14. The Repair

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Micah stirred, facedown, the last vibrating ring of his phone in his back jeans pocket rousing him from darkness.

He blinked, blind and empty. Under his bare chest it was soft and plush, and heavy blankets lay atop him up to his neck. He was cozy enough, but in the way of waking from a nightmare. The fire pulsing in his shoulder left nothing to doubt: the fight with the witches had been real.

"You're awake."

Soft candlelight flickered to life. Micah struggled to turn his head, grinding his teeth at the pain from moving his neck. He looked up at Ingrid sitting with knees tucked up to her chest in the corner of the bed by his head. She was stringing clay beads onto a thread.

"H'long was I out?" he mumbled.

"Sixteen hours or so," she answered, sliding a bead down that clacked quietly into its neighbors. Her gaze flicked back up, dark and worried. "How do you feel?"

"Awful." His eyes stung, and he shut them and started to take a deep breath. It was an immediate mistake, and he shuddered as he released what little air he took in. He managed to grunt, "Can you make it better?"

"Yeah. Chamomile left something here. It's willow bark and…something stronger." She picked something up off the ledge over her head. "But we have to sit you up."

"Fine."

Ingrid slid a hand under his belly, and he got his right forearm under himself with such trouble it was as if he'd never moved a day in his life. She supported most of his weight until he was finally on his knees. His vision rocked like he was a capsizing boat and his mouth filled with saliva. Slapping his hand over his mouth, Micah groaned and hurriedly swallowed down the urge to vomit.

Ingrid gave him a little shot glass and held onto the small of his back while he tipped it down his throat. He made a nasty face and stuck out his tongue, and she traded the empty glass for a mug and helped him wash down the shot with mulled wine. Micah drained the mug and felt it settle warm and heavy in his stomach. "It's bad. Isn't it?" he asked, feeling his pulse hammering in his shoulder.

She nodded. "It was a long blade. It tore some muscle. And you still have a sensitivity to iron, even if it isn't like mine."

Micah closed his eyes, since any other movement would hurt. "I'm grateful you were there."

"I am too." When he looked over at her, her slender brows were low over her narrowed eyes, glinting with a dozen candle flames that turned her irises to garnets.

Micah asked in a whisper that barely used the air in his lungs, "Did you tell my dad what happened?"

"Chamomile did. She thought it best. But she minimized the extent of your injury. Said you would stay here for a bit."

"That's good." The shot seeped into his bones, clearing his head slightly, dulling the pain so he could almost endure it. "Can you help me up?"

He used her shoulder to push himself to his feet while Ingrid steadied him with a hand under his forearm. She put the branch of birchwood in his fist and braced his elbow while he transferred his weight to the shaft of wood, which notched into the brick floor and kept him planted. It was as thick as an arm bone, and almost Micah's height, trembling as if excited to be held. Ingrid's lips curled with a proud smile as she witnessed him reunited with the staff. The humming in her blood recognized man and magic twining around each other, eagerly exploring this new channel to communicate and flourish. Spring-green dust crawled through the veins in Micah's knuckles, racing away from the staff and up his forearm. The staff creaked quietly as a fizzy glow moved from his hand, into the wood, and up to the pale, jagged broken end of the branch. It illuminated the slivers of the wood with jeweled green light. Micah blinked, disbelieving, lifting his gaze from the staff and fixing Ingrid with luminous amethyst eyes which, just briefly, were ringed in evergreen.

"You've never looked more like yourself," she told him.

His chest rose and fell in a quick, sharp gasp, tears lining his lashes. Slowly, the light faded out of the branch except for a soft glow on the end like a plastic star losing its charge on the ceiling.

Chamomile's entrance into the hut had been silent, but based on the look of awe on her soft features, she had seen the entire sequence of Micah and his staff calibrating.

When Micah turned around, Chamomile stood in front of him holding a long scarf. He jumped, hunching his shoulders automatically. Baring his teeth, he groaned and shut his eyes for a moment. Inhaling through his nose, he opened his eyes as he exhaled.

"I need to tie up your arm," she told him, and then climbed onto Ingrid's table so she could reach his shoulder. She carefully bent his arm across his stomach and then used the scarf as a sling which she looped over his neck. "It needs to be mostly immobile, but I regret to inform you that you will need to move it regularly, which will not be enjoyable." Inspecting him with a frown, she let out a sigh, then pecked his cheek with a kiss.

He smiled a little and hugged her small waist.

"The liquid was to fortify you." Chamomile was all business. "This should maintain your wellbeing." She gripped his jaw in her hand and then pried open his mouth.

"Hmph!"

Chamomile set a small leaf-wrapped pebble on his tongue. "Swallow."

He did, and then groaned. "I'm not a dog! I could have…"

"Shut up. I'll be keeping you medicated for a few days to help you heal and make sure you aren't in agony. You're to notify me at once if you feel worse, feverish, or faint. I'll be watching you."

"Who are you, Ingrid?"

The accused scoffed loudly behind him.

"You terrified us," Chamomile told him. "Don't get hurt like this again."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What's this?" She gave his staff a light shake. "You finally have a conduit?"

"I don't know." He gave her a look like she should have known he wouldn't know what it meant. "But it tickles and feels safe."

Chamomile nodded, glancing once more at Ingrid as her expression clouded. Micah felt too tired to ask her about it. He made his way slowly to Ingrid's door like an old man with a cane. He glanced at his untied Docs, but left the hut barefooted instead.

Small, doe-eyed Syabira stood up near Ingrid's door with a bundle of spruce in her hands wrapped in red ribbon. "You're awake." Expression soft, she spoke like a refreshing breeze. "What a relief."

Micah grimaced. "Does the whole compound know?"

Syabira nodded, her cloud of curls bobbing. "Word spread quickly that you were wounded by a witch. We are all aggravated by that. It's…ominous."

"Tell me about it." He dropped his gaze.

"But we also heard how well you handled yourself," Syabira added. "I remember when you first arrived in Lilydale. You were hardly yet a man, and so reluctant to be among the Folk, and certainly unaware of your natural gifts. Not so now."

"I'm working toward formidable," he remarked dryly.

Syabira smiled kindly. "For being so young, you are well on your way." She curtseyed slightly, and then trudged past him and disappeared behind Ingrid's hut.

After she walked away, Micah snorted and rubbed his neck. "That's right. Youngest forty-two-year-old ever."

Awkwardly leaning his staff into the crook of his elbow so he could use his phone, he flipped through his notifications. They were mostly from Andrew, some from Julian, and one or two from Sam.

He blinked, his sluggish brain trying to make inferences. Andrew had texted him? He tapped on it.

The text had come in almost five hours ago, early in the morning. Micah gasped. The movement sent a lightning bolt of pain through his shoulder and arm all the way to his fingertips. His vision blurred. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger and took several shallow breaths to try to collect himself. Without uncovering his eyes, he tried to gather the idea to himself that…Andrew would be home soon. Micah would have to face him. Looking like this. Sitting on…how many days had it been now? Was it really only four? Based on his feelings of anger and betrayal, it felt like it had been years.

And he'd kissed Chamomile. Micah's knees went weak. He wobbled against the staff and half-fell down the steps, making his way like an invalid toward the seats around the fire pit. Sweat rose on the small of his back as he made it to a squishy white toadstool and held his breath while he gingerly sat.

"Here," declared a faerie with twists of white hair and skin gray-brown like maple tree bark. They held out a puffy pastry that Micah took gratefully, and then filled a crystal cup with water and set it within Micah's reach.

"Thanks, Nox." His voice was hushed.

Nox nodded, their rectangular pupils thoughtfully beholding Micah before they sat on a stump next to him. "The witches shouldn't have harmed you, under our circumstances," they said in a voice formless as the snap of bark breaking off a tree trunk.

Micah snorted. "Agreed." He fell silent, greedily emptying the water cup before taking a large bite of the perfect pastry. Getting stabbed worked up an appetite.

Or maybe he was just anxious. Okay, terrified. Because Andrew was going to be home soon. And that might mean he was about to tell Micah that the lake had cooled his feelings, that they were over, that Micah might as well have died outside Diana's house.

He pressed his forehead into the heel of his hand, goosebumps rising on his skin as the pastry threatened to come back up.

Scratchy but toasty wool fell over his shoulders. He sat up, blinking. A plaid flannel draped over him as Nox settled back onto their stump.

"Hey, thanks," Micah rasped, winking at Nox.

"There is always a spare cozy blanket in Lilydale," said Nox with a sage nod.

Micah grinned, taking another bite of the pastry while Nox filled up his water. As the faerie settled into silence, goat eyes returning to the fire they stoked with a large stick, Micah tried to let the warmth and the bonfire and the butter on his tongue trick him into believing everything was going to be fine.

The sky was velvety navy blue when Andrew pulled onto the curb opposite Sylvandale Road in the city of Lilydale. He was almost out of gas, his bladder was nearly bursting, and so was his heart. He had rehearsed his conversation with Micah a dozen times, the last handful of which were had aloud, while Fionna slumbered in the backseat with an apple juice clutched in one hand.

For most of the trip, Andrew had avoided thinking about his mother. He'd gotten used to doing that over the years, after all. It wasn't the first heartache from her, and honestly it wasn't even the worst. She'd been meaner when she was coming down from a Fae food high. This time, she had simply betrayed him.

Andrew let himself out onto the road, the quiet of the street enveloping him and the cold nipping his nose. He stretched aggressively, groaning, sore from folding his long legs for hours and hours in the car. He let out a large plume of warm breath into the air, slipped back on his jacket, and zipped it up to his chin. Edging around the boot of the car, Andrew pulled open the passenger door and leaned down in time to see Fionna jolt awake, a bark whooshing out of her little lungs. She jerked against the seatbelt, her apple juice sloshing noisily in her hand. Her darting eyes were fearful, the pupils huge. Then she found Andrew, and a toothy grin spread across her chapped lips. She reached for him and came against the seatbelt, glared down at it, and put it in her mouth to gnaw on it with an agitated whine.

"I'll let you out, kiddo, just, hold on. We're going into the woods, but you have to stay with me, okay? It's not…it isn't as wild as Up North. I don't want you to get lost or run into anyone."

Fionna stopped struggling while he spoke, though he suspected by the furrow in her little forehead that she had no idea what he was saying. She followed his hands as he grasped the buckle for her seatbelt.

"Stay with me." Andrew spoke firmly the way people commanded their dogs. "Okay?"

"Okay." Fionna tried out the word in her mouth like a new flavor of tea. She gave her apple juice a shake and then pitched it at the floor of the Saturn.

Andrew stifled a sigh, unbuckled her, and then immediately grasped her hand. She blinked at her fingers in his, and then clambered out onto the road. Fionna craned her neck back, snuffling audibly like a dog, looking down the residential street across from them with a wide-eyed and curious gaze.

"Mistake," muttered Andrew. "This was a huge mistake." He locked the Saturn with the key in the front door, stuffed the keyring in his jeans pocket, and turned to face the guard rail. Fionna was already tugging on his hand, leaning over to peer down at the steep drop off buried in undisturbed snow that was glowing in the twilight.

Entering the bluffs by Sylvandale was much more treacherous than going from the Brickyard Trail, but it was at least a mile closer to the faerie compound. And he was in a hurry.

"We're going slowly," Andrew told the pup sternly, and hypocritically.

Eyes alight, Fionna stuck her leg over the guard rail, blinked up at him, and nudged his hand with her cheek. Andrew obliged, climbing into the snow and letting himself slide into the trunk of a barren linden tree. Fionna didn't falter, the grace of her wolf form seemingly transferring into her gawky little human body as she bent to sniff the base of the tree, pawing at the dead leaves clinging to the underbrush and squeaking with excitement. She let Andrew brace himself on her hand as they picked their way down nearly vertical outcroppings of limestone, ducking under scraggly branches, weaving around decaying logs.

Her body stiffening sharply, Fionna's snuffling suddenly intensified. She pulled out of Andrew's grip and donned her wolfskin, jaws opening, nose skyward. Andrew, it turned out, was using her to steady himself much more than he realized. He immediately lost his footing, his boot skidding over loosely packed snow and plunging him onto his hip and his shoulder. The snow was so deep he got a face full of it, straight into his mouth and ear and nostrils.

Through his wintry vision, he saw the little wolf bounding through the snow, tail pinwheeling gleefully as she took off after a panicking squirrel. But when Andrew sat up and spat snow with a curse and a growl, Fionna froze. She turned back, ears forward to find him, then swiveling back as she hurried through her tracks and back to him. Whistling, Fionna snaked under his arm and helped him stand with his hand on her sturdy back. Andrew grumbled a complaint, his joints singing, but they relentlessly trudged on until the frozen creek and the cobbled fence was in view distantly beneath them.

Down below, Ingrid raised her head in her hut, inhaling deeply in a manner quite similar to Fionna. She raised an eyebrow and then finished folding her bloodied blankets. The frightening and coppery stench was overwhelming, but she was certain she smelled something else out of place. She set them on the bricks near her door and then let herself outside, sniffing again. Something odd hummed against the northeastern gate into Lilydale, and it was on the air as well. It smelled…wet. She slid through underbrush and snow-touched bushes up to a small gap in the cobblestone fence and an even smaller archway through the ice wall.

Dressed warmly with most of his red hair obscured by a hat and a hood, Andrew crouched in the arch ahead of her. He was dappled with caked-on patches of snow, his cheeks bright red.

With some relief and some admonishment, Ingrid began, "I see you've made it home—"

Andrew looked up at her, fearful as a fox, eyes wide. One hand was braced on the cobbles, and the other held the scruff of a small, fluffy timber wolf with eager golden eyes.

"—Andrew," finished Ingrid, like a mother whose child had brought home a turtle from the park.

"Uh. Hi. I brought some Oreos. But they're up in the car." He adjusted his boot against the foot of the ice wall.

The wolf's thick tail wagged, just slightly, cautiously, hopeful. She bent muscular legs while her pink tongue lapped her lips in appeasement.

"You brought home a faoladh," Ingrid said blankly.

"Um." Andrew felt his face contort. "How exactly do you know about faoladh?"

"How could I spend time in Leinster without spending time with the local faoladh?" She crouched to be nose to nose with the wolf and scratched her chin. "Let me see you." Her voice took on a gentle quality Andrew had only heard once or twice in two years, and only then when she was speaking to Micah.

Fionna threw off her wolfskin at once. The tawny-haired girl hopped from foot to foot, uneasily avoiding Ingrid's gaze as she reached out and wrapped her hand around two of Andrew's fingers.

"So young." Ingrid clicked her tongue. She glanced up. Andrew gaped at her with wide eyes. "What?" she asked irritably.

"I…she's submissive to you," Andrew said.

"Canines are to me what felines are to Micah." Ingrid shrugged. "All the better when they are magical."

Andrew rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly. "Naturally."

"I would be jealous of me, too." She sniffed.

Now he didn't hide his eye roll. "Great, so, uh, can she stay here for a bit?"

"What were you planning to do if I said no?" asked Ingrid as she straightened and fixed Andrew with a withering glare.

"Uh." He blinked at her. Then finally he shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I wing things all the time. Does that mean you're saying yes?"

"Of course. She's a good girl. Aren't you?"

At Ingrid's sweet tone, Fionna instantly pulled back on her wolfskin, bouncing around Ingrid's feet before rolling onto her back and showing her fluffy white belly. Ingrid crouched and scratched the faoladh's bristly winter coat.

Andrew edged past the threshold into the compound and let out a happy sigh as he unzipped his jacket and let it drop off his shoulders. "I'm permanently frostbitten."

Ingrid pinched the back of his knee and made it buckle, surprising a yelp from him as he bent a knee.

"You deserve the frostbite," Ingrid snapped. Standing, she ordered the faoladh, "Come along, little one. I'm sure he didn't feed you properly."

Fionna's tail wagged and she licked her lips again, but Andrew shot a hand down to her head with a quick, sharp look at Ingrid that he tried too late to rein in.

"Calm down, dad," remarked Ingrid with a raised eyebrow. "She's simply submissive to me. She is still yours. Consider this like a doctor's appointment."

Reluctantly, Andrew scratched Fionna behind the ear, nodded faintly, and removed his hand. Fionna immediately thrust her snout toward the ground, snuffling loudly and wagging her tail. Ingrid's gaze slowly shifted from Andrew to the faoladh as she took a graceful step after the wolf.

Before she could get away, Andrew asked hurriedly, "Is Micah here?"

Ingrid waved her hand over her shoulder at him, and Andrew assumed that was…not a no. With an indignant huff, he sloshed through barely solid ice collected on the steps, following them toward the heart of Lilydale. Pale, fragrant campfire smoke rose from the large fire pit near the western cliffs, drawing Andrew in with the hope that he could use it as a vantage point to find Micah.

A white-haired faerie stoked the fire, looking up with eerie rectangular pupils when Andrew approached. Andrew thought for a moment that the faerie was alone, but their gaze flicked away from Andrew with their brows raised on their charcoal-colored forehead. Andrew followed their line of sight and—

The flames parted like curtains, flashing off hair green like sea glass curtained forward over a bowed head. When the fire-tending faerie looked over, Micah raised his head. And then he saw Andrew.

"Micah." Forgetting his misgivings, the sight of his faerie prince struck like dawn breaking after the longest night.

Warped though he was by the sheen of heat, Micah's expression was wrong—haunted, agonized.

Andrew halted, hands curling into fists as he called unsteadily, "I…can I…can we talk?"

Micah's face crumpled. He managed to nod before dropping his head onto his hand as Andrew rushed across the clearing, fingers of heat from the fire clawing against his legs. Micah was sobbing before Andrew even reached him, the heartbreak and pain in that discordant sound pushing Andrew to his knees in front of Micah's toadstool. Andrew started to reach for his knees, his fingers tingling before they even made contact, but he froze. Micah hadn't spoken, and Andrew had broken his heart this week. He couldn't touch him yet.

Micah sniffed and smeared his hand across his face. The flannel blanket slid down from his tawny shoulders.

Andrew bit back a gasp of horrible disbelief. "Micah?" Deep purple bruising marred Micah's tattooed chest, partially obscured by several lengths of hospital bandaging wrapped around him. His left arm hung in a makeshift scarf sling. "Wh-what happened?"

As Micah's face crumpled again and fresh tears leaked out of his burgundy eyes, Andrew grazed his fingers over Micah's shoulders. His skin was hot like sunbaked stone, damp with sickly sweat. Andrew hung onto him, murmuring pacifying nonsense and a whisper of, "Breathe."

It took several minutes before Micah could breathe again, his ribs aching and his shoulder burning. The touch of Andrew's hands on his scorching skin was like a cool breeze, like finding his way home, like a balm on his wounds.

"I…I-I got ambushed by Diana and her friends," he rasped. "She didn't like me, Andrew. She was setting me up." When he managed to look up at Andrew, his eyes were burgundy with fear, but flickered plum-purple when Andrew took Micah's face in his hands and crushed his lips against the hinge of his jaw, an apology and a plea in the gesture. Micah couldn't help but wind his uninjured arm around Andrew's shoulders, smelling unfamiliar shampoo and something rustic and feral in his hair. He shuddered as Andrew grazed his lips along his neck and onto his collarbone.

Against his chin, Andrew whispered, "I'm so sorry. I'm s…I'm so sorry, love. I should have been there."

Micah nodded. "I wish you had been. I wish you hadn't left me like that. I know you needed to go see your mum, but…god, like that?"

As Andrew pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, he explained, "I did all of it wrong. I never wanted a break. I just…wanted to be right, and I got so lost in the fog that I didn't believe you'd ever want to shine your light on me."

"I know." Micah smiled weakly. "You just got so stubborn, Andrew. Can you try to listen to me next time, please?"

"Yes," agreed Andrew with a little curling smile. "I promise."

Tilting his chin, Micah brushed their lips together. Almost immediately, just as Andrew tasted the strange medicinal quality of his lips, Micah pulled back, his eyes growing wide.

"What?" Andrew asked, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"

"I-I kissed Chami," Micah blurted. He clamped his hand over his mouth. "I'm so sorry. I don't want that over our heads at all. It was so stupid, but…I was lonely, and angry, and none of that's an excuse, I know, I hate that—"

Before he could keep rambling, Andrew held up his hand, and Micah fell silent almost at once. Micah's confession hit a wall of numbness inside Andrew that wasn't ready to thaw yet. It made sense, and Micah had been with Chamomile before, and it was devastating and yet, was it? Andrew had pressured Micah to do something like that.

"Do you want to be with her?" he managed to ask, which was the most important part of whatever transpired between Micah and the goblin—who would most certainly be dealt with later.

Incredulity flashed across Micah's features. "Of course not!"

Andrew nodded slowly, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. "That's good." He coughed into his sleeve. "I'm…I'm hurt, but you were too. I'm disappointed, but I was prepared for this possibility. I had to be. I told you to do it."

Biting his lip to keep it from trembling, Micah shook his head. "Not really, though. I get that now."

"Regardless." Andrew's eyes slid shut. "I'm happy you regret it. I'm happy you don't wish for a life where you could go back to be with someone like Chami."

"I only want a life with you." Micah cupped Andrew's cool, high cheekbone in his palm. Andrew nuzzled into his hand. "But you can be angry at me, okay?" Micah let his hand fall to grip Andrew's fingers. Coffee-dark eyes fluttered open to gaze thoughtfully at their joined hands. "I want you to know I can handle it. I want to handle all of you. Not just the parts you're working so hard to control. I…Kate, at the bar, she said you used to scream at your mom, and…"

Andrew sighed softly. Micah's hand around his felt like a safe harbor. Like he could never become unmoored again. "Yelling and screaming makes me feel worse." He thought guiltily of all the things he'd said to his mother. Years ago. Just this morning. "It did then, too. I worked through that kind of rage in therapy. I don't want to be like that anymore. And I've barely begun to process my time with my mum, and I come home to find you injured? A kiss with Chami is the least of my worries at the moment." Pulling out the elastic from his shiny hair, he combed through it with his fingers and gazed up the hill at the kiln throne.

Micah was briefly spellbound by Andrew's hair—red enough when not lit with firelight, now looking like it was made of magma. He'd been captivated by Chamomile's hair in her hut, it was true, and she was a faerie…but Andrew looked ethereal too, with the planes of his face carved in the sharp relief of golden firelight and deep blue shadows, with his hair glowing, with his eyes deep pools of darkness. Micah wasn't even conscious he was reaching out until the smooth strands of Andrew's loose hair slipped between the pads of his finger like water.

The gesture tugged a smile from Andrew's lips, which drew Micah in like he was a moth, curling his fingers against the nape of Andrew's neck, pulling him in to kiss him again. This time, they both melted into each other like the heat from the fire turned them to candle wax. Gingerly, Andrew threaded his arms around Micah's waist, well below his bandages even though the risk of injuring him further still pinched at Andrew's thoughts. He opened his lips to welcome Micah's tongue and let out a breath that turned into a moan of relief and desire. The soft sound made Micah grip him tighter and almost pull his hair before he caught himself, letting their kiss end with a sigh. Andrew's eyes kept glowing like embers as he leaned on Micah's knees, lips glistening, the collar of his scoop-neck shirt falling below his clavicle, which almost pulled Micah in again to taste the wilderness on his skin.

Andrew tore his eyes away from Micah's features, distracted by the taste of fresh-cut grass that landed on his tongue out of nowhere. He blinked, peering around Micah's scuffed and stained jeans.

A creamy white branch of birchwood, strong but slender, leaned against the toadstool near Micah's legs. It stayed close to him despite how its height really should have made it tip over, like it wasn't comfortable with the idea of not touching him. Andrew hardly needed to ask what it was; Micah's springlike magic emanated from the length of birchwood like an incense stick.

Andrew glanced up with his brows raised. "You have a magic staff now," he observed.

"Yeah." Micah blushed. "Formed in my time of need, and whatnot. Chamomile called it a conduit." He picked up the staff with his good arm. Micah turned it in his palm, the staff bringing a giddy skip into his heartbeat until he set it in Andrew's hands. To Andrew, it seemed to breathe in time with the shallow rise and fall of Micah's belly.

"Micah," whispered Andrew, rubbing one of the coarse little knobs of darkness in the wood. "This is bloody amazing. I'm so impressed."

Micah shrugged and then immediately bared his teeth in a grimace, flinching and reaching for his wrapped shoulder.

Flinty dark eyes tracked the movement. "What did she do to you?"

"Her witch friends stabbed me with an athame." He blinked, shellshocked. "Iron, too."

Andrew became still as a predator with eyes on his prey. His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. After a long moment, he set the birchwood staff by their feet and leaned his forearms on Micah's knees. "Can I kill her?" He sounded flippant, but his eyes turned to stone with his question.

Micah's throat tightened, making his voice tremble. "I-I appreciate that, but…" He shook his head slightly and explained, "We worked together once after, um…the blizzard. It was pretty awful. I was really mean. So then she no-showed. The district manager sent me out to do a wellness check on her."

"How'd she know about you?" He glanced up. "Did you tell her? That you're half-Fae?"

As he stroked Andrew's cheek like he would a cat, Micah shook his head. "No, of course not. She had this hypothesis that I…that I would smell different, and from what you've told me, that's correct. So as soon as she kissed me, she confirmed it, and—"

"Oh, no." Andrew groaned.

"What?"

"She wanted to exploit your blood," he ventured.

Micah's brow furrowed. "How the hell would you…" His eyes followed Andrew's hand as it dug in his jeans pocket and withdrew the partly emptied vial of the blood ward. "Huh? What happened to that?"

"Liath decided to experiment with it while I was asleep this morning."

"Andrew…" sighed Micah, shoulders slumping, his hand coming up to cup Andrew's cheek. "Shit. I'm sorry. That's really disappointing."

"Yes. It would be, if I weren't so accustomed to her disappointing me." He rolled the vial between his fingers and then wedged it back into his pocket. Acknowledging Micah's grimace with a fleeting smile, Andrew said, "So it seems when we were apart, everyone was out for your blood. What even is it expected to do?"

"Fuck if I know." Micah shrugged, and then froze, baring his teeth with a moan of pain. "I need to quit with the shrugging," he groaned, squeezing Andrew's offered fingers. "We can't do this again. Shit goes down when we're apart."

"I promise you," swore Andrew, "next time I'll stay and fight."

Parting his lips to let out a steadying breath, Micah picked up Andrew's hand and spread it over his cheek. "That's all I need to hear." He drew Andrew close with two fingers on his chin, lashes fluttering closed, waiting for Andrew to kiss him. Wrapping an arm around Micah's neck, Andrew obliged, tender and gentle. It sewed up the rift between them leaving only a scar behind.

Micah opened his eyes with a smile. Then he gasped. "What the—wolf!" He hooked his good arm around Andrew's waist and jerked him away from the fire as a shaggy timber wolf slunk toward them with wary golden eyes, its head down and ears erect. Micah's sudden movement settled without mercy into his bones, pain stabbing through his chest. He gnashed his teeth and burrowed into Andrew's collar, fingers digging into his hip. "Fuck," he moaned. "We're gonna die."

"It's all right." Andrew kindly patted Micah's head and rested his hand there. "She came home with me."

Micah peered through one eye as Andrew extended his hand toward the creature, which trotted toward him with a steady and suspicious eye on Micah. It thrust its snout into Andrew's palm, shimmying under his hand so he petted the whole length of its tawny spine. The wolf then touched its wet black nose to Micah's hand where he clasped Andrew's waist, huffing hot air onto his fingers, nosing underneath his palm as if trying to get him off Andrew. But, fearlessly, Andrew shooed the wolf back with a shove to its scruffy throat.

Micah's eyes grew round as saucers, jaw dropping open. "What the hell."

"Ingrid said it was fine." Andrew wore the look of a student getting in trouble and claiming another teacher had given him permission.

Managing to wrench his gaze from the wolf—who still stared intently at him—he turned an awestruck stare toward Andrew. "What."

"Her name is Fionna." Andrew rubbed his thumb inside the wolf's heavily furred ear. As it blinked at Micah, its pink tongue stuck out between its lips.

"What!" Micah broke out of his shock with a shake of his head. "How do you know? Is it like me with cats?" On cue, the wolf lifted its large front foot off the limestone, swiping its black-padded paw over its head and then…as if throwing off a blanket, the wolf was a girl.

"What!" squawked Micah.

"Fionna!" announced the girl, throwing her arms up, sucking in her lower lip when she smiled in a way that was immediately evocative of the expression she'd just had as a wolf.

"Oh my god." Micah squished his cheeks between his hands. "Look at you! Fionna? It's so nice to meet you!"

"Meet." Her voice was kind of like a bark. Then on knobby knees she shuffled closer to Micah and sniffed the space where Micah's chest pressed into Andrew's waist with the same frantic intensity as she had as a dog. "An-roo?" she asked, scratching her chin, poking at Micah.

He laughed. "I'm Micah."

"I love him," Andrew explained, winding his arm through Micah's and clasping their hands together.

"Love," repeated the girl, nodding knowingly. She sniffed. Fionna's head tilted to the side as her uncanny gaze shifted back to Micah's face. She sniffed again as if she caught a scent, scurrying around him. The heat from her little body pressed into his shoulder as she investigated the gauze. She growled—a high-pitched noise that vibrated in Micah's chest. "Witches!" she gasped, back-pedaling and bumping into a large stump.

"Um." Andrew gripped Micah's hand tighter. "Why does she know that word?"

Micah snorted. "It's us. Of course it's all going to connect."

"Fionna, we're safe here." Andrew stretched out a hand toward her. "No witches. Promise."

She nodded faintly but stayed away, clambering onto the stump, tucking her knees into her chest, drumming her thick little fingers on her shins. "No witches."

Unwinding their hands, Andrew stood up, propping his hands on his hips. "It's getting late."

"Not really." Micah made a face at the sky. "Isn't it, like, five?"

"I got up early." Andrew glanced down with a wry crinkle of his eyes and reminded him, "You got stabbed."

"Ew. Don't say it aloud. It's freaky."

"When did it happen?"

"I don't know. Sometime yesterday afternoon. Ingrid said I was sleeping for sixteen hours or something. I'm not tired at all. Chamomile force-fed me medicine."

Andrew eyed him for a moment, deciding whether or not to say something snide. As the silence stretched longer, he chose not to, looking up at the rest of the compound. "Well, I'm not leaving you, so I'm going to go speak with Ingrid."

"Aw," whined Micah as Andrew strode determinedly up the steps toward her hut, leaving him alone around the fire with the wolf over his shoulder.

Andrew found Ingrid near an open-walled structure behind the kiln throne, speaking to a male faerie with moth wings folding and unfolding between his shoulders. The male glanced past Ingrid as Andrew approached, opened his wings, and launched off the ground. Flapping haphazardly, the male landed on the structure next to them, looked down at Andrew, and hissed.

Saluting the faerie, Andrew turned his eyes toward Ingrid.

Her lips curled in a smirk. "You certainly fear the Folk less than the first time you came here with Micah."

Andrew shrugged. "I'm not afraid of you anymore, so why would I be afraid of them? You could eat them for breakfast. Tell me you haven't bitten a faerie here before."

"Hm," was all Ingrid said.

"That's what I thought. Where was Micah sleeping?"

"In my hut," she answered. She ducked into the structure next to them. There seemed to be an enormous black cauldron inside. When she turned back, she extended a sealed bottle of water and a package of cheese crackers toward him.

"Oh. Wow. Thanks."

"Sarcasm?"

"Nope."

"Hm," was all Ingrid said.

"Is there somewhere else Micah and I could sleep tonight? I…I don't want to leave him again, especially not while he's injured."

She nodded in understanding. Striding away from Andrew, she stuck her head into a conical canvas tent close to her shelter. A pair of Folk squawked in alarm but scrambled outside immediately.

Andrew watched them with a swallow of guilt. But the two Folk chattered excitedly, "It's for Micah? We mean…Prince Micah? Wait. What should we call him?"

"Prince Micah," he repeated under his breath. The Folk must have warmed considerably to Micah while Andrew was out of town.

Ingrid murmured something.

"‘Micah' is not adequate," insisted the shorter faerie, a male with sunset-orange skin and fawn legs, who was dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and slippers. "He is the child of the Redwood Queen, like yourself, milady. He needs a title."

"Sorry, your Ladyship, but he's right," said the blue-hued female beside him. Her hair looked like a tuft of cotton candy. She was draped in a purple scarf which allowed her rainbow-flashing dragonfly wings to sit comfortably between her shoulders. "We could pay it no mind when he wasn't here often, but now…"

"Wasn't there something with nightshade?" asked the male.

Ingrid glanced imploringly over at Andrew.

Andrew shook his head. Nightshade Boy didn't seem right anymore. That was Micah's child self. His half-formed uncertain identity when he still desperately wanted to be human. That staff, though—it was a signal that Micah was changed. Grown up. Capable. Andrew rubbed his stubbly cheeks thoughtfully.

The two faeries turned glinting liquid eyes on him, waiting expectantly.

It had to be related to plants…and if Ingrid was a Lady, Micah had to be…

"Lord…Heartwood," he blurted.

The female faerie squealed and clapped her hands together. The male gave Andrew a look like he knew Andrew had just pulled that out of his ass.

"Lord Heartwood!" trilled the female. "I'm telling everyone." She spread pink dragonfly wings on her back and buzzed into the air.

Brows raised, Ingrid stared at Andrew.

Feeling a little pleased—at least he hadn't said something embarrassing—he shrugged, breaking the seal on the water and taking a long swig.

Ingrid shook her head at him. Then she stooped into the tent and emptied it of the faerie couple's belongings, most of which looked like musical instruments. She set them in a tidy stack and then peered inside calculatingly.

Andrew came to help her and then asked, "So, what is your conclusion about Fionna?"

"Be more specific." She straightened. There was a gilded chest outside her hut that she opened up on silent oiled hinges. She lifted out stacks of sweet-smelling blankets and set them in Andrew's outstretched arms.

"Well, for one, she seems to have innately taken to you."

"Magic calls to magic." Ingrid waved a hand dismissively.

"Hm. My mum said the same thing."

Ingrid gave him a folded futon mattress which he spread on the cobbled floor of the tent, and together they stacked piles of blankets and pillows and made a cozy cocoon bed like Ingrid had. Slightly hunched, Ingrid hung a large glass jar full of bouncing faerie lights from a hook at the crown of the tent. She put a pitcher of water and a large bowl in the corner, and then several towels beside it. She set a pink bar of soap dense with herbs and flowers on top of the towels.

Ingrid gestured to the setup. "This is what we typically do for grooming, but I'd be open to figuring out a more modernized arrangement for as long as you need to stay."

"Yeah. I suppose it's best if he heals from a magical wound among magical Folk," agreed Andrew.

Ingrid nodded. "Based on Julian's temperament, I don't think it would be good for him to see Micah until he's in better condition. For you, I will send someone up to the grocery for a selection of human-made foods. I don't expect you to nor hope you would consume Fae-made foods unless we know they've stopped affecting you."

Andrew looked skeptical. "What do you mean? That it's not a permanent effect?"

Ingrid hesitated. She crouched next to the cocoon bed and hugged her knees. "It's only a hypothesis at this point, but…Micah is half-human, and is not affected by Fae-spelled foods because he grew up on them. And you and him regularly…er…exchange…fluids."

Andrew blushed.

"I'm wondering if he may help you build up an immunity to Fae-spelled foods."

"Maybe." Andrew looked down. "The addiction thing is all…a bit fresh for me, though, so I'm not ready to chance it." When Ingrid gave him a blank look, he pulled out the half-gone blood ward from his pocket and held it up, explaining, "My mum used to be hooked on Fae-spelled foods from here, you know. So I think when she realized I had Micah's blood on me, she couldn't resist…seeing what she could do with it, I guess."

Ingrid frowned, setting her chin on her curled fingers. "Disappointing, I'm sure."

"Very much so."

"It's true for full Fae blood, you know. It's very powerful to humans. It usually kills people if they ingest it on purpose," Ingrid told him. "In the moments before death, it's very hallucinogenic. We sometimes did it on purpose to people in the Redwoods."

"Of course," sighed Andrew.

"Not many people get to spill half-Fae blood enough to know what it'll do. For you, his blood ward did make you immune to Fae charm. But I don't know why blood would hold significantly different properties from other fluids, hence my hypothesis."

Andrew fingered the vial for a moment before nodding and setting it down in the tent. "I like the possibility that she just wanted to…cure herself or something," he said. "It's clear the use of Fae-spelled foods was still affecting her."

"I'm sorry your mother succumbed to that kind of temptation." Ingrid couldn't say it if she didn't mean it. "That must have ruined your time together."

"I enjoyed the rest of it, mostly." Andrew gave a dismissive shrug. "That's more than I'm sure you can say for your mother."

She grimaced. "Indeed."

"I'm grateful you were willing to use your skills to give me the chance to see her again, even if it ended like that." Andrew smiled gently. "I appreciate you, Ingrid."

She looked as uncomfortable as he did when someone expressed their gratitude, swirling her finger over the tassels on her sash. "Um…um…I appreciate you too, Andrew."

He grinned.

Fionna shoved her head through the door flap and whistled a whine at them, ears sideways on her head.

For her part, Ingrid looked relieved about the interruption. She shooed the wolf back through the flap, and Andrew heard Fionna gurgle a long whining growl in protest. They followed Fionna outside, under a dark sky with the ice wall reflecting a myriad of lights back at them—the cool white of the stars, the burning firelight, and the milky yellow dots of the city lights.

He glanced between Fionna and Ingrid and asked, "How…civilized can she end up being?"

"With diligent teaching, relatively so," answered Ingrid. She fixed her wool shawl and tucked a curl behind her long, sharp ear. "She isn't going to be a simple pet. But she won't be like a true human."

"Darn. I was hoping the shapeshifting timber wolf I brought home from the wilderness would be really low maintenance. Like a goldfish."

Ingrid glared at him with eyes that flashed crimson.

Andrew snickered. "You're just jealous you can't be sarcastic."

Sniffing, Ingrid didn't dignify him with an answer. She ran Fionna's furred ear between her fingers. Some understanding passed between the two of them, and Fionna planted her butt on the ice outside the tent, hind legs splayed awkwardly and her thick tail whumping against the limestone.

Micah appeared past the curve of the land, wearing the heavy flannel blanket like a cloak with a hood, rumpling his hair over his brow. "What are you two getting up to?"

"We're relocating," said Andrew as Micah used his birch staff to pick his way up to them like a hobbling old wizard.

Micah walked up and leaned against Andrew, burrowing into the blanket. Only a tuft of his hair stuck out like a green sprout. Holding one corner of it in his good arm, he reached around and pinched Andrew's ass. Andrew yelped in surprise and garnered an odd look from Ingrid. Within his blanket, Micah chuckled with satisfaction.

"Lord Heartwood!"

Andrew and Ingrid exchanged a look. He said, "She wasn't kidding about telling everyone."

A small crowd of Folk materialized in the dark, some holding lanterns with flickering flames inside so that the eerie light danced over colorful and excited faces.

"Who?" Micah emerged from his blanket looking bewildered, hair askew. He blinked at the crowd and cast a blank look between Andrew and Ingrid.

"Lord Heartwood, how goes your wound?"

"That's you." Andrew thumbed Micah's chin with affection.

Micah furrowed his brow. "I'm Lord Heartwood?"

"Seems so," agreed Ingrid.

"Since when?"

"Couple of minutes ago," said Andrew.

"According to whom?" Micah's bewildered look persisted.

"Your knight." Ingrid nodded to Andrew.

"Yes, the Auburn Knight bestowed you with a legendary title!" trilled the blue-skinned pixie Spirulina, playing a jaunty scale on a fiddle tucked under her chin where she buzzed over the heads of the ground-dwelling Folk beneath her.

"How did you decide that?" asked Micah, his eyes swirling to lavender as color painted his cheeks and a crooked grin showed his bright white teeth.

"'Cause the heartwood of a tree in the center is the sturdiest. Difficult to break." Andrew added more quietly with heat in his eyes, "And the sweetest wood."

"Good god." Micah shook his head at the heavens.

Andrew snorted and started to laugh, draping his arm around Micah's neck.

A small, pale pixie exclaimed, "I heard you slayed a dozen witches, Lord Heartwood!"

Micah wormed his fingers up over his blanket cape. He scratched his stubbly cheek and slowly shook his tilted head in bemusement. "That tale is growing fast."

"Hey!" Chamomile pushed through the crowd of Folk with her bow and arrow in hand. She cocked an arrow and stepped up to Andrew, Micah and Ingrid, turning to the crowd and aiming at them. "You should all know better." She paused. "Lord Heartwood needs space and rest. He'll visit when he's ready. Go away!"

The Folk of Lilydale dispersed with whispers of gossip rippling amongst themselves. A piccolo started whistling in the air as fat snowflakes began to drift down upon the bluffs.

Spinning in the snow, Chamomile demanded, "Lord Heartwood? Who decided that?"

Ingrid pointed at Andrew.

"Do me," Chamomile said.

"Boyfriend-Kisser," said Andrew at once.

Micah slapped his forehead.

"He kissed me!" Chamomile's cheeks turning fuchsia. She looked jumpy, casting an uncertain look up at Andrew, wielding her bow in front of her as if preparing to defend herself.

"He what?" Ingrid's eyes widened.

Chamomile hunched her shoulders, avoiding Ingrid's glare.

Micah and Andrew exchanged a look.

"It's fine," Andrew felt the need to add. He reached out to pat Chamomile's head, and when she let him get close enough to do so, he pivoted and pulled her ear instead.

Chamomile squawked and snatched Andrew's hand, but Micah swung the birchwood staff and broke them up.

"Knock it off," said Micah. "I'm the one who did something wrong. And I got a titty twister for my trouble."

Andrew snorted. "Oh. Good."

Micah scowled.

Ingrid's eyes were on Chamomile, faint irritation making her lips purse. She said without looking away, "Micah, you need more rest. This tent is yours now."

"Oh. I thought Lina and Leif were staying in there." Micah gestured to the tent as Fionna started furiously scratching herself behind her elbow.

"They were happy to vacate," Ingrid told him. "Good night, you two. I'm happy you're back together."

"For the record—" Chamomile poked Andrew's hip, "I am too."

The two females strode off together toward the trees, and Chamomile began gesturing emphatically.

Micah whispered, "I think those two are fucking."

"Oh, definitely." Andrew nodded. "Remember when they went off together in Montana? How could you not want to have sex out there?"

"I know. It was so romantic." Micah smiled dreamily, reminiscing on his first time being intimate with Andrew. His cheeks grew warm. They stood beside each other in silence for a moment, both imagining, both stepping a little bit closer to each other.

Clearing his throat, Micah said, "So you got us our own tent, huh?"

"I'm not leaving you tonight," explained Andrew, "and I couldn't bring myself to sleep in your sister's bed."

"Why's that?" Micah asked with a crooked smirk.

Andrew opened the tent flap. "Don't get any ideas." He hooked a finger through Micah's belt loop and tugged him into the tent.

Beaming, Micah surveyed the small but cozy space as he lowered himself carefully onto the cocoon of blankets. "Is it a bad idea? Maybe. Did I already think about it? Obviously. Do I want to do it anyway? Also, obviously." Micah touched his shoulder gingerly. "And I mean, Fae drugs are doing good work."

Andrew pulled off his flannel shirt and then his sweatshirt so he was only in short sleeves and his jeans. Micah watched him with ridiculous excitement, and when he caught him staring, Andrew opted to pull off his tee as well. The slight chill in the air rose goosebumps on his skin and turned his nipples to pebbles.

He climbed onto the blankets as Micah slid the flannel blanket off his shoulders and watched Andrew with a swirl of silver in his irises. They simply drank in the sight of one another for several beats. Andrew's limbs tingled, and his stomach tightened with arousal. He forced himself to look away, clutching his knees.

"I don't want you to push yourself too much," Andrew told him, voice strained by desire.

Micah threaded their legs together, scooting closer, Andrew's breath stuttering when Micah trailed his fingers along his pale wrist. When Micah caught his lip between his teeth, Andrew's eyes slid down to watch, his red lashes veiling his hungry gaze.

"As if either of us could resist." Micah lifted off Chamomile's sling as he beckoned Andrew with a crooked finger.

Andrew carefully undressed Micah, happy to separate him from his clothes spoiled by the sharp smell of his spilled blood. Micah moved very little, obliging, his face glowing with a rush of color. His bandaged chest heaved with ragged, eager breaths.

After Andrew slid out of his jeans, Micah guided him onto his lap. He left his injured arm at his side, but used his right to loosen Andrew up, their noses and foreheads almost touching. They kissed softly at first before Andrew's tongue roamed into Micah's mouth to begin a languid dance.

Andrew ran his hands through Micah's smoke-scented hair. He separated their lips and gasped, leaning over Micah's uninjured shoulder when Micah entered him; he trembled, clutching Micah's neck, moaning his name.

The injury, their time apart, the fear of what was to come, it was all forgotten as they shared their ecstasy. Their bodies kept a slow, deep rhythm, slick with mingling sweat, glistening under the magic of the faerie lights overhead. Micah paused every so often when his exhaustion strained against him, but Andrew kissed his jaw whenever he went still and waited, patient, panting and tightening his thighs against Micah's bony hips. Eventually he moved off Micah's lap and onto his stomach, allowing Micah to shift position and bend his shoulder less as he knelt behind Andrew's pale, slender limbs.

After reaching shuddering satisfaction together, they held each other in silence, trembling with relief. Micah curled himself behind Andrew with his arm draped over him. Lacing their fingers together, Andrew squeezed his eyes closed as he fought the urge to weep in relief. Being back in each other's arms was a reprieve, like they were finally through stumbling in the fog and had made it home.