Guilty of Charge

FAY

The wind's blowing south as the sun sets on the east side of the city. I shut my eyes, taking in this warm breeze, trying to feel everystream rushcoursing over and under my gliding wings.

Summer.

At least it's summer—longer days and hotter nights.

I'm flying across buildings and their plastered commercial boards, my eyes stinging from aggressive LEDs.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, Stinkerbell!"a harpy shouts, speeding past as we nearly collide.

I revolve on myself and stall, fists balling. My wings are thrashing, as if I'm attempting a wind beating, violently hovering above the skyscrapers. There's a flood in my veins, kicking throat-cutting thoughts in my head.The fucker!

There's more than simple foulness in me, and I want to shout it out so damn much. But I stay there in silence, floating in this gray-particle-filled ether.

I'm watching the city darken, letting it sweep my shadow away. Wondering why facing the faintest truths hurts so much.I stink.

And then I remember I live inside my own world of make-believe.

I love everything.

Forgive easily.

Everyone loves me.

Studied hard at school.

Always in a good mood.

Followed dear daddy's footsteps.

Heartsbleed chemicals, a true Peacemaker I'm told...

I sneer at the blood-red sky.

Who am I kidding?

I hate everything.

Keep the hurt inside.

Everyone thinks I'm a whore.

I'm racked with ghosts.

Ravaged by depression, I had to pass my exam twice.

Pressured to join the police force.

My magic is unstable, if not absent.

I'm just a con.

As I spin around, my gaze instantly steadies on the horizon's edge. There, beyond the city limits, concealed in this dimming mist, are chiseled rocks and other broken contours of a massive crumbling bulkhead. It's there, half standing in the distance, scarring the landscape––the Wall. A remnant of a war that is all too well printed on me, on all of us...

Come on, Fay. Just three more blocks, and you'll be home.

I flutter toward my window.

It's closed.

Of course it is...

Scrolling down a chain of windows and balconies, I skyrocket down this building like a mad bullet, an unhealthy throbbing in my left temple. I don't understand. The day got off to a good start. Armed with courage, I waltzed into the NOPD like a witch on ecstasy.

And yet, things had taken an unexpected twist because otherwise, it's not funny.

Indeed, it went downhill—a very steep, steep mountain. Thank gods, Tyke had already left because it was one hell of a shit-show.

I shut the door, sat on one of thosegonna get roastedchairs fronting my father's desk, and took his cold coffee for mine.

Reclining in his chair, he glared at me, glazing his eyes over every part of me—wings, face, hands. The silence was atrocious, so I smiled.

"What's with the attitude?" he snipped, his hands forming a perfectly shaped triangle. It's strange because if this triangle could have snarked, I'm sure it would've.

The breath I took was deep, the exhale streaming brutally slow and disinterested.

But at that point, I was already having a tough time swallowing. Certainly, it had to do with my father's unmistakably set fucking jaw.

"Dad," I rasped, my voice broken with alcohol and tiredness. Yes, my performance was at its peak.

"Fayra." His voice dropped an octave or three. The speciest comments would surely follow. And so, with a glass of whisky in his hand, the show began. "Where have you been?"

"I had a trip to the hospital, and then I took some days off to think."

"Think? How long does it take you to process thoughts, girl?"

I smiled, thinking how he didn't give a shit about the hospital mention.

The place reeked of liquor, my fragile stomach churning, enough to cop out, so I went all in. "There's an orc in my life, and no matter what you think or say, I won't trade him for less."

I was breathing hard again. Probably because of the raw anger, so potent, steaming from his wings. Or maybe it was because of the different shades of red washing over his face as he stared at me, his grip squeezing his pathetic whiskey glass at nine in the morning.

"Think well, Fay." His voice was far too calm for his reddening eyes.

But I went on anyway; I was fully prepared to jump into the deep end for Tyke. I had to be honest—with my father, and with myself.

With Tyke.

"It's all sorted." I slipped it out with such ease, such composure. Yet, I was beginning to crack. The way my father's glass landed on his desk, measured, diplomatically gaslighting me with adult scolding mannerisms. Fuck, I wanted to end him.

"I understand you may think he's a fine specimen, however..."

Specimen?It was at this precise moment my mind went blank.

I heard some gibberish about my mother and Quince, but my brain refused to digest it fully.

"You're a broken man," I spat, "a walking whiskey bottle! He's dead. Dead!"

"Little pest, it should have been you. Quince may be dead, but you will never amount to him." He finished the last of the whiskey in one gulp. "We do our best for you, and you take it for granted. The least you can do is behave in a respectable social manner. Orcs are incompatible with fae. This Tyke of yours... you'd better end it, or I will!"

There's so much I can take. And fuck, did I take from him.

In this case, however, my father went where he shouldn't have. Tyke.

"He's the kindest monster I've ever met. Kind. You know that word, Dad?"

"End it."

My patience cracked and what followed, followed. Security had to come and restrain me, my father's shirt dripping acrid brown coffee as I tried to rip whatever was to grab.

I was put in the drunk tank with all the other boozehounds from the previous night, after whichsome Janetcame with a box full of my desk stuff tucked under her arm to inform me I was suspended.

Indefinitely.

It's funny, the firstthought that came to mind was,Finally, I don't need to work weekends, assholes!

After emptying my junk into a trash can, I left without turning back. I say good riddance!

So here I was, at three in the afternoon, sitting on the sidewalk, kicking stones, shamefully waiting in the parking lot for Tyke.

Only to realize after three hours how pointless it was. Tyke was part of SWAT. He could've been patrolling or engaged in a high-risk mission for all I knew.

I lingered for quite a while, waiting on a Cadillac that should've been there but wasn't.

Couldn't call him. I had no phone, no key, just my tired wings to carry me back to my flat.

And now, with ear-killing jazz screeching in my ears, I scrutinize this monster in the elevator mirror.

Look at me: bloodshot eyes, the bags that go with them, and a complexion grayer than concrete.

Talk about the way I feel... There is this bleakness in me. It's tainted with stress and relief, anxiety creeping into my bones as I fight to calm myself.

Still, I can't help feeling angry, let down, and discarded.

I was expecting Tyke to back me up, to wait for me.

Maybe it wasn't a big deal for him.

Maybe I made it a big deal.

Maybe it's all in my head.

Outrun the crap in your head, Fay. Tyke's got a life of his own.

I've been keeping Tyke at a distance, and he got used to it. Why would that change?

I guess it's just one of those days when I could've done with having him by my side. Then again, one of those days and not the others?

Ting!

Squeezing myself out of the growing crack, the elevator doors taking their damn time to slide open. I've only got one thing on the back of my mind: a glass of icedfeykila. Yeah. I think I deserve a shot or two. I shuffle in my bag for my key, frowning. Of course, it's nowhere in there. My eyebrows unsnarl. I can suddenly picture it on the kitchen counter... inside the flat.

Shit, I hope the emergency swipe card is still under the doormat.

Otherwise, I could always go to Deon's...

Ergh, hell, Fay. No!

My wings fall flat behind my back, my chest swelling with hope. Finally, my luck has returned. The door is open. Donna always forgets to slam it shut, but she's home. "Peace, finally... Take me," I exhale to myself.

I can't wait for a hug. Gods, I'm desperate for some arms.

Grasping the handle is a sweet solace. I enter and sip in the smell of cinnamon. Donna and her candles... she sure knows how to make a home.

Why is it dark?

"Donna?! Grab a glass and one of your bottles of dragonnay. I've got a fucked-up story to tell ya," I say as my far-searching hand aims for the switch.

"Hey!?" I'm flung against the sidewall entrance, my breath hacked from white-hot rage! Possibly fear.

Someone grabs my wrists in one go, a metallic sound jingling to my ears.

Pinned, I close my eyes to lips brushing my ear. "Fayra Jinksovan, you're under arrest.You have the right to remain silent..."

His whisper, measured and steady, spills over me, and for a brief moment, the rasp in his voice sends my body to its knees. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."