by Laura Stamps

Dante is a good friend (okay,

he’s my best friend), but

sometimes he comes up with

crazy stuff. “I’m not a faery,”

I say. All my friends are Pagan.

Most are human, a few aren’t.

I’m a human Witch. Everyone

knows that. “Anna, you’re

Fey,” he says. “Forest Fey,

like me.” Tonight, stars flicker

as if the gods tossed trillions

of diamond chips across an

onyx sky. “No,” I say. “I’m

not.” He needs to stop. I’m

starting to sweat, and I never

sweat. “I knew you were Fey

the minute we met,” he says.

“I saw it in your aura.” This

sudden rush of information

is too much for the minimalist

I’ve become, my battered heart

still recovering from the last

bad-news love. Lately, I float

through life, kind of numb,

unable to handle details. It’s

safer that way. “This isn’t

happening,” I say. Brain

fog tightens its gloved grip.

I rub my forehead. It hurts.

“You need to know,” he says.

“And there’s more.” I groan

and pull the quilt over my

head. We’re sitting on the

floor, stargazing. Or we were.

“You’re also my Fey mate,”

he says, lifting the edge of

the quilt to peek at me. The

slender branches of a peach

tree shiver in the winter wind,

their brittle fingers tapping

the glass ceiling of his heated

porch. “What?” I say. He

needs to quit. I’m not Fey.

I’m not anyone’s mate. This

conversation is insane. Yes,

strangers often ask if we’re

related. Yes, we both love

new experiences. Yes, we

both look years younger than

our age. Yes, we’re both

spontaneous. Yes, we both

tend to glow like the yellow

wings of a sulphur butterfly.

We do. Everyone says so.

It’s weird. I groan again.

“Anna, this is why your love

life is a train wreck,” he says.

“You’ve been dating wolf-

shifters. Not a good match

for the Fey. Their energy is

too intense.” Great. Thanks

for reminding me of all those

high-drama men I’d love to

forget, the ones who dump

me in the end, leaving me

behind, flinging me into

a valley of pain, and I never

know why. But now I do.

Tonight, I hear my entire

human life has been a lie.

Great. More loss to survive.

“Nothing will ever be the

same again, will it?” I ask,

pushing the quilt aside.

“No,” he says. “It will be

better. I promise.” He helps

me to my feet. “It’s time you

learned how to fly,” he says.

“I’ll teach you tomorrow.”

I blink. What? I can soar

through this late winter

sky with wings that flutter

like the rainbow petals of

a dragonfly? “Trust me,

Anna,” he says. “You

haven’t lived until you’ve

had Fey sex in midflight.”

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