“No kidding.”
“We have to go back into that?” Wyatt asked.
“He said halfway. So we just need to take deeper breaths.” And a shower, once we got where we were going. In the open air, that fluid smelled like rotten eggs.
I helped Wyatt sit up. He threw his arms around my shoulders. Though slick and smelly, and uncomfortably chilly, I still hugged him tight. Together again and away from the blocking crystal, the sense of power returned. It tingled through me like a static shock, energizing and comfortingly familiar. I started laughing for no good reason. He did, too. Smedge probably thought us a pair of loons.
We both stood. I held Wyatt’s gaze as I inhaled, matching my breaths to his, prepping like a deep-sea diver. I nodded when I was ready. He winked. Mucus trickled down his cheeks like tears.
Smedge had shifted, creating another mouth-shaped hole in the dirt floor. I took a deep breath, held it, and jumped.
Halfway my ass. The second trip felt interminable, and even with the prep, I was screaming for air by the time I was finally ejected. I coughed and spit and gulped in oxygen. This time, I had the good sense to roll a few feet and avoid Wyatt’s crash landing. He hit the sand a few seconds after I did, alert and gasping.
No, the stuff on the ground was finer than sand. Like confectioners’ sugar, without the white residue and dust. It didn’t scrape my skin like regular dirt, but it still stuck to the goo and made a gross, pale brown paste on my arms and hands.
“Evy, are you okay?” Wyatt asked. He tried to wipe his face and succeeded in smearing muck across his forehead.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Where the hell are we?”
Awareness of my surroundings set in with the nearby thunder of falling water. We were in a cavern. Its roof towered over us at least twelve stories high, the very top lost in dimness. The water flowed from a break in the upper rock, straight down in a stream as thin as my arm, and splashed into a pool the size of a small car. The water in the pool was black as pitch and glossy as a mirror, despite the constant ripples. The sound should have echoed louder, given the enormity of the cavern. Instead, it created a rhythmic white noise.
Dotted here and there on the craggy walls around us, flowers grew. Nothing I’d ever seen before—blue and purple and red, trumpet-shaped like lilies, but with dozens of petals like a daisy. I couldn’t imagine how such a stunning flower grew underground without sunlight. The sandy ground around the pool was peppered with small pockmarks, like thousands of tiny feet had once run across it. Glowing orange orbs stood on rock poles, acting like street lamps and casting a glow on the underground world we’d been vomited into.
“Holy …”
Awe crept into Wyatt’s voice. I twisted around, away from the falls. My mouth fell open.
A city rose up behind us. Carved directly into the rock, hewn stairs connected level after level of doors and windows and walkways. Their sizes varied, but few were larger than five feet tall. Curtains of shimmering material covered them all, cutting off their interiors from prying eyes. It reminded me of photos I’d seen of Mediterranean villas, but built up instead of out. Other varieties of flowers grew among the stones and doors and steps.
More impressively, abstract murals covered every inch of rock on that side of the cave. Scrolls and filigrees surrounded doorways and repeated on the windows—splashes of red, green, orange, blue, purple, and yellow, twisted into a thing of beauty. Dotted among it were silver and gold and bronze, and I had no doubt that it wasn’t paint creating those rich, shimmering colors, but the metals themselves. Spheres the size of basketballs dotted the walls between windows, along the stairs, and in the stone face of the cave itself. They glowed with the same burnt orange color. But more than the visual aesthetic, I felt the power of the place. Stronger than I’d ever felt in the city; keener than just those vague wisps of energy.
I stood up on trembling legs. There was no sign of Smedge, or of the cave’s inhabitants. No, “village” was more appropriate than “cave.” Cave did not do the space’s majesty any sort of justice. The air was rife with the scents of flowers—lavender and roses and honeysuckle—none of the stale, humid air I expected.
Wyatt’s fingers slipped around mine, and slimy as they were, I held tight. My heart sped up a few beats, but not from fear. Nothing about this place scared me. It was exhilarating, like coming home after a long absence—a feeling I didn’t quite understand. Wyatt’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed gaze indicated similar feelings.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. He whispered, as though afraid speaking too loudly would destroy the peace around us and bring a horde of angry locals down on our heads.
“It’s amazing. Empty, but amazing.”
The burnt orange spheres glowed brighter, becoming first yellow, and then shimmering ivory. The colors of the wall murals sparked and lit, creating rainbow washes that almost hurt my eyes with their beauty. It bounced off the cavern walls all around us, making it seem somehow larger than before. Like a football stadium, minus the fake grass.
A curtain in one of the ground-level doors pulled to the side. A petite figure emerged, walking slowly, but with purpose and intent. Barely four feet tall, her sky blue skin radiated light and life. Her flaming red hair was done up in fancy spirals and held in place with crystals. More crystals dotted her face and cheeks, creating lazy paths down her shoulders and arms and across her stomach to her legs. Her breasts were faint mounds on her chest, with no discernible nipples. The sharp V between her legs was smooth and sexless. She was the perfect re-creation of the female figure, on a slightly smaller scale.
As she closed in on us, her cobalt eyes fixed on me. She smiled with ruby lips, showing off a perfect line of pearly teeth. I melted under the warmth of that smile, and all I felt from her was peace.
“Amalie,” Wyatt said.
I gaped. I’d seen Amalie and, save the piercing blue eyes and flame-red hair, the small, sparkling woman- wannabe was not the sprite I knew.
Her smile and laughing eyes turned to him. “Wyatt Truman, my friend,” she said, her voice commanding and feminine and disproportionate to her small frame. “We finally meet.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Apologies, Evangeline,” she said. “My people prefer to avoid the cities, but our abilities allow us to send our spirit through the body of an avatar. It helps us communicate with the outside world, without exposing ourselves to it.”
“Avatar?”
“Usually a human whose mind is already open to possibilities. It allows us to take them over for a short period of time, often without their knowledge. They wake as though from a dream and remember nothing of their possession. It is how Wyatt knows me, and how you have previously seen me. Few have ever seen my true self.”
She spun around in a circle, her delicate arms spread wide. “In fact, you are the first humans to be welcomed here in our most private home. Welcome to First Break, where the Fair Ones reside.”
Her announcement created a flurry of activity. The shimmering curtains covering the carved doors and windows drew away. Bright light spilled out. Hundreds of creatures exited those doors, and some flew from what were actually not windows, but smaller doorways. Some were proportionate like Amalie, their skin and hair colors as varied as the rainbow, but none possessed as many crystals as she. Others were squat, or had heads too large, arms too short, or bodies too slim. The smallest, no larger than a chipmunk, flew on filament wings, even more delicate than a butterfly’s. Lights the size of fireflies gathered high above us, a cloud of pearly light that never stopped moving.
They assembled on the sandy floor, creating a semicircle around us. Inhuman chatter, like the gentle buzzing of bumblebees, rose above the din of their arrival. With them came more sweet smells, like the garden of the gods had just opened up to us. It was intoxicating, invigorating.
“Fair Ones,” Wyatt said.
“You have other words for us, of course,” Amalie replied. “Names of human myth that do nothing to explain what we are. Pixies and nymphs and sprites and faeries are only titles. Human constructs of literature, to help explain how they saw things they couldn’t possibly have seen.”
“Sort of like Bram Stoker?” I asked. He’d done a lot to create false myths about vampires.
