“A man. Sitting by the water.”
Every time she spoke, he felt a trickle of euphoria. “What was he doing? Did he see you?”
She shook her head. “I was up.” She pointed.
“Oh, good.” He averted his gaze to the water. “Um, you know you shouldn’t let anyone see you?” He cleared his throat, stood, and held the dress out to her. “It’s probably not a good idea. It could be dangerous.”
She threw the dress on over herself, inside out, a hint of defiance in her movement. “Yes, I know. And do not tell anyone about me.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “Sure.” After a moment, he asked. “No one? We . . . have some friends, and my other stepsister, Andre’s twin, she lives with us.” Sort of.
She squatted down on the rock, leaned over, and stared into the water. “No.”
A few quiet minutes passed, and Ben could not tell if they were peaceful or uncomfortable. He wondered what she was doing, studying the minnows and pebbles and bits of creek-side flotsam so intently. He checked his phone again and saw Amy and Ricardo had sent pictures from the festival. “Umm. Hey, do you want to head back now? I’ve got something to show you.”
Ben couldn’t tell if the television was as impressive as he’d thought it would be. He had Shae sit on the couch while he stood and explained that he was going to turn it on, and she was going to see and hear lots of things, but not to be alarmed because it wasn’t real. He rapped on the surface. He didn’t want her smacking into the screen, trying to jump into any inviting pictures. He held out the remote. “These buttons”—he indicated the up and down arrows—“that’s how I change the channel. We can keep pushing these until we find something we like.” Shae ran a finger along the edge of the remote.
“Here we go.” He turned the volume down and then slowly back up while an attractive woman in a cardigan wiped up a blue puddle on a counter in a pristine, sunlit kitchen. Shae’s eyes widened. Her hands were clenched at her sides. “This is a commercial—an advertisement. I’m going to change the channel now.” A weatherman stood in front of a map with swirling imagery, clouds, and precipitation. “This is the news. He’s giving the weather forecast.” He licked his lips and turned up the volume, let it linger to learn that the next week was going to be perfect: sunny, mid-seventies, highs in the low eighties. Then there was a political news show where cranky-looking men barked at each other. Each time he changed the channel, he looked to see a reaction. Shae didn’t move or comment, but there was an erectness in the way she sat that made her seem tense.
Ben rubbed his temples. A stretching, hot and sparkling pain filled his brain as long-held views of normal and right and possible were shredded a little more.
He changed the channel again to a nature show and then turned at the sound of Andre opening the front door. “Dude, she speaks English, and she can fly.”
Keeping her head turned, so her eyes remained on a documentary about bats, Shae stood up off the couch and turned her back to them, briefly demonstrating; her wings opened, and she lifted a few feet off the floor. Andre felt the fine hairs all over her body stand on end. Then Shae turned to her, and they stared at each other. Andre gasped as she felt a sharp sting, deep behind her eyes. For a flicker of an instant, Andre saw herself through Shae’s eyes; she felt a muted panic at being in a new strange place. She felt a tugging concern about the gray one who was out there looking to kill things and trying to find a tithe. Andre shook herself, trying to make the feeling dissipate. What the hell just happened to me?
Shae pumped her wings and turned back to the bats as Andre swallowed down tears of awe and envy. She pulled a notebook from her purse. “I thought it would be a good idea if I started keeping notes.” That morning she’d written down a physical description of Shae and then made two columns: the first highlighted the qualities she considered to be human, in the other were “supernatural” qualities. She pulled out a pen and added “wings” to that column. A part of her knew it was busywork, but it was an anchor and gave her a slim sense of control.
Ben disappeared upstairs and returned a minute later with his acoustic and set to plucking a stirring, melancholic refrain.
Andre’s phone vibrated, and she pulled it out of her pocket. Ryan: “Still, sick?” He sent a green-faced emoticon.
“It’s Ryan.”
Ben kept playing and shrugged. “Oh yeah, she said not to tell anyone about her.”
Andre looked at Shae. “You don’t want us to . . . we can’t tell anyone? Ryan is my boyfriend. Amy lives here.” Sort of.
Shae stared at her. “Do not tell.” Her voice was melodious yet lacked inflection. Andre couldn’t tell if it was a plea or a command, but she silenced her phone. Then she texted Ryan: “I’m lying down. Not feeling good. Left work. Gonna stay home. Will call you later.” She added a heart and hoped he wouldn’t offer to come over.
Ben strummed harder, staring at Shae. “She’s . . .” He shook his head. Then he stopped playing and looked at Andre. She could see mania simmering in his eyes. He wasn’t okay. He was trembling, his left eyelid was twitching, and there was that pulse in his neck again. He started playing again; the sound was desperate. His guitar was a lifeline, a thumb to suck. His fingers moved rapidly over the fretboard while his other hand frantically picked. She was pretty sure if his hands weren’t so busy, they would be shaking. “That—on her back . . ..” He shook his head and let out a sharp-edged bark of laughter. “I have to go to work in a few hours.”
Andre stepped towards him. “I know it’s hard to take in.”
The melody eased, and sorrowful notes danced around the three of them for several seconds. Then Ben stopped playing, went over to the sliding glass door, and looked out at the cluttered backyard. “I’m gonna make a run to the dumpster and buy cigarettes.” He spent a few minutes loading up his car and left.
Andre watched Shae watching TV for another fifteen minutes, growing agitated, feeling like she needed to do something. The faerie seemed entranced, her head cocked, fascinated by the bats.
When Ben returned, he popped a cigarette in his mouth and snatched up his guitar and started strumming again. He shook his head back and forth as if shooing away a bug buzzing around him. “It was more like . . . she was floating than flying. Those wings couldn’t lift her. It’s like gravity won’t affect her if she doesn’t let it.” He squinted. “Do you think we’ve just gone insane?”
“No.” She put her hand over his forearm, trying to get him to cease playing even though she was weirdly moved by the sound. “But this is a lot. Just try to think about her. She’s the one who must be really feeling crazy.”
“Yeah, I know.” His hands went still. “So . . . what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Erik and Amy put up pictures from the Shrine . . . am I supposed to act like I’m interested?”
The world was a different place now. How were they supposed to keep this up?
He started again, playing new, light, plinking notes that drifted up around them and sailed out the window like smoke. “It’s strange that she can talk,” he said. “How do you think that’s possible?”