10. The Siblings

Folding into the shadows sent Andrew's brain into somersaults. Chamomile's grasp on him burned like fire but she dragged him along with her like the tail of a comet. The power plant, and then the river, and then the little road that snaked along the foot of the bluffs blurred beneath him as vaguely recognizable streaks of color. Then everything slammed to a halt. Andrew fell head over heels. Landing with a thump on his stomach, he groaned, clutching his head.

"Sacrilege," Andrew said, peering through one slitted eye. "Did I already throw up?"

"Come on, it's not so bad. Really, traveling in the shadows is a privilege not many humans get." Her hot hands wrapped around his upper arm as she sat him upright.

When he climbed to his feet, his world spun. Doubling over, he dry heaved and spat out the acidic taste of coffee. "Fucking coffee."

"I'm telling Micah you said that."

He squinted against bright morning sunlight cast through the trees from a clearing just ahead. He was so unprepared for the dazzling light that it pressed into his skull like a vise and forced his eyes closed for a moment. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, grunting. There was no more time to fuss about the light though. Andrew blinked and blinked until finally his vision regained equilibrium.

The underbrush surrounding them was tall and, Andrew thought dismally, likely rife with deer ticks. He made a mental note to check his skin when he got home. Chamomile gave him an impatient glare and started off. As he hurried after her and out of the cover of the grove of cottonwood and silver maples, the crumbling structure of the Lilydale brickyard unfolded before him. He'd seen photos in the history books, but they paled in comparison. The Folk took the wreckage of the failed brickyards and helped nature reclaim it, and what had once looked decrepit now thrived, wiped clean of the greasy thumbprints of humanity. The bricks had crumbled and fauna sprouted back up where the foundations had been laid. The limestone bluffs grew around the cobbled fence like a moat.

"Shit." This had…probably been a bad idea. Unarmed, barefoot, without a plan, all he wore to protect himself was Micah's blood ward. It had some leaves and berries in the vial, but it wasn't made of iron. Who knew if it would even work on other Folk. After as much effort as Andrew had put into standing a fighting chance against the Folk, he'd just walked defenseless into Lilydale simply to spare Micah the pain of it.

Chamomile was two steps away, half turned toward him as she eyed him through hooded lids. "Nervous?" she asked with a flash of her jagged teeth.

"Obviously, yes," said Andrew, annoyed. "I have no need for bravado." But then his eyes accidentally drifted down to her pert nipples; she saw, and she cackled with cruelty.

The air just behind Andrew split with the sound of canvas tearing. He jumped and spun around. And then Micah stumbled and fell into his upheld arms.

"Whoa," gasped Micah.

"Whoa," exclaimed Andrew, kicking his back foot behind him for support as Micah worked to regain his balance.

Chamomile said thoughtfully, "Interesting."

With a hysterical giggle, Micah straightened and fixed his hair. "Well, that's new."

"What's new?" Andrew asked.

"He's never done that before," said Chamomile. To Micah, she said, "Looks like someone must be accepting his Fae nature, at last."

Micah ignored her. Clutched in both hands was the sheathed black sword from Andrew's Saturn. "Here." He thrust it into Andrew's hands and forced his fingers to curl around the hilt.

"What are you doing?" Andrew demanded. "You didn't need to come."

Micah scoffed, "Yeah, okay. You wanna go talk to my sister without me?"

"Sister," Andrew repeated. "Ah."

Chamomile cackled as she wandered away from them.

"Here, let's sit for a minute before we go in there," said Micah.

"That's probably a good idea. I think my recklessness is catching up to me."

Micah led him to a limestone boulder ringed in by orange tiger lilies. The stone dug into his bony pelvis as Andrew laid his sheathed sword across his knees and stared at Lilydale.

He tilted his head. "So that's it, huh? It's kind of…small."

"There's only like, two dozen Folk in there," agreed Micah. "Such a huge, nasty reputation for such a modest estate."

"So, um…is your sister from Lilydale?"

Micah shook his head. "No. She came with me and my dad from Washington. She's full Fae; we only share our mother."

"Which is…the Redwood Queen," Andrew guessed.

Micah nodded slightly. Facing the river, he stood over Andrew, anxiously flexing his shoulders, sending tawny muscles rippling down his back. "I wouldn't be going in there if not for my dad. I haven't been in Lilydale for, like, five years. My sister is too much for me to deal with." He glanced down, head tilted as he searched Andrew's face with a bewildered frown. "Why do you want to help me?"

Gazing out at the marshy floodplains below them, Andrew rolled the sword across his thighs and wetted his lips. "Your dad reminds me of my mum," he said. "She slipped out of my reach. But your dad hasn't yet." Andrew drew Micah closer so he could slide a hand around his bare waist. "I came here trying to get her back and couldn't. If I can help you get your dad back, it seems only fitting it's by coming to this place."

Micah remained motionless, his eyes glistening, shifting to indigo as he blinked tears loose from his lashes.

Past him, the silver-haired faerie reappeared in the gap in the cobbled fence. "Micah!" she yelled. "Hurry the fuck up!"

Though he didn't turn around, Micah's hands closed into fists.

Standing up, hands on his hips, Andrew said in warning, "All right."

She hissed at him and ducked out of sight.

"She gets like that when she's hungover," Micah said.

Andrew gave him a look. "You know her really well."

Squeezing his eyes closed, Micah blurted, "Yeah. She's my ex."

Andrew groaned. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, I'm not altogether gay," Micah said, peeking at Andrew through one eye, bracing himself. But Andrew had to find all this out eventually. Telling him in Lilydale was less than ideal, but here they were.

Andrew dropped back onto the boulder and let a breath out through his teeth. "That's interesting," he managed. "Lots to unpack, eh? All right." He combed his fingers through his hair, inhaled, and held the breath. When he looked up, worry creased Micah's brow as he twirled the string of his shorts busily between his fingers.

Pushing back to his feet, Andrew asked quietly, "But you said you like me, right? You're smitten." With disbelief Andrew touched his own chest and added, "With me."

"Yes." Micah caught Andrew's wrist, sincere, unsmiling, his eyes boring into Andrew's like their souls were brushing together. "Completely."

"All right then." He trailed his palm over Micah's warm cheek until the lines of concern faded from his skin. "Are they going to team up and drown me in the river? Your ex and your sister?"

Micah took Andrew's face between his hands. "Andrew, I swear I won't let anyone in Lilydale cause you harm, or so help me, they will rue the day for all time."

His cheeks heating up, Andrew sniffed, "Well, now, there's no need to go overboard."

"I'm nothing if not dramatic," Micah remarked, tilting Andrew's chin down and touching their lips together.

"Right then." Andrew clasped their hands together. "We'd better go in before I come to my senses."

Tall grasses rustled against their legs as Micah led them to the short cobblestone fence. They made slow and tedious progress, being mindful of their bare feet and what might be lurking under the veil of the grass, including loose stones ready to send them rolling down toward the river.

"I looked right at her boobs," Andrew said with a shudder.

Micah snickered. "It was hard not to."

There was a big enough gap in the sepia-toned stones to constitute a rough gate. Micah knew the gate would push back against those not welcome inside, not enough to bar the way, but enough to create vertigo or a sour stomach. For Micah, passing through the gap felt like going through a curtain of warm water.

Inside the gate, there was a small grove of trees up the slope to the left, shielding most of the eastern edge of the compound from Highway 13 over the bluffs in the distance. The trees were oak, maple, ash, and poplar, as well as a handful of pine. Their lush leaves whispered in the breeze as the branches reached up into the powder blue sky. Hammocks and large wicker baskets were strung far off the ground between branches. Dangling down from them on lengths of braided twine were small bones, glinting crystals, and dried bundles of flowers. The bones clattered softly in the breeze, but the effect was pleasing, not macabre. Between the trees were large white toadstools, flat-topped boulders, and explosions of colorful wildflowers.

Though the trees looked uninhabited, Andrew's skin prickled in a way that left him certain that Folk were watching him among the branches. He followed Micah down a small cobbled path that seemed like it had been laid a hundred years ago, faded and smooth, with clover growing up between the chinks. The path branched off into limestone stairs climbing westward. Each of the steps were painted with colorful swirls, flowers, and strange but beautiful symbols. Shallow amphitheater steps curved around an enormous fire pit, currently black and cold. Near it, one side of a great fallen tree was sanded into a flat tabletop, laden with trays of diced fruit, freshly baked bread, and pitchers of golden honey mead. All perfectly provincial to the Folk, and wildly dangerous for human consumption. The sight of it made Andrew's limbs tingle with anxiety, how easily he could divert the course of his life with just one bite of the addictive spelled foods.

Andrew tucked his sword under his arm. Not that he looked very threatening at the moment, but there was no reason to antagonize anyone…yet. His body was ready to catch a glimpse of scarlet eyes and marble-white skin. His body didn't understand that he wasn't alone this time, that Micah had made a crazy promise to keep him safe, that maybe such a thing could be true.

About a dozen Folk mingled in the clearing, lounging on the trunks of fallen trees, dancing in lazy circles hand in hand, or crafting with flowers. When Micah appeared, gasps and whispers rippled around them.

"Micah's back," cried a female with pink dragonfly wings flashing between her shoulders. She held a half-finished crown of leaves on her lap and excitement in her small round face. Beside her, a man with furred hooves for feet sat up with a tuft of half-braided green hair falling over one eye.

The small flower vendor from the night market ran up to them. She blinked her large liquid eyes at Andrew and then held out a curling lupine to Micah. It matched his eyes. "This is better," she said. "Much sooner than last time."

Fingers trembling, Micah smiled and accepted it from her without speaking.

Above the crescent of steps was a massive brick kiln the height of two men and three times as wide, arching toward the heavens. Roots dangled down from the bushes and small trees growing above. Several faeries, mostly child-sized and winged, sat on the crest of the kiln holding jars of mead or bouquets of flowers. One of them with a pair of cream-streaked moth wings jeered at Andrew when he approached the steps. A quick glare from Micah, though, and the sound cut short in the faerie's throat. It quickly looked down, and its companion socked its shoulder with a fist. Andrew cast Micah a strange look.

In the shadow of the kiln spread an ornate Persian rug beneath piles of multicolored throw pillows. A misty smudge of a person sat on a small throne of bronze fashioned as if melting like a candle. Creamy alabaster legs crossed on the seat, veiled by a skirt and bandeau of gauzy black, with mahogany curls cascading over sloping shoulders.

And when Andrew met her scarlet eyes, they both gasped. The faerie was on her feet with a dagger in hand just as Andrew unsheathed his sword, the scabbard clattering back down the steps. The point of her gleaming blade was against the apple of his throat before he even caught his breath. But he'd landed his sword flush on the curve of her shoulder, the edge pressing against her neck. The iron reacted with her ivory skin; she hissed through her teeth. A slender curl of smoke rose from her shoulder.

Eye to eye with the tall woman, he said to her with a snarl in his throat, "You have robbed me of my peace every single day." All that latent indignation, all the crazed energy that brought insomnia and paranoia since he met his scarlet-eyed specter—it all blazed into a furious inferno. "Haven't you had enough?" His voice trembled, and a single tear flicked onto his cheek. "When will we be even?"

Eyes flashing like molten rubies, the woman bared her teeth and sneered. "Your misery delights me."

The Folk of Lilydale gathered around the kiln, pressing their angular, predatory bodies together and creating a living barrier. Andrew was a clay pot caged within the kiln, about to explode under the fiery gaze of the Lady.

Bravely, Micah wedged himself between them, jostling both of them with his shoulders like a child budging into a line at school. "Andrew, Ingrid! Please don't hurt each other!" Micah exclaimed. He pushed at the faerie's bare midriff, moving her away from Andrew.

The female hissed at Micah, slapping his hand off her. "You brought me this fearful fox as an apology gift, didn't you, Nightshade Boy?"

"Apology gift!" Micah repeated, incredulous.

"Fearful!" spat Andrew, his muscles turning to magma as his heart pumped his fury through his veins. "You created my nightmare! You invaded my dreams! You…waited in the shadows and watched me on the streets! My fear is your masterpiece!"

"Cruel, Ingrid," Micah said hoarsely.

"I never touched you," she said with a smug raise of her eyebrow.

"Don't toy with me now!" Andrew said, voice rising frantically. His mind played a very vivid fantasy where he got to lob off her head with the sword that she'd forced him to learn how to use. He curled his other hand around the sword hilt, his palms sticky with sweat and potential.

"Ingrid," Micah said as he pushed her again and laid his hand on Andrew's hip. "You'd better back off right now."

"Or what?" sneered the scarlet-eyed faerie.

Micah said with a tremble in his voice like a stone warning of an earthquake, "Or you will never see me again."

Sighing, Ingrid glared at the bricks over them. "You're a bore, Micah."

He shot back, "You're a stalker."

"You wouldn't care were you not entangled with my prey," Ingrid remarked.

"Wanna bet?" Micah said.

"I knew that's what I was to you!" said Andrew. He'd been right all these years. All those times he felt like a frightened animal in the forest, it was precisely by design.

"Look," Ingrid said to Micah. She spun her dagger, slipping it into the waistband of her skirt. Hooking her finger through her glinting bandeau, she pulled it down to reveal a raised pink scar between her small breasts. "He provoked me."

"Ooh, a wittle scar," taunted Micah.

Glowering at him, Ingrid fixed her top and obscured the scar once again. "Petulant whelp."

Micah stuck his tongue out at her.

Eyes flashing like chips of ice, Chamomile approached Ingrid wearing a pink gossamer robe, with a longbow slung over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows over her other. She nudged Ingrid's thigh with her elbow and said, "The fox slept over at Micah's last night, too."

"Chami, mind your business!" Micah exclaimed.

Ingrid groaned, "Of all the humans!"

Still glaring at Chamomile, Micah said in exasperation, "Ingrid, we all know you probably would have killed Andrew if he hadn't defended himself. Better you have a scar than he be dead."

Chamomile let out a dubious laugh.

Ignoring her with obvious effort, Micah continued, "It's not his fault if he caught you unawares. You're the one who passed out in the middle of nowhere."

"If he'd harmed me in the Redwoods…" she began.

Micah interrupted harshly, "We're not in the Redwoods. That's the whole fucking point."

Before they could keep arguing, Andrew decided to interrupt. He dropped his blade and let it clatter to the ground. He lifted both hands, palms up. "Truce. All right? Truce. For Micah."

Micah and the scarlet-eyed faerie both froze, effectively distracted by his demonstration.

The scarlet-eyed faerie curled her lip, contemptuous and mocking. "Why?"

Andrew swallowed. He let his hands fall. The sneer on her face brought him instant regret over dropping his sword. "You and I both know I hoped to never see you again. I didn't come here for you. I came here to help your brother."

"I should have guessed when you put that nightshade in your window," spat the scarlet-eyed faerie.

"Wait," said Andrew, exchanging a glance with Micah.

Eyebrows raising, jaw dropping, Micah looked back at Ingrid and said, "Ingrid, you literally just proved you've been stalking him within the last month. While I'vebeen dating him."

She sent a sharp puff of air out her nostrils. "You have no right to judge me."

"Yes, I do. I'm pissed at you."

"I'm ‘pissed' at you too," she retorted.

While the siblings squabbled, Andrew felt his sword against his foot, planning the movement he would need to make in order to pick it back up. Just in case.

Micah nodded to the ring of Folk, still and watchful. "Call them off. We need to talk."

Ingrid scowled.

Micah glared back.

Rolling her eyes, Ingrid waved a preternaturally long hand at the Folk gathered behind them. When only them and Chamomile remained under the shadow of the kiln, Ingrid sat down on the bronze seat and crossed her elegant legs so her black skirts fluttered like curtains of darkness. Chamomile sat on a pink cushion beside her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Andrew. Returning the same narrowed eyes at her, he used his foot to scoot his sword closer.

"What could you possibly need that made you finally step foot in here, Nightshade Boy?" asked Ingrid with hooded eyes.

Micah said, "It's my dad."

A blue-skinned male faerie wearing silver trunks ran up to Micah. He held out a crystal glass filled and sloshing with golden liquid. A pair of minty green wings vibrated between his shoulder blades, delicate and pale as an aphid. Micah declined the drink. The faerie's cerulean gaze dropped; he looked vaguely wounded.

Ingrid touched her chin contemplatively. She looked at the beverage the blue faerie held. "Take a drink, and we can talk."

Micah blinked, incredulity creasing his features. "Are you shitting me? Don't be childish."

Ingrid gestured with two fingers toward the cup.

"Why do you care what he does?" demanded Andrew.

Darkly, Ingrid stared down at Andrew. She growled, "He's one of us." To Micah, she said with not a trace of aggression, "Chamomile said you folded shadows to follow her here. That means you have another ability you didn't know about."

Micah grunted wordlessly.

"You need to stay here until you understand what you can do."

"I most certainly do not." Micah crossed his arms.

"You want to be among humans and accidentally turn a car into a pumpkin? Or wither a plant at a café just because you're in a bad mood? Do you think they would still accept you if you frighten them like that? Humans cannot even accept other humans not like them."

Ingrid wasn't wrong, but Andrew wouldn't even have agreed with her at knifepoint. Hushed, he told him firmly, "We can go look for your dad ourselves."

"Likely to fail," said Ingrid.

Eyes narrowing at her, Micah grabbed the drink and slammed it back in a single swallow. He smeared gold from his lips and snapped, "You happy now, your royal dryness?"

Ingrid took a goblet of deep red wine from the same blue faerie. She swilled the cup in a bejeweled hand, her familiar black nails setting Andrew's teeth on edge. She caught his eye and smirked, tapping her nail against the rim of the cup and eliciting an involuntary shudder from him.

Micah exclaimed, "Hey! What're you doing? Trying to scare him, right in front of me?" He snatched Andrew's hand and started to turn them to leave.

"Stop, stop," said Ingrid. "Fine."

Andrew pulled back on Micah's hand, keeping him in front of the scarlet-eyed faerie's kiln throne. It was true that his blood was pounding noisily in his ears, and he would love to sprint out of here as fast as he could. But if something was wrong with Julian, that didn't seem to matter.

Micah glanced up at Andrew, uncertain, searching Andrew's face. He tried to determine the implication of Andrew's quavering smile, drenched in unease, forced and stiff. Ingrid turned him into someone almost unrecognizable, a skittish wild animal Micah only saw in that first time or two they met and never again. Not when Andrew had carried Julian up the stairs last night to spare him from Micah. Not when they were laughing over bad lines in movies or falling asleep together after staying up too late talking. This twitchy, ghostly pale man had been torn apart with his gnawed-upon bones left to decay among the detritus…all because of Micah's sister. And yet Andrew wasn't letting them leave, hung onto Micah to ensure they could do what they came here for.

Ingrid cleared her throat and said, "What do you expect me to do about your father?"

Micah paused. The warmth of the honey mead he'd swallowed turned gravelly in the pit of his stomach.

"Go on then," Andrew murmured to him, squeezing his palm.

He wetted his lips. "My dad was acting weird and then fell off the grid. I need to figure out where he went and get him home. Chamomile said you can scry now. Can you find out where he is?"

Ingrid looked away, her chest puffing proudly. Then she stood and smoothed down her skirts. "Fine."

Micah's shoulders relaxed. Crouching, he picked up the sword and scabbard, sheathed it, and handed it back to Andrew. "You're entitled to be armed. But she won't do anything to you now," he said.

"Why not?" Andrew asked skeptically.

"There's nothing she wants more than to have me back," said Micah softly. His eyes were stormy as he stared at the molten bronze seat.

The noisy bray of a pheasant reached them from somewhere nearby in the bluffs.

Andrew said after a moment, "She doesn't deserve you."

Micah didn't say anything. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then he grasped Andrew's hand and they left the kiln throne. Ingrid's hut was behind the throne closer to the southeast corner of the commune; the fastest path was not very direct from the throne, requiring some climbing through vivid orange tiger lily patches and using a root to haul themselves up a small wall of limestone. Having gotten up to her door much faster than them, she waited with her back against the hammered bronze, arms crossed.

"You're not coming in," Ingrid said to Andrew, her lip curled. "Your smell would be impossible to get out."

Andrew held up his hands. "Fine. Though the commentary was unnecessary."

"Quite," she said blandly.

He glanced at Micah. "Scream if you need me."

Micah grinned halfheartedly. "Same to you."

Grabbing his bicep, Ingrid opened her door and pulled Micah inside. He pinwheeled his arms to keep his balance as she said brashly, "Why are you giving so much trust to someone you hardly know?"

He righted himself, frowning. "Better than not trusting anyone."

"I trust several people," Ingrid said defensively.

His eyes began to paint in the details of Ingrid's hut as he adjusted to the dimness. Micah hadn't been in here for years. It was…very easy to feel comfortable as he slid down to his knees on a large floor pillow. Maybe it was the smell of warm mulberries rising with a spiral of smoke from a golden incense jar. But every inch of the hut had his sister's flair.

Woven tapestries depicting star charts and woodland life hung over her brick walls. There was an old yellowing map of Minnesota with all its lakes touched with a shining deep blue that made them look like thumbprints of real water. Candles were everywhere, flickering merrily in a ring along the walls.

Leaning his arms on her glossy, low table, he returned his gaze to his sister. "I've been alone for a long time. I haven't so much as held hands with anyone since Chamomile. I know you're comfortable with that, but I get lonely."

She nodded slightly. "So you're… interested in him? Um…romantically?"

"Very. I started seeing him—" When she frowned, he clarified, "Spending time with him, last month. He practically knows everything already."

"Doubtful."

"Well, he's done a ton of research on the Folk. Know why, Ingrid? Go on. Guess."

Ingrid tsked and glared at the wall over his head.

"Yes, that's right. What delightful irony that I got involved with someone you've been tormenting for literally no reason." He clipped each word to a sharp point. When she opened her mouth to object, he lifted a hand and said hastily, "Oh. Right. Right. He had the gall to wound you in self-defense and bruised your ego, since humans aren't supposed to be formidable. Right?" Micah sniffed, eyes narrowing. "Mother would be so proud."

"Are you finished lecturing me?" Ingrid grumbled.

"I'm not sure. Have I made you feel dumb for it yet?"

Silent, she looked away, candlelight flickering brightly against the guilty downward curve of her lips.

"Great. Then yes. I'm done. So anyway, I think he's a wise choice for a partner, actually, and I hope you'll come around to that idea for me."

Outside the hut, Andrew sat down on a wide limestone step next to a brilliantly fuchsia hydrangea bush. He kept both hands on his sword, sliding it absently in and out of the sheath, watching the colored specks of traffic fly over the interstate bridge in the distance. His blood pounded in his ears, and his shoulders tingled like usual, but that was his only indication that he was still uneasy. It was serene inside Lilydale; voices and music drifted like rustling reeds. And the view over the river basin was spectacular, with the skyline of the city northwards past a mirror-bright lake below them.

"Do you know any riddles?"

Andrew jumped, looking sharply away from the scenery and down to his elbow. The woman from the Night Market sat right behind him. With her hair unwrapped, Andrew saw she had two small ivory horns on her brow at the edge of her hairline. Her ears were small and protruded like a doe's.

"Syabira, right?"

She nodded. "Riddles?"

While she gazed up at him expectantly, Andrew wetted his lips and smiled faintly. "Yeah, I know heaps. Let me think."

Back inside the hut, Ingrid and Micah gazed at one another in scrutinous silence. Ingrid kept her eyes on him as she lowered herself to a cushion opposite Micah. Slowly, she removed the antler crown from her head and set it on a stand of lashed together branches that was clearly made for it. With her fingers, she combed out her curls. All the while, her attention remained fast on him. He seemed to know she was still assessing, and he remained quite still, unblinking, expression open and hopeful.

Ingrid stretched across the table and poked his nose. "Whatever you say, Nightshade Boy."

Micah let out his breath.

"Maybe if I say I support you, you'll come around more often," she muttered.

Sighing, Micah picked at a cuticle and said, "Yeah. Maybe."

She eyed him for a moment longer, her wine-red irises swirling into a softer rose hue when Micah looked up and gave her a faint smile. Her lips didn't move, but the tiniest crinkles appeared beneath her painted eyes.

Ingrid lifted something heavy off the shelves beside them and set it in front of her on an ornate silver stand. She pulled back a cloth that flowed like water to reveal a sphere clear as a bubble. The candles reflected in its iridescent surface like starlight.

"Holy shit," whispered Micah. "It's beautiful."

Nodding, Ingrid picked a fleck of dust off the glass. "I had to go down to New Orleans in order to find someone I believed truly had the Sight—a swamp faerie," Ingrid added with disdain. "I brought them gifts for a week before they agreed to teach me their craft."

"It's awesome," Micah said.

"I agree." She grazed the globe with her fingertips and then tucked a dark curl behind her ear, which came to an elegant point and was lined with tarnished gold hoops. Then she looked down at Micah. "Is there more that you want? From me."

He hesitated. "Honestly, it depends on where he is."

She dropped her gaze. "Micah, if your father is in the Redwoods…"

Micah rubbed his temple. Hearing Ingrid say the word triggered too much in him. Too many images. Too many feelings.

Rainy gray sky, deep red wood chips, dark leaves obscuring the land beyond, ferns taller even than the Folk. Branches dripping with moss. Velvety, thick green undergrowth. Elk treading cautiously in the distance, maybe ordinary animals, or maybe cursed humans. Lilydale was beautiful, but the Folk's Redwoods took his breath away.

But it wasn't just the scenery. He'd have stayed for the scenery.

The Redwood Queen put on great hunts like nobility hunting foxes, with her two red hounds flanking her. Only she wasn't hunting foxes, she was hunting humans. Even when she couldn't bother to go catch humans herself, she would send her underlings—often including Ingrid—to the perimeter of her domain to set traps for hikers.

Hikers like Micah's father.

Once captured, they would be teased and tormented and pleasured until they wept for the Redwoods. Until the lives they left behind were just a dream, and all they desired was just as unreal.

Julian was a special capture, as the Redwood Queen had chosen him to be her sire. Faeries had a difficult time reproducing biologically, so she expected to keep him for as long as it took. As far as Micah understood it, Julian's relationship with the Redwood Queen was never consensual.

Swallowing sickly sweet bile, he nodded again. "Then I'm going to the Redwoods."

Nonplussed, Ingrid nodded silently. She turned her attention to her scrying glass. Her striking eyes grew distant, unfocused, concentrating. She bit her lip with a bright white canine and stroked the orb with her fingers. She spoke soft words that sounded like a rushing stream.

The orb flickered, dim at first and then blindingly bright, blinking a few times as if a projector bulb was firing up an image. Ingrid's breathing quickened. The strange sounding words she continued whispering made Micah's ears ring.

Micah leaned forward. Within the orb, a misty lens showed cars rushing past, out of focus. Treetops. Gray sky, then a glimpse of sunlight, as if the vision was going so fast the weather had shifted. Then the vision pulled back to show his father, sitting with his back to something, hands folded on his knees. His eyes were glassy and his lips curled with pleasure.

The image went dark.

"W-we need to see more!" Micah exclaimed. He stared at his own face reflected back at him, curved, distorted, contorted with dread.

Ingrid asked expressionlessly, "Do we?" She draped the cloth over the orb. "You didn't recognize that vessel?"

Micah began to shake his head and then stopped short. He dropped his forehead into his hands. "Fuck," he said with a groan. "Her chariot."

She released a sigh through her nose. "The Redwood Queen is baiting you, Micah."

Hugging himself, he curled up as fog burned all rational thoughts from his brain. He never knew the name of his own mother. Nobody did, so they said. He only called her Your Majesty, even when he was as tall as her knee. She'd kept Micah's father in a gilt cage beside her on the dais. When she bore Micah and he'd lived, Julian was no longer needed, but she wouldn't set him free. Micah understood when he was older that there was a good chance he wouldn't survive infancy, and the Redwood Queen wanted to be able to pick Julian back up like a toy she'd discarded. Even after that, he still believed that Julian's continued imprisonment was used to manipulate Micah.

Julian's quarters had been—not inhumane. Not a concrete cell. But small and barred from the outside. He had books and food and a washroom, but no electronics. Micah was allowed to visit him one day per week. They spent the whole day in his chambers, as Julian was not permitted to leave the manor grounds. Micah remembered every single visit from the time he turned five and on. There were over seven hundred days spent in that little room, but each one burned like its own bonfire in his mind. All his dad had gotten to do for him was teach, and encourage, and try to hide his pain. He made Micah play mahjong and chess with him, and they would read a novel or a philosophy book per week while Micah was away and talk about it when he came to visit. Julian taught him long division and chemistry, slow and stalled of course, but tirelessly. It was Julian who made sure Micah had some grasp of human history. Micah collected the newspapers from the Lake Sylvia State Park building each week and went through them with Julian. They would analyze politics, talk about the stock market, and make up imaginary plots for the movies that were showing in theaters.

Once, when he was about fourteen, Micah rushed into his dad's chamber with a bouquet of ferns and cinqfoils. As a teen, he was a bit eccentric, trying to find his fashion sense among a court of beautiful creatures who dressed in nature and gossamer and silk. He ended up with hot pink jeans, a crushed velvet vest, jewelry Ingrid made, and flowers in his hair. He was lucky cameras didn't work in the Redwoods.

"Dad," he exclaimed, sliding into his cedar chair by the window. The walls in Julian's chamber were deep orange, as he was housed in the heart of the Queen's massive Redwood tree, about four hundred feet off the ground. "The cinqfoils remind me of your eyes. Super amber." He slid the bouquet into a vase Julian kept on his table, as Micah always brought flowers.

Julian said hoarsely, "Beautiful, as always." He wiped his nose and sniffed, and then wiped his eyes as he turned away from the window to face Micah. He managed a smile.

Micah stilled. "Dad?"

"Sorry, bud." He took a drink from a goblet filled with green wine the Folk fermented themselves.

"Are you okay? What can I do?" Micah clambered off his chair—he was very clumsy at fourteen—and knelt beside his father's seat. Julian was only in his thirties, but the lines in his face were that of a much older man. The Queen kept him dressed like a thrall, in a tattered brown tee and jeans he'd worn probably for the last decade. He needed glasses, but the Queen wouldn't let him wear them.

"N-nothing. I'm sorry, son. I don't want you to worry." Julian looked away, swiping at his nose again with fingers that trembled.

"Dad," said Micah more firmly. "Talk to me."

Julian's expression crumpled. His hazelnut complexion was washed out from being kept indoors, making him look sickly. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he kept wiping them away before they fell. "Sometimes I-I get in my head. This…this is not the life I imagined for myself, kiddo. I wanted to be an architect, and now I live in a tree." He choked on a laugh.

Micah didn't smile. "Dad," he whispered sadly. "You can talk to me about this stuff."

"Why bother? There's nothing we can do about it," said Julian. "Maybe if one of my…" he trailed off.

"What?"

"Maybe if Her Majesty hadn't killed all my friends," Julian choked. "But I'm it. The lucky survivor." He smiled, bitter.

Guilt burned in Micah's chest as he held his dad's hands, realizing he'd never thought how miserable Julian must be, imprisoned by a faerie queen who pretended he didn't exist.

"You don't have to call her ‘Her Majesty,'" Micah said. "She's a bitch."

Julian gazed out the window, smiling faintly, dreamily. "Don't talk about your mother like that."

After this conversation with his father, Micah's feelings about Julian's circumstances shifted violently. He was complacent about it before then, but for the rest of his teens, he became increasingly protective of his father. He tried to sneak him in a cell phone he'd picked up at Montesano, but it didn't work in the Redwoods. When the phone was discovered by Sivarthis, a member of the Queen's guard, the Queen ordered Julian to be beaten. She made Micah watch.

Micah petitioned Ingrid for her help, but she had been around the Redwood Queen for enough decades that she was reluctant to get involved. Her best way to interact with her mother was to not interact with her. But Micah's restlessness just kept getting worse, and so did his attitude. Ingrid worried he'd get himself in trouble, and he had little enough to his credit as the Queen's half-breed son to lose any more esteem.

Then Micah turned twenty. He'd seen enough, and worried enough for his dad, and realized how dangerous everything really was in the Redwoods. Though she was reluctant, Micah got Ingrid to agree to get Julian out of the Redwoods. She charmed a group of humans from Montesano into wandering near the perimeter of the Queen's domain, and effectively lured the Queen out on a hunt.

With Julian sober, alert, and determined to get out even if it killed him, he and Micah escaped the Redwoods during heavy rain, covered in mud and moss so they could disappear if a faerie looked twice at them. Julian seemed surprised, as if it shouldn't have been as easy for him and Micah to escape without being seen. Micah credited his desperation and assumed it gave him extra stealth. It just seemed easier to find mossy trees to hide within when they crossed paths with a Redwood guard. It seemed Folk looked right through them, like the trees came to their aid.

When they reached the edge of Lake Sylvia State Park, Ingrid appeared out of the shadow of a cedar tree.

"I'm leaving with you," she told him. For the first time since he'd known her, she wasn't wearing her crown of bronze branches. Instead, her curls were restrained in tight French braids.

Micah's jaw dropped. "You're what?"

She shook her head. "Don't ask questions. But I'm done with the Redwoods, too. Now. I know where we should go. It's in Minnesota. Are you ready?"

"Micah," said Ingrid evenly. He snapped back to the present. "Look at me, Micah." It sounded like she'd said his name more times than he'd heard. He lifted his head from his knees and stared listlessly at her. She crouched close to him, taking his hand. "You said yourself your father cannot let go of the Redwoods. He's a prisoner to what it made him feel. Why not let him live out his days where he wants to be?"

"No!" Micah said. He shoved her back by the shoulders. She limply allowed this, too stunned to be angry. "You don't understand! He doesn't love it. He's addicted to it. On his good days he says that it's like a craving in his bones. If you think that's good for someone, you're delusional." Micah climbed to his feet. "I will not give him to her. I will die trying to get him out if that's what it takes."

"You're an idiot," remarked Ingrid, still crouched, chin on her palm.

Micah set his jaw. "Fine." Moving back toward her doorway, he added more gently, "Thank you for your help." Ramming his shoulder into her heavy door, he pushed himself back into daylight.

Andrew jumped up at once as Micah emerged and let the door swing closed behind him.

Covering his face, Micah dropped into a crouch. He made himself small, childlike, half concealed by the fat hydrangea blossoms growing against Ingrid's hut.

Andrew knelt beside him and slung his arm around Micah's shuddering shoulders. "Hey, what is it? What happened to your dad?"

Before Micah calmed himself enough to answer, the bronze door creaked open. Ingrid stepped out beside Micah, her hand spread on the door, her eyes downcast and glinting like blood as she glared at Andrew.

She said, "The Redwood Queen took Julian back."