40

The sign said Keep Out! in bright red letters.

It seemed like sensible advice, and at any other time, Ophelia probably would have heeded it, but she could hear Kasarah calling to her from behind the door, which, despite the sign, was open just a crack. Ophelia squeezed through.

And into Gabe’s room. Which was, she noted with a sigh of appreciation, immaculate. Not a thing out of place. Nothing on the floor. Certainly no stuffed grizzlies standing guard. His bed was carefully made. The books on his nightstand stood in a perfect line, marching from shortest to tallest, accompanied by a couple of framed photos. One of Gabe and his sister standing beside a lopsided sand castle. Another of him and his father dangling by ropes from the side of a cliff. They were both smiling.

Oddly enough only the ceiling was cluttered; a collection of plastic airplanes hung from hooks and string. Infernal contraptions. Seeing them made Ophelia shudder, but then her eyes fell on the small wooden desk by the window and the soft glow emanating from it.

The coin. And for once, not a single soul around to stop her. All she needed was a way up. Maybe shimmy up the bed and jump from there? She blocked out the sound of Kasarah’s constant pining so that she could concentrate. Just get up, complete the ritual, and then find some way out of here and start what would no doubt be a very long journey back home.

She was halfway across the room when she heard a crash—a door below her slamming shut, followed by voices, loud enough to carry up the stairs. She froze, listening.

“But why not?”

It was Gabe. Angry or hurt. Challenging and defiant. It was followed by his mother’s voice, stern and just as loud, but more controlled.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You never think anything’s a good idea!”

“A dog? Really, Gabe? The last thing I need in this house with your father gone is another thing to take care of.”

Ophelia cursed under her breath. They were fighting over Sam. Not exactly what she’d meant by Keep them distracted.

“Because taking care of us is already too much work,” Gabe snipped.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“He obviously doesn’t have anywhere to go. He was starving. He practically swallowed that chicken whole.”

That was definitely Sam. Ophelia wondered where the mutt was now. Still outside with Anna? Or had he scampered off and found some place to hide? She couldn’t hear him barking anymore. She couldn’t hear anything save for the wish in her head and the sound of mother and son arguing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Lord knows we have enough going on without taking in some stray animal. What has gotten into you lately?”

Ophelia counted five heartbeats before the boy spoke again, his voice softer but his tone no less defiant. “Dad would let us keep him.”

“Maybe. If he was here. But he’s not. So that means you’re stuck with me. And I say we can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Gabe’s last words were followed by the sound of footfalls stomping quickly up the stairs and down the hall. Heading for his room.

Heading for her.

Ophelia took a sharp breath and looked frantically for a place to hide. If it were either of the other two rooms, she could sneak behind a pile of toys or dive beneath a heap of dirty laundry, but here her only hope was to scurry underneath the bed. She dove and rolled just as the boy stepped through the door, slamming it shut with a wall-rattling shake, closing off her only escape route.

Gabe stood there for a moment, then strode over to the window by his desk, unlatching it and pushing it open with a grunt, the earthy smells of outside immediately tickling Ophelia’s nose. The boy collapsed into the desk chair with an exaggerated sigh.

Ophelia inched to the edge of the bed, lifting the blanket that draped down so she could get a better look, much the same way she had back at the diner. The boy’s shoulders shook. She saw him wipe furiously at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Sam must have really turned on the charm.

The nickel continued to glow from the desktop, the halo only she could see, the girl she’d never met refusing to shut up about the bike she didn’t have yet. Make it purple.

I know. I know. I’m working on it, Ophelia thought.

She needed the boy out of the room, but his heaving sobs caused a knot to form in Ophelia’s chest. What was it about this kid? He slumped over his desk now, staring out the open window. The sun had vanished completely, drawing dark curtains over the horizon. She couldn’t tell from her angle, but she guessed out here—far from the haze of a hundred blazing streetlights—the sky was probably studded with stars. She wondered what the boy saw when he looked out there. An ocean of waiting promises? Or just emptiness, distant and cold? Through the open window Ophelia could hear the cricket symphony resume their overture, a screeching soundtrack to accompany the voice.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

She couldn’t wait under this bed forever. Ophelia looked at her belt, at the canister of weaponized fairy dust resting on her hip. He was a skinny kid. One shot would surely do it. She could sneak up behind him, catch him by surprise. His mother would find him curled up in a ball on the floor and lift him gently into bed and in the morning everything would be better for him. Somehow. Maybe.

Sorry about this, kid, she thought to herself, pulling into a crouch, ready to spring.

Gabe stiffened as if he’d actually heard her thoughts, suddenly sitting up straight, causing Ophelia to take a cautious step back, farther under the bed. He pushed up out of his chair and stared down at the clump of wrinkled bills and loose change on the desk. He seemed to be searching for something in particular.

When he found it, he stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans and headed for the door.

No way. No flea-flicking way.

Ophelia shot out from underneath the bed, spray in hand, fumbling with the button as she ran, hoping to cut him off, but it was five of her steps for his one. The boy swung his bedroom door closed behind him, trapping her inside.

“Fignuts!”

Now what? Ophelia pressed her belly flat to the carpet, hoping she could squeeze through the thin crack underneath the door. She pushed an arm under, both arms, but her head wouldn’t fit and knew she’d tear her wings off trying. As she lay there with her ear pressed to the door, she could hear the boy’s voice, shouting again as he clomped down the stairs.

“I’m going down by the creek.”

The sound of a door opening. Then the mother’s voice from even farther away.

“What if your father calls?”

But the only answer was the sound of the door slamming shut.

Followed by a fairy’s hysterical laughter.