He went downstairs to find that his father had arrived home from work at the cafe and it was time for dinner. He suddenly realized he was absolutely starving. Time flew by as he sat with his family and listened to his father regale them all with his impressions of the customers he’d served that day. Even Delia seemed to relax and forget her scare, laughing in spite of her protestations that her father was the least funny man in the world and that his stories were the dumbest in the world.
When he was with his family, he could almost forget about the weirdness of the Faerie world and his place in it. He could forget about the Art, Gatherings of Clans, and Proving Challenges. Here, at the kitchen table, eating meatloaf with his mother and father and even his annoying sister, he belonged. He was home.
Weary but content after a couple more cookies, Brendan trudged up to his room with no thought in his mind but sleep. He peeled off his clothes, donned his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and lay down on the bed. He was almost asleep when he remembered he still hadn’t called Harold and Dmitri to apologize. He reached for his Faerie phone. His fingers rested on the smooth grain of the wood for a moment before he pulled his hand away. He decided he was too tired to face explaining his screw-up to his friends. He lay back and was asleep in minutes.
Charlie stood in the shadows, watching as the light in the attic went out. It was chilly but she didn’t feel a thing.
“He’s going to sleep,” she said softly, seemingly to herself. No one was with her in the lane. “He still does that. It’s very strange. He’s so tied to his Human habits. It’s sad but kind of sweet, too, his feelings for these people.”
There was a rustle of wings. A hawk with snowy white plumage lighted to perch on the fence beside Charlie. The bird of prey blinked bright blue eyes and hooted softly.
Charlie nodded. “That’s true. His attachment to his Human family is the way to get close to him.”
The hawk flapped its broad wings and the air around it smudged and smeared. The shape of the bird stretched and its plumage darkened. The next instant, an old man stood leaning against the fence. He wore a rumpled tweed suit and a flat cap. “It’s his greatest weakness but perhaps his greatest strength, too. That’s the key to his passion. It’s what will set him apart.”
“He’s very reluctant to let me in,” Charlie explained. “He distrusts strangers.”
“Few could resist your charms, my dear Charles.”
“He’s doing just fine,” she snorted, hanging her head.
The old man raised Charlie’s chin and looked into her eyes. He smiled. “Show him how wonderful our world can be. You will succeed, I’m sure.”
Reluctantly she nodded. “I have an idea that might work.” Her brow furrowed. “Have you found out any more about my family?”
“No,” the old man said sadly. “I haven’t given up, but the trail is centuries old. It will take some time.
“Now, I must be gone,” he said. “Don’t worry. You will wear him down.” As he raised his arms, his form melted down and collapsed. The bird sat in his place on the fence post. The hawk clicked its beak and rose with a powerful snap of its wings, throwing itself into the frigid night sky.
“Yes.” She nodded and held out her bare arm. A weasellike shape stretched from her elbow to her wrist, etched into her skin with black ink. The tattoo shivered, writhed, and then detached itself from her skin, thickening and expanding until the creature it depicted had become a separate entity, dark as the shadows under the fence. The creature chittered softly and swarmed up her arm until it wreathed her shoulders like a living scarf. “Yes, Tweezers. It’s time to take the gloves off.”
^ 27 I think most brothers would agree that sisters are terrifying and to be avoided until at least the age of forty and then approached only with great caution.
^ 28 All Faeries have glamours or magical disguises to hide their true nature from Humans. While Greater Faeries take the Human form to move among us, as Brendan does, Lesser Faeries are forced to take on appropriate disguises for their size: mice, insects, birds, etc. BLT, being a contrary sort of individual, settled on an ugly, hairy fly, but she could have been a butterfly or a hummingbird. I think we agree that wouldn’t be in keeping with her personality.
PART 2
The Shadow Dancer
Another Note from the Narrator
Ha! Things are certainly heating up. Mysterious hawks in the dark of night! Sisters spying on brothers! Chocolate chip cookies! Oh, what a tangled web of intrigue and deception.
The story is really starting to get rolling now. The pieces are in place, as it were. Who is the mysterious old man? Old men are always interesting. In stories, they fall into one of two categories: Wise Old Sage or Mad Old Weirdo. I prefer the old men characters that are a little bit of both. Old Mad Wise Weirdo has a nice ring to it.
So, Brendan is having a crisis of sorts. He is alienating his friends and failing in his training, and an annoying girl is trying to weasel her way into his life. Little does she know he already has an annoying girl in his life.
I have come under criticism from readers for Delia being unreasonably mean to Brendan. But anyone who has a sister will not find fault in my portrayal of Delia, for they’ll know I am more than likely not being harsh enough.
Sisters can be extremely annoying. I have a sister who is never satisfied until she’s driven me slightly mad. When we were children, she used to sneak into my bedroom and glue my pyjamas to my bedsheets. Very annoying. Then there was the time she mailed me to France. What can I say? I’m a very deep sleeper. I woke up in the mail- sorting office in Paris. The supervisor almost choked on his croissant.
Surely, my sister was an extreme and sadistic case. (She is currently in prison serving five years for mail fraud.) But the stakes are high for Brendan, and a nosy sister is the last thing he needs. He is keeping a lot of balls in the air, and those balls are of different weights and sizes. Every once in a while, another ball is tossed to him and he must react swiftly or risk dropping everything. Sometimes he has to pass one ball under his leg or behind his back…
All right. I’m exhausted with this juggling metaphor. Shall we continue? Let’s throw some more balls at Brendan.
EVISCERATION
The next day, Sunday, Brendan awoke to find BLT tapping at the window. The temperature had dropped and snow had fallen overnight, the first of the season. Christmas was just over a week away. He let the tiny Faerie in out of the cold.
“About time!” BLT grumped.
“It’s not like you feel the cold, anyway,” Brendan pointed out.
“Not the point!” She shook snow off her wings and burrowed under his duvet, refusing to respond to his apologies.
It was one of those rare days when both his mother and father were home. He joined them for breakfast at the kitchen table while listening to them making their plans for the day.
“We have to get the tree put up,” his mother said, referring to her to-do list on the table in front of her. “And I need you to get the decorations out of the bins in the basement.”
“Absolutely, dear,” his father answered absently. He was preoccupied by the highlights from last night’s game on SportsCentre. The tiny TV on top of the fridge held at least half of his attention. “Decorations.”
“Hey, Dad,” Brendan interrupted. “Did they win?”
“Lost in a shootout.”
“Bummer.”
