have told us earlier and saved all this heartbreak, but the way is a much-guarded secret.”

He steps backward, breaks the hug, but keeps his hands on my arms. His smile lights up the entire room. I bet I have a smile that almost matches it.

“Can all of us go?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just one.”

My mother’s voice comes from behind me. She’s gotten off the couch and stands near the white leather chair, her arms still crossed in front of her chest. “Nobody is going anywhere.”

“What?” I step toward her. “How can you say that? We can get Nick.”

“Nobody is going and that’s final.” She shakes her head at me. “You are being unbearably selfish, Zara. How many people are you willing to lose? How many people are you going to let die just so you can get back this one boy?”

“That’s not how it is,” I say.

“That’s exactly how it is.” She points her finger at me. I back up and accidentally bump Astley with my hip. “You are willing to sacrifice all of us to get Nick back.”

“That’s not true.” Rage and guilt and sorrow hiccup inside my throat, making it hard to breathe. “That’s not true. Mrs. Nix insisted. You all insisted that I not go.”

“We had no choice. You would have died even if it hadn’t been a trap; you were so weak.” Her face is a mixture of sorrow and rage.

I stagger backward away from her. Astley steadies me.

“You need to stop.” He directs this to my mother and speaks with utter calm mixed with absolute authority.

She whirls on him. “How dare you say that to me! How dare you?”

She raises her hand to strike him, but he doesn’t move, even though I know he could. Instead I jump between them. Her hand hits the top of my head, I guess because she’d been aiming for his face. Her mouth drops into a shocked
O
. For a second there’s hesitation, or regret, but then it’s gone and she says, “Get out, pixie. Zara, to your room.”

“No,” I say.

“I should leave,” Astley says calmly. He opens the door and gives me a look that is easy for me to understand.

I head up the stairs as he shuts the door.

My mother’s voice calls up after me. “You will thank me for this someday, young lady.”

Yeah. Right.

Less than a minute later I’m opening up my window and Astley is climbing through. His long legs bend at the knee and remind me of a grasshopper. He shuts the window behind him. I sit on the floor, back against my bed, and pat the space beside me. He pretty much collapses into it. I’ve never seen him so tired. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and then asks, “Her slap did not hurt you, did it?”

“Not physically. Not really.” We are whispering so she doesn’t hear us over the music.

“Good. It was intended for me.”

“I know.”

He sighs out for a second, then unzips his jacket. “My boots are leaking on your carpet.”

“Not a problem.”

There’s another pause. It’s all I can do not to beg him for details about the meeting, all I can do not to ask him about our kiss, but I am trying to learn patience. After a second he says, “Mothers do not seem to like me.”

“It’s the circumstances with mine. I’m sure she would if you weren’t a pixie.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. I pull my leg up close to me and fiddle with my slipper. “My father didn’t treat her well and—”

“You do not need to explain, Zara.”

I stop fiddling and look at him, really look at him. He’s still so young. He’s handsome as a human. He looks like the kind of guy who would be a hero in a war movie, some sort of captain. He’s this weird mix of wounded and confident, kind and bossy. But right now the vibe he’s giving out is wounded, and I’m so worried that it isn’t just about our mothers, that it isn’t even about our kiss, but that it’s something more.

I eye Astley. “They didn’t just tell you how for free, did they?”

“I did not have to pay them with money.” He breathes slow and deep. His knuckles are scraped.

“But you did have to pay them? With what?”

He doesn’t answer. He refuses to answer and I doubt I will ever get him to answer, ever get him to tell me what he’s done. Something in my heart cracks a little bit, another sliver of pain. “You do so much for me, Astley.
I—I
don’t know how to thank you.”

He smiles this sad, sweet smile. “I am aware of that and you do not need to thank me.”

I touch his sleeve quickly and then rub my hands together. “So, tell me what we have to do.”

After he tells me everything he knows about the ceremony, Astley and I escape out my window again. Someday I hope we can just use the door. He brings me to Issie’s house as we discuss the preparations.

The moment we get there I realize that I don’t want him to go, that I want him to come inside with me, that I’m scared and it’s easier to be surrounded by people that you know have your back.

“I’ll wait for you. It will all be ready,” he says. His hand touches my cheek for the briefest of seconds. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

He shoots into the sky before I can thank him again or worry with him or make him wait. So I turn around and I ring the front doorbell. Issie’s mom comes to the door. She’s a short, hyper woman who dresses in swishy skirts and men’s dress socks that are pulled up to her knees. They sometimes fall down at grocery stores, according to Issie. Anyway, she throws the door open, steak knife in hand. “Zara! Come in! Come in! Get out of the cold! Did you see anyone out there? Anyone lurking? I can’t believe Betty lets you out alone like this!”

She hustles me into the house, which smells like gingerbread and chocolate cookies.

“I am baking for the holidays,” she explains, stashing her knife and brushing flour off of her too-large navy blue cashmere V-neck sweater, which looks like it belongs to Issie’s dad. There’s an ax by the door. “Issie and Devyn are upstairs in her room—with the door open, I might add, so don’t worry! Just go on up.”

She shoves a cookie at me. It’s chocolate chip and delicious. Nick used to make me cookies.

“It’s
so
good. Thanks!” I say, chomping down.

“Oh, I’m so glad you like it,” she says as I slip off my wet shoes and head up the stairs. I’ve made it up two before she calls my name. I stop, half turn. In a much quieter voice she says, “Do you think Issie is okay?”

I cock my head, feign ignorance. “Why?”

“The past few days, she’s barely been talking. She’s getting better now, but…” Her face is a scrunched-up ball of worry.

“She’s upset about all the people who have gone missing,” I say, telling a part of the truth. “She’s so sensitive and she’s so worried about everyone, you know? And she has a hard time being grounded.”

“I know, but it’s for her own protection.” Her lips turn inward the way mine do when I try not to cry. “She’s such a good girl.”

“She is,” I say. “She is made of awesome sauce.”

“Awesome sauce … Zara White, you are so silly.” She slaps her thigh. “You come down if you need another cookie. They have a plate up there, but if you need more…”

“Thanks,” I say and hustle up the stairs as quickly as I can without being rude—I really like Issie’s mom and she’s like Issie: nobody should ever be rude to her.

Issie’s room is crowded with stuffed animals and lit by one of those electric window candles. It takes me a second to see her and Devyn cuddled on the bed, totally making out.

I clear my throat. They both jump.

“Oh my gosh! I thought you were my mom.” Issie smooths her hair. “Sorry.”

She makes room for me on the bed by moving some stuffed animals around.

Devyn lifts an eyebrow. “Something happened?”

Issie gasps and clutches his arm. “Not Cassidy? Something hasn’t happened to her? Or Callie?”

I shake my head and sit on the cleared-off bed space by Devyn’s feet. His socks smell pretty rank actually. I try to focus on the other smells. “No, it’s good. I mean, I think it’s good. You guys…? I don’t know.”