14

ENORMOUS FLYING WHITE TUBE OF DEATH!

If she’d been able to form actual words, those might have been the ones, as she glanced back at the jet—easily ten times the size of the plane that just passed by—coming in fast on her booted heels. It filled her vision. Pointed nose. One long narrow black eye stretched across its face. Hulking body. A mechanical beast hundreds of feet long, aiming to crash into her, turn her into nothing more than a splotch on its chin. Its roaring engines deafened her; she could feel the currents of air getting sucked into them, threatening to pull her backward and chop her to bits.

For a second she thought she could outrun it, and she dug her chin into her chest and clenched every muscle, willing her wings to beat even faster, but it was no use. The jet was gaining. She looked again—she could almost see the faces of the pilots behind the glass. She was three seconds away from becoming fairy goo.

Ophelia lowered her head and kicked out with her legs, folding her wings in tight as she dove, hoping to shoot down far enough fast enough that the plane would miss her. She could hear it above, its grumble becoming a bone-rattling roar. She felt the sheer force of it passing overhead, blocking out the sun, casting her in its immense shadow. Then her ears popped and she was sent spinning out of control, caught in the jet wash, the mini cyclones of air left in the huge plane’s wake.

Trapped in a vortex, twisting and tumbling, head over feet, no sense of up or down, she gasped for air, fought to stay conscious. She spread her wings again and tried to stabilize, but the force of the current overpowered her. Everything swirled. One of the straps securing her satchel to her waist broke and the bag came free, whipping around as Ophelia somersaulted through the sky. She saw the top flap open and watched helplessly as Charlie’s old M&M tumbled free. The med kit, the whistle, and her spare socks followed suit, scattered in the wind, lost forever.

Then, to her horror, the baby green acorn with the little wooden button began to jiggle from its pocket.

Oh no you don’t!

Ophelia contorted, gaining some measure of control, and snatched her satchel to her chest, one hand cupped over the locator, protecting it. Then she strained against the force of the wind to straighten herself out. She was no longer caught up in the wake of the jet, but she was falling. Way too fast. She could feel the pressure in her head. Black spots started to cloud her vision.

Get control of yourself, Fidgets. Pull up. Fly, you stupid fairy, fly!

Ophelia arched her back and straightened her wings, making them as rigid as possible, trying to find the right angle to slow her descent without snapping them in two. Fairy wings were strong—as strong as anything on earth, practically—but they were still paper-thin to keep them pliable. Moreover they were attached to her, and she could feel the muscles in her back straining at the effort. Suddenly the wind shifted, another current swooping up from underneath her, and she caught it, coming out of her spin and arcing upward, gritting her teeth and fluttering like mad to even out.

At last she came to a hovering stop in midair.

Three choking breaths, her heart fluttering faster than her wings, Ophelia tried to recover her wits. She wasn’t a splotch. Everything was all right. True, she had absolutely no idea what direction she was facing, but at least it was no longer straight down. She glided for a moment, letting the wind cradle her as she secured her bag, now a great deal lighter at least, and felt her pockets to make sure she’d lost nothing else. The two canisters of weaponized fairy dust remained clipped to her belt, as did her knife. She had most of her supplies still, though nothing in the way of food. She pressed her hand to her chest, not to feel her heart, which raced like a hummingbird’s, but to make sure the vial was still there, that it hadn’t somehow snapped off while she was performing her unplanned aerial acrobatics.

It’s okay. Calm down, Fidgets. You still have everything you need to grant your wish. It was a minor setback; she was bound to have one. And now, at least, she had a story she could tell Charlie when she returned. The important thing was that the mission was still a go.

If she only knew which way she should go. She was completely turned around.

Ophelia spotted the jet that had almost quashed her, high above her now, about to disappear into the clouds. It had been headed the same direction as her before.

She just hoped it still was.