Page 6 of Hot Vampire Next Door: Season Five

Hearing the deeper voice come through the line nearly makes my knees buckle.

“Damien?” I clutch to the phone harder and pace a circle around the tree trunk. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” he answers.

“Are you…okay?” I wince at the catch in my voice. I am a boy again, desperate for his older brother.

“I woke up an hour ago,” Damian answers.

“The gate,” I say.

“Yes. The witch says when the gate opened, the Renshaw spell broke.” There’s a rustle of something on the other end, and then Damian adds, “Stay where you are. We’re coming to get you.”

When I hang up the phone, I slump against the hardwood. The tarp crinkles loudly.

The fae clears his throat. “You’re welcome.”

I do not say thank you.

“My number is programmed in your phone under Baspin. When the sun gets low enough for your safety, call me and we can talk.” He turns and starts off.

“Why can’t we talk now? Jessie has already been missing at least an hour and?—”

“They won’t kill her. Yet.” He starts for the park entrance. “Arion knew as much as any of us that wiping out the Winter Court was not in their best interest. They were reckless and I suspect they’ve been reaping what they sowed.”

“So what will they do with her?” I’m not sure who he’s referring to – Autumn Court? All of the Seelie? The war started with Autumn, but the way Baspin is talking, it feels like more. Like a collective.

Shit.

The fae keeps walking, but says over his shoulder, “Force her obedience.”

And then he’s gone.

Episode Seventy-Three

DREAM IN A FAE MEADOW

As a child, I often daydreamed about what the fae realm would look like. There was art that survived on our side, of course. Sketches and paintings done by some of the mortals that had visited the fae realm and documented what they saw.

There’s a famous painting called “Dream in a Fae Meadow” that hangs in the lobby of Midnight Harbor’s Public Library. It was done by Monroe Holstead in the early 1900s and depicts a meadow with a vibrant array of wildflowers in every shade of the rainbow with a fae woman in the center twirling in the sunlight, her white dress billowing around her.

The art practically glitters with light and magic even though it’s only paint and canvas.

When I push through the doorway into the fae realm, I have that painting stuck in my head. It’s the consolation prize, I tell myself. If I’m marching to my death, at least I’ll get to see the beauty of the fae realm before my last breath.

But it’s nothing like the painting or the fantasy.

The light is too bright, almost blinding. I throw my arm up to shield my eyes thinking maybe it’s just my deficient eyesight that’s been tainted by the mortal side and the mortal sun. Then I notice Arion do the same beside me.

He groans loudly. “What is that godawful smell?”

The air is musty, like an old wet basement.

I blink into the light, desperate for a pair of sunglasses. Shapes and colors start to come into focus and I see an overgrown forest just behind Maven. Moss hangs from the velvety green branches. Ferns are tangled around one another on the forest floor, almost like they’re matted. There’s a worn dirt path down the center, but it’s fighting for relevance against the encroaching woods.

The air is too hot, too wet, and it clings to my skin and makes my shirt stick to my spine.

“What the fuck?” Arion looks around. “What happened here?”