except—
“Me!” I shout, hope exploding in my chest like a firework. I can move things with my mind. I must be doing this. I must be hallucinating the fairies and—
The Land Rover lurches to the right and the fairies scream in anticipation of their victory and there’s no more time left for coming to logical conclusions. I force fear away and lash out. The part of my brain I’ve come to associate with supernatural phenomenon sparks to life, humming and sizzling, making the place where brain meets spinal cord hot enough for sweat to break out on the back of my neck.
I imagine the wheels moving back toward the ground, the truck righting itself, and for a second, I think it’s going to work. I’m moving in the right direction, I’m taking control. But then I see him—the old fairy, hovering behind the rest, his angry raisin face barely visible through the crush of wings and tiny fingers pressed tight to the glass. He lifts his arms and let’s out a series of barks that summon a round of howls from his army.
Suddenly I know this isn’t a hallucination. That old geezer is real. So is his army, and so is the death waiting for me as soon as the truck rolls over.
The fairies surge forward with renewed strength and the truck is going, going, going, and I know there’s no way I’m going to stop it and I’m already bracing myself for the impact with the water when the thought whips through my head.
The fairies. If you can’t move the truck, stop the fairies.
I talked Stephanie’s lungs back together. If I can heal; I can also hurt.
I lean into the window, pressing my hands against the glass, feeling the heat from all those burning Fey fingers against mine, and send everything I have out into the swarm. I imagine my energy spreading like poison gas, seeping into their bones, turning them to jelly. Visions of limp, useless arms and wings shoot from my mind, and before I have time to wonder if my last-ditch effort is going to be good enough, they’re dropping like feral, toothy flies.
Screeches become squeals of pain and the hands glued to the glass fall away.
Plop. Plop, plop, plop-plop-popalop-plop.
Dozens hit the dirt and the shoving comes to an abrupt stop as the fairies still left alive flee into the bayou. Still, for a moment, it seems my reprieve has come too late. The Rover teeters on two wheels—caught between upright and up and over—while my heart leaps in my throat and my thoughts jerk from the fairies back to the vehicle just in time.
Down! Down!
The truck slams back to the ground with enough force to send me bouncing into the ceiling. My head hits with a crack and my teeth knock together and I taste blood, but it tastes amazing because I’m alive and whole and then my hands are on the wheel and my foot is on the accelerator and I’m peeling down the gravel road so fast that by the time I get up theguts to look in the rearview mirror, I can’t see anything but my own dust.
But I’d be able to see the fairy glow through the haze. If they were following me, I’d know about it. I’m safe. For now.
As safe as any person can be whose nightmares are coming true.
T he bridge over the muddy Mississippi is the first smooth stretch of road. I hit the graying pavement and the rattle inside the truck becomes a high-pitched whine that threatens to kick my migraine into skull-shattering territory.
I know fairies can’t follow me onto a bridge made entirely of iron, but I don’t pull over. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain like I’ve ignored every terror-filled thought that’s raced through my mind since I left the turn in the road past Donaldsonville. I can’t think about how close I came to dying. I have to focus and get the information Hitch needs.
Then I can start stressing about an army of fairies out to kill me and the insanity of dreaming something that came true and the throat-clutching fear that grips me every time I think about having to drive back the way I came.
I’ll have to.
“Me!” I shout, hope exploding in my chest like a firework. I can move things with my mind. I must be doing this. I must be hallucinating the fairies and—
The Land Rover lurches to the right and the fairies scream in anticipation of their victory and there’s no more time left for coming to logical conclusions. I force fear away and lash out. The part of my brain I’ve come to associate with supernatural phenomenon sparks to life, humming and sizzling, making the place where brain meets spinal cord hot enough for sweat to break out on the back of my neck.
I imagine the wheels moving back toward the ground, the truck righting itself, and for a second, I think it’s going to work. I’m moving in the right direction, I’m taking control. But then I see him—the old fairy, hovering behind the rest, his angry raisin face barely visible through the crush of wings and tiny fingers pressed tight to the glass. He lifts his arms and let’s out a series of barks that summon a round of howls from his army.
Suddenly I know this isn’t a hallucination. That old geezer is real. So is his army, and so is the death waiting for me as soon as the truck rolls over.
The fairies surge forward with renewed strength and the truck is going, going, going, and I know there’s no way I’m going to stop it and I’m already bracing myself for the impact with the water when the thought whips through my head.
The fairies. If you can’t move the truck, stop the fairies.
I talked Stephanie’s lungs back together. If I can heal; I can also hurt.
I lean into the window, pressing my hands against the glass, feeling the heat from all those burning Fey fingers against mine, and send everything I have out into the swarm. I imagine my energy spreading like poison gas, seeping into their bones, turning them to jelly. Visions of limp, useless arms and wings shoot from my mind, and before I have time to wonder if my last-ditch effort is going to be good enough, they’re dropping like feral, toothy flies.
Screeches become squeals of pain and the hands glued to the glass fall away.
Plop. Plop, plop, plop-plop-popalop-plop.
Dozens hit the dirt and the shoving comes to an abrupt stop as the fairies still left alive flee into the bayou. Still, for a moment, it seems my reprieve has come too late. The Rover teeters on two wheels—caught between upright and up and over—while my heart leaps in my throat and my thoughts jerk from the fairies back to the vehicle just in time.
Down! Down!
The truck slams back to the ground with enough force to send me bouncing into the ceiling. My head hits with a crack and my teeth knock together and I taste blood, but it tastes amazing because I’m alive and whole and then my hands are on the wheel and my foot is on the accelerator and I’m peeling down the gravel road so fast that by the time I get up theguts to look in the rearview mirror, I can’t see anything but my own dust.
But I’d be able to see the fairy glow through the haze. If they were following me, I’d know about it. I’m safe. For now.
As safe as any person can be whose nightmares are coming true.
T he bridge over the muddy Mississippi is the first smooth stretch of road. I hit the graying pavement and the rattle inside the truck becomes a high-pitched whine that threatens to kick my migraine into skull-shattering territory.
I know fairies can’t follow me onto a bridge made entirely of iron, but I don’t pull over. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain like I’ve ignored every terror-filled thought that’s raced through my mind since I left the turn in the road past Donaldsonville. I can’t think about how close I came to dying. I have to focus and get the information Hitch needs.
Then I can start stressing about an army of fairies out to kill me and the insanity of dreaming something that came true and the throat-clutching fear that grips me every time I think about having to drive back the way I came.
I’ll have to.
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