Carrie Jones - Need

"Nick!" I shriek at him, terrified.

Hands yank me away from him. They come from behind me and I can't see what they're attached to.

They hold onto me with iron grips, far too tight, menacing.

I twist against them. "Let go."

They don't, they just grab me tighter. It's like they're trying to break my ankles. I'm yanked out of the net. They tumble me toward them across the snow. My body slips over one of the metal snowshoes I've lost in the confusion. I grab it and throw it backward, trying to hit someone.

There is a lovely, satisfying sound of snowshoe hitting flesh and muscle, but the hands don't let me go.

I am obviously no longer a pacifist.

My fingers try to grab onto the net. I'm pulled away too quickly, dragged through the snow. Everything is white and flying and painful.

"Nick!"

I claw at the snow, trying to slow down. There's nothing to hold on to. I kick and kick. The hands clutch my ankles. Flipping my torso over I get one quick glance of their backs. They're wearing parkas and hats and look normal, like people, but faster. I smash onto my face again and lift up my head just in time to see Nick snarling inside the net. He's transformed again.

"Nick!" I yell, but snow pours into my mouth. Sharp cold pain smashes through my teeth and into my skull. I cough and try again. "Nick!"

He raises himself up onto four legs and howls, a long, searing cry of anguish and rage.

My heart breaks for him, caught there. I have to help him escape. I have to get free.

I kick again. "Let me go."

Pain shoots through my head. Fireworks. Explosions. All inside my brain. The white world goes dark and I know what's about to happen. I'm the one leaving. I am the one gone.

I wake up in a room that's vacant, large and cold, with just one air mattress on the floor. My head thrums and I lift my trembling fingers to touch a large lump on the side of my head. Did I hit a rock? Or did someone hit me? And Nick? Where is Nick?

I sit up, pushing my hands against the cold blue air mattress. The world spins and I close my eyes for a second, but think better of it. The walls seem made of concrete, with big rivets in them, bolts that once held something. There's one door, but it's large and wooden and shut.

Terror grabs me and doesn't let go.

I pull myself up to a standing position. My feet touch the cold cement floor.

Jesus. Someone has taken my shoes.

And my coat.

"Nick?" I whisper, kind of hoping for the unhopeable.

But he isn't here.

The memory of him, howling, stuck beneath the net, hits me in the stomach, spinning pain into me.

"You better not have hurt Nick!" I yell at… oh, I don't know what I'm yelling at.

Striding across the cold concrete until I come to the door, I try it again. "Hey! You better not have hurt my friend!"

I grab the wooden door handle and yank it. No go. I try pushing it. It doesn't budge. Damn, why am I not stronger? The door has to be barricaded or locked or something on the other side. I step back and run at it with my shoulder, which is not only not helpful, it hurts. It never looks like it hurts when cops do it in movies.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"You guys went to a hell of a lot of trouble to just lock me up in a room," I say and try the door again.

Still nothing.

"This is stupid," I announce. "Really stupid."

Pulling in a deep breath, I try to think of something calming, something that would make me focus.

Somehow, listing phobias dose not seem like a good choice. There is this quote they sometimes use in Amnesty stuff: "The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage."

Thucydides, a Greek philosopher, wrote that a hundred million years ago.

So, I have to find courage.

Walking back to my air mattress again, I survey the room. It isn't much to look at. It's about ten feet by ten feet, all concrete. No window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling but there isn't any light switch to turn it off. There's a heating grate in the floor, the kind that old houses have sometimes.

I crawl over to it and peer between the slats. No heat comes through, but a little bit of light does. The sounds of faraway voices hit my ears.

The opening is about three feet wide and maybe two feet deep. Can I fit in it? Maybe? Hope lifts my heart. I can escape and find Nick, maybe save him.

Four screws hold the grate in place. I stick my nail into one and twist it. It turns. It turns a little bit.

This will take forever, but it's worth it. I pull in a deep breath. I wonder if Amnesty would send an Urgent Action appeal on my behalf if they knew: Maine Teen Unjustly Held Captive By…

How would they fill in the blank?

I move the screw a little more, until I can grab the screw head with the tips of my fingers. I turn it and turn it and it pops off. One down, three to go.

Giggling, and possibly a tiny bit hysterical, I start on the second screw, using the same procedure. I have it halfway out when the locks outside the door slide out of place. I pocket the one screw I've freed and scurry over to the air mattress just as the door opens.

I take a big breath and get ready. I don't know what I expect to come through that door. But I sure don't expect Ian.

"Zara, you look shocked." Ian smiles.

He's wearing normal clothes, a navy sweater with a shirt underneath it and jeans. His reddish hair is rumpled, but in a deliberate I'm-in-a-boy-band way.

He shuts the door behind him and stands there for a second, just staring at me. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?" I ask through clenched teeth. I make myself relax my jaw and uncross my arms. Ian doesn't need to know how angry I am, how scared.

Ian leans his shoulders back against the wall, looking relaxed and happy. "That I'm a pixie?"

My jaw must have dropped or something because Ian starts laughing. "You look shocked."

I don't say anything, just try to adjust to this newest twist. He's a pixie. Ian.

"Where's the dust? I thought you all left dust?"

"Only the kings." He sort of snarls it. Then he changes his face into something calmer, less feral. His voice matches and suddenly it's like he's back to being the nice guy who showed me to classes on the first day of school. "Are you cold, Zara?"

"I'm okay."

Was Ian the one who went into my house the night before? Was he the one who pretended to be my dad? Hate spills into me, useless emotion or not.

"You're lying. I can smell it. You're cold," Ian says. "I'll go get you a blanket."

He turns and starts toward the door. He knocks on it twice and it swings open.

"Wait!"

He looks back and smiles again at me. "Don't worry, Zara. I'm not leaving you. Okay?"

I slump down on my mattress, trying to stay in control, to not tackle him.

"You think everybody always leaves, don't you?" he says, his tone softer. "But pixies aren't like that. We always come back. I promise. We never let anyone alone. Even the ones who get away we hunt down.

Your mother could tell you that."

"What about my mother?"

"Really, Zara? You haven't figured it out?"

He steps out the door and it shuts behind him.

Shivering, I stare at the walls and the blank grayness is too much. I close my eyes and put my hands on my head. It throbs.

Ian comes back with a blanket, a glass of water, and some kind of medicine.

"If I drink this am I stuck in pixieland with you forever?" I ask as he drapes the blanket around my shoulders, tucking it in.

He laughs. "I wish it were that easy."

"I thought I read that somewhere."

"That's fairies. This is just regular bottled water and an aspirin. Your head hurts, right?"