blinked, entirely independent of the other, and Mallaidh tried to pretend that seeing that didn’t bother her so much.
“Hello, Knocks,” she said sweetly, her voice almost cooing. Her mood was particularly bright today, mirroring the radiant skies and the soft, billowing clouds that drifted dreamily in the distance. “What’s the haps?”
“The . . . haps?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, did I say that wrong?” She leaned in flirtatiously, trying coyly to play it off. “You used to live in Austin. That’s what they say there, right? What’s the haps?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I’ve never heard that before.”
“Oh, how silly of me,” she said, recovering for both of them. “I must have gotten it wrong. You know people better than I do.”
“No, I . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.
“Don’t be modest. You’re smart. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
He scuffed the ground harder, not yet consciously realizing that he’d drawn a heart in the dirt. “So, Mallaidh.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, curiously. “Why?”
Knocks leaned in close, almost uncomfortably close. The next part he whispered. “I have a secret.”
“Ooooh.” She loved secrets. “What is it?” she whispered in the covert tenor of a secret agent.
Knocks smiled and looked both ways. “There’s a hunt tonight.”
“There is?” she asked excitedly. “Why haven’t I heard about it?”
“Because it’s a secret. Only a few of the forest bogeys know.”
Mallaidh grimaced playfully, watching the young boy trying to present himself as a man. “Since when are you a forest bogey?” she asked.
“W . . . we . . . w . . . well . . . ,” he stuttered “I’m not. But I heard them. And I’m gonna go take part.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed—a young belle offered a chance to a dance to which she was clearly not really invited. “Well, I’m too young for a hunt. And I’m afraid there’s nothing for me to do.” She was clearly losing interest in the conversation. “Look, I—”
“Oh, well, Ewan and I are—”
“Ewan’s going to be there?” she interrupted. Her eyes lit up as if someone had set off fireworks behind him.
Knocks’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. He strained for normalcy, his eyelids fighting to stay open against the weight of his jealousy. Through gritted teeth he spoke, very slowly. “Yes. Ewan will be there.”
“And I can go with you?” she asked, clapping excitedly, bouncing.
Knocks paused for a second. “Yes. Of course you can come with me,” he said, smiling broadly. His plaque-encrusted, yellow teeth sprouted as randomly from his gray gums as trees did from the ground, his sickening grin turning Mallaidh’s stomach. She muscled through it, betraying nary a second of her discomfort.
“Where should I meet you?” she asked.
Knocks answered in a sour staccato he tried disguising as mere theater. “The Great Stage. Sunset. Come alone.”
Mallaidh smiled, touching Knocks lightly on the arm, above his elbow. “Oh, I’m so excited,” she said. “I can’t wait! See you tonight.” She winked before slipping immediately back into the forest.
Little did he know it wasn’t his demeanor or appearance that so spoiled his chances. To Mallaidh, a changeling was just another fairy—a revolting and misanthropic fairy to be sure, but a fairy nonetheless. And that simply wouldn’t do. Not for a Leanan Sidhe. Fairies were prone to long, meandering lives, their life force like an artisan’s candle, meant to burn long and slow. But mortals, they burned out quick and flashy, like puddles of gasoline. They were exciting, fresh, always on the precipice of death. And for a Leanan Sidhe, only the company of a mortal would truly do.
It was the life her mother had led, which meant that it was good enough for Mallaidh as well. But try telling that to a changeling.
KNOCKS INHALED DEEPLY, the air still perfumed with her breath, notes of lilacs mixed with peaches in sweet cream. He looked on, smiling, dumbstruck at the touch, for a moment forgetting the rotting flowers wilting behind him in his grasp.
He stared agape into the woods behind her, the lingering smile slowly sinking as reality once again set in. The flowers burned in his grasp, a stinging reminder of his humiliation. Reaching back with his other hand, he grabbed hold, mindlessly twisting until the heads of the flowers popped off and the stems were a green, ragged tangle of carnage staining his hands a mossy olive. There was much work to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SAD AND RATHER LONELY END OF ABRAHAM COLLINS
Abraham Collins was not cool, and