Carrie Jones - Entice

After the meeting, Astley drives me home and we stand on the front porch talking for a minute.

“You did a very good job,” he says.

“Was it too rah-rah?” I ask.

“No, not at all.”

“You did a good job too,” I say, deliberately avoiding looking at his lips. We have said nothing more about the kiss.

As soon as we are out of the car, my mother opens the house door and snaps, “What are you doing here?”

“Discussing,” Astley says.

She raises her eyebrows and tells us in no uncertain terms that Astley needs to leave.

“Give us a minute, Mom,” I beg.

She crosses her arms over her chest and doesn’t budge, except for her foot, which is tapping her anger into the floorboards of the porch.

“A minute alone,” I add.

“Lovely. Love pixies. Love ’em.” She moves toward the door.

“Mom, I’m a pixie.”

“You don’t count.” She says this, but I know I do.

When I turn back to him, Astley gives me sympathetic eyes but kindly doesn’t say anything about the exchange. “I should go,” I say.

“Okay.”

As we stand there another minute, everything becomes quiet and awkward between us. Finally I clear my throat and say, “Stay safe, okay?”

He reaches up his hand, touches my arm. “You as well.”

And then he goes.

The rest of us, the ones left behind, spend the days trying to carry on, remembering goofy things about Mrs. Nix, planning how to defend people from Frank and his pixies, trying to figure out how to keep people from killing me, trying to figure out a way to get Betty to come home. None of it seems good enough. None of it seems to avenge the deaths, the injuries. I do homework and go to track, even though I can’t run. Only four people show up for our Key Club meeting; only five show up for AFS.

Cassidy works on all of us and we heal much more quickly than we would normally. All the exertion tires her out. Blue smudges rim her eyes. Her hair gets so limp that no amount of teasing or conditioner gives her braids bounce. Her hands shake from simple tasks.

Issie doesn’t talk for three days. When she finally does, it is only to Devyn, but then she slowly starts talking to all of us again. First, it’s just a word or two, and then it’s whole sentences.

I don’t even tell Issie about what happened between Astley and me. People are dying. I can’t think about kisses.

And then Astley comes back one night when I’ve just finished patrolling with Devyn. My mom and I are sitting on the couch watching bad reality television when he knocks on the front door. When I open it, he smiles at me. It’s a small, hesitant smile. The cold air rushes inside our warm house. He smells of wool and outside. My heart freezes midbeat.

“May I come in?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say as my mother spits out, “No.”

He had started to step inside, but he pauses. I grab his arm and yank him in, shutting the door behind him, ignoring my mom’s protests. He stomps the snow off his boots on the plastic pad Betty put by the door.

My mother harrumphs.

“What did they say?” I try to take his coat, but he won’t let me. “Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?”

“No, but thank you.” Astley clears his throat awkwardly. His eyes are shiny, excited. “I found out how to get there, Zara. I went to the council. I made our case. I cited my mother’s deception, Frank’s renegade thwarting of all our rules, and his attacks on this kingdom. I explained that I could not create stability in the region without my queen’s happiness, which is dependent upon the return of her wolf.”

A silence pulls at both of us until I finally say, “He’s not my possession.”

“Yes. Right,” he sputters. He doesn’t unbutton his coat or take off his boots. “Anyway, it is a ceremony. It requires a lot of magic and some special guests, but we can do it.”

For a moment I let that register. We can do it.

“Really?” My voice is a tiny squeak. I study his face.

He nods and I fling myself at him. His arms wrap around me in a super hug. We can do it.

“How do you know it’s not a trick?” I ask into his coat.

“The council itself told me, Zara. It is no deception. I just wish they could have told us earlier and saved all this heartbreak, but the way is a much-guarded secret.”

He steps backward, breaks the hug, but keeps his hands on my arms. His smile lights up the entire room. I bet I have a smile that almost matches it.

“Can all of us go?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just one.”

My mother’s voice comes from behind me. She’s gotten off the couch and stands near the white leather chair, her arms still crossed in front of her chest. “Nobody is going anywhere.”

“What?” I step toward her. “How can you say that? We can get Nick.”

“Nobody is going and that’s final.” She shakes her head at me. “You are being unbearably selfish, Zara. How many people are you willing to lose? How many people are you going to let die just so you can get back this one boy?”

“That’s not how it is,” I say.

“That’s exactly how it is.” She points her finger at me. I back up and accidentally bump Astley with my hip. “You are willing to sacrifice all of us to get Nick back.”

“That’s not true.” Rage and guilt and sorrow hiccup inside my throat, making it hard to breathe. “That’s not true. Mrs. Nix insisted. You all insisted that I not go.”

“We had no choice. You would have died even if it hadn’t been a trap; you were so weak.” Her face is a mixture of sorrow and rage.

I stagger backward away from her. Astley steadies me.

“You need to stop.” He directs this to my mother and speaks with utter calm mixed with absolute authority.

She whirls on him. “How dare you say that to me! How dare you?”

She raises her hand to strike him, but he doesn’t move, even though I know he could. Instead I jump between them. Her hand hits the top of my head, I guess because she’d been aiming for his face. Her mouth drops into a shocked O . For a second there’s hesitation, or regret, but then it’s gone and she says, “Get out, pixie. Zara, to your room.”

“No,” I say.

“I should leave,” Astley says calmly. He opens the door and gives me a look that is easy for me to understand.

I head up the stairs as he shuts the door.

My mother’s voice calls up after me. “You will thank me for this someday, young lady.”

Yeah. Right.

Less than a minute later I’m opening up my window and Astley is climbing through. His long legs bend at the knee and remind me of a grasshopper. He shuts the window behind him. I sit on the floor, back against my bed, and pat the space beside me. He pretty much collapses into it. I’ve never seen him so tired. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and then asks, “Her slap did not hurt you, did it?”

“Not physically. Not really.” We are whispering so she doesn’t hear us over the music.

“Good. It was intended for me.”

“I know.”

He sighs out for a second, then unzips his jacket. “My boots are leaking on your carpet.”

“Not a problem.”

There’s another pause. It’s all I can do not to beg him for details about the meeting, all I can do not to ask him about our kiss, but I am trying to learn patience. After a second he says, “Mothers do not seem to like me.”

“It’s the circumstances with mine. I’m sure she would if you weren’t a pixie.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. I pull my leg up close to me and fiddle with my slipper. “My father didn’t treat her well and-”

“You do not need to explain, Zara.”

I stop fiddling and look at him, really look at him. He’s still so young. He’s handsome as a human. He looks like the kind of guy who would be a hero in a war movie, some sort of captain. He’s this weird mix of wounded and confident, kind and bossy. But right now the vibe he’s giving out is wounded, and I’m so worried that it isn’t just about our mothers, that it isn’t even about our kiss, but that it’s something more.