The Thing About Weres

“You must fly, nalera!” said the old man. “Bring us to safety!”

I haven’t got wings!

“Fly! Leap from this tree, and fly!” he screamed.

It was my Fae—not me—who forced our legs from a crouch to a standing position. And it was she who put her faith in the magic of the soul ball we held in our arms.

She leaped but we flew.

Straight out into the sky we shot, out to where bluebirds fly, and dreams presumably come true. Not like a dust mote, but as a sprite with wings as light as a dragonfly’s. So wonderful, so free, until semimortal-me looked down.

There was a whole bunch of blue-gray below me.

A few clouds.

And a lot more twilight blue.

Oh hell no. Me and Mr. Mage shot toward the clearing faster than a spitball blown through a shooter. The instant we passed the crumbling edge of the end of the world, and I saw ground below my trailing feet—mossy, firm, and solid—we lost altitude abruptly. I touched down with a knee-hurting jolt then bounced down the length of the clearing like a poorly piloted Cessna coming in on a wing and a prayer before finally staggering to a stop a scant ten inches from the graveyard of tree stumps.

Safe.

My legs went out, and I fell on my butt, his soul light clasped in my arms.

Well, I’d always wanted to fly—why else would I have focused on the concept of flight to help my mind separate my soul from my mortal body—and now … well, I’d flown. Not drifted, flown. I’d had the ability to more or less navigate. Son of a gun, I flew. Part of me said “whoops.” Part of me wanted to grin.

I coughed up some smoke. And then felt a bit sick, as remorse pushed aside “hey, I flew!” and retrospection kicked in. Fae Stars, what had my Fae done?

I stared at the ball clutched close to my heart. It had no heat, for such a powerful light. Its parchment-thin skin covering was sandpaper dry, and crisscrossed with wrinkles.

“Nalera” better not translate to “geriatric’s fuck buddy.”

My neck suddenly felt prickly the way it does when someone’s staring at it and thinking of wringing things. Mad-one?

I twisted around to check behind me.

And there she was. Standing at the edge of the graveyard of tree stumps, staring at me like I was the new cheerleader who’d just hooked up with her old boyfriend. A stream of blue myst investigated a tear in her gown. Eyes still narrowed on moi, she gave her skirt a savage shake.

Okay, then.

Across the way, the devil’s spawn wasn’t looking much happier than me. He leaned against the trunk of the Black Mage’s walnut, his face pressed to its fissured bark. “Yes, master. The Old Mage’s tree is gone,” he shouted over the hungry fire’s pops and crackles. The kid’s gaze flitted to me. “No, master. His soul lives. She holds him in her arms.” His voice broke and the rest became a babble. “I couldn’t help it, master. She used an enchantment! The cyreath floated straight to her!”

The wind had died, leaving the air feeling curiously heavy and expectant. A chill went down my spine as the walnut tree’s leaves rustled.

The boy burst into sudden tears. “Yes, master. His light turned white.”

Your “master” is evil, kid.

Don’t wrap your arms around him and seek help.

“Master, I didn’t know she had magic. I didn’t know that she could be his nalera!” The devil’s spawn began to weep in earnest now, tears and snot streaming, shoulders shaking. “I tried,” he sobbed. “But she’s stronger than me.”

Oh kid.

The red-purple light in its soul ball flashed—horribly bright, its flare blinding. And the little mystwalker sprang back, horrified. “No,” he wailed. “Please, master, I can learn. Please—”

The Black Mage’s tree seemed to pull itself inward, coiling backward, and I suddenly realized that there was no failing allowed in the dark one’s school. “Come here!” I screamed, surging to my feet. “Kid! Run to me!”

The Old Mage allowed me one step, and no farther.

That’s the moment I discovered the fine print on the “chosen one” contract. Cruelly and firmly, the Old Mage threw a wall between my thoughts and the machine of my body and instantly I became a statue, ball clasped to chest, unable to flex a single large muscle. It was a far worse sensation than being caught in the glue of the ward—at least then I had something to wade through. Oh sweet heaven, I can’t move. Claustrophobic panic squeezed the breath out of me—I was bound and helpless, inside a small tight casket that was being lowered into the ground.

“Please let me help him.” I strained. “He’s just a baby.”

“It is kinder this way,” I heard the mage murmur. “He is soiled.”

“Are you insane?” I screamed. “Kid, come here!”

But the little cub didn’t heed—he was cringing, his hands out as if to ward off a blow. There were other things I wanted to say to that little boy, mostly in the vein of retreat, but the Old Mage had grown tired of listening to my pleas.

He sealed my mouth.

It would have been kinder to close my eyes so I didn’t have to witness the rest.

The lowest bough of the black walnut tree became an arm—a heavy, brutish one—that swung back and then out. It swiped the sobbing boy right off his feet, and carried him right past land’s end to an endless sky. Then the tree limb gave a hard downward shake, akin to emptying the contents of a dustpan into the trash.

The kid tried to wind his short legs around the bough.

He truly did.

But he had tiny mitts, and puny muscles. The tree gave a savage lurch to the left and he was thrown. A flash of his small body falling through the air with arms and legs flailing. Then, with a high trailing scream, the devil’s spawn dropped from sight—a fledgling who’d never been granted wings.

The Old Mage loosened his mental hold on my legs and I sank to the damp ground. Disgust curled my nails into the sagging sheath of his soul ball. I wanted to rend it, or at least score the surface, but his skin was as difficult to pierce as a month-old helium balloon.

This world is wrong. This mission is over. Put the ball down and go home.

All I needed to do was swivel at the hips, and place the mage’s soul on a bed of moss. Easy peasy. Except I couldn’t do that, any more than I could slap on a pair of ice skates and perform a triple toe loop.

Put it down.

Veins throbbed in my forehead as I strained inwardly, but—oh Goddesss—I was stuck. Yes, I could breathe. I could even pant like a scream queen destined for the blade of the bad guy’s axe. But I couldn’t seem to force my arms to relinquish the burden they carried.

Fine. Forget the ball. Detach from this body.

Think of home.

Trowbridge. The bathroom with its eighties vanity and the lingering scent of Were. You’re standing there. Trowbridge and Harry are talking by the door to the hall. You’re standing there. The remnants of his dreadlocks are soft under your feet. You’re in the bathroom in Creemore.

Imagine yourself there.

Standing.

There.

But no matter how many details I pulled up—the little tiny flowers on the wallpaper, the glob of shaving cream on the tap, the damp air sweetened by the scent of shampoo and Trowbridge—I couldn’t force my body to pull away from the burden it held clawed in my arms.