“No,” I say.
“I should leave,” Astley says calmly. He opens the door and gives me a look that is easy for me to understand.
I head up the stairs as he shuts the door.
My mother’s voice calls up after me. “You will thank me for this someday, young lady.”
Yeah. Right.
Less than a minute later I’m opening up my window and Astley is climbing through. His long legs bend at the knee and remind me of a grasshopper. He shuts the window behind him. I sit on the floor, back against my bed, and pat the space beside me. He pretty much collapses into it. I’ve never seen him so tired. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and then asks, “Her slap did not hurt you, did it?”
“Not physically. Not really.” We are whispering so she doesn’t hear us over the music.
“Good. It was intended for me.”
“I know.”
He sighs out for a second, then unzips his jacket. “My boots are leaking on your carpet.”
“Not a problem.”
There’s another pause. It’s all I can do not to beg him for details about the meeting, all I can do not to ask him about our kiss, but I am trying to learn patience. After a second he says, “Mothers do not seem to like me.”
“It’s the circumstances with mine. I’m sure she would if you weren’t a pixie.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. I pull my leg up close to me and fiddle with my slipper. “My father didn’t treat her well and-”
“You do not need to explain, Zara.”
I stop fiddling and look at him, really look at him. He’s still so young. He’s handsome as a human. He looks like the kind of guy who would be a hero in a war movie, some sort of captain. He’s this weird mix of wounded and confident, kind and bossy. But right now the vibe he’s giving out is wounded, and I’m so worried that it isn’t just about our mothers, that it isn’t even about our kiss, but that it’s something more.
I eye Astley. “They didn’t just tell you how for free, did they?”
“I did not have to pay them with money.” He breathes slow and deep. His knuckles are scraped.
“But you did have to pay them? With what?”
He doesn’t answer. He refuses to answer and I doubt I will ever get him to answer, ever get him to tell me what he’s done. Something in my heart cracks a little bit, another sliver of pain. “You do so much for me, Astley. I-I don’t know how to thank you.”
He smiles this sad, sweet smile. “I am aware of that and you do not need to thank me.”
I touch his sleeve quickly and then rub my hands together. “So, tell me what we have to do.”
After he tells me everything he knows about the ceremony, Astley and I escape out my window again. Someday I hope we can just use the door. He brings me to Issie’s house as we discuss the preparations.
The moment we get there I realize that I don’t want him to go, that I want him to come inside with me, that I’m scared and it’s easier to be surrounded by people that you know have your back.
“I’ll wait for you. It will all be ready,” he says. His hand touches my cheek for the briefest of seconds. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
He shoots into the sky before I can thank him again or worry with him or make him wait. So I turn around and I ring the front doorbell. Issie’s mom comes to the door. She’s a short, hyper woman who dresses in swishy skirts and men’s dress socks that are pulled up to her knees. They sometimes fall down at grocery stores, according to Issie. Anyway, she throws the door open, steak knife in hand. “Zara! Come in! Come in! Get out of the cold! Did you see anyone out there? Anyone lurking? I can’t believe Betty lets you out alone like this!”
She hustles me into the house, which smells like gingerbread and chocolate cookies.
“I am baking for the holidays,” she explains, stashing her knife and brushing flour off of her too-large navy blue cashmere V-neck sweater, which looks like it belongs to Issie’s dad. There’s an ax by the door. “Issie and Devyn are upstairs in her room-with the door open, I might add, so don’t worry! Just go on up.”
She shoves a cookie at me. It’s chocolate chip and delicious. Nick used to make me cookies.
“It’s so good. Thanks!” I say, chomping down.
“Oh, I’m so glad you like it,” she says as I slip off my wet shoes and head up the stairs. I’ve made it up two before she calls my name. I stop, half turn. In a much quieter voice she says, “Do you think Issie is okay?”
I cock my head, feign ignorance. “Why?”
“The past few days, she’s barely been talking. She’s getting better now, but…” Her face is a scrunched-up ball of worry.
“She’s upset about all the people who have gone missing,” I say, telling a part of the truth. “She’s so sensitive and she’s so worried about everyone, you know? And she has a hard time being grounded.”
“I know, but it’s for her own protection.” Her lips turn inward the way mine do when I try not to cry. “She’s such a good girl.”
“She is,” I say. “She is made of awesome sauce.”
“Awesome sauce… Zara White, you are so silly.” She slaps her thigh. “You come down if you need another cookie. They have a plate up there, but if you need more…”
“Thanks,” I say and hustle up the stairs as quickly as I can without being rude-I really like Issie’s mom and she’s like Issie: nobody should ever be rude to her.
Issie’s room is crowded with stuffed animals and lit by one of those electric window candles. It takes me a second to see her and Devyn cuddled on the bed, totally making out.
I clear my throat. They both jump.
“Oh my gosh! I thought you were my mom.” Issie smooths her hair. “Sorry.”
She makes room for me on the bed by moving some stuffed animals around.
Devyn lifts an eyebrow. “Something happened?”
Issie gasps and clutches his arm. “Not Cassidy? Something hasn’t happened to her? Or Callie?”
I shake my head and sit on the cleared-off bed space by Devyn’s feet. His socks smell pretty rank actually. I try to focus on the other smells. “No, it’s good. I mean, I think it’s good. You guys…? I don’t know.”
Devyn cocks his head slightly. “You have another lead on Valhalla.”
“It’s not just a lead,” I say, and then I gush out all the information I have: how Astley appealed to the pixie council people, how we need to have one of each species of fae and human there, how I need my friends to help but only if they want to, because I can’t possibly put them in danger again-not after what happened with Mrs. Nix.
“Do you really trust him, Zara?” Issie finally asks when I’m done.
I think about all we’ve been through: Iceland, gunshot wounds, Mrs. Nix, our kiss…“I do. If it’s another trap, he’s not the one setting it.”
Devyn is silent, staring out the window. Finally, he turns and says to Issie, his voice crusting over with emotion, “What do you think, Is?”
She sniffs and stands up, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest. “Nick would never give up on us.”
“No,” I say, my chest tightening. “He wouldn’t.”
“Then we don’t give up on him, and I honestly think that Mrs. Nix wouldn’t want us to give up on him either,” she says. “But no dying, Zara. No explosions, no gunshots or injuries or stab wounds. Okay?”
Her lips tremble a little; she’s trying so hard to be brave. It’s the most words she’s said in a long time.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise her.
I hug her and her bunny as Devyn leans back against the wall, shaking his head. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore and ask what’s been bothering me since my father died in Iceland. “Do you think it’s selfish of me?”