All Undressed and Nowhere to Go

FAY

THE UGLY TRUTH.

Faerhan country has been burning from protests for months. The general public demands answers from Fidr. In return, the Vampirist party has decided to close all public institutions, evicting millions of people from their jobs and suppressing education. Today's edition will be the last of the Cauldron Globe post. May justice and truth be by your side.

Esme Southatria, "The Ugly Truth." The Cauldron Globe, July 9.

Almost four hours...

Four long hours trying to breathe on the couch, waiting for the sun to rise. The rustling of sheets had broken my lids open, and when a gargoyle's snore bounced in my ear, I knew I had to get myself out of bed. No way was I sleeping next to them!

Then, out of these four hours, I spent three shuddering to a witch-on-witch brawl at the building's foot, which raged throughout the night. Still ongoing, by the way.

In the process, I did grow some backbone to make a quick round from the living room to my bedroom, sneaking into my backpack, more precisely into my book, Forbidden Skin. In between two pages, at chapter 'Us or nothing,' was Tyke's key I kept preciously... There was a struggle, louder than fireworks, as the zipper rattled. Despite this, Deon and Donna didn't wake, a successful heist that delighted my inner thief. Then, with Tyke's key in my grasp, my blood raced as fast as my wings back to my padded fortress.

Why do I need Tyke's key? Well, why do you need a knife, a gun, a teddy bear? Heck, because I'm freaking out.

I turn toward my other beacon of hope. There, on the kitchen counter, lying on all its length, my mother's souvenir: the wand. And my mind races again...

There's a curfew. Aeriojets have been grounded...

I keep thinking about my parents, a chaos of questions storming in my head. Maybe a traveling group of winged folk were waiting for them, flying in a swarm, still common even today. Booked a flying tour company, perhaps hired a guide for navigating the sky trails. Yeah, that's what they must have done.

Yeah...

And I feel small, embarrassed.

All those passports, though...

I press my palms against my eyes, the only cushions of comfort available right now.

Fuck, what is wrong with me?

"Oh, what pathetic fae ass-kissers!"

I squeeze Tyke's key, as if it could teleport me, a free hand slashing an elastic band against my wrist.

Boom!

And bury my back even deeper into the couch's backrest, bring my knees up, and cinch my forehead to my knuckles, pressing it hard, praying for this shit to fucking stop.

Boom!

Cerberios's tongues slide between the crack of my thigh and chest, no doubt sensing my panic. He whimpers, pawing his way into the confined space between my arms and legs, until one of his snouts sneaks into a gap, eventually breaking my hold.

"Need a hug? I need one." With fear triggering haste, I shift my legs, folding them under me, anything to welcome this big boy on my lap. Then a breath runs out as my bulky baby grovels against me. His big heart is thumping, reverberating into mine like a steady drumbeat. "You're good boys." With a grip on one of his collars, the key bedded under it grinds and chimes with a collar buckle. "Here, Ripper, keep it safe." My fingers fumble over a medallion, struggling to cinch Tyke's key with the metallic ring.

"Look at you, all handsome." My new key holder's snout dashes to my chin, my lips fast to smooch it. Dogs, they do speak, it's just that we don't always listen. Their language is one of kisses, and most of us never return the exchange.

Ripper keeps growling, his snarl snapping at the window. Dominant isn't the word; I'd say 'leader' is a better approach when describing him. With his head jutting out of the center and sharp canines of a length, none of his siblings dare clap back other than when a squeaky toy is involved.

The two other fuzzies are just goofballs, with one undoubtedly missing a little screw with his lazy eye, but that only makes him cuter. Tyke told me not to give them separate names. That it makes them jealous; that the attention should be given as a whole, the breed prone to cannibalism if they don't go on well. But how can I not? They all have different personalities, more pigmented than a festival of colors. I rest my case on this. Each of them should be acknowledged. I'll find their names. They deserve it.

For now, it'll be Cerberios until my bad headrush simmers.

"Traitors of the Red Coven, worthless warlocks, meet your fate with the burning tip of my wand! Bones implode!"

Boom!

Cerberios barks.

"Shh, little demons. It's okay." Searching under a cushion, my hands reach for a box of tissues. I pull out a sheet and blow my nose, resting both elbows on Cerberios' back—my only spot of safety.

I crumple my tissue, and I throw it toward its siblings. There, beneath the couch, is a little white mound of disfigured balls piling up.

And then, slanting my pathetic eyes down on the dog, I find a distraction: flicking sprinkles off Cerberios's fur, bloody wings molting like dead fish scales.

Silence.

"Cerberios, stay," I whisper, freeing my lap from fur, paws, and claws.

I slip down the couch onto the floor and crawl to the heater walled under the window frame.

Clamping two iron bars, I lift myself a little and peek from under Deon's quick fix of a window—nothing but a sheet shielding me from the madness.

"Die under Sabba's spell! Hexica's Coven will not tolerate monsterkind's slaughter!"

I watch a young girl cast a spell from her wand, floating about her broom on the street, her sisters flying across other streaks of lighting. I watch her wand and the trail of light spurting out of it, streaking the night until it collides with someone else.

My lids go reverse, eyeballs about to drop as I witness a warlock dissolve into a pile of red and white slime.

Shit. I pull my head back and tug at the sheet, accidentally detaching the left side. The more I try grappling it, the more it slowly falls apart. I try to seal the whole window back as it was, but it's a massive failure. Everything is slanting, parts of the sheet flagging into the morning wind. It'll just have to be!

Legs, hands, and a chin for a brief second scramble back to the sofa—the latter which had nearly broken my spine, when earlier, I pushed it back on its legs—curl over my dog, and stay there, petrified.

"What is it? Losing too much blood!?"

Please make it stop... I don't have a phone anymore, so I can't even call the cops. I keep telling myself that if Deon hasn't woken up, we're good. And if Donna hasn't, then we're far from danger. She's got elevated senses, and as much as I've got a huge bone to pick with her, I trust her.

I pull another tissue from the box. Donna's comments... I tried to fence with her last night. She kept turning the stones repeatedly, spouting her bullshit, as if anyone would believe her. But her words stabbed my chest like a sword. She feels all empowered now that Deon is here and thinks she can go all out on me, turning her back on the only ally she's had until now. What a two-faced bitch!

I mash my tissue into a mushy ball of goo and squeeze it so fucking hard, hoping my words have hurt her.

Hell, I hope they have.

Keep your head up, Fay. Channel your inner 'No Donna, Tyke, parents... witch. No cry.'

I ditch my snotjob, propping my face in my palm, fingers clutched over my cheeks, trying not to sob. Two swollen blobs and two slits for eyelids are the last thing I want to greet Tyke with.

There is a knock on the door, and as if a witch repellent, outside cackles fade away.

I stiffen as Cerberios stands on me, front paws on the couch's armrest, all six ears perked up at the door, whimpering, wagging his tail in my face like a broken seismograph. And my smile goes full anarchy over my face.

Tyke!

I push Cerberios aside, get on my knees, and shove my paper balls and tissue box under the couch.

Given the circumstances, an insane idea flashes in me. I'm going to open the door naked. What better way to show Tyke how much I missed him than to greet him with a quickie? Yeah... I strip off and with that, don't forget to remove my ponytail...

Leaning my glabrous cold self over my dog slow growling at me to get at the door, I clasp one of his drooling faces––it's the one with the lazy eyes––and nervously laugh. "It's Tyke."

And with 'Tyke' as our starting pistol, Cerberios and I leap across the couch, wings and paws soaring forward.

I know it's him.

My breathing turns shallow.

This is it.

The beginning of a new life.

Skipping past the kitchen, a chill courses up my legs, my hair standing on end as I puddle in icy cold water from the fridge and freezer that have both gone off. Then, I pinch my lips to Deon's idea for a gate, the buffet sitting between me, the door, and most importantly, Tyke.

I push this hefty piece of furniture out of the doorway—Gods, is this thing heavy!—swing the door wide open, and my gaze catches on him.

Tyke immediately pats one of Cerberios's heads and orders him to sit in such a commanding voice that the pup drops to his stomach without a whimper. His hair is pulled back and tied high, his physique clad in a black commando suit, leather straps crossed in an X over his chest. A procession of daggers are strewn across them, hilts at the ready, with a rifle slung across his shoulder.

And I'm drawn to him, the inches between us like tinder burning off, ready to scorch the little control I'm hardly harnessing.

My chest rises, lust hesitant to strike.

Mouth firmly set, Tyke's not saying a thing. Maybe he doesn't like my surprise; maybe it's not the right time. Maybe I've got it all wrong. In all cases, I don't say a word. I swear he's intimidating...

There is a palpable hum in the air as Tyke shuffles lightly, yet swiftly. A foot, a sharp tilt down, a rush of eyes scanning my body. Everything about him is predator-like, gaunt. And I shiver with need, the betrayer between my thighs pulsing maddeningly.

With his chin dipped, only his glowing, hungry eyes lift on me.

As I slip a foot over the threshold, my lower stomach tangles.

It keeps knotting, like nerve endings dancing over an open flame.

Tyke's expression doesn't shift. It stays dark, with piercing eyes, a twitch of a lip, nothing more. And now blood is buzzing in my ears, masked by the beat of my heart and the dry rustle of his movements.

He takes a determined step, grabs my jawline, and tilts my head up, his growl faint, threatening... "Fay."

Fuck. Toes curls, nails scuffing at the floor, perching myself on nothing.

He lowers his face, charging his wicked glare into me. It's brutal, and even more so as it disappears under me.

Lips brush against my throat as if to smell me, and I forget everything.

My neck sways in lockstep with whatever flick Tyke makes of it. Feet lift, land again, doddering as my wings teem with a desire to grapple him.

Most probably sensing the anarchy glistening between my thighs, Tyke chuffs, the heat of his low groan rumbling against my skin.

Unsparing is how he is.

A tide of burning goosebumps rolls over me, and naturally, I catch fire. My spine goes up in flames like a giant match, fizzing from my middle to the top of my skull, and I leap up.

Tyke...