Carrie Jones - Entice

Issie shakes her head so violently that her rainbow knit hat falls off. “No way. I’m not going out there without Zara to protect me. Are you nuts? It’s night and a steak knife is so not going to hold back a pixie attack.”

I scoop her hat up off the beer-stained floor and hand it to her. “It’ll be okay, Issie. I’ll keep us safe.”

Although how can I do that? I’m not so sure. There’s only one of me and there’s a ton of… of… everybody else. I try to exhale, calm down, remember my purpose for being here, and take in the entire scene.

Then I see him-a strange guy fiddling over in the corner of the bar. When I say strange, I really mean bizarre more than just plain old everyday strange. He has way too much hair and fake horns sprouting up out of the top of his head. Still, he isn’t the weirdest person in here, not by a long shot. The bar is packed with people, most of them human. Some of them are dressed up like vampires with over-the-top black capes and plastic fangs. Some of the girls are supposed to be fae. They have sparkling wings and tiny tutu dresses. They all look clueless and drunk, which makes them look absolutely nothing like the real pixies and fairies they are supposed to be resembling.

“Spotted him,” I say and point. “I think…”

“Where?” Issie asks.

Listening, I take in snippets of people’s conversations.

No. I swear. I heard someone whisper my name when I was walking into the house. It was coming from the woods.

Dude. Get your hand off my-

It’s creepy. That whole freaking town is creepy.

Why does it never stop snowing! It’s so $#% & cold.

Baby girl, I’ll keep you warm.

Eww. Look at his sideburns.

I hop up on a chair so I can get away from all those voices and see around all the tall men who don’t seem to want to sit down. My heart stops as I look at him. He’s so off, so menacing. “Is that him?”

Cassidy jumps on the chair with me. “Yep, it’s the guy from the fair.”

“Look,” Issie says, elbowing me in the thigh and pointing at one girl who has fake pixie wings and cleavage showing down to her belly button. “It’s like a sexified version of you.”

“You mean Tinker Bell,” I disagree.

“No. You. You’re the real pixie here, Zara,” she whispers. Her big eyes get even bigger. The standard black witch hat perches over her reddish hair. She’s placed her rainbow hat into the pocket of her coat, which she still hasn’t taken off to reveal the rest of her witchy ensemble.

“Don’t remind me.” I push my back up against the wall made of wooden planks. The roughness of it scratches against my skin. I’m dressed up like a fairy too. Only I don’t need to pretend to be otherworldly. I am otherworldly. I wonder if the fiddler guy is too.

Cassidy leans toward me. Her braids swing with the movement as she ducks her head a bit. She’s so much taller than I am that she always bends when she talks to me, like I couldn’t possibly hear her from her height even with my new ultra-strong hearing. Her voice is gravelly as she says, “You look pretty human for a pixie.”

“You’re one to talk, Elf Girl,” I say and tap her long swirly skirt with my finger. She’s dressed up like a demon, all leather and horns. “We’ve got to talk to him, not scare him off… We’ve got to-”

The fiddling guy abruptly stops playing and points at me with his bow. People turn to stare.

“You,” he says into his microphone.

I tap my finger on my chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you, sweet thing. Come up here,” he orders.

I hop off the chair. Issie grabs my arm as I start to move forward. “He’s so icky, Zara.”

“Stay by the door in case we have to run, okay?” I say. All my pixie senses are on full alert, telling me Danger, danger with every goose bump. Still, this is the lead I’ve been waiting for-this man could be the key.

Issie keeps her tiny fingers clutched around my bicep. I could break free pretty easily-but I don’t because it’s rude and, truthfully, because I am a bit freaked out.

BiForst points again. “I said to come here, sweet thing.”

His voice is staccato and rough and almost irresistible.

Cassidy leans forward. “I don’t like his energy. He’s hostile.”

“Duh,” Issie murmurs. “I’m human and I can tell that.”

Instead of getting annoyed, Cassidy just smiles. “That’s because you are an exceptional human.”

Issie loosens her hold with the compliment and I move forward as the music starts back up. I push through the crowd, turning sideways to get through the narrow spaces between the chairs and brown circular tables, making my way toward the fiddling man. Some people grunt while others just keep swigging down their beers and munching on their chili cheese fries. The smells are overpowering and diverse: sweat from bodies, yeast from beer, Scotch, rum mixed with Coke, perfume, breath, shampoo, lemony floor cleaner. If I were claustrophobic, I’d pass out from all the closeness.

I have no fear of closed-in spaces, though.

My only fear right now? Failure.

So I push on through and get to where the guy on the stage is perched on his rickety metal stool with his fiddle. It’s an electric fiddle. All I can think of is this old country song about how the devil went to Georgia looking to steal somebody’s soul and he got in some fiddling contest. That song always freaked me out when I was little.

The guy sneers down at me. He keeps playing. There’s some chili in his brown curly beard. I look away from it because I will vomit, and instead I force myself to stare into his eyes. One is silver. The other is the blue of Siberian huskies. I shudder. He sees and smiles. There are more chili remnants in his teeth.

Focus on his eyes, I tell myself. Do not vomit. Do. Not. Vomit.

He pushes the microphone aside. “Well, sweet thing, aren’t you a little young to be in bars?”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare up at him, at his brown cord pants and green corduroy shirt. He’s wearing red suspenders. It’s not the best ensemble. I sniff. He’s pixie too, I think, but his smell is off a little bit.

“No point trying to figure me out,” he says. “You don’t have the brains for that or the experience.”

I bristle. “Tell me how to get to Valhalla.”

“Not even a please?” he taunts.

“Just tell me.” I take a step forward.

He raises his bow and starts playing again. “Sorry. No can do.”

“Please.” I say the word through gritted teeth and he laughs.

“Sweet thing, I’m a dead end for you. In more ways than one. Whoever told you to come here steered you wrong.” He leans toward me. “Who did tell you to come here?”

“I refuse to say.”

“Was it maybe the Internet?” He chuckles like this is some five-star joke.

I uncross my arms and hop up on the stage with him. I hunker in close and whisper in his ear, “Don’t play games with me.”

“You don’t scare me, sweet thing. You and your boy king are harmless. True power doesn’t lie on your side.” He snarls at me but keeps playing, fiddle tucked beneath his chin, fingers moving as fast as they possibly can. “True power never lies on the side of weaklings and do-gooders, afraid of change, making sure they play by the rules. Now run along before I’m forced to kill you.”

I decide to call his bluff. “You’re so tough? Why don’t you kill me now then?”

He lifts his right foot and motions toward the crowd in front of us, dancing, drinking, eating, looking for each other’s tonsils, all while dressed up like us, like the fae. “Not in front of the humans, dear. So much cleanup to do afterward.”