12

Mor Trisencor and the Present

“I hate you.”

It was an unexpected confession from the other side of the room. Mor heard it well enough from where he hauled the bucket of cleaning supplies from the closet in the cathedral’s living space.

The human hadn’t moved from the same spot on the floor where she’d been standing, staring at him in an entirely different way after he admitted he’d tried to take her memories the other day. Her tone told him she wasn’t making a jest; that deep down, a fiery part of her truly did hate him for some preposterous reason that likely had nothing to do with him.

Mor set the bucket down and turned to face Violet Miller, writer of all things dark and mysterious and noteworthy.

“Truthfully, Human, I don’t particularly like you either,” he admitted. He didn’t have to remind her how she’d snuck into his home, called him names, thrown pens at him, and after all that, she’d just arrived at his front door, pounding her fists against it like a childling. “You are the absolute worst,” he added.

She released a disgruntled sound and folded her arms. She hugged them to herself tightly as she worked her jaw, looking him up and down with a mix of expressions. She appeared to be calculating.

“But you need me,” she said with a note of challenge in her voice.

Mor grunted. Though, he did need her. Desperately.

“You need me, too,” he said. “I gather, by your first venture into my abode, that you’re in need of employment. I gather you need coin to eat, as well as lodging.”

The revulsion that filled her human face was nearly offensive.

“I would never lodge here in this hut of darkness and despair,” Violet promised.

Mor bit back his retort and smiled through thin lips. “Perfect. It’s settled then. You come here to work and keep The Fairy Post alive, and I’ll pay you whatever you like to do it. Then you can leave in the evenings.”

“Perfect,” she mimicked, and Mor noticed her rose-coloured nails dig a little deeper into her flesh. “I can’t wait to get started.” Her sarcasm was ripe, and Mor hissed a laugh.

“Don’t get too excited. Just because we need each other doesn’t mean I have to make things comfortable for you here. I imagine you’ll see all sorts of atrocities from now on that will turn your insides,” he said.

“Is that a threat?” the human asked as Mor picked up the cleaning bucket again.

“If and when I threaten you, Violet Miller, you will know without having to ask,” he promised, turning away to carry it to the coffee table.

She still didn’t move from her favourite spot, as though her heels were glued to the floor.

A pair of fluffy slippers with kitten beast ears rested on a stool by the broken fireplace. They were one of the things Mor had stolen on his way out of the café, back when the morning air was still chilly, turning the wood floors cold. If Kate had noticed her slippers were missing from her apartment, she hadn’t bothered to call him and complain about it. Maybe she hadn’t yet realized.

Violet finally moved. She inched toward the stool and lifted one of the slippers, casting Mor a judgemental look. It was very female-y. In fact, most of her looks were rather feminine in nature. It wasn’t that Kate and Lily weren’t feminine, but Mor hadn’t caught those two wearing dresses often like the one Violet Miller fashioned now. This human was a different sort of female—dark polished lashes, golden earrings, coloured nails. Plum-red lips. Pretty in a strange, colourful way.

Her personality was garbage though.

And worst of all, she wore masks; one of over-the-top boldness to hide her fears, and another mask of colour to hide her real face. For a moment, Mor wanted desperately to see what she looked like without face paint. He wondered how different she might appear if she let her hair be its natural way without forcing its shape. He imagined she might be a different sort of pretty.

“Did you steal these from a girl?” Violet asked in a tone that told him she was trying desperately to be mean, likely the result of the energy and fear channelling through her veins. The rhythm in her chest was loud and wild even though she seemed to be pinching her face to keep it composed.

Yes, she was a few seconds away from a full-fledged human meltdown. And trying very hard to make Mor feel foolish for owning slippers that resembled something a female might wear.

The joke was on her though. “Yes. I stole them from a girl,” was all he said.

She didn’t seem to know what to say about that as he began tidying up around the fireplace, kicking aside brick chunks and wiping the stone crumbs from his fireside chair. His catastrophic fight with the intruder several days ago had destroyed nearly the whole main level and basement of the cathedral. What a faeborn disaster.

An old Fairy Post rested on the end table beside the chair. Mor picked it up and scanned his reports from last month.

“Oh. Well, that’s… super weird.” Violet tossed the slipper back where it belonged. “What kind of weirdo steals from girls?” Even though she mumbled the last bit, it wasn’t all that quiet.

“You’re making small talk because you’re terrified of me,” Mor said, flipping the page of the newspaper. “That’s far more weird.”

Violet didn’t reply for several seconds, so Mor glanced up. Her face said it all. Moments ago, she had been determined to verbally assault him, and now it seemed she’d lost her tongue. All because he admitted to stealing a few patches of a memory. Queensbane, she looked at him like he was a monster.

He closed the paper.

“I searched for you,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“On the human internet. The web of information. Your name—Violet Miller. I searched for it yesterday with the buttons.” He didn’t mention that he’d also called Lily and asked her to investigate Violet Miller. Lily claimed there was no information on Violet, and that the whole city had already tried to place her several years ago. But Mor hoped Lily might be compelled to look deeper since he’d asked.

“With the buttons,” Violet said quietly to herself, shaking her head. “You talk like you’re a hundred years old.” She bit her lips after she said it. Swallowed. And then, “Are you?”

“Am I what?” Mor walked past her to fetch the broom and began sweeping up the debris in the living space. It would be nice to be able to inhale without tasting dust again.

“A hundred? Or like… older?”

Mor stopped. He turned back to her. He blinked.

“Two hundred, then?” she tried, wincing a little. Her eyes widened when he didn’t answer. “Oh my gosh… Are you three—”

“Are you out of your faeborn mind?” Mor growled. “Do I look a hundred years old to you?!”

Violet bit her plum-coloured lips together.

Mor released a snarly huff and began sweeping in rigid strokes. He’d hoped to clean in peace today. It seemed that was a wild dream now. He got only four sweeps in before he spun back on her.

“Three hundred?” He glared. “Three hundred years old?”

Violet folded her arms. “You’re obviously of the legendary, non-human type,” she defended. “My instincts were right. Since the beginning my gut has been telling me you’re a vampire. You know, with your creepy stringed music and dark cathedral. And frankly, every time you get close to my neck, I think you’re going to bite it.”

Mor burst out laughing, utterly amused. But he stopped when he noticed Violet eyeing his teeth like she was searching for sharp canines. He shut his mouth, set his jaw, and went back to his sweeping.

“I already told you I’m nothing of the sort. You’ve been reading too many fictional books written by humans. If you like those sorts of stories, I can recommend a few that’ll keep you awake for hours when you want to sleep,” he promised.

Violet’s arms squeezed across her middle, as though she was questioning whether he meant they were such good stories that she wouldn’t be able to put them down, or if they were so terrifying, she’d be too scared to go to sleep afterward. He tried not to snort a laugh at her dilemma.

He heard Violet swallow again. “If you’re not a vampire, then what are you? Tell me right now and don’t drag it on any longer. I don’t have the patience for people who beat around the bush. And I need to decide if I can stomach…” she cleared her throat, “being here.”

Mor finished his sweeping and leaned the broom along the fireplace mantle. “Will you write an article on me if I tell you all my secrets?” he challenged.

“Probably,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“Because people need to know the truth.” She seemed perfectly serious. Mor imagined her trying to expose the fairy assassins living quiet lives in this bustling city. But Kate and Cress had written a book about such things, and still no humans believed it was real. His chances seemed fairly good.

“Very well, Human.” Mor marched over to the end table and grabbed The Fairy Post. “You want to know what I am?” He turned the paper to show her. He didn’t point anywhere, he just held it up and waited for her to figure it out.

She stared at it. A strange look crossed her face, and she lifted a pretty brow. “A fairy?” She almost laughed. “As in… a cute, little, magic-wand-wielding fairy like in Cinderella?”

Mor’s fist tightened around the paper, crumpling the edge. “Cute?” he asked, and Violet’s smile faded. He lowered The Fairy Post and stepped toward her, eyes becoming deadly and threatening. He let just a flit of his power ripple off his skin. A strand of her deep brown hair brushed back over her shoulder in a breeze that had no business being inside an enclosed building. “Do I seem cute to you?” he asked when she was blanketed in his shadow.

She tried to take a step back. Mor took a step right after her.

“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked from a seemingly dry throat.

“Yes,” he said darkly. “Is it working?”

She nodded a little.

“Do you still think fairies are cute then, Human?” he asked. If only she knew half the things he’d done. Half the things he could do still if he wanted.

“I think you’re evil,” she stated with more gusto than what showed on her face.

Mor nodded, satisfied. “Good.” He drew back and grabbed the dustpan off the chair. He’d just turned to sweep up his dirt pile when she spoke again.

“But even if you’re evil, I don’t believe it was you who hurt all those young women,” she said.

“Also, good.” Mor sloshed the dust, dirt, and brick into the dustpan. He carried it down the hall and into the kitchen. The ruckus of her heels trailed after him, though she wasn’t stomping anymore.

Mor dumped the debris into the garbage bin and put the broom away. He washed his hands at the sink and dried them on the towel, knowing full well she was watching him. Marvelling, perhaps, that an evil, dangerous fairy also had the skills to tidy up his living space when it was required. He hid a small, gloating smile.

“You are like the fairytale fairies,” she said from the kitchen doorway. “I bet you flutter around and cook and clean for princes and princesses.” Laughter filled her voice.

Mor slapped the towel down onto the counter and turned to face her. “I don’t regret using you as bait,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I’d do it again a hundred times over. You are as obnoxious as a moonbug scurrying into a perfectly good spiked citrus and spoiling it.”

Violet thought for a moment—not revealing a thing in her expression now. She sauntered in, seeming to decide she was no longer afraid of him even after he’d flexed his power in her pretty little human face. “Do it, then,” she said. “Use me as bait.”

Mor’s gaze sharpened as she came to stand before him. The speed at which her resolve had changed was astounding. He couldn’t determine her ploy, or her reasons.

“Use me to catch that devil. And stop him,” she articulated through her plum lips. “I might not like you, Master of Doom, but I hate him more. He’s the one going after helpless people.”

Mor stifled a fairy curse. She wasn’t even joking.

The scent of her flourishing home garden wafted over him this close, along with the scent of himself—still too potent. She clearly didn’t realize how much trouble she was in. “You would regret it if I did. I already used you once, Human, and now I know I can draw him out with my scent alone. I don’t need to put you in harm’s way again to trap him.” He carefully slid around her so their bare arms wouldn’t brush, and he headed out of the kitchen. She followed.

“Wait! Where are you going?” she asked, her heels clicking faster this time. “You can’t leave me trapped in this haunted mansion again!”

“I’m going to undo your scent problem,” Mor stated, stretching out his hands. Lightly touching the almost-healed burns on his palms.

“I just told you that you could use me. Now you want to erase my Doom Perfume? Why?”

Mor stopped walking and turned back. He flexed his fingers, thinking of the sting about to come. “Because I lied about your odds, and my tongue is burning from the falsehood. The truth is, you likely won’t survive the next twenty-four hours if I don’t do something about this.”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. A burst of flaming heat erupted from everywhere their skin connected as they vanished.