Fire and Ice: Faerie Song Saga 1

by Michele Barrow-Belisle

Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

FIRE AND ICE

Copyright © 2021 MICHELE BARROW-BELISLE

Chapter One

"You look exhausted, Mrs. Johnston."

I stared into her sunken eyes, rimmed with dark circles. My joints ached for a split second and then subsided. I saw the redness and swelling… the stiffness… They flashed like snapshots in my mind. Instantly I knew her fingers ached when she played the piano, and I knew her stomach ulcer kept her up at night. One touch could take it all away. But Gran had enforced the keep-your-hands-to-yourself rule at an early age.

"Oh, Lorelei, you know… story of my life, hon." She glanced up at the oversized, walnut-framed blackboard with the specials scrawled in chalk, and handed me her menu. "Bring me the usual, will you? And a slice of that famous lemon pie?"

"You got it."

The café was swamped tonight, the sudden cold snap meant lots of aches and flu bugs. People flocked to the Lemon Balm Café and Tea House for the ambiance as much as they did for the herbal tea.

I poured steaming water into the clear glass teapot. This wasn't your typical English breakfast blend. Well, it was… but with a few extras added in. Then again, this wasn't your typical tea house, and I wasn't your typical teen. Not even close.

The freak label got smacked on my forehead long before I understood what it meant to be a clairsentient empathic healer. Basically, I can see when people are in pain, and well… heal them. Being gifted might sound great; but it's meant a lifetime of trying to hide what I can do, and why, just to blend. In a town the size of Drearyton Cove, population sixty-three hundred, blending, was nearly impossible. After the quote-unquote incident, it was safer to leave the healing to Gran's secret blend of teas. "Witnessing a child who could heal with the touch of a hand would be too much for people around here," she'd said. And so I listened — mostly — keeping my hands to myself, and staying far away from sports, parties, and people, which were no more than accidents waiting to happen. Not only for the obvious reasons: accidents meant injuries, injuries meant blood. Nothing made me hit the floor faster than that bitter, metallic stench of blood.

"Where's the hawthorn and chamomile blend, Neil? Never mind, found it."

"Mrs. J's arthritis flaring up again?" he asked, leaning across the chrome counter.

"She didn't mention it, but I can tell."

Neil's face folded into a grin, and we exchanged a secretive look. At sixty-something, Neil was our town's resident hippy. He was as laid back as they came and wore his long grey hair pulled back into a perfect ponytail. Gran opened Lemon Balm twenty years ago, and Neil's been here since day one, running things after Gran died and mom refused to help out. Pretty much since then, the whole town switched from coffee to tea. He's one of the privileged few who knew why.

"Here you go. Enjoy." I set the tea and pie in front of her, feeling somehow better about myself knowing in an hour or so she'd be back to normal and pain-free. It was Gran's little secret. My little secrets were far more bizarre.

"So Monday's the big solo?" Mrs. Johnston poured the amber liquid into her mug.

I forced a stiff smile, fiddling with the pencil tucked behind my ear.

"Yep."

"And on your birthday no less. Well, good luck, honey." Her blue-veined hand patted mine. "Julliard will be lucky to have you. Although why you'd settle for composing with an amazing voice like yours…" She shook her head. "But you'll do well. I'm sure if it."

Funny… I wasn't. It really wasn't up to me. How I performed was up to the Faerie who gave me my singing voice; the one who had appeared in my room one night and promised to keep my dad alive if I sang for him and only him. People insisted it was dream, but the ice shard he used to pierce my throat was agonizingly real. Turned out to be a bogus deal, since my dad has been dead for over a decade. Yet somehow that Faerie still controls my ability to sing. It's made every performance, and my hopes of getting into Julliard, infinitely more complicated. If my Faerie muse was in a good mood, and if Jupiter aligned with Mars, I had a shot. If not… well…

The door swung open, sending in a gust of cold damp air. Brianne and her steroid-pumped entourage strode in, filling the far corner booth. Jocks and cheerleaders. In my section… Great… I sighed.

"Enjoy your pie, Mrs. Johnston."

Grabbing some menus, I approached their table and smiled. It was for Gran's sake. She always insisted once someone walked through the door, they were customers who deserved courtesy and respect. It was hard to see the morons, already busy chugging sugar packets and playing table hockey with the salt shaker, as worthy of my respect. I'm not one for stereotypes, but they worked so hard at living up to them, it seemed a shame not to label.

"Welcome to Lemon Balm. Our dessert specials are rhubarb tart, chai green tea ice cream, and lemon pie." I placed the stack of menus in the middle of center ice.

"What can I get for you?" I said and folded my arms, trying not to notice the picture of Brianne's sore ankle that flashed in my mind.

Brianne looked up at me from bored, overly-mascaraed eyes. "Lorelei? Seriously, you're working? Tonight of all nights?"

I didn't reply to what seemed a pretty rhetorical question… Duh.

"Don't you know what night it is?"

I nodded, confused at where she was going.

"It's Saturday night," she said, as if I was the brain dead one.

Then she put her hand on my arm.

Oh man, I expected bad, but this was going to be worse. Is she attempting to embarrass me about my lack of dates? It's an easy number to keep track of. Counting tonight, it made zero. I wasn't exactly what you'd call social. Most of the time, I didn't really consider that a bad thing. I had little in common with the people here. And not only because I was different, though it didn't help. I didn't see the world like most people did. And I was fine with that. It was just that, sometimes, I wished someone other than an invisible Faerie and my dead grandmother knew how different I was.

"The weekend before the competition… Shouldn't you, oh, I don't know, be face-first in a toilet barfing your brains out by now? Or did you actually get a clue and drop out?"

Snickers erupted from the rest of Brianne's groupies and a surge of heat rose in my face.

She leaned toward me, her head cocked to one side. "I mean, between you and me, you have zero chance of winning. But hey, if you puke on Professor Higgins's toupee again, it might make you more memorable."

Amazingly enough, as much as I hated performing in public, I'd take it right now over listening to another word from her. Brianne was not only head cheerleader, but also lead vocalist in music class. I had the superior singing voice, but she was given all the leads, because her voice was at least consistent. It helped she could make it through a performance without puking on the judges. Apparently they frown on that kind of thing. She was also blonde, pretty — in a miniature Shih Tzu sort of way — wildly popular, and dating my temporarily insane best friend, Davin Blake. He wants us to get along. I don't see it happening. But for his sake and Gran's I ignored her comment.

"So do you need more time to decide?"

"We know what we want." Jake, the one who looked most likely to wind up behind bars, draped his sausage arm around Brianne's shoulder. "Bring us eight slices of Chocolate Cherry Decadence, four coffees, and some cobblers." He winked at me and I had to tighten my grip on the pencil I held to keep from whipping it at his forehead like a dart.

"No pie for me," Brianne added. "Some of us actually care what we look like. And Davin loves my flat abs."

I rolled my eyes but subconsciously sucked in my stomach.

She smiled. "It's sad really. You're like, always here. Don't you miss having fun? You know… parties, dates, guys… any of it sound familiar? Or don't you like having a life?"

"I'm good, thanks," I said flatly, fingers clenched around my pencil so tightly my nails dug into my palms.

"Can't miss what you've never had," jeered Josh, the spiky haired guy still wearing his football uniform.

My brows tightened. "So where is Davin tonight?" I pointedly glared at the quarterback whose fingers were teasing Brianne's hair.

Brianne's gray eyes flashed. "He's got a basketball game tonight, didn't he tell you?" She smirked. "We're hooking up later."

"Hope he's not too tired."

"He's never too tired," she said tossing her hair, and the redhead across from her giggled.

I didn't want to heal her sore ankle; I wanted to break the other one. It was common knowledge Brianne was an easy score, but the thought of her with my best friend was one mental picture I didn't need.

"Anything else?" I bristled.

"If I see something else I want, I'll let you know," Jake, her arm candy, replied, raking his beefy eyes over me.

"Perfect." Deep breaths. Remember, courtesy and respect. I gave a smile I hoped looked as fake as it was. Spinning on my heels, I stormed into the kitchen.

"Hey, Neil, I need some cobblers heated." I could feel my blood pressure rising. Maybe Brianne needed to be too tired tonight.

I reached for the chamomile sleep blend we saved for the worst insomniacs. One cup and she'd be passed out in an hour.

"Now that's an interesting choice… Sleepy-Thyme Blend?" Neil quipped. "Care to explain why the sixteen-year-old cheerleader needs a sleep-inducer on a Saturday night?"

"She wants to get to bed early," I muttered under my breath.

Neil frowned. "Lorelei?"

I pulled my hand away from the canister and stared at the ground. What am I thinking? This isn't me. I never abused the medicinal herbs or my gifts. It was part of what made me special. I wasn't about to let them take that away from me.

"I wasn't really going to," I mumbled, my face growing hot. This was childish. I would go back out there and show her I was the bigger person. Maybe, if I helped her with the strained ankle she was dealing with, we could finally strike a truce. Perhaps become friends. Davin would love that. "Where's the Vervain?" It was useful in healing all sorts of things.

"We're all out." Neil looked at me with his usual grandfatherly concern, wiping his hands on the pristine apron he wore mostly for show. "What's going on with you tonight? You don't usually let those kids get to you."

"I know." I sighed. "Must be nerves, I guess." Why did I agree to perform in the competition in the first place? I hated performing live as much as I hated competing, even if it did bring me closer to getting into Julliard and away from here. Plus, a taste of actually beating Brianne would be delicious, but no one knew as well as I did how much of a long shot that was. I had no idea how I'd got myself into this, and it was too late to get out of it. The programs were printed and if I made it on stage without slipping in a puddle of my own puke, hitting my head, and knocking myself unconscious, I'd be singing.

Maybe.

Always maybe.

Neil placed a tray in front of me laden with sticky cherry cobbler, smothered with chocolate ganache and whipped cream. Just looking at it gave me indigestion. I wasn't much for desserts, except for lemon pie. After pouring four herb-free coffees, I returned to the back booth.

The door swung open as I arrived at their table. I felt the warm, thyme-scented breeze on my skin. I froze. That aroma… again. Vivid memories of my childhood flooded in. Slowly I looked up. A boy walked in, and for a split second, a silent pause descended on the café, like a scene right out of a movie. This was no ordinary guy. He was beautiful… strikingly beautiful. It might have been his shoulder-length coffee hair, or his perfectly sculpted features, or the casual way his jeans and white shirt hung on his taut lean frame. Whatever it was, it gave him a haunting, unearthly quality. I realized I was staring when his eyes met mine.

He smiled.

I'm not sure why, but the entire tray slipped out of my hands and clamored to the floor, covering Brianne with dessert and hot coffee on the way down. She screamed and then swore, jumping out of the booth. I covered my face with my hands, wishing there was a giant rock I could crawl under.

"Ohmygod, I'm so sorry…" I tried to wipe the glob of whipped cream sliding down her forehead. She smacked my hand away.

"Liar! You little witch, you did this on purpose."

"It was an accident. I was… distracted." I looked up to see the entire café staring at us, including the gorgeous stranger who looked slightly amused.

"I know you're jealous of me. Do you think this little stunt is going to ruin my night? Even covered in whipped cream I'll never be as pathetic as you are. Davin will always want me as his girlfriend and you for a friend, and you can't stand it!"

"Really Brianne, I didn't mean to…"

"I've been nice to you for his sake…"

Wow. If that was nice…

"But we're done. You picked the wrong person to make your enemy, Lorelei."

Her face was as red as the cherry sauce working its way down her white tank top.

"Think you can make me look like an idiot? Well, just wait! Monday night, it's your turn!" she hollered.

She stormed out the door, brushing past the hot mystery guy, who was about to be seated in Meghan's section.

I slunk onto a stool at the counter, dropping my head on my arms. This was not what I had planned. Pissing off Brianne was one thing, but right before the competition… that was something I definitely didn't need. No way was I going to let her humiliate me in front of an audience. I was perfectly capable of doing that by myself. There was no other choice. I'd have to back out of the festival, and just hope my classically trained, world-renowned concert pianist-mother would someday forgive me.

"Hey. You okay?"

The beautiful boy from the front table appeared beside me. I lifted my head and pushed the hair away from my face, wishing I'd bothered to pull it into a ponytail before coming into work. Perhaps I wouldn't be sitting here now with chocolate sauce and whipped cream coating the tips of it, in front of the most gorgeous guy I'd ever laid eyes on.

"I'm great."

"I think you might have dropped this." He held out his hand.

I stared up at him for a moment confused, before glancing at his opened hand. Nestled in his palm was a tiny gold lemon, from the charm bracelet Gran had given me on my sixth birthday. How had I lost it? My eyes flickered back to his. "Where did you find this?"

"Next to the pile of whipped cream." He inclined his head in the direction of the corner booth, his eyes never leaving mine. "I thought it might be yours."

"It is," I muttered, completely distracted by his amazing eyes — olive and hazel with golden flecks — very unusual and incredibly hard to stop looking at.

I stood up, still mesmerized. "Thanks."

"Not a problem. So, you're a singer."

Slowly, I sat back down, gazing at him with a puzzled expression.

"How did you know that?"

He had to be new here. There were only two high schools in town, and no way someone as good looking as he was could have gone unnoticed. Wonder what his name is.

"Lucky guess." Mystery guy held out his hand. "I'm Adrius," he said, answering my unasked question.

I placed my hand in his. It was warm but electric, like a low voltage current that travelled up my arm.

"Hi," I said, pulling my hand away. "I'm actually more of a composer. The singing is temporary. Like this job. I mean, it's my grandmother's café… or it was… you know, like, before… she… um…well and now it's like…I'm trying to keep it running, or I mean we were… What is wrong with me? A time machine would be so good right about now.

"I know," he said, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

Something prickled inside me, a thrill of fear or excitement. I hadn't decided which.

In his other hand, he held a brochure for the festival. I bit my lip. "Are you going?" I asked, pointing to the leaflet. I couldn't figure out what answer would be better. He did have a great voice, velvety and foreign yet with no trace of an accent. Maybe he was performing too.

He smiled, and all the strength drained out of my muscles. No wonder I dropped the tray.

"Possibly… Are you?"

I squinted, glancing vaguely in the direction of the cheerleader's table. "Actually, I don't think so…"

"That's too bad. I bet you have a beautiful voice."

"Really… Based on what?"

He shrugged. "Beautiful girl, beautiful voice… It's a sure bet."

I gave an ironic laugh. "Well, your odds are 50/50." Me … Beautiful… He can't be serious.

He leaned toward me and a strand of dark hair fell across his forehead. "But I'm right, aren't I? You do have a beautiful voice, at least fifty per cent of the time."

The air caught in my throat. "You could say that, I guess." My mouth felt all dried out.

He smiled victoriously. "I knew it."

"You know, it's really rude to gloat." I swallowed, but it didn't help. My tongue still felt like sandpaper. More than anything, I wanted to stay here all evening pinned under his gaze.

Neil came to the counter and stopped in front of us. I looked up at him expectantly, but he didn't say a word, he just stared hard at Adrius.

"Something I can help you with?" he finally grunted.

"No. I'm pretty much finished," Adrius replied mildly.

"Good. I'm sure you've got somewhere else you need to be. There's the door."

He had a trace of an Irish brogue I'd never noticed before, underlining his harsh tone.

Adrius nodded, taking his cue.

I gave Neil a puzzled frown. It was weird to see him speak to anyone like that. He effortlessly kept his cool with even the most obnoxious customers.

Adrius looked back at me. "Good luck at the competition."

With a weak smile and a strange knot of regret, I watched him saunter out the door and then turned to Neil.

"Do you know him?"

"I know his type," he grumbled.

"His type?" I repeated with an arched brow. I was about to ask what he meant when something started buzzing.

"Believe me, Lorelei," he muttered, reaching under the counter for my phone, "Your life can only get worse with boys like that around."

Um, let's recap… I dump a tray of food on the most vengeful girl in school, I have to somehow get out of performing on stage and making a complete fool of myself in public, and the only gorgeous guy to talk to me ever, gets chased away. Could things get any worse?

Neil handed me my cell. "It's your mother."

I gave an exasperated sigh. Apparently, they could.

"Hi, Mom."

"Sweetheart, I have great news! My agent was at a party with someone who knows someone who works with Jonathon Triad, the talent scout for Juilliard. Anyway, I've convinced him he must come and see you perform at the competition Monday night."

"You what?"

"If you do well, they might offer you a full music scholarship to Juilliard! Can you believe it?"

"But, Mom — I don't know if that's such a good idea. I might not…"

"Shhh, just relax," she interrupted. "It will all be fine if you don't freak out."

Way too late for that. The contents of my stomach were projectile ready at a moment's notice.

"Juilliard has an amazing vocal program. You've wanted to go there since you were little."

"You mean you've wanted me to go there since I was little."

"That's what I said. I've booked an extra session with your therapist in the morning so you'll be in top shape. Can't risk having you fall flat on your face and embarrassing me again."

That was so like her, to take even my humiliations and make them her own.

"Of course not. Who wants a repeat of that?" I muttered, chewing my thumbnail.

"Exactly. Especially since I won't be there to run damage control. I leave for Ireland at noon."

"Oh, right, your tour. How long will you be gone this time?"

"Just a few months. You'll be staying with Great Aunt Camilla again."

I made a face, the way little kids do when you feed them something they don't like. "She hates me."

"She doesn't hate you. She's just… hard to warm up to."

"Well, I hate her."

"Lorelei Kaylen, I don't have time for your tantrums. I've always done everything I can to support your singing. Is it too much to ask that my only daughter unselfishly supports me for a change?"

I sighed. You could almost hear the melodramatic telenovela score in the background.

"Now don't waste too much time at that café. You need to practice again tonight. I pulled a lot of strings, and I want things to be perfect. See you soon." There was an audible click and then silence.

Unbelievable. I closed my phone and poured myself a cup of lemon balm tea. Not that I was crazy about it, but it settles the stomach and mine was now heaving uncontrollably. As a composer, I could stick to singing in private. And up until now, the competition had just been another thing to add to my college application… an extracurricular that showed I took an interest in all aspects of music. Now it could potentially become a huge strike against me being accepted. Do I even want to be accepted? It was still hard to tell sometimes where my mother's dreams for my future, and my own dreams converged.

With a small sigh, I glanced around. The beautiful new guy was gone, and so was the familiar scent of thyme. For the first time since I could remember, the café felt strangely cold. The ocher stuccoed walls with their warm sunny disposition were in direct contrast with mine.

Neil reached over and patted me on the shoulder. "Cheer up," he said sounding more like himself. "Look at it this way. What else could possibly go wrong?"

What else could possibly go wrong? What else couldn't? In the course of a few hours my life had suddenly gone from slightly bad to epic.

Chapter Two

"Lorelei, you'll be late. Aren't you ready yet?"

Mom's sing-song voice wafted up the double staircase. I'd been curled up with a book for over an hour already. Ready? Ready for what? Sundays were supposed to be a day of rest, weren't they? Then I remembered. Tomorrow was my seventeenth birthday… and oh right, today was my appointment with Dr. Greenbalm. I'd forgotten. She'd booked a session with my Freudian wanna-be psychiatrist. And they think I have identity issues. Singing in this competition tomorrow was bringing nothing but trouble. The only thing I had to look forward to was the whole day being over with.

"Lorelei?"

Mom had already dropped the melody and added a note of impatience. Soon she'd hit a high completely-fed-up note and send Brigit up after me. Brigit was our housekeeper. I hated the term maid. It sounded so condescending — or perhaps it was just the way mom said it. Her people skills were limited to schmoozing the press and blowing kisses at the nameless faceless men who adored her. I'm not sure when concert pianists became objects of fandom, but judging by the number of sold out tours and autographed pictures she sent out, they were hot. Did I mention I'm the one stuck going to therapy?

I tugged on a baby blue t-shirt that was a little too fitted, considering the occasion. Whatever — let him psychoanalyze that one — my questionable judgment in event-appropriate clothing.

Heavy footsteps lumbered up the marble staircase. Took too long.

I grabbed my brush and yanked it through my willful curls. That's how Gran described them. Thanks to Mom's repeated insistence that I get it cut — it hung past my shoulders in loose spirals, around my slightly rounded face. Medusa minus the snakes. It was brown. Not auburn, or chestnut, or russet. Just plain brown. Lighter than my eyes, darker than my skin. It was shiny though... I liked that. See? Perfectly healthy self-image.

I peered at my reflection once more, wondering if I should bother with lip gloss.

There was a light rap on the door before it swung open.

"Lorelei, you mother is waiting on you."

It was the voice that matched the footsteps. Brigit O'Malley, our Irish housekeeper, plodded into my bedroom as I gave up and tossed the brush onto the bed. She made a face and immediately retrieved it, putting it back in its rightful place.

"Brigit, you know I would have put it away. You never have to clean up after me." I gave her a warm smile.

"I know, luv, you're the tidy one in the house." She winked.

Brigit was Neil's sister, and she was like a nanny to me. Upsetting her would bother me way more than upsetting my mom did. My mom and I loved one another, and usually we got along well. The fact that I only saw her a few months out of the year probably helped. But I admit, I derived a sort of immature pleasure from getting her riled sometimes. Maybe I should open with that at Dr. Greenbalm's.

"Anyway, I'm ready. Just tell her to chill. For $350 an hour they can both afford to wait thirty seconds." It was pricey to get a consult on a Sunday.

She furrowed her brows, but I could tell she was biting back a smile.

"I'll do no such thing. Let's go, missy. Enough of yer smart talk. Go on—" She gave me a gentle shove out the door.

"Remind me why I can't just stay with you while Mom's gone?" I sounded like a three year old. I felt like one too. Whiny and petulant were my only moods when I had to pack up my stuff to be shipped off to Camilla's. Remember the wicked witch from every fairytale? That was Camilla.

Before Gran passed away, I used to look forward to Mom's tours because I got to stay with her at her seaside cottage. I loved hanging out with her, picking herbs from her garden, and concocting what seemed like magic potions. I learned so much from Gran, and she was the only one who knew the full extent of my healing abilities.

Brigid straightened the pillows on my bed. "Don't be silly, you know your mum would have none of it. And it's not my place to meddle."

My shoulders fell. She was right. Mom would never go for it.

She offered a sympathetic smile. Brigit knew how awful my great aunt was. Everyone did. It was simple. I disliked Camilla and I adored Brigit. She didn't treat me like a freak, no matter how strange I acted.

"Right, now off you go."

I scrambled out the door, just as Mom started leaning on the horn. I climbed into the passenger seat as she flashed her withering, put-out glare, the one I'd seen way too often to even register an impact.

"I have to be at the airport in less than an hour. Honestly, Lorelei, you'd think I was doing this for my own benefit." She gave an exasperated sigh and revved the engine.

Yep, that's pretty much what I thought. I ignored her, fixing my gaze dead ahead. She glanced over at me once more, her cutting blue eyes taking in my appearance from head to toe. I don't know why, but I secretly loved the fact that I had my father's deep complexion and dark brown eyes.

"That's what you're wearing? It's not a rock concert."

I'll admit, a lot of the fights between us were my fault — I had a quick temper and a shortage of patience — but then I came by it honestly.

The car was already turning out of the driveway when I put my hand on the door handle. "Do you want me to go change? There's my black cut off `Wanna Bite' tank-top I've been dying to wear."

Again with the withering stare. We drove the fifteen minute trip to the city in silence.

***

Dr. Greenbalm was always running late. It wasn't unusual to wait at least twenty minutes for my appointments. The only thing worse than a doctor's office waiting room, was a doctor's office waiting room trying to be something else. Greenbalm's waiting room smacked of trying too hard not to fit the mold. Instead of uncomfortable chairs too close to one another, the room was furnished in techno nightclub decor. Complete with a reception counter which looked more like the bar, and a mini-skirt wearing receptionist-slash-bartender. Nothing about this place said "tell me your problems." It might, however make someone want to drink their troubles away at the nearest pub.

Fortunately, the office and the doctor were more like what you'd expect to find, a Sigmund Freud-look-a-like behind a massive mahogany desk.

Dr. Greenbalm sat in his leather armchair decked in a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches — so cliché.

"Lorelei. Please, make yourself comfortable. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."

I glanced at the black leather lounger in the center of the room as I passed by and dropped into my usual seat next to the window. There was something comforting about knowing an escape was nearby even if we were on the second floor.

"How are you today?"

Well, let's see, the head cheerleader hates my guts and plans on ruining me in a vocal competition I don't want to go to, but have to, because my mother invited a talent scout to witness my humiliation. That is, if I don't puke and pass out first. "I'm good."

"Excellent. Where did we leave off?" He thumbed through his notes and then squinted up at me above the round spectacles perched on his nose. "I believe you were telling me about the dreams."

"They weren't dreams," I blurted then bit down on my lip.

"No?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Um, I mean some of it… er… seemed quite real."

"All right, Lorelei." Scribble, scribble, scribble. "Tell me about the first night you remember the music coming to you."

I sighed. We'd been over this before. Multiple times. Ever since Mom decided my non-existent performance two years ago must have been caused by stage fright, and I was in need of psychiatric help to fix it before I caused her any further embarrassment. I don't know what they wanted from me exactly. What was I supposed to say? Hi, my name is Lorelei Kaylen Alundra, and I see shadow faeries? "I was about four, I think."

"That was around the time your father left, was it not?"

"Pretty sure we covered that too," I mumbled, chewing on my thumbnail. My twin sister died at birth; Dad couldn't handle it and he left when I was four. A short while later, an officer showed up at our door and told us he'd been killed in an accident. I remember it because it had been pouring rain the entire day, and yet while standing in the driveway with my mom, the man in uniform had somehow remained completely dry, almost as if he repelled the water. Not that I'd tell anyone that memory. My mom fell apart, but I remember not really knowing what to think. I felt like I'd lost someone special, but I never really believed he was gone. I guess I held on to the unreasonable hope that the dark faerie would somehow keep him safe.

Since then it's been me and Mom, for the few months of the year she's actually in town and not touring. The rest of the time she'd leave me with Gran, and then after she passed, with Gran's sister, Camilla. As for me, it had been years since I last heard the music. My invisible Faerie muse was probably as appalled as the rest of the crowd with my first and last live performance; although no one could have been more disappointed than my mother. Since then, I hadn't so much as hummed a note in public, until recently.

He ignored my uncooperative attitude. "Indulge me. Tell me what you remember."

"Fine. It's the same dream I've had for years. He strolls out of my closet and into my room, hovering over me like an angel. Only I knew he wasn't an angel. The black wings were a tip off." Shifting in my chair, I continued. "He tells me my voice belongs to him now, and long, icy fingers reach for my throat. When I open my mouth to scream, nothing comes out and I wake up in a cold sweat. It's the same every time."

"Good. Now let me ask you again, why are you so certain this was not your subconscious dealing with the death of your father?"

I straightened, and glared at him. "Because it had nothing to do with my father. I know he's gone. How can I miss someone I never really knew?"

Dr. Greenbalm peered across his long desk at me, the pale grey sky reflecting off his lenses.

"Yes, when we last spoke you were adamant about that. I'd like to know why. How do you know?"

"I don't know how I know… I just know." My gaze wandered to the window. We'd arrived at the same impasse we'd hit so many times before. I knew this wasn't about my father, because it wasn't a dream. Not even close.

More scribbling. What was he writing anyway?

"Let's move on. Next you said you met him." He waited for my reply.

"I didn't recognize him. But I knew who he was. We were in a bookstore, reaching for the same book at the same time. I remember it well, because the book was glaringly out of place — dark fairytales in the midst of the healthy cooking section. Plus, there was also the temperature thing."

"The temperature thing?"

"The unbelievable cold of his touch wasn't something I could forget… like the icy hand of death." I paused.

"And the third dream?" I must have made a face or something because he corrected himself. "Or rather, the third occasion?"

"Two years ago." My patience was as short as his memory. This whole session had started off wrong. I wasn't usually this easily irritated… unfocused.

"Only this time you spoke to him?"

"Yes. Well, no. I mean sort of. Look, I've already told you this," I snapped, pulling my knees up under my chin in the oversized armchair.

He gave me a patient nod, making more notes. "Tell me about it again," he encouraged.

I wondered what he'd write if I jumped up and smacked him with his own notebook.

"It was his figure… backstage… when I was about to perform. He warned me I owed him, and only him, my song. That if I chose to sing without his consent I'd…"

I could tell by the look on his face there was no use in continuing. What was the point, anyway? There was only so much I could say. I could never tell him the truth and expect to walk out of his office. If I told him what really happened to me in my room that night, he'd have me strapped in a straight-jacket and checked into the nearest psych ward.

Perhaps he sensed my mood because Greenbalm changed his tactics. Removing his glasses, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands under his chin. "So, Lorelei, you believe this man gave you your singing voice? And without his permission you will not be able to perform. Is that correct?"

"More or less… It's really just… complicated." I've always heard music in my head. But not the way real musicians do, like connecting to a muse. This was a disembodied voice in the darkness that sang to me since I was a kid… and then composed the score for me to sing. The weird part is I can't sing… except for his music. Everything else comes out in a croak. "The last time I tried to sing in public, I stood in front of a room full of people at the swanky charity benefit Mom had organized, and threw up. Not a single note came out. That was two years ago. I left the stage in tears. Mom was mortified — hence the therapy," I said, motioning to him. I returned to gazing out the window, desperately wishing I was on the outside looking in.

The walls were going up. I could feel them, that protective fortress I'd hidden behind my whole life. It was safer to hide than to trust.

"Since then I've thrown up before any type of performance. Not that I perform much anymore."

"Until tomorrow," he said gently.

I nodded. A cool breeze blew past me, carrying the faint tang of herbs. I stared at the window. It was closed, sealed shut.

"Lorelei, where did you go? Did you have a breakthrough?" He actually looked sincere.

Yeah right, you are such a brilliant shrink. I finally see the misplaced Electra complex manifested as performance anxiety brought on by latent psychosexual tendencies.

"No. But I'm sure I'll survive tomorrow night," I lied.

I looked at the clock. It was annoyingly large for someone so often late.

"Well…" He shuffled some papers on his desk. "It seems we're not getting anywhere today. You're distracted — Less expressive than usual. Not yourself."

Must be one of my other personalities.

"Perhaps we should call it a day."

My jaw dropped. Call it a day? We never finished early ― ever. "But… there's still another half hour…" What are you doing? Stop talking.

"I realize that, but I see no use in continuing on this way. Perhaps we should start fresh next week. Agreed?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Oookaaay?"

I got up slowly, and headed for the door. I couldn't shake the idea that he was trying to get rid of me. Not that I minded, I was more than happy to go, but it was weird.

"And, Lorelei, let me offer you one piece of advice. Go, sing your heart out. Put yourself out there at least one more time. Give it another chance. You may be surprised by the results. One episode of performance anxiety is not the end of the world." He smiled. "Personally, I think your mother might be overreacting. But we can discuss her another time. You have within you the power to do anything you set your mind to ― with or without the acceptance of others." He grinned at me and then winked.

I could only stare at him, my mouth half open. Was this the same man I was talking to?

"You can do it Lorelei, all you have to do is believe."

I doubted my dark Faerie muse would agree, but I nodded mutely.

"So… until next week then?" I said, still processing.

"Goodbye, Lorelei," he said, scribbling more notes without looking up.

Pausing, I tried to think of something remotely intelligent to say and then let myself out without another word.

****

The fluorescent lights of the waiting room greeted me like a cold shower. I blinked, unable to focus, and slammed face first into someone. His hand reached out at supernatural speed to steady me.

"Sorry." The way my cheeks burned meant I had to be blushing.

"Lemon Balm, right?" His velvety voice filled the room.

My eyes swept upwards. Nicely hung, faded blue jeans ripped at the knee, black t-shirt, and a leather coat. Dark hair that fell in soft waves framed the most incredible eyes — the heat of the sun with laser beam intensity. My breath caught in my throat when his gaze locked on mine. It was hard to think with the overpowering aroma of thyme in the air, but at some point in my delirium I recognized him. The mystery guy from the café.

He smiled and my stomach twirled. Everything about him was astonishingly beautiful.

"We met the other night." He paused, looking at me through impossibly long lashes. "At the café? What are you doing here?"

"Right… I remember." As if forgetting someone like him was humanly possible.

"You were serving a cheerleader, if I recall correctly." His mouth quirked into a crooked grin.

"That part, I'd rather forget." I groaned, jamming my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

"So, you didn't answer my question," he said.

I frowned, slightly confused.

"What are you doing here?"

"I assumed you were joking."

"No joke."

"And who wants to know? What, are you with the press or something?" I replied, sounding sickeningly like my mother.

"Adrius Thanduir." He stretched out his hand. "Nightly News."

Wow, he smelled good. Outdoorsy like the forest after it rains, with a hint of cologne. I looked at his hand. It was easier to breathe focusing on that. His nails were well-manicured and his palms slightly stained, like a mechanic who'd been tinkering with engines for decades. Not that he looked old enough to have been doing anything for decades. I guess I stared too long because he withdrew his hand with a crooked grin.

"Sorry, axle grease. From my bike," he said, pulling out a handkerchief from a pocket inside his jacket.

"No, no, it's fine." I smiled, surprised that a guy would carry something like that. Maybe he's older than he looks. "Ten speed?" I asked suppressing a smile.

"Kawasaki, Ninja 9000," he replied evenly, matching my smirk.

"Ahh." A biker guy — noted and filed for future reference.

His perfect face leaned toward me and my heart stopped. He had no concept of personal space.

"I didn't catch your name."

"That would be because I didn't throw it." Whoa, what was with the Ice Princess routine? Some small part of me enjoyed the fact that he wanted to know my name, even though common sense told me not to give it to him. He was waiting to see a shrink after all.

"You know, you can tell a lot from someone by their name." He kept watching me. "It's like a window into their soul. Some even believe knowing someone's name is like owning a piece of them." When he smiled that sexy boyish grin it made my stomach flutter.

I'd never had such a visceral experience looking at someone before. It was an exciting flirtation, innocent with a touch of danger — real or imagined. His gaze held mine expectantly.

I reminded myself to breathe. "So, if I understand correctly, you're asking for a piece of me," I said, eyebrows arched. That should give him a taste of his own medicine. Let him be the one uncomfortable for a while.

But this guy didn't miss a beat.

He laughed. "Are you offering?" His eyes pinned me in a way that was too intense, too inviting, and too intimate for me not to look away.

Oh, he's good. I bit back a smile and pasted on my untouchable look.

"It's so not your lucky day," I said, my heart beat quickening. "You're not getting either."

The heavy office door opened and Phyllis came out, four-inch heels clicking on the mahogany floor. "He's ready for you, Adrius. And Lorelei, we can schedule your next session if you'd like."

Crap.

Adrius grinned victoriously. "It's very nice to meet you… Lorelei." He threw a wry smile over his shoulder, before disappearing into Greenbalm's office.

Phyllis looked up at me through clumped lashes. "How's next Saturday at nine?"

"Could we make it two?" I really wasn't a morning person. The door to Greenbalm's office clicked shut, leaving the room void of the only eye candy worth looking at. I was tempted to ask when his next appointment was, but then realized that would be ten different kinds of inappropriate.

I took the date card and went to grab my cell ― my bag… I'd left it in the office. Phyllis had disappeared again, leaving no other choice but to interrupt them. That or hang out for another hour or more until they were done. My hand was poised, and I fully intended to knock on the metal door right away. Someone violating my doctor-patient confidentiality would tick me off, even if there wasn't anything worth overhearing. The voices behind the door were loud — muffled, but clearly raised in anger. That was especially strange. Greenbalm was known for his maddeningly neutral unemotional responses; getting into a heated discussion with a possible delinquent seemed completely out of character. I leaned closer and paused, my fist suspended in knocking position.

"Perhaps you'd rather I let them take her. Or worse ― end up like you!"

The door swung open. I gasped and reeled forward. Golden olive eyes flashed as a hand reached out impossibly fast to keep me from falling ― again.

Adrius gave a slow smile. "Forget something, Lorelei?"

If everyone said my name like him, I'd walk around with it written on my shirt.

"My, um…" I pointed. "Forgot my bag."

There it was, innocently betraying me at the foot of the desk. Dr. Greenbalm glanced up briefly. "Come in, Lorelei."

The room felt warmer than it had a short time ago. And the strange scent of herbs still hung in the air. My face flushed.

"Sorry to interrupt, I didn't mean to…"

Adrius looked like he was enjoying my discomfort a little too much. Greenbalm had already forgotten I was in the room. I grabbed my bag and darted for the door. "Sorry, for the interruption," I muttered, fumbling with the handle.

Greenbalm looked up at me perplexed for a moment by my profuse apologizing.

"Lorelei, this is Adrius―" He paused. "My son." Then he went back to his paperwork.

Son. That changed things.

Adrius gave me a conspiratorial wink. "We've met," he said.

I stepped out of Greenbalm's office, feeling more like an idiot than I had last night. Rescuing my cell from its jewel-toned case, I called my friend Abby's number and listened to ring after ring. Finally, I got her voice mail.

"I'm away all weekend. Leave a message. Or don't. It's not like I care. Beeeeep."

Right… How did I forget that? So much for my ride.

Mom would have left for the airport by now. No point calling Camilla, she'd tell me to take the bus. And it was after ten, Brigit would be swamped with errands by now. That left a taxi.

More good news sneered at me as I stepped outside to discover it was raining. Not the soft spring shower kind, but the teeming, frigid, soak-to-the-skin-even-with-an-umbrella kind. And I didn't have an umbrella.

I took out my phone to call a cab. The screen flashed and then went out. Dead battery. Perfect. This whole morning had been one aggravation after another. Cars sped through the miniature ocean spreading from the gutters, sending surf onto the sidewalk. Jumping aside, I missed one wave only to be drenched by the next one. Icy wetness dripped down my back, plastered my hair to my face. I wanted to cry but what would be the use?

A sleek black Mercedes pulled up next to me. Get lost creep. I'm so not in the mood. I picked up the pace, but the car remained parallel. Eggplant tinted windows slowly lowered and I mentally braced myself.

"Lorelei, can I give you a lift?"

I knew that voice. Peering through the streams of water running from my hair into my eyes, I stared into olive eyes. It was Adrius. My mind went into that internal debate mode. He looks like a bad boy, but he's also a doctor's kid. Although if they're anything like preacher's kids, I'm safer hitchhiking. And then I remembered my wallet… sitting nicely on my dresser… at home. Buses and cabs were out, and it was an hour's walk in decent weather.

"Well, are you getting in?" he pressed. "Or do you enjoy surfing without a board?"

Seriously, how bad could he possibly be? "Not so much," I said tentatively, reaching for the door.

He jumped out and was at my side before I could lift the handle.

"Allow me." The door swung open as an umbrella popped up over my head, shielding me from the impossibility of getting any wetter and looking more like a drowned raccoon than I already did. He certainly didn't need it, with hair as sexy wet as it was dry.

"I don't want to get your seats soaked."

He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Get in."

My fingers were starting to prune, so I didn't need any more encouragement to slip into the buttery black leather seat ― correction ― heated seat. Nice. It still had that new car smell; I had an impulse to ask if it was stolen. Doctor's kid, remember. With the rates Greenbalm charged, of course, his kid would drive a posh car. We sat in silence for a while, watching the wipers try futilely to the clear the view.

"I didn't know Dr. Greenbalm had a son." There were no family photos lining his desk.

Adrius didn't say anything. So I kept up a nervous ramble. "So are you new here? It's a pretty small town, and I don't remember seeing you before." Believe me, I'd remember if I had.

He shifted. "You could say that. I've only been here a few days."

Well, that explained it. "Where were you before?"

"You wouldn't know it."

"You're still in high school though, right? Oakland High?" Did that sound too hopeful?

"No." He caught me staring at him. "…Drearyton Collegiate."

"That's where I go."

"I know."

It occurred to me to ask how, but he interrupted. "So, what are we doing?" He glanced in my direction and I had the strange inkling he was hinting at more than where I lived.

"Do you know the Venti Terrace Estates?"

He let out a low whistle. "Nice area."

I cringed. Gran's little two-bedroom cottage by the beach had always felt more like home than Mom's overly demonstrative Victorian. Of course, I'd take it over Camilla's dilapidated shack any day. One of these days she's going to have to trust me enough to stay home on my own.

"Yeah, it's not bad if you like that whole cloned look."

"Oh, I don't know, black-and-white isn't all that cookie-cutter. Although the red door might turn some heads."

"I know, but …" My head snapped toward him and the hair on the back of my neck rose. "How do you know my house is black and white? …With a red door?" On my street every house is some indescribable shade of beige… except for ours.

He didn't look at me, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. For a moment, I didn't think he was going to answer. It was more than a little freakish that he knew where I lived. Inching toward the door handle, I wondered if people really could jump out of a moving car.

Finally, he looked over, seeming embarrassed, he shrugged. "Lucky guess."

"Right." I sat back in my seat, rethinking my dramatic escape. It's not that I felt unsafe with him, but I felt something. I just couldn't figure out if that something was a risk.

Staring at the soggy streets, it dawned on me we were only three blocks from the café.

"You know what? I almost forgot. I actually have to put in an extra shift today at the cafe." I hoped I sounded calmer than I felt. The butterflies in my stomach were slam dancing. Really it was more of an excuse than a direct lie. I was always working and figured a short shift was better than none at all. Being there was relaxing, on most occasions.

He nodded, seeming slightly relieved as well. Moments later we pulled into the parking lot of the Lemon Balm.

I hopped out of the car before he put it into park. "Thanks." I said, momentarily getting lost in his eyes. "I appreciate the save."

"Anytime. I'm always at your service." The engine revved an impatient growl. "Better get inside, where it's safe. You're getting soaked." He gazed at me, only this time his eyes were empty. Void of any emotion. "I'll see you again soon, I'm sure." Then he was in reverse, the wheels of his expensive car spitting gravel as he peeled out of the parking lot. My thoughts flickered again and again to the strange things he'd said… and knew. I watched him drive away, my feet drowning inside rain filled shoes, trying to untangle the conflicting emotions.

Chapter Three

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. I was still half asleep, but it only took a minute to remember who I'd been dreaming of. Adrius. He was hard to ignore even though part of me felt like I should. All of the warm and fuzzy feelings evaporated when I remembered where I was — Great Aunt Camilla's spare room. And a second later the sick feeling washed over me as I remembered what day it was. My seventeenth birthday, and the worst day in the history of my life.

"Lorelei, you're going to be late!" Camilla's voice shrilled from down the hall.

"I'm up, Aunt Camilla," I croaked, stumbling out of bed. "So is half the neighborhood now, so thanks." I said that part to myself. It was way too early for a verbal sparring match.

When I opened the door of the closet that passed for my bedroom, the smell of coffee and toast drifted in, momentarily disguising the usual musty bouquet.

Camilla's old stone house stood in the midst of a weed-infested acre of land. The whole house leaned slightly to one side. If she was aware of the fact that it looked like it was falling down, she never let on, and whenever I mentioned it, she rolled her eyes. No one else would have commented on it, since the people of Drearyton Cove rarely noticed anything unless it affected them directly. They suffered from a curious lack of curiosity for a small town. Truthfully, I don't think anyone cared enough to notice. But I noticed. It was yet another depressing point filed under why I loathe this house. Given the fact that it was over a hundred years old and nearly falling down, I'd compiled an impressive list. As if the constant dampness and 1940's decor weren't bad enough, staying with her was the worst. Camilla hated me. Not the exaggerated, overly dramatic meaning of the word, but the literal, Webster's dictionary definition. I looked it up — `intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury; extreme dislike, antipathy, loathing.' That pretty much summed it up. I had no idea why I rated such strong negative emotion, but the feeling was definitely mutual.

I wandered to the window and frowned at the gray sky, before flopping back down on the bed. The last thing I felt like doing was getting up to face this day. Groaning, I dragged the faded quilt up over my head and tried to gauge how much trouble I'd be in if I ditched.

The distant ringing of the phone served as a second alarm. I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. I was going to be late. School uniforms were a blessing on mornings like these — mornings where it was almost impossible to drag myself out of bed and face one more day at Drearyton Collegiate High, much less pull together an outfit to do it in.

Fishing around in my dresser I found a small book of matches and a birthday candle. The really tall spiral kind you use on kid's birthday cakes. This one was purple, burned down to half its original size. I'd had it for every birthday I can remember. Striking a match, I lit it and closed my eyes, whispering, "I wish that today will be different." I blew it out quickly, before the sulfur smell had Camilla accusing me of smoking again. The tiny blue flame flickered in protest and then went out. It was a silly tradition, but I'd been raised on silly traditions, and they were one of the few things I had left from my time with Gran. That and her archives of herbal remedies.

I slipped into the pleated plaid miniskirt, white shirt, and long black socks, and added one accessory that set me apart from the crowd. Gran's knee high boots with worn black leather that laced up the front. When I'd found them in the back of her closet, Gran had said they were so old they were new again. But I didn't care. They were hers and that made them a priceless gift.

Camilla's voice was muffled as I shuffled down the hall, dodging the rusty bucket positioned to catch the water dripping from the leaky roof. She was barking into the phone, sounding more irate than usual, and her voice was rising.

"I don't care what you've found in there. There is no way I'm coming into that city of miscreants for anything that has to do with her, you hear me? …Well, you go right ahead and call them. I'll tell them the same thing I'm telling you!"

I wandered past her into the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for a mug that wasn't spotted with rust stains. Camilla was not in the habit of throwing anything away. Her entire house was a sad testament to that fact, but nowhere was it more evident than in the kitchen.

With a sigh, I selected a dejected plain brown mug with the fewest spots. The chipped handle scratched my finger when I picked it up, like the nip of a small animal defending itself. I poured some coffee and glanced curiously at Camilla. She seldom received phone calls, much less those that caused her to shout. She was more of the quiet disapproving type, frowning down her judgmental pinched nose at everyone and everything. According to the clock on the stove it wasn't even eight yet… way too early for any sort of business call.

I dumped two heaping teaspoons of sugar into my cup. Instinctively, I checked to be sure she wasn't watching. It was a rare gift not having her breathing down my neck in the morning. I could have a second cup of coffee, maybe two blueberry muffins ― it was my birthday after all ― instead of our daily grudging exchange. I could bolt without having to talk to her at all. Yet, something inexplicably held me there. Standing at the edge of the kitchen I leaned against the wall, listening and scanning the décor. It pretty much consisted of bare walls, mismatched furniture the thrift store would have rejected, and floors carpeted in varying hues of Muppet-like shag.

I wove my way through the living room, past the piles of dust-covered books; books I'm convinced no one has read for decades. Somehow, nothing seemed as it usually did. The curtains were still closed. Camilla always threw open the curtains in every room, including mine, first thing in the morning. And all of the lights were on. The lights were never on. Mom called her frugal, but really, she hated giving her money to the electric company.

Without being obvious, I strained to hear as much of the heated conversation as I could while making my way to the bathroom. The light hummed, and wavered when I flicked it on, before settling into a soft yellow glow. My pale reflection stared back at me, and I made a face.

You know that girl that has the great life, the great guy, and the great hair… I was so not that girl. It took effort to yank the wire bristles through the long waves of my hair because of how thick it was. In this light, it cast an unusual shade, like bittersweet chocolate with reddish highlights. I liked that better. Score one point for Camilla's place… superior bathroom lighting.

Old dentures, an empty tube of denture paste, a jar of cold cream, assorted hair curlers. Camilla would never be accused of being a vain woman; she saw no need to hide the deep wrinkles that lined her weathered face, or to `paint herself up like a harlot' like I apparently did when I wore pink gloss. She was a small woman, petite and finely boned, with the ferocity of a pit bull. Although I had no idea how old she actually was, I saw a disturbing amalgam of a forty-year-old mind trapped in a two-hundred-year-old body.

She was still snarling into the phone when I returned to the living room.

"You tell them that I will not allow it. Clearly you do not know who you're talking to. I am not one of them. That property belongs to me and I alone decide what happens to it… Absolutely not! My decision is final."

The only phone in the house sat on an old, roll top desk. Refusing to enter this century and buy a cordless meant she was chained in place like a wild guard dog, pacing a furious path in the shag. Next to it sat my laptop, completely out of place among the museum décor. There were times I would swear she used it while I was at school. Strange things went on with it when I came home; like freezing as though the CPU had run out of memory from over-browsing or excessive downloading. Okay, so logically, I knew it was highly unlikely the old woman even knew what the Internet was, much less how to surf it, but still, I wondered.

I nibbled on a muffin and perched on the pea-green, vinyl, circa 1950 kitchen chair. Chewing slowly, I forced myself to swallow. Maybe one muffin would be enough. Baking was not Camilla's forte. It was like she substituted sawdust for flour.

"No, I don't know the exact location, but that's what the maps are for now, aren't they? I assume you still have access to those." She paused, grinding her crooked teeth. "The graves are all well-marked and are not to be disturbed under any circumstance. I don't care what they told you."

A strange shiver ran through me.

"The dead cannot speak for themselves, Mr. Peterson. And I have nothing more to say." The fact that the acid in her voice hadn't dissolved the receiver was miraculous.

"Of course, she's here. Where else would a girl be on a Monday morning? Lorelei, come here."

I jumped, knocking my blueberry muffin to the floor. It landed with a thud, stirring the resting dust motes into a frenzy. I was the audience; I had no desire to actually play a part in this freakish drama. Steering clear of conflict had been a carefully honed skill of mine. I hated friction and quietly did as I pleased with or without consent.

Camilla shoved the phone toward me. "Well, take it. They want to talk to you." She snapped with annoyance.

Stunned, I took the phone, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. "Who is it?"

"He'll explain all of that."

"What does he want?"

"How should I well know? Just talk to him."

"I really don't think—"

"Talk!"

"Hello?"

"Lorelei? Hello. My name is Howard. Howard Peterson."

"Um, hi."

"Did your great aunt apprise you of what is taking place?"

"No, she didn't."

"Well, there is a great deal of paperwork that needs attending to for starters, and we are going to need you both to come to Ridgetown as soon as possible."

My stomach tightened and I found it hard to disguise the revulsion I felt. "Ridgetown? That's a two days' drive." Seriously. Forty-eight hours trapped in a small vehicle with Camilla and no witnesses? Did this guy have any idea what he was asking? "I don't see how I could fit in a trip like that, Mr. Peterson. I mean, I have classes… finals. I can't just take off."

"I understand your situation… better than you can imagine." He was turning on the charm the way political candidates do when they discover you're old enough to vote. "We met years ago, Lorelei — you wouldn't remember, of course. You were a child. But I remember you well." He chuckled softly. "You have your mother's smile, and, if I remember, her weakness for bad ideas. I seem to recall an incident involving some paper wings and the roof of a neighbor's barn." He chuckled more. "How old are you? Seventeen now?"

Every muscle stiffened. I didn't want to talk about my mother, least of all with him. Something about him seemed wrong. It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he spoke that was unsettling.

"I'm sorry… who did you say you were again?"

"Howard Peterson," he repeated loudly, emphasizing each syllable in the slightly condescending way people did when talking to someone learning English. "I'm an attorney with Peterson, Dunkerly, and Associates. I'm also aware of your mother's previous medical condition."

I froze. No one had spoken of my mom's condition in years. It had completely disappeared before Gran died. She went from perfect health to death's door and no one could find the reason why. Doctors couldn't help her and neither could my gifts. In the end it was Gran who brought her back from the brink of death, with a special blend of herbs. All I remember is that it took a long time to prepare and she made several trips into the forest behind our school. Gran used to be the town's unofficial apothecary. And the Lemon Balm was her clinic.

"As I mentioned, I've known all about your… family, for quite some time."

This time it was what he said. And the way he paused before saying family. What was up with that?

"Well, Mr. Peterson…" An icy tone formed in my voice. "I think my great aunt has already answered your questions and told you her decision. So I don't know what you want with me." It was getting late and I was losing my patience. Camilla had shuffled down the hall to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. It might not have been deliberate since every door in that house slammed shut with the slightest push.

"Lorelei, you have to get her to come here." The carefully constructed charm had been replaced by a high pressure pitch. "It is of the utmost importance. Nothing can be resolved over the telephone; it's too delicate a situation."

"What is it exactly that needs to be resolved?" If I was going to be dragged into something, I deserved to know what.

"I can't discuss that with you now. It must be in person."

Figures, I sighed, shaking my head in disbelief. "So you want me to get Camilla to Ridgetown? How exactly do you expect me to do that? You may not have noticed, but she can be pretty stubborn when she makes up her mind about something. And I doubt a road trip with me is going to rank high on her must-do list."

"Now listen carefully, you have to do this. You owe this to your parents… and to your grandmother. She was a believer."

A believer? In what? "Well, even if Camilla decides to go to Ridgetown, it's not likely she'll ask me to go with her."

"Offer," he said simply. "You need to be there also."

"But…"

"I have to go." His amicable business-like tone was gone and he was all secret-agent… "I'll be in touch with the details."

The phone went dead. I stood rooted in place, receiver pressed to my ear, trying to process over the hum of the dial tone.

Chapter Four

"What's up, birthday girl!"

I opened one eye, then the other, as a small package bounced off my stomach and landed in the grass. Reaching for it with a lack of enthusiasm, I sat up. A lean muscular frame towered over me, a mass of blonde hair framing a boyish face with bright blue eyes.

"Hey," I grinned up at him.

"Hey, yourself." He grinned back.

My hasty departure from Camilla's place meant I arrived at school early for my first class. But between the phone call and her weirder than usual behavior, I had to get out of there. I liked hanging out on the football field bleachers. Davin, however, wasn't usually this punctual.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, shaking my head. I examined the bundle which looked suspiciously like a novel.

"Bearing gifts, of course. I stopped by the house, but witch-face told me you'd already left. I figured you'd be hiding out here, today of all days." His eager smile reminded me of an affectionate puppy dog — loyal, loving, and begging for attention. But that was Davin, trusting, open, warm… and always — there. No matter how many times I pushed him away, he stayed.

I tore the carefully wrapped paper off and tossed it at him. "A Midsummer Night's Dream… Thanks, Davin, but honestly, you shouldn't have. We agreed, no gifts, remember?"

"Technically, only you agreed," he argued. "And, you're welcome." Plopping onto the grass next to me, he leaned over. "Besides, it's not a present."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh no?"

"Nope. Just my small contribution to the freakishly huge library of my favorite literati." He ruffled my hair, and then paused. "Bri helped pick it out."

I forced a smile as my stomach tightened. "Really… Well, it's still perfect, I love this book."

He leaned back with a smug grin. "I know. So how do you feel turning the big one-seven?"

"Stressed," I said, lifting my face to the rain falling in a soft mist.

He cracked up. "Oh man, that is bad."

I smacked his arm lightly. "What do you know?"

"I know that you stressed out on stage won't be pretty." He chuckled. "Plenty of casualties."

"Only if they're unlucky enough to be in my puke radius."

He was only half-joking. Davin and I had been friends since childhood. He'd known me long enough to know I collided with catastrophe most when I was stressed out. And he'd witnessed the glamour of me tossing my cookies on more occasions than either of us care to remember.

"So what's up? Is it the competition tonight?"

I gave a short laugh. "You could say that." It was more than nerves. I hadn't felt at ease since meeting Adrius.

"Well don't worry about it, Lor. It's all good. Bri's actually hoping you'll be there. She's asked me at least a dozen times if you were still performing."

"That's great." I can just image what she had planned for me.

Leaning my head on his shoulder, I tried to block out my fate.

"Okay, 'fess up," he said. "What aren't you telling me?"

My cheek pressed against his flexing arm muscle so I lifted my head. Davin had a lean, athletic build. Even though he was tall, he was shorter than most of the players on the basketball team. But it was his speed and skill that got him voted most valuable player too many years to count. And he was going out with Brianne, which complicated things. I used to be able to tell him anything, but Davin wanted his girlfriend and his best friend to get along, and I didn't have the heart to tell him how impossible that was going to be. Especially now.

A throng of students rushed past us as the bell rang. The misty dampness coaxed my fairly relaxed ponytail into frizzy curls clinging to my neck. I tugged my hood up over the wiry mess and turned to meet his baby blue gaze head on.

"Davin, don't you wonder what it's all for? I mean, why are we here? Why bother?"

"What are you talking about; you're not getting suicidal on me?" he chided, shifting to face me.

"Oh, right. That would imply I thought death had something better to offer. It just seems so useless. All of the trying to make things different, when things are what they are."

I plucked the pale blades of grass. Everything in Drearyton Cove looked like someone had de-saturated the color from it. Even the flowers were muted; watered down shades of pink and yellow. The entire town was a sallow monochromatic pallet — a perfect match to my mood.

"That's not overly dramatic at all," he mocked.

"Haven't you ever wanted to tear a hole in the world and escape?"

He stared at me, creased brows forming a deep wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. "What's with you, Lor? Is this about turning a year older? 'Cause I think it's way too early for a midlife crisis."

I paused. "There must be something I'm supposed to do with my life. Some reason in this insane world for me being… me."

Davin rolled his eyes. "Seriously, that's what you're stressing about? You're seventeen not seventy."

There was so much more to it than that. If I couldn't figure out how to control my freakish gifts, then there was nothing special about me at all. I was like the misfit toy that nobody wanted — a healer who couldn't stand blood and a singer who couldn't perform — a defective marionette with someone else pulling the strings.

Squinting up at him, I said, "You can't seriously tell me that spending the rest of your life trapped here with the head cheerleader is all you want out of life. I mean, it's so… unimaginative."

"Trapped ― wow, interesting choice of words." He gave a short nervous laugh, which I didn't return.

Then his voice dropped. "I guess I do wish some things were different."

I stiffened, understanding the translation; the look of longing on his face… it meant, I wish we were different.

I lowered my eyes.

"Come on." He got up, tugging my arm gently. "You're getting wet." It was drizzling steadily now, enough that I could feel the dampness through my clothes. "And I can't afford another late slip."

The second bell rang as we entered. Davin bolted down the hall and I skipped a stop at my locker and headed straight for first period, taking the stairs two at a time. I arrived out of breath and seriously wishing I was anywhere but here. Why didn't I stick with the whole ditch-day idea?

The door to my art class was shut. Something made me stop and stare at it, unable to suppress an eerie feeling sweeping over me. My hand reached out, opening the door against my will. Everything came to a halt. Two dozen heads rotated in my direction in unison. I was late. My face grew uncomfortably warm. I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming urge to turn and run screaming from this school ― and from this town ― picturing the shock of the townspeople who'd probably never heard anything louder than a cough in public.

In the midst of seriously considering this option, a shrill voice thwarted my plan.

"Miss Alundra, thank you for joining us. Please take your seat."

The teacher continued mechanically reciting the roll, pausing briefly between names.

"Steven Caldwell?"

"Present."

"Abigail Ryan?"

"Present."

"Lorelei Alundra." She peered over her horn rimmed glasses. "The tardy birthday girl?"

Cringe. "Here," I answered quickly, pulling off my damp jacket. Mrs. Burnstin made a point of remembering birthdays. She said the way we approached our artwork had something to do with our astrological sign. I think she liked to embarrass me any chance she got.

Mrs. Burnstin had the extraordinary ability to speak without ever changing the intonation of her voice. It was like one long hum of the same high-pitched note. By this point in time, nearly everyone had tuned out the monotony of attendance. Yet the room seemed unusually excitable, filled with hushed whispers and shuffling paper.

I dug deeper into my backpack. Where was my sketchbook? My eyes lifted instinctively when there was a break in the monotonous hum of her voice.

"Hmm… I should probably introduce our new student. Welcome to Drearyton Cove Collegiate, Adrius." Her voice perked as she gestured toward the back of the classroom.

The soft rustling grew fervent as bodies rotated in his direction. Giggles and whispers drowned out the rest of roll call and a weird sensation crept through me. The air was charged with an electric excitement. Slowly, I turned to find the room was an obscure blur, a fuzzy sea of expressionless faces, with the exception of one. It was sharply in focus. His eyes pierced through the haze, a brilliant shade of golden olive. I gasped. Hopefully not out loud. It was so surreal running into him here — in my art class. I was probably staring, but it was almost like seeing him for the first time. He truly was gorgeous. More than that. He was beautiful — a mysterious, nonhuman, otherworldly beautiful.

Breathe, Lorelei, and stop staring. Quickly grabbing my books and charcoal, I made my way to the only available seat — next to him. Not surprisingly, the desks were cramped and cold, like everything in this town. My less than graceful attempt to squeeze into the ridiculously small chair caused me to drop my backpack on the desk, sending my pencils and new copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream skidding out of the bag. As I collected the scattered rolling pencils, the book pitched off the edge of my desk, and all I could do was wait for the inevitable smack as it hit the floor. But there wasn't one. Mrs. Burnstin cleared her throat intentionally, and I mumbled an incoherent apology, reaching to retrieve it as inconspicuously as possible. My hand brushed against something warm that sent an unexpected jolt up my arm. I gazed up to find Adrius staring at me, my novel in hand. He handed it back, apparently having caught and returned it faster than I could process without a slow motion video replay. I mumbled "thanks", feeling my face grow warm, and wondered if anyone else had noticed the way his hands moved so quick they were slightly blurred. I spent the next five minutes convincing myself it was all in my head.

"Great book, Lorelei."

I snapped upright and caught his gaze. He looked at me with dazzling eyes, and I swear my heart beat faster. A slightly amused expression lingered on his perfect face. Waves of dizziness swept over me and I had to steady myself to keep from falling out of my seat completely.

"We meet again." His face warmed into a smile, revealing spectacular white teeth — his voice like melted chocolate.

"Yeah. Hey," I whispered in a breathy voice that sounded nothing like me. I somehow managed a faint smile then looked away. It was hard to ignore the strange feeling I got whenever I was near him. My heart pounded so loudly that I wondered if anyone else could hear it. Calm down, I told myself steeling a glance at the sultry hazel eyes that were still watching me. My eyes darted back to the center of the room and I focused on the bowl of fruit perched on a pedestal, waiting for my pulse to settle.

I wanted to talk to him, pepper him with questions, and find out more about him, like how he knew so much about me. But my thoughts were tangled. Not to mention the art teacher was a stickler for the no-talking rule in her classroom. "True art is birthed from the silence within." Whatever that meant. Normally I was into my drawings. Today, the dejected fruit didn't stand a chance of holding my attention. Not sitting this close to someone so striking he defied art itself.

Turned out he was right-handed and I was a lefty, which meant our hands brushed repeatedly while sketching the sad still-life. I shouldn't be so hard on the poor fruit bowl. It was the closest we ever came to a live model. I had just started sketching some loose lines, when his hand bumped mine, sending my pencil skidding across the page.

He ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. "I'm so sorry," he whispered in his rich velvety tones.

"No worries." I shrugged. "Not all that into drawing fruit anyway." With trembling fingers I searched for an eraser.

"Understandable. What do you like to draw?" He reached for my sketchpad.

My hand clamped down on it. No one had ever asked to see my sketches before.

"You don't have to show me if you'd rather not," he apologized, but he looked wickedly entertained by my reaction.

"No," I sputtered, in an attempt to sound nonchalant. "It's not that, it's just… well, no one has ever wanted to see them before."

His eyes held mine again in a grasp I couldn't escape. "Their loss," he said with strange certainty. "I'd like to see them. That is, if you'd like to show them to me."

He smiled and my heart did that fluttering thing again. Did anyone ever refuse his requests?

I shook my head slightly, biting my lower lip. "No… sure. Here." I relinquished the book, peeling my fingers from it. It was worse than being graded. I glanced at his sketch of the fruit bowl. He was clearly talented, far too advanced for this class. Immediately, regret twisted my stomach at showing him my work — a collection of imaginary places and mythical beings. They would seem like preschool doodles to anyone with his skill. He flipped through the pages slowly, pausing to absorb each image. After a painfully long stretch of time, he handed it back.

"They're good. You have a true gift."

"Thanks." I blushed, taking the book from his hands.

He leaned toward me. "I can tell you have a thing for fantasy."

I swallowed hard, and choked on my own saliva which set off a fit of coughing. I tried to talk, but couldn't get any words out.

"Shush." The warning came from the front of the room. I peeked up at Mrs. Burnstin, who glowered over her horn-rimmed glasses at me. She was another throw back from the sixties' hippie movement, complete with the floor-length, tie-dyed skirt and peasant sandals… only subtract the free spirit and add an uptight librarian attitude and bifocals.

Sketchbook poised midair, I paused, waiting until I was off her radar and frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" I whispered.

His lips curled slightly as though trying to suppress a grin. "I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green."

I bit down on my lip. "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

"Don't look so surprised. I have my literary moments. And it's considered a classic for a reason."

"It's one of my favorites," I mumbled. It sounded like I was apologizing.

"Clearly… Not many girls walk around with their nose in Shakespeare when they're currently studying Chaucer." He winked, handing me the charcoal he'd knocked from my hand.

I honestly hope my face wasn't as red as it felt.

Adrius slid closer to me. "So draw me something."

"Sorry?" I repeated, certain I'd misheard him.

"From the book. Bring your favorite scene to life… in pictures."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, and cocked my head. "I don't think I can draw Midsummer Night's Dream."

"When you read a scene you must have a picture in your mind."

"Well, of course, but…"

"Then draw it," he insisted. "…Unless you have some burning need to get back to the fruit?" He gestured with his chin toward the pedestal.

I was speechless — something that doesn't happen often, except around him. I'd never been in the habit of performing on command, and yet there was something in the way he spoke that made me want to prove to him I could do it. Or prove it to myself.

"Fine, but don't expect much," I whispered, charcoal in hand. Pressing the pencil to the paper, roughed in a few lines, and from the corner of my eye I saw him smile before returning to his own page. It took a while, but then images flashed in my mind like scenes from a movie. My hands flew fiercely across the page, filling the pristine space with the world from my mind's eye. It wasn't my usual, loosely formed scribbles, but the detailed, richness of a skilled artist years beyond my talent. A short time later, I slid my book in front of him and waited for his response. His gaze centered on my page, studying every detail. Finally, he handed it back to me and without a word, showed me his drawing. The pencil fell from my hand onto the floor and rolled under his chair. I gasped. His drawing was almost an exact replica of mine, the same scene of fairies dancing and playing music in a forest, except he had drawn a slightly different feel, darker, more foreboding.

"Wow, now that's a coincidence." I gaped, taking in the sensuous lines of his nymphs.

"Is it?" His smile hinted that perhaps it wasn't.

I stared at him, puzzled at the prickling inside me. Was it fear or excitement? I glanced down at my paper, staring at the now foreign drawings there. It was like looking at someone else's work ― His work.

"Miss Alundra." An operatic shrill rang through the art room. "Perhaps you would like to share whatever it is that is so fascinating for the entire class to appreciate, since you've taken it upon yourself to disrupt the creative flow with your chatter."

Brianne flashed an evil grin. "I agree, Mrs. Burnstin. Lorelei is such a talented artist, I think we'd all like to know what she's doing."

Everyone gawked at us and I felt the color drain from my face. Never mind I wasn't actually working on our assigned project; the last thing I wanted to do was share anything with anyone here, least of all Brianne. My sketches were intimate, private pieces of my soul. It was hard enough letting Adrius see them. She might as well have asked me to read my diary to the class. In fact, that would have been preferable. I was mentally calculating how many hours of detention she was going to slap me with for refusing her request, when a velvety voice interjected.

"I apologize Mrs. Burnstin. I asked Lorelei a question. It's my fault the creative flow was disrupted," Adrius said smoothly without a trace of sarcasm. He was good.

Watching her reaction was like watching a car crash, disturbing to look at, yet impossible to turn away from. Her hands fluttered around her flowered neckline, her ample chest heaved up and down and her head tossed in a way that was supposed to be flirty, but looked more like she was having a seizure.

"Oh now, don't you worry about it, Mr. Thanduir," she cooed. "You're new. Of course you have questions, dear."

He smiled, and I thought she might actually drop on the floor in convulsions.

"If you would like to stay after class, I'd be happy to make myself available to you for extra help." The hopefulness in her voice bordered on desperation.

Abby tossed a note at me which landed next to my desk. She probably wants him to pose for her next still life… in the buff. I wrinkled my nose and crunched the paper up, before he could see it.

"Thank you, but I'm fine, Mrs. Burnstin. Lorelei has been of great help."

"Well, good then," she said, clearing her throat. She was clearly as disappointed as Brianne. By the time his little theatrical exchange was done, I was ready to give a standing ovation.

His gaze returned to mine and I quickly lowered my eyes. Once again, he handed me my pencil. I thanked him without looking up.

When class was finally dismissed, I'd done less than the minimum amount work required to get through art class. Way too much distraction. I threw my stuff into my backpack and looked up just as Brianne stepped into my line of sight.

"So Lorelei, you ready for the performance tonight?" Except for when she was singing, she had a sickly sweet voice as unmistakably phony as the fake sugar in those pastel packets… probably just as carcinogenic too. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder.

"As ready as I'm going to be," I replied without looking up.

"Too bad you'll be all alone… no shoulder to cry on, when… you-know-what happens."

"No, actually, Brianne, I don't know what." I stood, facing her head on.

A slow malicious smile spread across her annoyingly smug face. She lowered her voice.

"What is you falling flat on your butt… in front of an audience… Do you seriously think I'd just forgive and forget? I only wish you weren't so pathetic and actually had a date for a change. It would make my victory that much sweeter." She folded her arms across her chest.

An arm draped across my shoulder.

"Actually, she has a date." Adrius grinned at Brianne, and then at me. "I'm still picking you up at six sharp… right?"

"…Um… sure…"

Brianne looked like she'd been slapped. I admit it was enjoyable watching her try to process how the hot new guy could possibly be going out with me. Her mouth gaped opened, but nothing came out.

"See you later, Bri. And good luck tonight." He winked as she stumbled away speechless.

It was the first time I ever saw her look clumsy.

My sharp-eared, best friend Abby, bounded across the art room and pulled me aside. "Excuse us for a minute." She beamed at Adrius while yanking my arm. If there was anything that resembled hooking up going on, Abby knew about it. She had this unexplainable radar that honed in on anything romance-related. She called it her psychic sense. Plus she could spot which guys were into girls, guys, both or neither. Between her relationship radar and her relentless curiosity, she almost always had the when-where-why on who was doing-what-with-whom.

She peered at me from round, dark eyes set in her beautiful and coffee-skinned face, her long black hair was held back with a wide hair band. "So? What's the deal? You're going out with the new guy?"

"No, I'm not, it was just… he was just being… nice. He wasn't serious."

Abby crossed her arms then rolled her eyes. I took a deep breath and braced myself, because I knew a lecture was coming.

"Of course he was serious. You're not actually going to turn him down are you?"

I stole a glance at Adrius who was meticulously collecting his books and placing them in a designer leather messenger bag.

"I haven't decided."

Abby exhaled a long, disgusted Are-you-insane? sigh. "What is wrong with you girl? You do realize you could possibly be turning down an opportunity to lose it to the hottest guy in this town…" She glanced appreciatively at him. "…Possibly, in this country."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "Okay ― Abby? Don't be absurd. Even if I do go ― I don't even know him.

"Ha! So you are going."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I know you, remember? Now all we have to figure out is what you should wear."

Adrius sauntered past us on his way to the door and deliberately slowed his pace.

Abby grinned and called over her shoulder, "I'm outta here. She's all yours," as she disappeared out the door.

I looked up at him but wasn't sure what to say. "Thanks for the save. Again."

"No problem." He gathered his leather bag, slinging it over his back with a disarming grin. "So, I'll see you tonight."

"You mean… you were serious? You don't have to…" My palms were sweating as I fumbled with the straps of my bag.

"I want to. Six p.m., right?"

"Right. But I'll be at my great aunt's place… I can give you the address."

"I know where it is."

"Of course you do," I muttered shaking my head, not sure whether to be flattered or terrified.