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“If you could have brought one thing with you to Dyaspora, what would it be?” I slam my heavy pickaxe against the stone cliff and the shards of rock and debris tumble into the snow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“If you knew you were going to be banished here and could bring one thing, what would it be?” “Release papers,”
I share my cell with three other men: Jett, who’s constantly smiling despite every reason not to. Fox, who almost never talks but is smarter than the rest of us combined. And my best friend, Kastian, who understands what it’s like to go from living in a palace to mining ice, day after day.
“Sixty years ago, Isabelle came through the mountain gate. She lived nearby to the entrance in a town called Ironhill. I remember it, because the name was amusing. Ironhill—like the humans hoped to scare us away from their home.”
Only Thorne would find it amusing that a town would be so afraid of him they might name themselves after the one thing that resists faerie magic.
If I could take only one item to a deserted island, I’d bring my violin. Crazy, I know. A more practical person would bring a knife or a Costco-sized box of protein bars, but not me. I’d willingly starve for my art; which is probably a good thing, considering that while I’ll never end up on a deserted island, literally starving for my art is starting to look like a real possibility.
I wonder what that girl would say if I told her that my Nana wrote the book this song is based on, and she hates the movies more than I do.
Six dollars and a Snapple cap isn’t going to pay my student loans or my car insurance, but a boring office job might. Even if my soul dies a little just thinking about it.
The wine tastes like depression. Like “fuck you.” Like three liters for $11.99 at the gas station down the street from my hotel.
I guess no one told the algorithm that what was left of my own happily ever after just came crashing down around me. Or maybe I never had one to begin with. Maybe I wanted so badly to feel loved and taken care of that I deluded myself into believing a fantasy.
As I turn toward the door, another change on the cover catches my attention. Beneath the familiar title, the new tagline reads: The Beast is coming.
“I said, I don’t think you’re crazy, Peaches.” “Peaches?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow. I can’t tell whether I should be offended or not. He nods at my T-shirt, smirking. My cheeks heat as I remember what I’m wearing. I didn’t have time to pack in Chicago, so I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and some cheap Mario Brothers T-shirt from an airport gift shop. The shirt is pink with a picture of Princess Peach. Across my chest, it says “Delicious like peaches and cream.” That explains the stares.
“In my experience, Peaches, every world is a bitch in its own way and magic only makes things more complicated.”
In my head, I’m a slut. But in reality, I just read a lot of spicy books.
“What do you know?” he murmurs. “You are delicious, Peaches.” Oh my God.
My stomach leaps in excitement. “Round two?” He grins over his shoulder at me. “Of course, Peaches. Did you think I could survive on only one taste of you?” Fuck, I think I might love him. Like, not really, but I definitely love the way he fucks me. I can feel a real infatuation barreling toward me like a freight train.
As she grew closer, I realized it said: “Delicious like peaches and cream” across her chest. Was that a promise or merely a suggestion?
I look frantically between AI Barbie and the purplish alien.
“Shit,” the strange man curses behind me. “Ashwater! Get down here, your damsel is in fucking distress.”
Would you rather that your one night stand kidnapped you and took you to a castle full of monsters, or that you’re really hallucinating in a mental hospital amidst a divorce-induced psychotic break?
“You need to stop jumping to the worst possible conclusion.” “Yeah, well, rational thinking kind of abandoned me when I woke up in a castle full of goblins,”
This infuriating woman. She’s braver than I expected, or maybe she’s just as crazy as she promised me she was.
Putting aside the very real possibility that this is some kind of Buffy season 6 fiasco and I’m really in a hospital somewhere, there are just so many ways the plan could go wrong.
He gives me a withering stare. “I know humans don’t believe in magic anymore, but I would have thought that meant you’d improved your education.” I reel back. “Hey! I have over $200,000 in student loans that says otherwise, buddy. I am almost unnecessarily educated.”
“Can you just let me have this one? Hello, it’s a faerie train. This whole place is giving Hogwarts Express.”
She chokes, coughing on what seems to be a giggle. After a moment, she can’t hold it in and descends into laughter. “This isn’t fucking funny,” I snap. “It really is, though,” she gasps. “First, Ellender is real, now you think I’m part Fae? What in the Wattpad is going on here?”
“Hate to interrupt, but I don’t think we’re at the sexually charged banter portion of the show!” Jett yells.
I might not have any magic, but music is my magic, and it’s casting a spell over every faerie in here.
In all those fantasy books I like to read, the main characters never seem to internalize all their near-death experiences, but that is so not me. I feel like I need an emergency therapy session and a prescription for horse tranquilizers—and that’s just to deal with my impending divorce. How the fuck am I supposed to process all this when I can’t even google near death experiences? Should I be crying?
I nod, flushing. Why am I always naked around this man?
We’re just going to play the game. Platonically. While he’s shirtless and I’m practically naked. Right.
“I’m just not a fan of horses, actually. As long as they stay over there, they’re fine, but if one gets near me…”
“I told you, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. As long as I’m breathing, no one will touch you.”
If I can’t even pretend to be Nana in front of a random soldier, how am I going to convince King Thorne—The King Thorne, who I wrote fanfic about in middle school and secretly kind of liked in the terrible movie adaptations.
He looks exactly like the character I’ve always pictured. No wonder Daemon realized something was up—that cover artist must be some kind of psychic.
“Your Highness,” Daemon replies, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He makes a funny jerking movement with his head, like he knows he should bow, but is physically rebelling against it. Perhaps his arrogance is too much at odds with that level of royal respect.
I guess the king thinks so too because he laughs coldly. “‘Your Highness,’ is it? Wasn’t it just yesterday that you were telling me to go fuck myself?”
“Or what, Ashwater?” “Or I’ll make sure you never touch anything again. Enjoy jerking your tiny cock while you can, because the next time you touch her will be the last time you have fingers.” Holy shit.
“Shhh,” Dessa says, almost desperately. “Belle doesn’t swear.” I raise an eyebrow, momentarily distracted from what I’m upset about. “Um, yes, she does. Whose fault do you think it was when I called my kindergarten teacher a cun—”
Maybe a ball will be fun? Like the thirtieth birthday party I would have had if money weren’t a problem and I had more than two friends who would go.
I’ve never been more aware of how addicted to technology I am, until suddenly I’m living in basically 1750 and housework is starting to look like a fun and exciting alternative to staring at the walls.
“If you’re cold, we can go inside,” he grumbles. “So I can sit and stare at the wall until dinner? Oh goodie.”
“You were busy,” I say. “I’m not going to wait around for any man. My time and attention belong to people who are thinking about no one but me.” Without warning, his hand shoots out and lands on the wall behind my head, boxing me in. He leans down so his mouth is mere inches from mine and bares his teeth. “Then I should get every single minute of your fucking attention.”
When Thorne looks at me, there’s absolutely no heat, but when Daemon and I snap at each other, there is enough heat to light the damn building on fire.
I point up at the sky as we begin our descent down the long stairs. “I wonder if these are the same stars that are on Earth or different ones.”
“Maybe they’re the same, but in a different timeline.” “What?” “You know, like a string theory thing. What if all the worlds are next to each other. Or maybe this world is inside the other one. Ooh, if I walk through a bookcase, do you think I’ll see Matthew McConaughey?”
I beam. If he thinks I’m going to argue with him about that just to be polite, he’s crazy. I’m about to have such a Veruca Salt moment. Daddy, buy me the magic craft store.
Once, I just ask why he’s so quiet. I’m not really expecting an answer, but he says, “Most conversations are just to fill silence. Silence has never really bothered me.” “That’s so Zen of you. Very Yoda.” Unsurprisingly, Fox said nothing.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you fucking serious? Their names are…actually never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be petty.” Even if they are identical triplets with basically the same damn name. Did their parents hate them or something?
I shiver. Yeah, I don’t want to see that. I don’t really have a frame of reference for how it must feel to be cursed, but I keep picturing that old news story about the guy who ate someone’s face while tripping on bath salts. I bet it’s kind of like that.
