Chapter 20

PAST:

Humans. One by one, I watch them walk onto the stage, each as wrapped in nerves as the other, yet still desperate not to let their true anxieties show. All of them, except for her. She's still. Deathly still. And pale. She wants this, but she does not want it. Not like the rest of them, clawing at their one chance at fame with both hands, ripping it to shreds in the process.

She just walks forward onto the stage. Her hands tremble, yet she doesn't try to hide them. When she tells me her name, the word alone is like a sultry melody. Lorelei. Lorelei. It plays in my head, replacing the acidic tune cemented there by my father.

She glides to the center of the stage, her dark hair draping across her forehead like a curtain. It is what I like best about her. She is not afraid to show who she really is. A girl. Terrified. And yet not afraid of being scared of her gifts. In that very moment, I fall under her spell.

But I am under her father's orders: “Train her. See that she uses her talent to their fullest potential. Land knows her mother will not teach her.” And he was true in that, as her mother shunned her many gifts, long ago. For reasons I do not fully comprehend, I know this girl cannot have the same fate.

Her father watches my actions from time to time. I know this. While I do not fear him, I do fear what he has the power to do…prevent me from seeing her again if he is not suitably pleased with her results.

I try not to make it obvious, my difficulty in taking my eyes from her face. Should he even sense my deep fascination with her, it will be my undoing.

Backstage I hear the blonde-haired girl teasing, taunting. Making crass remarks, calling Lorelei a loser and other such unsavory names. My body becomes heavy. I seldom deign to hate humans, but I hate that girl. With her vile words and vengeful smirk, she is a reminder of the cold-hearted beings I left behind. All of the worst qualities of the Fey, wrapped in one mindless package. If Lorelei has heard her remarks, she doesn't react. Likely used to hearing them, I surmise, as I watch her take her position.

I peer around the curtain. She is looking my way. Our eyes clash. Sheet music slips from her limp fingers and floats to the floor around her feet. Still she doesn't seem fazed by this, although I know I unnerve her. It is intentional. I make myself as unearthly and unappealing as I possibly can so she will not find any reason to reciprocate my feelings. As if that were even a possibility.

But I have to shield her from her father. From his wrath. From what he might do should he suspect my true intentions for visiting her night after night. “Sing for me and I will keep your father alive,” was my offer. It was not delivered as a choice, even when she insisted she did not wish to perform. Seeing her now, so pale, so scared, I hate myself for forcing her into this. I watch the blood drain from her cheeks and feel sick. While I know she does not hate me, she fears me. She could never feel beyond that fear, for I have never let her.

With quiet grace she collects her fallen pages, as I vacillate between finding a place in the darkened audience and giving the blonde girl a sip of Faerie tonic that would strip her vocal chords clean.

I feel her father's presence. I know she will not sense him, not as I do, but I also know he is watching me as closely as he watches her. She pushes her hair back so it curls around her ear. I have never wished to be someone's body part before, but I so desperately want to be that ear and have her hair curl up against me…

And then she speaks—her voice is full and expansive for a girl so young…so nervous…so human.

"I'm ready," is all she says.

She isn't fully human, but she is not at all what I am. Faeries—fearless creatures, tormenters, lesser beings with lesser morals—that is what we all are, beneath the shadowed cloaks and violent hedonism.

My hand runs over my face. I am a fool, thinking of her this way. It must stop. She is my assignment. She can be nothing more.

Her father's eyes shift to mine and for one fierce moment, I am certain he knows I have feelings for his daughter—this breathtaking girl I am charged to watch over, and nothing more. And for another fierce moment, I remember what cruelty my father would inflict when he discovered something I cared for. Although Oberon barely knows his daughter, he has the same expectations of perfection that all Faery royals have from their offspring. She has to be flawless; but while he may not see that she already is, I do. For a split second that stretches much longer, I consider what I will do to him, if he ever does to her what my father did to me.

My gaze returns to the stage and the girl occupying the entirety of it with her presence alone.

I overhear the blonde girl snort. "Go for it, queen of puke."

I hardly register her remark; I'm too consumed with watching Lorelei. She tips her head up, lifting her defiant chin in that nothing-can-touch-me stance I know so well. She may not be aware of her Faerie heritage, but it’s what strengthens her cast-iron resolve.

My view narrows, zooming in on just her face. I watch the muscles of her jaw tighten and then relax. I inhale and hear her draw breath at the same time. Like we are tethered to one another, her voice, my music—they're entwined. Her stance is good. Back straight, head held high despite the nerves. One less poor practice to correct. Truly this girl has very few.

I hold the first note in my mind, strong and clear. But the one that pours from her parted ruby lips is sublime, surpassing my own in both strength and tenor. I feel it in my bones, her song, and it plays in my body like I am her instrument. I am lost.

Her head dips down as the last note fades into oblivion. There is nothing but a silent pause that hovers. Even I am unable to move. Or breathe.

Her dark curls tumble forward, shielding her face for a moment, before they fall away as her eyes lift to the audience. Seeing straight across them, they cut through the semidarkness until they find mine. A flash I feel in my core strikes me as our eyes meet. Our gazes remain locked as the entire room erupts in a thunderous applause that I am sure will bring down the rafters.

Stubbornly defying all odds, she delivered the performance of a lifetime to an audience utterly undeserving of her superior talent. Slowly, I bring my hands together and clap. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Her dark, responsive eyes pull from mine as she comes back into herself. Back to her standing ovation.

She steps forward…

Takes a deep, dramatic bow…

And vomits all over the stage.