Faethfully Yours Book One: Awakening

Blurb: My name is Charlotte O'Dean and I am a Faerie. I know what you're thinking and no, I do not fit in the palm of your hand nor do I sprinkle pixie dust. To those who are a bit more knowing: No, I will not turn you into a pile of ash....unless provoked of course.

I wasn't always this way, a faerie. I once thought myself an ordinary girl, with ordinary problems, Until I almost killed someone...

How about I start the story from there?

                             ***

Chapter One

I always thought it would happen during a storm. Rain would batter against my skin while angry winds howled around me. I’d be lost, enveloped, and smothered by a shrouding mist. Broken breaths would be my only company, offering me little comfort because at least I’d know I was alive...even if just barely. And, it would be night. Death would come swiftly under the cover of complete and utter darkness. 

Isn’t that what we’ve all been conditioned to believe, the way it’s depicted in countless movies? First would be the storm, then the suspenseful music eases in, trebling in the background warning of the cataclysmic event around the corner? Well, I didn’t get any rain. No wind.  Heck, not a cloud in the sky. But the suspenseful, sweat inducing, grip your lungs music was all there. I walked through the crowded campus of Shongopovi Community College, each footstep hammered deafeningly in my head. More like the thundering heart of a prisoner nearing the gallows than that of a girl approaching her best friend, but to my defense it wasn’t every day that I went out and did something unpredictable. Unpredictable…Definitely not the type of word associated with me. Responsible, yes. Unpredictable, never.

I still couldn’t believe what I had done as I stopped behind an oblivious Casey and used one hand to tap her shoulder, the other clenched tightly at my side to steady my nerves. In a cinematic slow, Casey looked over her shoulder, her body following at a sloths speed. On cue, hunter green eyes bulged, her mouth gaping even wider, only there was no sound. It was the expected reaction, the one I’d silently predicted the moment I decided on my change.

“What? You don't like it?" I asked. Her eyes widened a fraction more. There were a lot of things in her stare, from the obvious shock, to suspicion, to strangely enough, traces of worry. But, finally—finally, "Charlotte it’s—it’s brilliant! It’s different, but amazing, and—”

“Unpredictable?” Blowing out a that’s putting it mildly breath, Casey nodded. Her stare, however, remained fixed on my new revelation…my hair.

Hair. Not a big deal, right? Well, to me it was. I wasn’t blessed with my father’s midnight black hair, or equally dark eyes, no. My whitish blond hair and pale blue eyes is courtesy of my mother, or at least I think so. I never met her, and my father never spoke of her; he never really spoke at all. Natural deduction, however, left my mother to thank. Knowing that made her seem real, like we shared a secret link. But, standing there before Casey’s perplexed stare, it was clear the link snapped.

Casey shook her head in awe, the lines of concern on her face deepening. “Do you regret it? Crap, Charlie. You cut it all off, how does it feel?"  

I really considered her question. Running my fingers through the short locks, I bit my lip, simmering in the truth for the first time. "I feel good, dark…sexy,” I told her, unable to contain the smile of satisfaction twisting my lips.

Casey leaned casually against the wall and stared for a few thoughtful seconds. "Alright, spill it. Who is he?"

"Who's who?"

"Whoever this change is for! You don't just hack off all your hair, and go Goth out of nowhere. Really, blood red polish?" she swatted my hand, "Who is he?"

The truth was I didn’t know what to tell her. Two days prior, stepping out from the shower, I’d looked in the mirror, and couldn’t look away. The blond girl staring back through the glass was unfamiliar. She mocked me, scorned me, suffocated me. The new Charlotte didn’t care for blond hair and bubblegum pink nails. It was that Charlotte that didn’t waste half a second thinking over her next move. I cut it all off. And, after cutting it, I dyed it black.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm wearing blue jeans and a pink tank top. If you consider that Goth then I'm a bit scared, and--" I stopped abruptly. “Do you smell that?”

"Don't change the subject! Who is he?” she laughed, but the sounds all blurred together, along with my vision. I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. The piercing scent of freshly cut grass and testosterone coalesced, burned my nostrils. Each inhale sent vicious shockwaves through my body, debilitating contradictions that I didn’t understand. It was a yearning that left me nauseous, a desire that burned. Whatever it was I smelled, I suddenly craved, badly. Problem was, I didn’t know what it was. Glancing around, no one else seemed to notice the scent.

“You don’t smell that?” Purposely slowing my breaths, I chose to inhale and exhale through my mouth, each one a chore.

“Right,” Casey arched a brow skeptically. “What's his name? Did you meet him this summer? Does he go to this school? Is he--"

"Look,” I snapped, “First of all, you're short circuiting. Secondly, there's no one, seriously. Please, I just...” I trailed off, swallowing both bile and anger. “I didn’t want to look like the ghost of a dead woman I’ll never know. Now can you, or can you not smell that?"

Casey raised her hands in surrender. "Whoa, all right, sorry, I get it. You want to keep him to yourself, I understand," she nodded weakly. I didn’t hear the rest. Feeling my stomach contract, I turned to run to the nearest trashcan when I ran right into a wall. Or so it felt like it. Lifting my eyes, all intentions to apologize vanished into the glacial pits of ice staring down at me bitingly, his pale face bleak, morose. He wasn’t a student. His arrogant air of authority spoke of that. Instincts told me to let go of his vest. I must’ve grabbed it to keep from falling back, but I no longer fell. Yet, the mere thought to let him go and my fingers gripped him tighter. He scrutinized me for a minute longer, before he blew out a sharp breath. It smelled like honey.

"Are you going to let me go so that I can pass, or are you just going to stand there?" His Irish accent cut at my numbed skin, tearing a hole in my chest where air was finally granted back into my lungs. I said nothing, partly out of shame, but mostly because the smell instantly vanished. Just like that it was gone, and I could breathe. My stomach still twisted though, and my fingers refused to release him. I had to let him go, I knew that, but another part of my mind burned to have him close. It was as if I’d suddenly been split in two, a rational half and it’s psychotic twin.

It was this crazy half that whispered, “Please,” as he pried my hands from his vest. He released my hands, slicing me with a glare before turning on his heels.

“You can’t leave,” the words left me, before I even knew I was speaking. The boldness of my words shocked me, and obviously Casey who choked a gasp from behind me. He stopped sharply, a deep scowl branding lines in his forehead.

“Pardon me?” he asked, his silvery eyes narrowing, strands of midnight hair falling into his eyes. “Why the bloody hell not?”

I didn’t know, but suddenly, no longer holding him, a glacial burn rushed through my veins, the temperatures around me plummeting. Again, no one else seemed to be affected. Yet, standing before this silent assassin, I trembled uncontrollably. He glowered, perhaps waiting for me to say something, but my shivering lips didn't allow for much speech, except, “B-b-because, I’m c-c-cold,”

“Then get a sweater,” he hissed. Nodding, I collapsed back onto Casey, humiliated and horridly freezing. The sea of bewitched humans parted; silence reigning king, save for the steady rhythm of the stranger’s steps on the tiled floor as he walked away from me.

“Holy crap, what was that?” Casey put a hand on my shoulder, jarring me from thought, but not from watching him until he vanished out two double doors leading to the courtyard. Casey came from around me. “Are you all right? I can’t believe you had the balls to do that, you lucky wench. What I wouldn’t give to be pressed against him like that.”

Still trembling, I forced my gaze back to Casey, albeit reluctantly, “W-w-who was that?” I asked her, starting to walk. I needed to move. Maybe walking would jump start my internal thermostat.

“Who?” Casey choked in disbelief, falling into step beside me. “That was Ivan Stokaya. Remember? The art teacher I’d go on and on about last year—the Irish assassin.”

I hauled in a deep breath, nodding absently. I did remember, it was a distant memory. Everything that moment was slipping my mind. I was cold, and tired, but stranger still, a deep melancholy hung bitterly from my lungs, each breath painful, and a chore.  

“You had him last year.”

"Not in the way I wanted him, believe me,” Casey winked, a dangerous lust in her eyes, and completely oblivious to the tears materializing in mine. It wasn’t my time of the month, and even when it was, I was never the emotional type. It felt as though someone had just torn my heart and dipped it into a pail of acid. I hurt, badly.

She went on, “I should have purposely failed that class. He’s an ass with an even nicer ass,” she laughed to herself, the rest of her words falling to a void I couldn’t reach.

"I can't believe I’m hearing this. Look, I-I-I need to go. I...,” my voice faltered as the first tears began to fall. I felt bad leaving Casey there, calling behind me, the panic clear in her voice. But, the manic emotions welling within me left me trembling like an addict. I wanted—needed something, and not knowing what it was left me feeling exposed, vulnerable.The world passed in streams of colors, tears slowly blurring the lines of my dream life to nightmarish blur.

I arrived home to a dark house, the emptiness deafening, yet unsurprising. My father, a pilot, was seldom home, even less the older I got. At sixteen, days away grew to months. Every year after that, the spaces between his returns widened—I hadn’t seen him in six months. At times it bothered me, but then and there, I needed to be alone.

I walked around the familiar surroundings completely lost. The labyrinth of empty rooms was deafening, the loneliness fatal. I let things fall as they may, my keys, my purse all debris on the cherry wood floors. I poured myself a glass of milk that I didn’t drink, chips that I didn’t eat. I went through the motions, trying to find a normalcy that evaded me, but falling onto my bed, and staring at the empty spaces above me, it was clear something had shifted.

For what seemed like hours which could have been minutes, I assessed that morning, that week. My emotions had slipped, but I’d long been losing traction. The hair should have been a clear sign. I’d missed it. Gripping my short locks, I dropped my head back onto my pillow. Nothing made sense, except one thought that settled bitterly in my mind, all emotions slithering back into their broken cages. When standing before Stokaya, everything had stopped. Before him, there was the strange smell. After he released me came the cold. But with him, there was nothing. I wasn’t cold; the smells no longer sickened me. Whatever it was that was wrong with me, he fixed it. And there, as night wore on around me, I was broken.  I had questions. He had answers. He had to, because if he didn’t—I looked around my small room—I would find myself locked in similar confines, just instead of plaster, they’d be padded.

**

Mr. Stokaya swept into the room five minutes late, and devoured all sound en route to his desk. I shivered in the corner of the classroom, my head lowered on the desk, away from other students who slid into their seats. At least I belonged there, a morning visit to the registrar office securing that. It was crazy, I know. But there were crazier things happening, starting with me. It was desperate. But, truth of the matter is, I was. The cold hadn’t gone away, neither had the cold sweats. And not for lack of trying.  I dealt with it all as best I could, equipped with a Shongopovi sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. A coat would have been preferred, but I didn’t need to attract any more attention, a coat in the middle of summer under the unforgiving Arizona sun equivalent to flares shot in a clear night sky.

Mr. Stokaya assumed his position at the front of the class, and set down his suitcase. Passing a sweeping glance across all the terrified souls, he spared an extra second to scowl further at me. Whether he was irritated at seeing me, or even remembered me, I didn’t know. The man only wore one expression: misery. His silvery stare burned me to the core; replacing the bitter cold that plagued me. He tore his gaze away, and just like that, the cold returned. I knew then I was in the right place. Whatever was wrong with me, had to do with him.

Stokaya lowered his head with a breath, and opened his briefcase. Rolling up the sleeves to his black button up, I noted tattoos sprawled on both arms. The interesting black designs snaked up his arms, the random thought of it twisting around his broad shoulders birthing a heat in my cheeks that hitched my heartbeats. At least I was a shade warmer.

"Sto-ka-yah," he annunciated as the chalk struck the board sharply. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The low tones of his voice strummed a part of me I didn’t know existed. It was buried deep in the pit of my stomach, the same place that recognized him from somewhere. He slammed the chalk down and turned, sanding his hands. He looked around the room one more time. I yearned for him to look at me again, the one thing that would give me some relief from my icy prison. He didn’t. It hurt. It was as if he’d let me down before, and did so again. He abandoned me.

"Not Stokya, Skaya nor Stolichnaya,” he continued. Nervous laughter ringed through the room, easing most of the students' apprehension except mine. "I'm glad you all find it amusing, but I don't. The last thing I want is to spend the year correcting you as to how to pronounce a simple name. Now, here is your syllabus." He removed a stack of papers from his briefcase, giving smaller stacks to each first seat in each row. It was easy to watch him, how he glided across the room in even steps bleeding of confidence, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. It was persistent, pulsing from him in unreadable waves. It was as if he were hidden behind a cloak, what lay beneath incredibly powerful.

I blew out a breath. I was losing it. Embracing myself tighter, I lowered my head to the desk. The usually cold metal felt warm against my icy skin, a testament to my subzero condition.

Something hit me on the head.

"Oh man, I'm sorry!” someone spoke over me. Lifting my head, I met the familiar face of Jaime Owens, pale blue eyes widened apologetically.

“I passed back the syllabus without even looking,” he explained. He was my guy—the one guy I hadn’t stopped liking since grade school. There were countless diaries confirming that. But that morning, I could barely sit still, much less flirt.

"Don’t worry about it,” I grabbed the syllabus, and put my head back down.

Jaime’s voice invaded my darkness, genuine concern in his voice. “You’re Charlotte, right? Are you feeling okay?”

I forced myself to look up and attempt a smile, but my teeth chattered violently. "It's just freezing in here,” I confessed, knowing how strange it sounded. He looked confused for a moment, staring down at my sweatshirt, lines of perplex marking his brow. A moment later, he peeled off his short sleeve Hawaiian print shirt and extended it to me.

He shrugged sheepishly. "It’s not much considering all you have on, but hopefully it’ll help."  A small smile teased the corners of his mouth, jolting my heart. I'd dreamt of such a moment since I was six years old, when Jaime gave Suzy Summers his Star Wars gummy bears because she scraped her knee during recess. Good things come to those who wait I suppose.

"Very romantic. Now either turn around, or get out, your choice" the Irish assassin said with cutting sarcasm. In eerie unison, all eyes sliced to Jaime and I, a stiff silence suspended over the room. Sparing an added moment to glare at Jaime and me, Stokaya went back to his fierce explanation of what he expected from the class. Ignoring this, I inched forward and leaned onto my shoulders, wanting to whisper an apology to Jaime. At the same time, Jaime turned his head to me, close enough where when he then exhaled, his breath fogged my lips. A primal instinct flared within me, a fierce urge I never had before thrusting my heartbeats to overdrive. This voice inside overrode all logic, and begged me to take in every ounce of Jaime’s exhaled breath. I was helpless, and I did.

A wave of heat shot through my body, the soft fog of his breath tearing open a hole, an electric hunger that seared my veins. I gripped the desk, digging my nails into the wood as the taste of him infused my bones slowly, torturously, ridding me of the cold. I wanted to sit back, to move away. How could it be that this was what I hungered for? For breath? For someone’s livelihood? I didn’t move away. I inched closer, inhaling once again with every bit of strength I possessed. Jaime didn’t turn away. He couldn’t. Looking to his eyes, they were dilated. He was frozen. I should have sat back, reined in control over something I didn’t understand. But, I couldn’t.  One breath wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed it all.

The sound of Stokaya’s voice melted into nothingness until not only did I smell it, but I heard the soothing song of waves crashing against a shore. Instincts told me it was all a sick hallucination brought on by my undiagnosed sickness. Maybe I was bipolar. Looking around, the real world hazed, falling victim to my imaginary paradise. No one moved. They weren’t even breathing. Only Jaime and that was all that mattered.

I stood, extending a hand toward him. “Come,” I said, the melodic voice not my own. It was much softer, lower. Obediently, Jaime raised, his dilated eyes never leaving me. I pressed my hands desperately on his chest, my body as a whole gasping at the raw pleasure that rushed through my veins. Smoothing frantic fingers into his hair, I invaded every inch of his space, his pulse beating against my lips. Pulling his willing head back, I ran my nose along his neck, filling my lungs with his masculine scent. It was wrong. I should have been scared. What was scary was how right it felt.

Desire morphed into an addiction that threatened to turn on me if I didn't satisfy it. Jaime would satisfy. He needed to give me more. I wasn't sure of what, but with every one of his breaths, it crystalized. I wanted every breath he had to give. I needed every ounce of his air. I needed his life. As we inhaled and exhaled, the haunting melody in the waves urged me on. It didn’t need to. I had no intentions of stopping. I wanted everything Jaime had to give. His skin faded to an ashen white, his skin growing glacial. I was warm, finally.

Two strong hands clamped down on my shoulders, jolting me back to reality. The cold roared back with a vengeance, a tidal wave of pain that buckled my knees beneath me. I bit my lips to keep from screaming, the hunger tearing me apart inside as the world righted itself. I could only watch in agony as Jaime dropped unconscious to the floor, a loud gasp tearing through the room.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Mr. Stokaya roared from behind me. It was him who gripped my shoulders, who’d torn me from my world. Thrusting me back, he swept beside Jaime. I paced backwards through the crowd, unable to look away from what I’d done. Jaime was pale, his chest unmoving. There was no rise, and fall…just fallen. Students gathered around, murmurs of concern swimming through whispered voices, yet no one scorned me, blamed me. They didn’t even look at me. No one realized it was me that had done it—no one except for Stokaya. He checked Jaime’s pulse, but his eyes remained fixed squarely on me, scrutinizing me, while ordering students to move away and give Jaime some space. My cheeks burning hot, and tears blurring my sights, ashamed and guilty, I ran.

I staggered through crowds needing to get as far away as possible. The world shifted, spun, and pulsed all around me. I made it as far as the bathroom at the end of the wide hall, my legs refused to take me any faster, further. Stumbling inside, I yelled for everyone to leave. Panicked looks branded me, but as flashes of what I did pulsed before my eyes, I pushed them out manically, roaring for them to get as far from me as they could. The last girl out cursed at me, telling me of a few places I should shove things. She told me I was crazy. I wasn’t. I was a murder, a monster. 

The floor was cold against my hands as I dragged my weary body to the small confines of the stall furthest from the door, the smells trivial, and the privacy essential. Never in a million years would I sit on an unflushed toilet. Infinite desperation, however, knew no boundaries. Locking myself within, I slammed down the seat cover and sat, my silent cries drowned out by my uneven breathing and tinkling bangles around my wrist.

I rocked back and forth for a long time, waiting for fate at the hands of police officers. What came instead was the singular scent of fresh grass bleeding through the bottom of the door.

It was Stokaya.

He was my fate, and he was coming for me.

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A/N 6/1- I am currently going through serious edits so bear with me! Votes & comments are greatly appreciated!

Cover Art by Astarael and credit also to night-fate.deviantart.com; lialiad-stock.deviantart.com