Fairy Bride Ch5: Walking in Shadows (Patreon)

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Fssshh!  Waves of magic surge around Daphne, all sparkling lights and gusts of wind.  She stares dully ahead, yawning.  Once, trying on glamours might have been exciting and magical, but Spencer’s made it just another routine…and this time, the routine has gone on for over an hour.  He’s swapping out her appearance like she’s a video game character, and he shows no signs of stopping.  The box of enchanted jewellery is still distressingly full.

All she wants to do is scratch her nose.

“Hmmm…”  Spencer clasps the next necklace, taking two steps back.  “I dunno, darling.  Are your ears a touch too big?”

“I don’t know, Spencer.  The mirror’s behind me, I can’t see it.”  Daphne would flex to make her point, if the Keeping wasn’t holding her in place. Her spine tingles.  It’s a struggle to keep the impatience from her voice and remember she’s supposed to be cooperating.  “Are my ears really this important?”

“Of course!  It’s your forever Glamour!”  Spencer pouts, exchanging the necklace for a ring.  “Once the passport people take your photo, I can’t change your appearance anymore.  Do you have any idea how expensive fake Daphy-Documents are?”

It’s a double provocation, not that he notices - the pet name and a reminder that, legally speaking, her mere existence is an illusion.  Her husband had better hope nobody starts digging into her past, lest they realise how openly he’s engaged in some ‘Daphy-Trafficking.’  She draws in a slow breath, desperate to take her mind off her nose.  “Since when was expense an issue?  Aren’t we staying at some five-star casino?”

“Monte Carlo?  Pfft, not with my money.”  Spencer throws heaps of jewellery across the table.  “Some friends were quite open to returning favours with cash.”

“What favours are those, exactly?”

“You can ask them yourself!  A few are going to be your playmates!”  Spencer fishes out a large pearl-and-gold hairpin, shaped like a butterfly mid-flight.  “Oh.  That’s perfect!”

“Playmates.”  Daphne repeats.  She can’t keep the chill out of her voice, deception or not, but Spencer doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, friends!  Like we talked about?”  He slides the pin through her hair with a smile. Another flash of white light, more breeze tickling at the back of her neck.  “I thought you’d like to meet some new faces.”

He grabs her by the shoulders, fussing over her as she’s turned towards the mirror.  It’s taking all of Daphne’s self-control not to shout at him. Friends - or allies - would be great, but she’s not getting either from people who owe Spencer favours.  “Did you ever think to ask if I wanted - “

“Who doesn’t want new friends?”  He bounces behind her.  “Now, give us a smile!”

Daphne’s lips tilt upward.  The human woman smiling back in the mirror has a rounder, smoother face, with relaxed eyes and red cheeks.  Her ears are a little larger, but without her wings and antennae, her frame feels more petite.  Spencer used the pin to hold back her rich, auburn hair, but Daphne can see it trail all the way down to the small of her back.  Spencer collects bundles to bunch against her cheeks.

“Look!  It’s finally the right length!”

“I’m going to kill you.”  Daphne says, quietly and with conviction.

Spencer bursts into giggles, waving his finger.  “Careful, darling!  Don’t want to upset the magic!”

“Believe me, I - ”  Daphne draws in a quick breath, noticing a thin white ribbon tied across her neck.  “Are you serious?”

“It goes with the dress!” Spencer beams.

It does.  The obnoxious little white sundress that also matches her equally annoying white sandals.  To prove to her that she gets to make ‘real choices,’ Daphne was allowed to ‘pick’ them out from a roster of pre-selected summer outfits that were all practically the same shade.  Until, of course, Spencer decided she looked cute in everything, and bought every option regardless.

Daphne tries to lift her eyebrow.  No luck.  “Do you mean to have me look like a cartoon character?”  Something clicks around her wrist - some kind of cloth, wrapped in a tight band.  Her blood runs cold.  “No.  A-are you putting me in cuffs?  We’ll be in public!”

“Just small ones, calm down!  They don’t even have chains! And we have to cover your mark somehow.”  Spencer steps in front of her, pressing a bag of makeup into her frozen hands.  “Hold this, Daph-Daph!”

Her arms lift robotically, holding the bag open for him as he takes a brush to her cheeks.  “I-I can do my own makeup-”

“Shh-shh-shh.”  Spencer tuts.  “You’ll only smear it.”

Urgh, now her nose really itches.  “Why bother hiding the mark?  Only fae can read it, and they invented the bloody thing.”

“Oh, fae from the Wilds won’t mind, sure.”  He lifts her chin and switches to mascara.  “But on this side of the portals, we don’t want to make the wrong impression.  They’re a bit more…”

He bobs his head, trailing off.  Daphne blinks as he pulls the mascara away.  There’s something here.  “A bit more…what?”

Spencer bites his lip, looking nervously aside.  “Well… it’s nothing to worry about…”

“Spencer.”

“Okay, it’s possible that there might be, you know.  A small number of individuals, very very small, nothing to concern yourself with, that, ah…aren’t respectful of your traditions.”

And there it is. “You mean there’s people who know what the Keeping is and don’t like it.”

“Crazy, right!?  They’re completely immune to reason!”  Spencer throws up his hands.  “Some fae won’t recognise any differences between themselves and humans!  I won’t bore you with the philosophy, it’s all chauvinistic nonsense-”

“Actually, I’m a bit curious-”

“But for couples like us, it could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous for me, or dangerous for you?”

He shrugs.  “No idea.  Would it really matter?”

Oh, it would matter immensely.  Daphne’s thankful he never told her to stop smiling, because she wouldn’t be able to keep it off her face.  This is certainly an avenue to follow; he wouldn’t be fretting if it weren’t a possibility.

“And that’s why we’re not going to take off our little cuffs, and we’re not mentioning the Keeping to anyone.  Understand?”  Spencer’s eyes flare with brilliant light.  “Because it’s an order.  Talk about something fun, instead!”

Daphne tries to blink through the magic, inwardly cursing.  “W-wait, do you really need to -”

“Pucker your lips!”

Daphne’s lips close in obedience, and he applies her gloss, whistling.

“Really, Daph, there’s no reason to worry.  I’ll keep you safe.  Or maybe…”  Spencer tucks the lipstick away, raising her arms by the wrists.  “I’ll send my Kept to fight them!  Like a Pokémon!  Daph-asaurus Rex, rarr!”

He bobs her wrists, flailing her hands up and down.  Daphne glares furiously ahead.

“Alright, darling.  Final… touch.” He pushes a large, predictably white sun hat over her head, and steps back, pointing her at the mirror.  Daphne shudders; the makeup is exquisitely done, the decorations pristine.  He’s even posed her tall and proud.  She looks beautiful, and absolutely unlike herself.

Just how Spencer wants her.

“Hold still, Daph.  I just want to…”  He holds up his fingers like a fake camera, squinting at her through the ‘frame’.  “... capture it.”

The plane only shakes slightly, but it’s enough for Daphne to glance around uneasily.  She can hear Spencer’s giggle, muffled by his face-mask, but tries to ignore it.  This is a very different sensation than flying under her own power.  For one, they’re much higher up.

For another, she’s in a massive hulk of iron.

While Spencer scours through travel guides and ‘Speak French Easy’ dictionaries, Daphne considers reopening her book.  It’s one of the dozens Spencer had to drag through London Heathrow.  Instead, she turns and looks out through the tiny window.  Below is a patchwork of rolling fields and forests, where the tiny cars stuck in traffic look like columns of marching ants.

She keeps fiddling with the cuffs on her wrists; her husband’s orders create a curious, paralysing sensation whenever she tries to open them.  So far, nudging them up or down appears to be unacceptable as well.  There’s got to be a loophole somewhere, she just has to find it.

Honestly, thinking of her escape just fills Daphne with dread.  Sun Tzu would warn her to prepare for any battle, but… where does she even start?  Take these people Spencer’s worried about.  Are they even real, or just another trick?  If he’s luring her, what-

“Boucles de la Seine.  We’re in Normandy, near Rouen.” Spencer breaks her thoughts by tapping the window.  “See that giant stone cathedral?  Mother always took us there.  How’s the mask?”

Daphne lifts her brow.  Spencer rarely mentions his mother, and the sudden change of subject doesn’t feel accidental.  “It’s fine.”  She shrugs.  “A little hard to breathe.”

“Give it a year, darling.  You’ll get used to it.”  Spencer chuckles, taking her hand.  She almost pulls away, before remembering herself.  “I was wondering if anything looked familiar.”

“You’re the one who’s been here, Spencer.  Why would it look familiar to me?”

“I imagine the Ebony Wilds look just like this.  Don’t you?”  Spencer pauses, considering. “...Maybe not quite so many cars in fairyland.  Or, heh, a sun.”

“I’ve never been.  You know that.”  Daphne murmurs. She’s surprised he can hear her at all with this mask, but maybe Spencer has good hearing.  When he chooses to use it.

“Well, the stories say you visit it when you sleep.  ‘Cân Gwyllion’, the Call of the Wilds.  Ever hear a… singsong voice?”  Spencer reaches over and pinches her cheek.  “Goading you to act on your feral instincts - “

“Spencer.”  Daphne withdraws, pushing herself into her seat.

Spencer holds up his hands.  “Just teasing, Daphy-doo!  But, really?  No dreams?”

“Never.”  She turns away.  Once, she had dreamed of a dark forest and an ocean of pale grass.  But that was a long time ago, when she still felt Lyra, and she wasn’t about to share it with Spencer Harcourt.

He shifts, clothes rustling.  “Well, if you were interested, maybe we don’t need to keep it dream-exclusive.  I could pull a few favours…”

Daphne turns, startled.  “You’re joking.”

“I’m not!”  She can tell he’s smiling by the way his face lights up, even under the mask.  “I’m the Market’s diplomat, right?  I’m sure a few Groves would be willing to host us.  Wouldn’t you like to see your heritage?”

It’s tempting, for sure.  Not for any reason Spencer could want, but… maybe in spite of them.  What are nymphs like, over there?  Do they really wear those masks?  Is somewhere, anywhere, where all she’s enduring with Kepts and Keepers is…

… normal?

Honestly, she doesn’t know if that would make the Keeping feel better, or worse.

Spencer tilts his head, following her expression.  “How about this, darling?  Let’s see how this holiday goes, and if you’re on your bestie-best behaviour, we’ll bring this up again.  Okay?”

Ah.  There’s the carrot!  Daphne’s ‘bestie-best behaviour’ ought to be throwing her book in Spencer’s face for that comment, but she nods anyway.  Daphne watches him lift and rummage through his bag expectantly.  This is all some plan.  First the bait…

“Excellent,” he says, pulling out a notepad.  “And, on that topic…”

And here comes the stick.  Daphne scowls.  “I thought we’d covered the rules.”

“I’m adding a few more.  Just a couple, promise!”  He clicks open a pen.  “Let’s see… don’t take off your cuffs, don’t take off your Glamour, do not, without my explicit permission, mention the Keeping or that you’re a Fae. Hmm… ah!  We’ll be in physical contact in public.  At all times.”

“No.”  The word pops out unbidden.  Spencer lifts a brow.

“Why not?”

Why not?  Because the very idea of being forced to touch Spencer everywhere makes her skin crawl?  Because it will ignite nightmare after nightmare?  And most importantly of all, because being stapled to him will keep her from getting alone with anyone?  But those aren’t acceptable reasons, are they?

Daphne starts to force a smile, then stops when she realises it will never reach her eyes.  “Wh-what about my personal space?  My alone time?”

He giggles.  “Don’t be silly, nymphs don’t need those!”

“R-right.”  She can, however, get away with a small sneer.  “But what if we want to sit across from each other?  O-or I have to go to the bathroom?”

“We’ll make small exceptions, but I have to keep you close!  There’s so much that could hurt my darling little nymphie.”  He pats her hand.  “It’s not like this is a new rule…”

“Those were for a few hours, not a whole month!”  Daphne pulls her hand back, the mask moving as she breathes faster.  “Sp-Spencer, seriously!”

“I’m trying to be reasonable.”  He taps the pad.  “You’re getting all your speaking privileges this trip, see?  You can talk to whoever you want.”

“Those aren’t privileges, you’re just not muting me!”  She shouts.  “And what’s the bloody point, if I have to spend the whole - ”

“Darling,” he whispers, putting a hand over her mask.  “Keep your voice down.”

Daphne jolts, pushing away.  Sure enough, a few confused tourists are staring at them.  She offers an awkward wave.  “H-hello!”

“Afternoon!”  Spencer joins her wave.  When the other passengers return to their in-flight films, his cheerful tone evaporates.  “Good point, Daphne.  Maybe you’re not ready for speaking privileges.”

Daphne looks at him, horrified.  She’s gone too far, and can see her chance vanishing beneath his paranoia.  “E-Even you have to find this ridiculous.  Do you want to spend all day dragging me around?”

“Do you have a better solution?”  Spencer keeps his voice low, the warning note clear.

But it’s still an opening.  “I-If I do, you’ll follow it?”

After some hesitation, Spencer sighs.  “If it means you’ll stop calling me ‘abusive.’”

His air quotes around ‘abusive’ aren’t appreciated, but she’ll ignore anything that gets her out of this trap.  Daphne points at her mask.  “Give me a bubble.  You could order me to stay in a range, but I’m allowed to move wherever I like within it.”

And, more importantly, she can get away from him.

Spencer folds his arms.  “... how large would this range be?”

Thank goodness, he’s listening.  Daphne pretends to consider.  “How about… eyesight?  Twenty metres?”

“I was thinking more… three.”

Unacceptable.  “Three?  That’s practically still in arm’s reach!”  Worse, it’s in earshot.

Spencer wags his finger, the smile returning to his voice.  “If we give you too much space, you’ll spend more time playing silly nymph hiding games than you will with me!”

He’s even more infuriating when he’s correct.  Daphne half-closes her eyes.  “Okay, middle ground.  Ten metres.  Come on, Spence, that’s not very much, issit?”  She sees him waver, and gives a soft, internal sigh.  There’s an easy way to tip the scales, even if she hates it.  “Think of it as a salt circle.  Very fae.”

That does it.  Spencer’s eyes brighten, and he takes her hand.  “Ten metres it is! You win!  But… with conditions.”  He leans down into her face.  “I don’t want you talking to strangers without my permission, okay?  Is that unfair?”

Completely, but it’s workable.  Daphne can still signal, or write.  As long as she has her ten metres.  “No complaints… Keeper.”

His eyes crinkle at the title, just like she hoped they would.  “Have fun spending your entire holiday trying to find the exact spot that’s ten metres away from me”.

Daphne smirks.  “I will!”

“Awww, look at us!  Settling our differences like a real couple!”  He’s about to put the pad away, when he pulls back and starts frantically scribbling.  “Oh, shit!  I nearly forgot the most important rule!”

“Most important?”  Daphne asks, a new terror washing over her.

“Of course!”  He turns the pad around so she can read the words.

Have Fun!!!

Daphne can’t tear herself away from the sunset sinking into the distant hills.  Streaks of orange, magenta, and gold silhouette proud lighthouses and red brick buildings, shattering on the ocean like glass.  The ocean.

When was the last time she had seen the ocean?

Suddenly, her legs start moving of their own accord, goading her like the intercoms blaring a half-dozen languages above her.  True to her word, Daphne is exactly ten metres behind her husband, her suitcase in tow, inspecting the massive glass windows and vibrant crowds of Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur.

It’s not bustling like Heathrow, but it feels more alive, more global.  She can see Chinese businessmen, German journalists, Saudi emirs.  One corner sells Swiss watches, the next Moroccan jewellery, another American food.  It almost overwhelms her, sparking memories of stalls and vendors, apothecaries and songshops, cages and the cool, foggy atmosphere of that old bar in the Glade.

For a few seconds, Daphne finds herself in the Market.  Like she never left.

Suddenly, Spencer pulls her away from French customs and into a tighter, dim hallway.  It’s far from the windows.  “Ah, Daphne!  That’s not how we get to Monaco!”

“But that’s where the cars are - ”  Daphne starts, confused.

“Darling.  Do you really think I’d take you to the richest country on Earth in a car?”  Spencer winks before jolting.  “Ah!  There he is!”

Before she can ask ‘who’, Spencer is already racing down the hall.  Daphne tries her best to follow before the spell drags her along, almost stumbling as she sees her husband push through a turnstile.

A steel turnstile.

“Ombras!  Par ici !”  Spencer waves to a shrouded figure in the distance.  Daphne tries to plant her feet, but they won’t stop moving.

“Sp-Spencer…w-wait-”

“Bonsoir! C’est un plaisir d’enfin vous rencontrer!”  He rattles off something in French.  “Il est un peu tôt pour votre peuple, n’est ce pas?”

“SPENC-mmm!”  To her horror, Daphne’s lips slam shut as the figure approaches, held closed by the magic.  She grasps the plastic ends of the gate, desperately pulling away from the metal’s stinging chill.

“Oh, ne t’en fais pas pour moi.  Ce n’est pas de mon fait. Er…”  The figure takes Spencer’s excited hand, but squints past him.  “Monsieur Harcourt, est ce que votre femme…?”

He points to the turnstile.  Spencer turns to see Daphne clambering up the plastic side, her legs mechanically kicking at the air.

“Oh, shit.  Darling!”  Spencer drops his luggage and runs back.  Daphne struggles to hold back furious tears as he guides her over, careful to avoid the arms.  “Okay, Daph, careful, careful… yes, there!  See, you’re fine!”

Once the turnstile snaps behind them, and her feet return to solid ground, Spencer leans forward and whispers.  “This is why I wanted to keep you close.”

She could have slapped him, but he quickly steps away, making room for the stranger to approach.  “Vous êtes Daphné?  Henri Ombras.”

Daphne takes his offered hand, but his grip makes her breath hitch.  His nails are sharp enough to bite at her skin, and cold.  Her face grows as pale as his.

“Croyez moi,” he says as she searches his face.  “Tout le plaisir est pour vous.”

It’s hard to pinpoint what’s off about Henri Ombras.  He’s taller than her husband, and his face is long, with clammy skin that’s just starting to wrinkle, and black hair clearly doomed to soon turn grey.  He’s overdressed, with a white lily pinned to his suit jacket, a bowtie to match his green vest - and, curiously, no mask.

But something looks truly off-kilter.  Wrong.  The longer she studies him, the more she feels a friction, like magnets refusing to join together.  It pulls her to look away. Spencer, she notes, is already staring at the floor, and she’s not certain he ever met the man’s eyes.  Daphne tries to… concentrate… but her thoughts feel slippery.  Already, her head starts to throb.

“Donc…”  Henri starts.  “Voulez-vous bien m'éclairer sur ce spectacle?”

Daphne smiles awkwardly, trying to start the line Spencer taught her, but her lips refuse to open.  The longer her silence continues, the more Henri’s eyes bore into her.  She tugs Spencer’s sleeve.

Spencer looks back at her, confused.  “What?”

She has to scowl at him a few seconds longer.

“OH!  My bad!” Spencer giggles, waving it off.  “You’re good, Daph!  Say hi!”

“Hello. Er, bonjour.”  Daphne says to Henri.  “Je… je ne parle… pas beau… uh…”

“Beaucoup,” Spencer assists.

“Beaucoup le français.”  She rubs her arm self-consciously.  “Sorry.  Er, I mean, pardon.”

“Oh, no trouble.  Much preferred to listening to you British brutes desecrate my language.”  Henri offers a smile that only discomforts her more.  “I was curious about your gymnastics display.”

“Oh, sorry again!”  She chuckles, flashing back to her oldest lie.  “I have a really severe allergy - ”

“She’s doing a social media challenge!”  Spencer loudly talks over her.  Daphne draws in a short breath.  They’d talked about this.

Henri shares her concern.  “Social media?”

“Yeah! A prank! Ever heard of Tik-Tok?”  Spencer beams.  “Or is the Court more into Twitter?”

Henri squints.  “She said - ”

“It’s part of the prank!  She’s very silly, you’ll get used to it!”  He elbows his wife, smiling.  “Right, darling?”

His eyes make clear there’s no space for debate.

“Heheh.  You caught me.  It was all for a selfie.” Daphne tilts her head, hoping her leaden tone is acceptable.  “Would you like to take one, Mr. Ombras?”

Henri studies her for a long moment, before turning away.  “No thank you.  I’m not very photogenic.”

Spencer keeps a brisk pace to follow him down the hall, his wife carefully lagging behind them.

“So, how’s the Court doing these days?”  Spencer asks giddily.  “Staying out of trouble?”

“We’re all relieved this lockdown is finally ending.  Foraging was growing intolerable. You Londoners might mock the tourists, but at least they were accessible.”  Henri sighs.  “Worse, the pandemic’s devouring the Respite’s margins.”

“Oh?  Is your casino struggling?” Spencer asks, all respectful interest.  Daphne’s so accustomed to the cutesy high-pitched voice he uses for her, she nearly forgot the old one.

“Oh, heavens, no.  It’s just not making profit.  For us, these ‘recessions’ are always… optional.”  Henri chuckles.  “Morris made sure the old girl got pumped with more government funds than the NHS.”

“They bailed out the gaming sector?”

“They were supposed to.  But, the strangest thing.  Somehow, all that money only went into bailing out one.”  Henri flashes a wide, Cheshire Cat-like smile. “Don’t give me that look, Harcourt.  They’re casino owners!  The others ought to know how to play gambling games with me.”

“Those are usually games of chance,” Spencer points out, his tone level.

“Then they should know how to cheat, too.  Tell you what.  When I buy them all out with your government’s money, I’ll make sure to teach them.”

Daphne’s only half-paying attention, studying Henri even as Spencer’s commands prod her.  As they enter the main area, with its crowds and tall windows, she notes passersby give both men a wide berth without even looking.  It… reminds her of something…

She gasps.  The Market.  It’s the same magic they use to hide, she’s sure of it.   And just like with the Market’s protective charm, knowing it’s there clears it from her mind, and she sees Henri’s real face for the first time.

It almost makes her stumble in panic.

His skin is corpse-like grey, shot through with bulging black veins, the same colour as his sclera.  His irises and pupils glow like torches, his smile betrays razor-sharp teeth.  Something swirls beneath his clothes, and as Henri and her husband walk past one of the enormous windows, they only cast a single reflection.

Daphne looks away, trying to control her breathing.  Is he a… vampire?  She’d seen them before, but those were certainly fae, and they didn’t look like that.  What’s writhing beneath tha shirt?

…did her husband even know?

“And how’s Morris?”  Spencer asks, blithely.  “Have his plans made any progress?”

“Under a microscope, I suppose.  He thinks that’s good enough, but he’s not checking the gates.”  Henri scowls.  “Thirty attempted escapes this month.  That makes a hundred this year, and it’s only May.”

Daphne drifts closer, listening in.  Escapes?  Could… that mean…?

“I warned him this would happen.”  Henri complains.  “I told him, ‘don’t announce these plans early, the young don’t know patience.’  Morris can promise all the reforms he likes, but the longer he takes, the rowdier they’ll get.”

Spencer shrugs.  “In his defence, his plans were never going to be popular with the other elders.  He might have needed the youth’s support to squeeze their arms.”

Henri rolls his eyes.  “The Kepts can’t support shit if boots crush their skulls first.”

It can.

Daphne’s breath quickens, and it clicks all at once.  The excuses, the cuffs, the orders, the paranoia.  He didn’t switch her cover on a lark.  It’s almost too stupid a plan for her to believe anyone would risk it… if she didn’t know her husband.

Of course Spencer was suddenly worried about some anti-Keeping group.  He was about to walk her right beneath their noses.

Daphne slows, scanning the hall, strategising.  She has to reach out, make Henri aware, but the command pulls her feet along relentlessly.  Goddamn it, can she have a second to think?  There’s so many barriers: Spencer’s right there, her cuffs cover her mark, and if she can barely even touch her Glamour -

Wait.  Daphne turns her head, feeling the pin shift in her hair.  It’s bulkier than most of the other glamours; he couldn’t resist that butterfly design.  But it offers an opening; with nudges, it moves.  So maybe she doesn’t need to break the rules.

Maybe gravity can break the rules for her.

Daphne eases to the side, picking her way through the crowds, planning out each new footstep.  Here, a pillar; there, a suitcase.  She just needs the perfect spot, and… fuck, what about the people?  Henri’s magic seems to sap their attention away from her, but…it’s such a risk.  Spencer will be furious, and he’s certain to step in.  Who knows what privileges he’ll take away if -

With faith, I resist.  Without it, I am lost.  There’s no room for hesitation.  It’s now or never.

Daphne nods to herself, swerving towards a nearby bench at the perfect angle to tangle her feet.  She lets her Glamour dangle in her hair, hand placed just right to knock it off.  She needs Henri to see her.

She needs Henri to hear.

Nine metres away… six… three…

She closes her eyes, looking up as if distracted by something.

… now.

“Unf!”  Daphne stumbles face-first into the bench, her still-moving legs rattling against the edge.  She hears someone gasp.  Spencer turns around, horrified, reaching out -

Clink!  Clink.  clink.  They both watch, as if in slow motion, as the gold-pearl hairpin bounces across the floor and lands between them.  Daphne allows herself a small, victorious smile behind her mask as her hair flutters in a soft wind.  But it only lasts a moment before she feels dozens of eyes bore into her.

She’s about to change in front of the entire airport.

“No!”  Spencer lunges forward as she grabs towards the Glamour on her knees.  Daphne already feels her antennae unfurl.  The hairpin’s too awkward, it’s slipping from her fingers, and-

“Arrêt!”

Daphne’s muscles snap into stiffness, sending shivers down her spine.  Her skin suddenly shivers, surrounded by an unyielding cold.  She looks at her Keeper, confused, but his frightened, frozen face instantly tells her the command didn’t come from him.

Slowly, around him, darkness pools across her world like blood spread on sand.  It rises from the ground and floods across the sky.  The windows, the luggage, the people, all vanish beneath a hazy cloud, and she shudders as something slithers against her wings.  Something slimy, frigid, alien.

Only then do they hear the whispers.  Hundreds and hundreds of whispers.

“No, look, I have money!  Please, just go away…”

“Get the fuck back! I-I-I’ll call the police!”

The voices echo around her head, sounding from somewhere closer than her ears.  As she stares helplessly into the swirling mass, she sees fragments of faces and shapes begin to form.  Pleading, screaming, sobbing, before they disappear into the darkness once more.

“My little girl’s two.  I have to get back to her!  She needs a mum!”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

She begins to travel as something climbs from a crack in the tiles.  A thin tendril, dripping a substance as black as midnight.  It wraps itself across the hairpin, lifts it without effort, and holds it before her eyes.

“Madame? You dropped this.” A voice echoes in her skull.  “And you have a lot of explaining to do.”

The tendril drops the hairpin in Daphne’s hand while she stares at Henri.  His eyes glow even brighter, the veins of his neck bulging with every beat of his heart, and his smile holds rows of teeth.  But the rest of his form is blurry, arms and legs sinking into the tiny crevices across the floor.  The second his spell ends, and she can freely move, her mind screams at her to look away.

Spencer climbs to his feet first while Daphne replaces her glamour. His face is white.  “Ah-ah-Henri!  Look, wh-whatever you’re thinking, it’s puh-puh-probably a misunderstanding - ”

“Leave.”  A dozen tendrils slither towards Spencer.  “There’s a pharmacy nearby.  You should get bandages for your wife.  Go now, shoo shoo.”

Spencer giggles anxiously at the rising tendril.  “Sh-sh-she doesn’t look harmed- ah!”

“I don’t really care.”

Daphne watches in stunned silence as the tendril pushes against Spencer’s chest with a vaporous force.   He has time for one terrified look before he’s thrust from the sphere entirely.

“And here I thought…” Henri’s eyes dim, and his voice loses his echo. “... you wouldn’t reach out.  Fae.”

Still kneeling on the floor, she watches Henri slowly return to visibility, as the tendrils recede into his clothes.  As he walks towards her, the back of her neck twinges.

“Y-you knew?” she asks.  “Where are we?”

“Somewhere we can’t be seen. Or followed.”

“Are you going to… forage me?”

Henri Ombras laughs, and the shadows seem to laugh with him.  “I’m only here for a conversation.  And given your little stunt, I assume you want the same.”

He extends his hand to her.  Daphne is frozen in fear as she watches him approach.

“... What are you?”

“In your people’s tongue, I am Scáthshiúlóir. The Walker in Shadows.”

He walks over to her, extending his arm.

“And you, nymph, will walk with me.”

continue reading ->

Howdy everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! Henri was an extremely fun character who’s changed a lot as this story’s developed, and I’m really excited to show him to all of you!

Today I wanted to give a special shoutout to Heart for all the amazing work she’s done bringing these scenes to life. I always knew Daphne’s outfit would be ridiculous in my head, but seeing it come to life really accentuates how miserable our poor little moth must be :p

It seems that Daphne’s been able to spot one of these ‘anti-Keeping fae’... but will he be able to see her? Find out in Chapter 6: Passing Through, coming out next Friday, August 18th at 12pm EST. Until then, remember! Always keep tradition 🙂

Lehanna