Liam let me look around for a moment, get my bearings, before gesturing me toward a sidewalk that led deeper into the neighborhood. “This way.”
It might have been late, but it was also hot, and it looked like Containment wasn’t spending money on air-conditioning. Paras stood outside, in small groups in the empty street, in doorways of the Containment buildings, or on the porches of the occasional cottages. Short and tall, horns and wings, feathers and fangs. The street was a catalogue of Paranormals, of the diversity created by magic and biology.
Their expressions were just as diverse, but equally grim. Some looked sad, others numb, and some stared at me with obvious loathing, as if I were the personification of their oppression.
We passed a woman who stood in a doorway, one hand on the frame, her lithe body silhouetted by candlelight. She was pale, with a long neck atop a slender body. Her hair was platinum blond and pulled into a knot, pale tendrils dusting high, round cheekbones. Her long, slender fingers were red, as was the line of deep crimson that ran down the bridge of her nose, then across her lips to her chin. She wore a simple dress of white cotton that fell from a straight neck to the ground below, the hem stained with dirt. She watched us as we walked, her body perfectly still, her face expressionless, but her wide almond eyes flicking to follow us.
“Seelie,” Liam whispered, his gaze on the street.
I nodded. That’s what we’d once believed was a “good” fairy. A Seelie was one of the many supernatural creatures humans had imagined, just as we had imagined angels and fae, demons and nymphs. We still called them the names we’d given them, because that was how we’d understood them before. But we’d gotten the names and the stories very, very wrong. Paras didn’t care about us. They didn’t grant wishes, or make us immortal, howl at the moon, or watch over us like benevolent guardians. They were invaders, plain and simple.
Or maybe not so simple, I thought, as we passed the doorway. Ahead of us, a little girl with vibrantly green skin and lavender eyes hummed to herself while she played with a set of old-fashioned jacks—except that the jacks floated in the air like oversized molecules.
“I thought they weren’t allowed to use magic,” I whispered.
“They aren’t.” Liam’s eyes narrowed with concern. “And the penalties are stiff.”
The closest magic monitor was across the street. It hadn’t signaled yet; maybe the girl’s magic wasn’t strong enough. Clearly, the technology wasn’t as consistent as Containment liked to think.
A human guard was closer, a woman with a long face, hair slicked back into a low bun. She slanted her gaze toward the girl, the spinning jacks, and started toward us.
“Damn,” Liam muttered, and walked toward the child, putting his body between her and the Containment agent.
The little girl’s eyes grew enormous as she looked up at him. The jacks fell back to the ground like Newton’s proverbial apple.
He winked at her. “Yeah, I’ve always been interested in history,” he called back to me, obviously playing off what he was doing—protecting the little girl.
A door opened in the ratty shotgun house behind him, and a woman in a long dress darted outside, grabbed the girl’s arm with her own green hand.
The woman looked up at Liam with round lavender eyes. She nodded at him, then pulled the girl inside, and closed the door with a resounding thud.
Liam scooped up the jacks and the little red rubber ball, placed them in a pile near the door through which the woman and child had disappeared.
The Containment agent reached the sidewalk. I hadn’t done anything (other than exist), but the determined look in her eyes still gave me cold sweats.
It might have been late, but it was also hot, and it looked like Containment wasn’t spending money on air-conditioning. Paras stood outside, in small groups in the empty street, in doorways of the Containment buildings, or on the porches of the occasional cottages. Short and tall, horns and wings, feathers and fangs. The street was a catalogue of Paranormals, of the diversity created by magic and biology.
Their expressions were just as diverse, but equally grim. Some looked sad, others numb, and some stared at me with obvious loathing, as if I were the personification of their oppression.
We passed a woman who stood in a doorway, one hand on the frame, her lithe body silhouetted by candlelight. She was pale, with a long neck atop a slender body. Her hair was platinum blond and pulled into a knot, pale tendrils dusting high, round cheekbones. Her long, slender fingers were red, as was the line of deep crimson that ran down the bridge of her nose, then across her lips to her chin. She wore a simple dress of white cotton that fell from a straight neck to the ground below, the hem stained with dirt. She watched us as we walked, her body perfectly still, her face expressionless, but her wide almond eyes flicking to follow us.
“Seelie,” Liam whispered, his gaze on the street.
I nodded. That’s what we’d once believed was a “good” fairy. A Seelie was one of the many supernatural creatures humans had imagined, just as we had imagined angels and fae, demons and nymphs. We still called them the names we’d given them, because that was how we’d understood them before. But we’d gotten the names and the stories very, very wrong. Paras didn’t care about us. They didn’t grant wishes, or make us immortal, howl at the moon, or watch over us like benevolent guardians. They were invaders, plain and simple.
Or maybe not so simple, I thought, as we passed the doorway. Ahead of us, a little girl with vibrantly green skin and lavender eyes hummed to herself while she played with a set of old-fashioned jacks—except that the jacks floated in the air like oversized molecules.
“I thought they weren’t allowed to use magic,” I whispered.
“They aren’t.” Liam’s eyes narrowed with concern. “And the penalties are stiff.”
The closest magic monitor was across the street. It hadn’t signaled yet; maybe the girl’s magic wasn’t strong enough. Clearly, the technology wasn’t as consistent as Containment liked to think.
A human guard was closer, a woman with a long face, hair slicked back into a low bun. She slanted her gaze toward the girl, the spinning jacks, and started toward us.
“Damn,” Liam muttered, and walked toward the child, putting his body between her and the Containment agent.
The little girl’s eyes grew enormous as she looked up at him. The jacks fell back to the ground like Newton’s proverbial apple.
He winked at her. “Yeah, I’ve always been interested in history,” he called back to me, obviously playing off what he was doing—protecting the little girl.
A door opened in the ratty shotgun house behind him, and a woman in a long dress darted outside, grabbed the girl’s arm with her own green hand.
The woman looked up at Liam with round lavender eyes. She nodded at him, then pulled the girl inside, and closed the door with a resounding thud.
Liam scooped up the jacks and the little red rubber ball, placed them in a pile near the door through which the woman and child had disappeared.
The Containment agent reached the sidewalk. I hadn’t done anything (other than exist), but the determined look in her eyes still gave me cold sweats.
