at least!”
I bowed and retreated to the locker room.
My phone blinked when I pulled it out, indicating a new message, though I didn’t recognize the number. Puzzled, I checked voice mail and was greeted by a familiar, overly cheerful voice.
“Hey, tough-guy, don’t forget you owe me an interview. Call me tonight, you know, when you’re done robbing banks and stealing cars. Talk to you later!”
I groaned. I’d forgotten about her. Stuffing the phone into my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and was about to leave when the lights flickered and went out.
Oh, nice. Probably Redding, trying to scare me again. Rolling my eyes, I waited, listening for footsteps and snickering laughter. Chris Redding, my sparring partner, fancied himself a practical joker and liked to target people who kicked his ass in practice. Usually, that meant me.
I held my breath, remaining motionless and alert. As the silence stretched on, annoyance turned to unease. The light switch was next to the door—I could see it through a gap in the aisles, and there was no one standing there. I was in the locker room alone.
Carefully, I eased my bag off my shoulder, unzipped it and drew out a rattan stick, just in case. Edging forward, stick held out in front of me, I peered around the locker row. I was not in the mood for this. If Redding was going jump out and yell “rah,” he was going to get a stick upside the head, and I’d apologize later.
There was a soft buzz, somewhere overhead. I looked up just as something tiny half fell, half fluttered from the ceiling, right at my face. I leaped back, and it flopped to the floor, twitching like a dazed bird.
I edged close, ready to smack it if it lunged up at me again. The thing stirred weakly where it lay on the cement, looking like a giant wasp or a winged spider. From what I could tell, it was green and long-limbed with two transparent wings crumpled over its back. I stepped forward and nudged it with the end of the stick. It batted feebly at the rattan with a long, thin arm.
A piskie? What’s it doing here? As fey went, piskies were usually pretty harmless, though they could play nasty tricks if insulted or bored. And, tiny or no, they were still fey. I was tempted to flick this one under the bench like a dead spider and continue on to my truck, when it raised its face from the floor and stared up at me with huge, terrified eyes.
It was Thistle, Todd’s friend. At least, I thought it was the same faery; all piskies looked pretty much the same to me. But I thought I recognized the sharp pointed face, the puff of yellow dandelion hair. Its mouth moved, gaping wide, and its wings buzzed faintly, but it seemed too weak to get up.
Frowning, I crouched down to see it better, still keeping my rattan out in case it was just faking. “How did you get in here?” I muttered, prodding it gently with the stick. It swatted at the end but didn’t move from the floor. “Were you following me?”
It gave a garbled buzz and collapsed, apparently exhausted, and I hesitated, not knowing what to do. Clearly, it was in trouble, but helping the fey went against all the rules I’d taught myself over the years. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t interact with the Fair Folk. Never make a contract, and never accept their help. The smart thing to do would be to walk away and not look back.
Still, if I helped this once, the piskie would be in my debt, and I could think of several things I could demand in exchange. I could demand that she leave me alone. Or leave Todd alone. Or abandon whatever scheme the half-breed was having her do.
Or, better yet, I could demand that she tell no one about my sister and my connection to her.
This is stupid, I told myself, still watching the piskie crawl weakly around my rattan, trying to pull herself up the length of the stick. You know faeries will twist any bargain to their favor, even if they owe you something. This is going to end badly.
Oh, well. When had I ever been known for doing the smart thing?
With a sigh, I bent down and grabbed the piskie by the wings, lifting her up in front of me. She dangled limply, half-delirious, though from what I had no idea. Was it me, or did the faery seem almost … transparent? Not just her wings; she flickered in and out of focus like a blurry camera shot.
And then, I saw something beyond the piskie’s limp form, lurking in the darkness at the end of the locker room. Something pale and ghostlike, long hair drifting around its head like mist.
“Ethan?”
Guro’s voice echoed through the locker room, and the thing vanished. Quickly, I unzipped my bag and stuffed the piskie inside as my instructor appeared in the doorway. His eyes narrowed when he saw me.
“Everything all right?” he asked as I shouldered the bag and stepped forward. And, was it my imagination, or did he glance at the corner where the creepy ghost-thing was? “I thought I heard something. Chris isn’t hiding in a corner ready to jump out, is he?”
“No, Guro. It’s fine.”
I waited for him to move out of the doorway so I wouldn’t have to shoulder past him with my bag. My heart pounded, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something was still in the room with me; I could feel it watching us, its cold eyes on my back.
Guro’s eyes flicked to the corner again, narrowing. “Ethan,” he said in a low voice, “my grandfather was a Mang-Huhula—you know what that means, yes?”
I nodded, trying not to seem impatient. The Mang-Huhula was the spiritual leader of the tribe, a faith-healer or fortune teller of sorts. Guro himself was a tuhon, someone who passed down his culture and practices, who kept the traditions alive. He’d told us this before; I wasn’t sure why he was reminding me now.
“My grandfather was a wise man,” Guro went on, holding my gaze. “He told me not to put your trust in only your eyes. That to truly see, sometimes you had to put your faith in the invisible things. You had to believe what no one else was willing to. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I heard a soft slither behind me, like wet cloth over cement, and my skin crawled. It took all my willpower not to draw my rattan and swing around. “I think so, Guro.”
Guro paused a moment, then stepped back, looking faintly disappointed. Obviously, I’d just missed something, or he could tell I was really distracted. But all he said was, “If you need help, Ethan, all you have to do is ask. If you’re in trouble, you can come to me. For anything, no matter how small or crazy it might seem. Remember that.”
The thing, whatever it was, slithered closer. I nodded, trying not to fidget. “I will, Guro.”
“Go on, then.” Guro stepped aside, nodding. “Go home. I’ll see you at the tournament.”
I fled the room, forcing myself not to look back. And I didn’t stop until I reached my truck.
My phone rang as soon as I was home.
After closing my bedroom door, I dropped my gym bag on the bed, listening to the buzz of wings from somewhere inside. It seemed the piskie was still alive, though it probably wasn’t thrilled at being zipped into a bag with used gym shorts and sweaty T-shirts. Smirking at the thought, I checked the trilling phone. Same unfamiliar number. I sighed and held it to my ear.
“God, you’re persistent,”
