The Fairest Kind of Love Read online

  “This is just . . . I can’t,” he moans. “I’ve seen a lot of messed-up things since I met you, but this is by far the most wretched.” There’s nothing I can say, because he’s completely right.

  “This is a nightmare,” Amani adds. “Vincent is going to rip this guy apart.”

  “Really?” I ask. “You think he’ll kill Roscoe?” Though I know he’s a creature of the night, I’ve never seen him truly vamp out. I’m not sure I really want to. She shrugs.

  Turning back to the scene, a werewolf woman I recognize from the Black Phoenix has just “won” Ivy for a quarter of a billion dollars. Roscoe slowly lowers the siren to the ground, catching her in his arms before gently placing her on her feet. Ivy’s fingers rush to her temples, woozy and disoriented, but when she gets her first real head-on view of Peter, still trapped in his prison, it lights a fire in her, venom seething from her skin. Fists clenched, eyes shooting daggers, Ivy looks ready for war, but before she strikes, the werewolf whispers something in her ear, pulling her aside. Ivy’s head whips around, searching for evidence of what she was told, and somehow her stare finds mine, sending a visible wave of reassurance through her. Taking a deep breath, she nods in assent, as the bidding begins on her beau.

  The promise of fairy dust ignites the crowd, and Peter’s price rises even faster and higher than Ivy’s, much to Roscoe’s delight. With all this money, he can go start an organic fedora farm or whatever it is people like him dream about. He’s practically levitating as he answers bids, completely unbothered by the truth about what he’s selling. The Wisterias are primed to pounce. Mom, Vincent, and our crew are at full alert. It’s about to get crazy up in here.

  Finally, Peter has been claimed, and a pang of fear runs through me when I don’t recognize the buyer. It could be a Phone-a-Friend, but based on the hungry grin on the mystery goblin’s face, I don’t think so. I shake both Charlie and Amani in alarm, trying to also catch Mom’s eye from across the room, because everything inside me is screaming THIS IS NOT GOOD!

  Roscoe, almost floating with glee, claps his hands together to regain attention. “Well, this is exciting, isn’t it?” He giggles. “And we have even more magic to auction! If you’ll turn your attention to—” A loud boom ricochets through the room, sending Roscoe flying back, landing on the concrete. I don’t know who sent the first fire, but then all hell breaks loose.

  MOST MAGIC IS SUBTLE, a supernatural twist on the day-to-day that goes unnoticed by the naked eye. Matchmaking, sirening, even most witchcraft takes place without spectacle, quietly bending the natural world into something special and new. But this is different. When magic is used in anger, the energy shifts, crackling the air and alerting all to its presence. It burns, it ravages, it doesn’t care who gets caught in the cross fire.

  “Look out!” White-hot comets and firecracker flames whiz past our heads as the warehouse becomes an explosion of pure mystilogical force, with people using every magical wrist, claw, or tail flick imaginable. Charlie, Amani, and I have to duck as a troll punches a beastly fist into a warlock, who retaliates with a surge of something piercing cold. We crawl into a vacant corner to take cover, but quickly realize this vantage point does us no favors. Not only can we not see anything except the duel immediately in front of us, but we’ll probably get trampled any second. I spot stairs leading up to a hanging iron catwalk, so I lead the way, forcing us to travel through a cloud of something green and stinky on the way up. We flatten ourselves on the walkway to try and stay out of sight, and though we now have a much better view of the mayhem below, between the physical and magical blows, it’s almost impossible to gauge who’s winning or even who is who. Mom and Vincent are completely lost in the crowd, and even Peter and Ivy seem to have disappeared into the fray.

  “Wait, there’s Vincent!” Amani exclaims, pointing down to where her boyfriend is kicking ass and taking names. Fully vamped out, fangs bared, he grabs a goblin by the throat, then casually tosses him aside like an empty pop can. “Thank Gods he’s okay.”

  “Damn, he’s on fire!” Charlie replies. He touches his still swollen nose, remembering his own mini battle. “Get it, Vincent!”

  After a few frantic minutes, I manage to find my mom, who has luckily gotten ahold of Ivy and placed a protective barrier around her that ripples with a pale blue shimmer. Members of Dawning Day surround her like a shield, hands entwined in solidarity. Any time a baddie comes near, the witches chant, “Prohibere,” and the perp falls to the ground, temporarily crippled by their unified spell. All this safety allows Ivy time to recharge. She stands with Mom, palms pressed together, as Mom infuses the siren with healing strength. I watch as Ivy breathes deep, letting Mom’s magic sink into her soul.

  Meanwhile, Roscoe and his group of gross are not backing down, fighting off enemies with impressive force. Kasia has her claws out, while Roscoe’s go-to move seems to be a reflective spell, allowing him to absorb his enemy’s attack and flip it right back to them. A Black Phoenix friend attempts to immobilize the warlock, but his spell is caught in time as Roscoe seemingly grabs the magic with his bare hand and throws it away, turning his attacker into a statue. His cronies aren’t faring as well, though. As the fight rages on, it’s clear our team had better manpower and talent, and as a last resort, Roscoe angrily charges toward the goblin guarding Peter, grabbing the fairy by his wings and dragging him toward the center of the room. This profiteer isn’t leaving empty-handed, and with Peter too weak to defend himself, he is at the warlock’s mercy.

  Ivy breaks free from her protective cocoon, running toward Peter at full force, blond hair blazing behind her. She jumps onto Roscoe’s back, and he releases his hold on Peter in surprise, pulling the warlock to his knees. He whips around, ready to exact revenge, not on Ivy, but Peter, an angry fist glowing with a destructive spell. But before it unleashes, Ivy hurls herself on top of Peter, taking the hit for her love. She shudders in pain, crying out in agony, yet curls tighter, doubling down as a protective shield.

  “No!” I cry, clutching the metal edge of our hanging hiding spot. At that same moment, the parents Wisteria emerge from the shadows, dropping the shawls hiding their wings and soaring into the air. One after another, more and more fairies join until I can’t count their number, shimmering wings of every pearlescent shade filling the formerly gray space. They hover in unison, tiny frames no more as they form an airborne army ready to strike. Papa leads the way, eyes as icy as his frosty-blue hair, holding glittering palms toward the ceiling. Heaps of fairy dust in hand, he nods as his commune comrades mirror his stance, each grasping enough dust to do some serious damage. It is unbelievable seeing all these fairies fly out in the open, and all the sparring below stops as the fighters take in the spectacle. I can’t tell if the people down below can see the dust, but from our catwalk, we’re shocked into silence, mouths agape, with no clue what will happen next.

  Roscoe also can’t help but stare at the wonder above, but just as the fairies are about to release their mountains of dust, he reaches into his blazer pocket, pulling out his own secret weapon: the cookie box. The fairies halt their descent, pausing their attack as Roscoe rips open the top and pours a handful of sparkling specks into his bare palm. He holds out his treasure, waving his fistful of power in their faces, cackling with glee. A few glittering granules fall through his fingers as he cries, “That’s right, fairies! You stay put! You think you can defeat me? You’ll have to catch me first!” He tosses up the fairy dust directly above him as he yells, “I wish to be anywhere but here!”

  Tilting back his head like he’s taking in a warm summer rain, he becomes completely drenched in glitter, sparkles covering his upper half. The whole room holds its breath to see what will happen next, and seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream echoes through the warehouse as the dust somehow pulls him to the ground, like microscopic magnets exerting their force. At first, I think my eyes must be playing tricks on me because it looks like this villain’s frame is shrinking, but when Amani gasps too, I rea
lize what is happening. The dust is corroding his body, eating away at flesh and bone like rabid termites on a log. Roscoe tries to fight it off, but soon his arms dissolve underneath the golden cover, his outline imploding and disintegrating into nothing but a fedora and a pile of glitter.

  Anywhere but here? How about the afterlife, buddy? Wish granted.

  Once the remaining evildoers see that, they hightail it out of there, running for the door like the room is on fire, leaving all potential prizes behind.

  “Holy crap!” I yell. “Did you guys see that?”

  “Of course we saw it, are you insane?” Amani jumps to her feet, and we follow her down the stairs. She runs straight to Vincent, who sweeps her up in his arms, while we make our way to the pile that is Ivy and Peter, where the fairies have landed and are getting to work. They gently roll the couple onto their backs right next to each other, taking extra care to spread Peter’s tattered wings on the concrete. Mama and Papa Wisteria look over them both, sad eyes examining their wounds. Peter is badly battered and bruised, while Ivy’s injuries are more internal. She weakly clutches her stomach in pain.

  Mom and her coven join the scene, but Papa waves them off with a stately hand. Face serene, he nods to Mama, and together they reach into pouches overflowing with dust, glitter spilling from their fingers. Slowly, they sprinkle sparkles over not only Peter, but in a surprise turn of events, Ivy too, working their way over their beaten bodies, ensuring every injury is adequately covered. Lightly falling specks cling to Peter’s wings, Ivy’s abdomen—all over—spreading a warm glow that emanates throughout the surroundings.

  “We wish for you to heal,” the fairies say in unison, and right before our eyes, the dust goes to work, closing the gashes in Peter’s delicate wings and easing the pain on Ivy’s wincing face. Just like when we were on the farm, the fairy dust revives them, but this time it’s even more remarkable, considering what we just witnessed. Mama and Papa stand back as their wish takes hold, and Ivy and Peter carefully rise to their feet, looking at each other with exhausted eyes.

  Immediately Peter starts crying, reaching for Ivy, who tiredly collapses into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, unable to contain himself. His freshly healed wings wrap around them both. “This is all my fault.”

  He’s not wrong, and yet his father steps forward to disagree. “Peter, no,” he says in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “I believe the blame lies here.”

  Wet, confused eyes stare back. “What do you mean?”

  Papa clears his throat, reaching for Mama’s hand. “We almost lost you tonight. Parents are supposed to keep their children safe, but in trying to protect you, we failed.” He swallows hard, voice cracking as he struggles to find the words. “We . . . regret sending you away, and turning you and Jane against magic.” Papa winces while Mama wipes her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What we saw here today was eye-opening. We rallied the fairies to save Peter, but in the end, we didn’t need to.” He turns to Ivy, bottom lip trembling. “You sacrificed yourself for him. It was . . . so unexpected. We’ve always believed magic to be so self-serving, but you . . . all of you”—he motions to the entire room—“showed us something different.”

  Mama sniffles, blowing her nose loudly as her pink curls bounce. “You’ve given us a lot to think about.” Her voice shakes. “But we hope you’ll come home, Peter.”

  He takes a beat. “I . . . I think I need time too,” Peter agrees, fair skin splotchy from crying. “I have a lot to learn about this world, and . . . I want to do that here, with Ivy.” She rubs his arm, and his wings flutter at her touch. Something tells me that siren wouldn’t let him go anyway. She’s pretty good at getting what she wants.

  The Wisterias nod in disappointed acceptance, holding on to one another. They hug their son good-bye before gathering up their winged gang, all covering their backs before they disappear into the night. Many of the Black Phoenix fighters start going through the forgotten auction items, congratulating each other on a job well done and laughing about how they’ll never top tonight’s plans. Summer is almost over, after all, so now’s the time to sneak in last-minute adventures.

  I walk over to what I guess is Roscoe’s grave, a pile of glitter on the floor. I run over it with my shoe, wondering if it will feel like crushed bones, but it’s soft like sand, already blowing away. I grind an extra bit of it into the concrete, just in case.

  “What should we do with this?” someone calls from the other side of the room. I turn to see the unicorn, free and proud, shaking its rainbow tail against its white body. Without thinking, I run over, nearly collapsing at its golden hooves in praise.

  “Can I keep it?” I beg to no one in particular. “Please? I will take the best care of it ever! I’ll bake it cupcakes, take it on walks, and—”

  “I think it’s pretty clear you have no idea how to take care of a horse,” Amani laughs, coming up behind me.

  “But I’ll learn! I will!”

  “And where would we keep this unicorn, Amber?” Mom adds to the Total Downer Parade. Why is everybody hating on this amazing idea of mine?

  “I don’t know! It can have my room! I’ll sleep in the kitchen! I WILL LITERALLY DO ANYTHING!” My voice has reached an upper register that probably only dogs can hear at this point.

  Mom shakes her head, squeezing my shoulder to let me down gently. “Something as precious as this deserves to be protected, and while we can’t keep it, how about you brush its mane, feed it an apple? Help it feel cared for after such an ordeal?”

  My heart explodes into a million pieces. Dreams do come true, my friends.

  WHEN YOU’VE DEFEATED EVIL warlocks, paved the way for fairy harmony, and oh, MET A FREAKING UNICORN, what’s left? Why, shopping for shower caddies and dorm room essentials, of course!

  I’m pushing a blue cart through Bed Bath & Beyond with Amani, who is slowly finishing up her giant college checklist. This shopping spree is taking forever, and I don’t see how she’ll be able to fit any more items into her tiny dorm room.

  “Amani, be real: Do you actually need a set of bed risers?” I ask, holding up the box she just casually tossed into the cart.

  “Um, yeah, how else am I supposed to feel like I’m sleeping in the clouds?” she jokes.

  “I doubt five inches of plastic will help you achieve that.”

  “Maybe not, but they will help me cram more stuff under the bed.”

  “Fair enough.” I shrug. “What’s next on the list?”

  She scans her list. “Mmmm . . . Extra-long bedsheets. I guess the ones I’d already bought were not long enough.”

  “Extra-long? Who has extra-long beds?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “You know what else I don’t understand? What is the ‘beyond’ part of Bed Bath and Beyond, anyway? Like, we’re not currently traveling to a separate realm . . . are we?”

  “It’s possible,” Amani deadpans. “I saw a device that makes little pancake balls back there.”

  “Whoa.”

  We make our way to the bedding section, perusing all the patterns and colors. Since I’ll be living at home when school starts next week, I don’t need to buy this mountainous pile of junk, a savings I should probably bring up to my mom to see if she’ll let me get some new copper baking sheets instead. Amani picks sheets that are pink and flowery (shocker), and we’ve finally made it to the end. We load up all her gear and head back to her house, but walking into her room is like a punch in the gut: it’s practically empty, all packed up and ready to go. It’s not like I didn’t logically know—her school starts earlier than mine and she’s leaving super early tomorrow morning—but something about seeing her space free of fluffy pillows and ruffled everything makes it all real. Posters off the walls, books off the shelves: mementos of my best friend stripped away. This is why I tagged along on this errand in the first place . . . this will be the last time I see her until Thanksgiving. I have to grip the doorframe to keep from falling over.

  Ama
ni, sensing my mood swing, wraps her arms around her waist. “I know. It’s weird. It’s like I don’t live here now, but I don’t live there either, so . . . where am I?”

  “Limbo,” I whisper, a sudden wave of emotion crashing over me. I told myself I was okay with this, but how can I say good-bye to this beautiful creature who has been there for so much? She is more than a best friend; she’s a force of nature, a pillar of strength who’s made me a better version of myself. Amani’s friendship saved me when I was drowning; her hand kept me from being completely lost at sea. How am I supposed to go out into the world without her guidance, her humor, her all-encompassing Amani-ness? I would be a melting puddle of nothing without her, kind of like how my brain is now.

  “But we’re gonna be okay, right?” she asks, worry creasing her brow. “College will be awesome, the future is bright, blah, blah, blah?”

  I don’t even know what to say. I feel like I’m going to barf up my heart. “You tell me; you’re the precog,” I choke out.

  She closes her eyes, though I know she can’t make herself have visions on demand. Long lashes flutter open, and she forces a smile. “Okay. I just fast-forwarded through a montage of both our lives, and they both turn out great.”

  “Will we still be best friends when we’re old and gray?” I ask.

  “Duh. We’ll be the most awesome old ladies ever, bragging about the days we hunted leprechauns and swam with mermaids.”

  We both laugh, and I help her pack up a few more things, extremely conscious of the countdown clock. We pretend not to notice the setting sun, ignoring that the Sharmas have reservations for family dinner tonight, choosing instead to talk and joke like always. But she’s slipping away even as we’re here together, and there’s nothing I can do but savor each second.