27

Had she been a robust sort of fairy, the size of a muskrat or a groundhog, she would have been killed instantly. The talon would have neatly pierced her soft middle, punctured a lung perhaps, or plunged straight into her heart.

But the red-tailed hawk that spotted Ophelia dangling from the oak’s branches was full grown and large for its kind, and Ophelia was small for hers, despite the doughnut cravings, and so the bird’s clawed feet wrapped clear around her instead, squeezing the very breath out of her, but not, at least, impaling her on the spot.

Small consolation, Ophelia thought as she hovered eight hundred feet above the ground, turned faceup so that she could see the patch of gray on the hawk’s broad chest, the burnt-orange spray of feathers from its fanned tail. For a fleeting moment, Ophelia was jealous—such beautiful, unmarred wings—and then her predicament hit her: she was clutched in the talons of a beast that saw Ophelia as nothing more than food.

Ophelia’s chest burned with each breath, her arms struggled to get free, her legs kicked out, but it was no use—the raptor had her locked tight. She couldn’t reach for her spray or her knife or even give the bird a heart-stopping, Fayitsu-palm-heel strike to its breast. Her only hope, she realized, was to get the hawk to let her go. To talk the beast down.

Unfortunately she hadn’t had a great deal of luck conversing with birds lately.

“Excuse me,” Ophelia croaked out, shifting as much as she could to breathe better. “Excuse me. I think there’s been some kind of mistake. See. I’m not what you think I am.”

The hawk bent its head, eyeballing her for one moment and then ignoring her, renewing its flight with another beat of its perfect wings. It wasn’t interested in conversation. Just lunch.

“Hey! Hawk! Seriously! Listen! I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to work.”

The hawk bent her sleek head again. This time she cawed out, a long, piercing screech that confirmed everything Ophelia’d been taught about their kind: they were ruthless hunters with a singular purpose and almost no sense of humor. “I’m thinking,” the hawk said, “that I’ve caught mice with more meat than you. You look wiry and gamy. But I bet your insides are soft and warm and will make a passable meal for my hatchlings—after I’ve minced you a bit, that is.” The hawk resumed its slow and steady flapping.

Minced me? Ophelia knew she wasn’t in the position to argue, but she did anyways. “Yeah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I’m no mouse. I’m a fairy. And not just any fairy. I am a Granter from the Haven, and I’m trained in multiple disciplines of hand-to-hand combat. I’m heavily armed, potentially lethal, and on a bit of a sugar high, so the moment you set me down in your nest I’m going to get completely mythical on you. And you do not want that. Trust me.”

The bird squawked at her again. “The moment I set you down in my nest you’ll be dead, because I fully intend to squeeze the life out of you before landing. I just thought I’d keep you as fresh as possible until I got there.”

As if to back up the threat, the hawk’s talons clenched even tighter. Ophelia felt something snap, part of her already broken wing breaking even further, causing her to cry out in pain. Hawks were incapable of smiling—a lack of lips will do that—but Ophelia thought she could see the equivalent of a satisfied grin in its eyes. She had to find some way to get free before they reached the bird’s nest. Something that didn’t involve the use of her pinned arms or weapons she couldn’t reach.

Which left only one option.

She would have to sing her way out of this.

Human lore is rich with tall tales and superstitions regarding the mystical power of song. Supposedly humans once believed in fantastic creatures who had nothing better to do than to sit half naked on rocky beaches and lure simple-minded sailors to their deaths with enchanting music. Myths abound of people with fish tails for legs who could convince those same sailors to jump overboard with their boots on, sinking to their briny deaths, simply by singing to them. Nymphs and sorceresses whose haunting music could walk you straight off cliffs or nightingales who could warble you into an eternal sleep.

None of it’s true. But it might have all come from the same original source. Because there is one creature whose song holds a bewitching effect.

Anyone who has ever heard it could tell you that fairy song is a powerful thing, except they wouldn’t know to call it by name and would be too befuddled by the song itself to remember. It was often songs that the Whisperers sang when they coaxed the trees to grow or the flowers to unfold. It was sometimes a fairy song that could be heard by hikers near the Haven that filled their bellies and brains with a fear and made them turn around and go back the way they came. In truth, those sailors from long ago—the ones who supposedly heard “mermaids” and “sirens”—went insane because life on board a ship is maddening, but it’s highly possible that a fairy’s ditty hastened the process.

A fairy’s song was its own special kind of magic, not beholden to the Great Tree or the wellsprings of fairy dust, but it didn’t have quite the potency that human myth imagined. A fairy couldn’t cause a man to pitch himself off a cliff just by singing to him. The effects weren’t that strong, and they differed by the fairy and the listener both. Each fairy had just one song with potentially magic effect. Many were ancient, passed down through generations, with lyrics and melodies seemingly as old as the trees they lived in. Many were in the human tongue, appropriated by the creatures of the fay for their own mischievous ends. “Greensleeves” or “Carraigdhoun.” Several fairies Ophelia knew were fond of “Rolling in the Dew.” They believed the older songs and chants had a more haunting appeal. Some of the younger fairies had rebelled against this notion and started going with Frank Sinatra ballads. “Come Fly with Me” was all the rage three seasons ago.

For Ophelia, however, it was Ozzy Osbourne.

More specifically, “Crazy Train.”

It was one of the songs her Founder taught her, and it wheedled its way inside her and stuck, becoming the magical tune that she kept tucked away in case of emergencies.

For many fairies, singing had an enchanting effect, capable of making the listener dreamy eyed and woozy and warm, as if they’d polished off the last of the wine. For others it was the opposite. Ophelia knew of several fairies whose songs simply made you irritable or drove you absolutely batty.

That was the effect of “Crazy Train.”

And to make matters worse, she wasn’t a very good singer, which tended to lessen its potency. But when you are in the clutches of a coldhearted bird of prey determined to serve you to her brood with no way to reach your knife or your spray, your options are limited, and only Oz can save you.

“Okay, bird,” Ophelia huffed. “You asked for it. All aboard!”

Ophelia started to hum at first, summoning the opening riff. She even did the little aye-aye-ayes, but the hawk ignored her, just kept its slow rhythmic beat and glide until Ophelia kicked in with the lyrics, singing as loud as she could with all the pressure on her chest.

“Crazy, but that’s how it goes. Millions of people living as fo-o-o-o-oes.”

The hawk gave Ophelia an eyeball, the cockeyed look of any creature who’s not sure what’s going on but is certain they don’t like it. She felt the claws hug her tighter, but the bird was afraid of ruining her family’s dinner too soon before arrival. Instead the hawk shook her head again and tried to press on. Ophelia gathered enough air to belt out the next line.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Ophelia continued. “To learn how to love, and forget how to ha-ee-ay-ee-ate . . .”

The hawk’s whole body started to quiver. She felt it dip in altitude suddenly. Ophelia’s song was working. Her captor cawed down to her. “Stop that confounded racket or I will tear you in half!”

But Ophelia closed her eyes and channeled her Founder, Paolo, a fairy who was seldom inclined to speak but never afraid to sing.

“I’m goin’ off the rails on a crazy train . . .”

“Stop it!” the hawk cawed. She swooped and twisted, but didn’t let go.

Ophelia started to bang her head, repeating the same verse over and over again. The hawk let out a prolonged screech of annoyance or madness or both. Then, to Ophelia’s relief, those pinching talons sprung open and Ophelia was free.

And free-falling.