CHAPTER 7   

Gifted, they’d called Ben, since the elf woman touched his brow and a port-wine stain bloomed on his temple and he’d come home able to hear their music and make it, too. Gifted, they said, when he composed songs on a child-size ukulele that no adult could replicate. Gifted, when he played a tune on a xylophone that made their babysitter weep. Gifted, his sister called him, when he charmed faeries in the woods and saved her life. (And doomed it, too, maybe.)

But what he could do scared him. He couldn’t control it.

Parents like theirs were kind of lazy and forgetful about things like paying bills on time or buying groceries or license renewals, but not about art. They might not make a dinner that was more than corn flakes and hard-boiled eggs or remember to sign field trip consent forms or bother about bedtimes, but they knew what to do with a musical prodigy. They called friends, and by the time Ben was twelve and Hazel was eleven, they had a referral to some crazy school where Ben could “fulfill his potential.” At the audition, his playing of the piano made the entire admissions committee sit rapt and completely ensorcelled for a half hour. It was terrifying, he’d told Hazel later, like playing to a room full of the dead. Once he was done, they began to move again and told him how amazing his playing had been. He’d felt sick inside.

And he felt even sicker when Mom and Dad told him they couldn’t afford to send him there. He wanted to go more than he’d ever wanted anything, because as strange as his audition had been, he knew learning about music was the only chance he had at controlling his power.

When the scholarship came in months later, long after he was sure they’d forgotten about him, he felt as though he’d won the lottery. They all went out for ice cream to celebrate, and he ate half of Hazel’s along with his own.

He wasn’t just glad he was going to a fantastic school to learn music. He was glad they were moving away. He was scared that Hazel was going to get hurt—really hurt, the kind of hurt people didn’t come back from—and it would be because of him. He still remembered how invulnerable he’d felt when he realized that his music had immobilized the water hag, how amazed he’d been by the sight of his sister with the sword. He’d felt like they were born to be heroes. But actually hunting faeries was terrifying. And while he could make excuses to stop for a while, it was just a matter of time before she got fed up with him and went out on her own.

Dad rented out the house in Fairfold, and they got a cheap apartment in Philadelphia, where only a fraction of their stuff fit. Hazel didn’t like it—didn’t like anything about it. She didn’t like that you could hear the neighbors through the walls. She didn’t like the way she felt tired all the time there, even though her mother told her that was just adolescence and it happened to everyone. She didn’t like the noises of the city or the smell of exhaust and rotting garbage outside the windows. She didn’t like her public school, where her new friends made fun of her when she talked about faeries. She didn’t like that she wasn’t allowed to roam around by herself. And, most of all, she didn’t like not being a knight anymore.

When she’d made the bargain, she’d thought only Ben would go away, not that she’d have to go with him. Not that the whole family would go.

“Think about all the takeout we can get,” their mother had said, clearly remembering her favorite restaurants from when she was in art school. “We can have bowls of pho one night and tacos the next and injera with doro wat after that.”

Hazel had made a face. “I don’t want to eat any of those things. I don’t even know what they are.”

“Then think about your brother,” their father had told her, not particularly sternly, ruffling Hazel’s hair fondly as if he thought she was being adorably childish. “Wouldn’t you want him to support you if you were following your dream?”

“My dream is to go back home,” Hazel had said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You just haven’t found the thing that you’re good at yet,” her mother said, smiling. And that was that.

Hazel knew what she was good at; she just didn’t know how to explain it. That’s not true, she wanted to say. I’m good at killing monsters. But her mother didn’t need to know that, and it would be foolish to say it. Mom might be horrified or scared. Mom might start paying attention to where she went and what she did. Besides, it was a delicious secret. She liked thinking of it almost as much as she’d liked the weight of her blade in her hand.

And if there was another part of her that wished her parents were the kind who might protect her from needing to kill monsters all on her own, at eleven she already knew that was unrealistic. It wasn’t as if her parents didn’t love her; it was just that they forgot things a lot and sometimes those things were important.

Which meant for two years, Ben learned to play different instruments (including wineglasses and a tuba) at the fancy school, while Hazel learned a new skill—how to be an unrepentant flirt.

Hazel wasn’t the best in her classes, nor was she the worst. She might have been good at a sport, but she never bothered to try out for one. Instead, after school, she signed up for self-defense classes at the Y and practiced techniques she learned from YouTube videos of sword fighting. But, at twelve, Hazel discovered something she was weirdly better at than other people—making boys squirm.

She’d look at boys and smile if they caught her looking.

She’d twirl her red curls around her finger and bite her lip.

She’d prop up her boobs with her arm, the desk, or one of the new underwire bras she persuaded Mom to buy for her—all of them silky and brightly colored.

She’d tell people she was doing badly in all her classes—once or twice because it was true and then chronically when it wasn’t.

Flirting didn’t mean anything to her. There was no plan, no goal. It was just a little rush, just a way to be seen in a place where it would be easy to drown in invisibility. She never meant to hurt anyone. She had no idea that was even possible. She was twelve and bored and really didn’t know what she was doing.

While she was flirting, Ben was falling in love for the first time, with a boy named Kerem Aslan. They met every day after school to whisper together over their homework and sneak kisses when they thought no one else was looking. Sometimes Ben would play snippets of a song he was working on, a thing he’d never done with anyone but Hazel before. She still remembered the way she’d seen Ben trace the boy’s name along his arm in water. Aslan, like the lion from Narnia. Kerem looked a little bit like a lion, too, with golden-brown eyes and shaggy black hair.

Hazel and Ben went from having everything in common to having nearly nothing. They went to different schools, had different friends, different stories, different everything. Hazel was miserable, and Ben had never been happier.

But then Kerem’s family found out about the relationship and his parents called to have a horrible awkward talk with Dad and Dad hung up on them. And Ben cried at the kitchen table, head buried in his folded arms, no matter how many times Dad hugged him and told him it was going to be okay.

“It’s not,” he whispered, insisting he would never feel any less miserable than he did in that moment. He insisted his heart was broken forever.

At lunch the next day Ben texted Hazel to say that Kerem had been avoiding him and talking shit to their mutual friends. After her classes were over, Hazel decided to walk to his school instead of going straight home. She knew his last period was a long individual study on the flute. After that, they could go get gelato at the place that poured a shot of espresso over it and maybe Ben would cheer up.

No one stopped her from going in; she slipped past the security guard and headed down the hall to the bench next to the music room. Perched there, she was surprised to see Kerem Aslan of the lion eyes and lion name walking down the hall toward her.

“Hey, little sister,” he said. “You look pretty today.”

Hazel smiled. It was automatic, half a reaction to a compliment and half the familiarity of smiling at him. She’d smiled at him a thousand times before.

“You know I always liked you. Whenever I came over to the apartment, I’d ask if you wanted to come hang out with us, but Ben said that you were busy. He said you had a boyfriend.” Kerem sounded as if he was flirting, but there was something in his face too close to fear for the words to be convincing.

“That’s not true,” Hazel said. She’d seen him and Ben, heads bent together as they whispered and laughed, oblivious to the rest of the world.

“So you don’t have a boyfriend?” Kerem asked. She could tell from his tone that he was misunderstanding her on purpose, but it still flustered her.

“No, I mean—” she began.

And then, with a sideways glance down the hall, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was her first kiss, outside of grandmas and elderly aunts, outside of parents and brothers, despite all the flirting she’d done. His mouth was soft and warm, and while she didn’t kiss him back, she didn’t exactly squirm away.

It wasn’t nice, her hesitation. It lasted only a moment, but it ruined everything.

“Stop it,” she said, shoving him. Some other musical-prodigy kids looked over. A teacher came out of her classroom and asked if everything was okay. Hazel’s voice must have been louder than she’d thought.

But everything wasn’t okay, because Ben was staring at them. Then there was only the sight of her brother’s backpack, the heels of his black Chucks, and the slam of the music room door.

“You did that on purpose,” Hazel accused. “You wanted him to see.”

“I told you I liked you,” Kerem said, raising his eyebrows, but he didn’t sound all that triumphant.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking as she waited for Ben outside his classroom, listening to the strains of music that escaped the soundproofing. She wanted to tell her brother what really happened, explain that she hadn’t wanted to be kissed. But she didn’t get the chance, because a few minutes later his music instructor collapsed from a myocardial infarction that nearly killed her. The paramedics came, with Ben and Hazel’s parents arriving soon after. Ben wouldn’t talk to anyone, not then, not on the way home.

He’d played music when he was upset, when he was probably angry, and his instructor’s heart had stopped. Hazel knew he must be blaming himself. Hazel knew he must be blaming the magic, and she knew he must be blaming her.

By the time she went up to Ben’s room to try to apologize, he was sitting on the floor, door open, cradling his left hand.

“Ben?” she said. He looked up with haunted, red-rimmed eyes.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he told her, voice weak, and she realized what he must have done to get his hand like that. He’d slammed it in the door. More than once, probably. The skin wasn’t just red; it was purple, and his fingers were on the wrong angle.

“Mom!” Hazel screamed. “Mom!”

“It has to stop,” he said. “I’ve got to stop. Somebody has to stop me.”

They took a taxi to the hospital, where the ER doctors confirmed that he’d broken bones, lots of them. His instructors confirmed that he wouldn’t be able to play anymore, at least not for a long while. He’d have to wait until the bones set and do exercises to give them greater mobility. He’d have to be very careful and diligent.

Even though Ben never said a thing to their parents about what he’d done or why he’d done it, even though Hazel never told, they got the message and moved the family back to Fairfold not long after, back to their sprawling mess of a house and their old life.

Ben was neither careful nor diligent with his hand.

He listened to music, lots of it. He gorged on music. But after they got back, he wouldn’t even hum along. He didn’t play again, which meant the next time a tourist went missing in Fairfold, Hazel hunted alone.

It was different without him, and it was hard going back into the forest after all the time away. The strap for her sword—the one that had allowed her to carry it on her back—no longer fit right. She had to adjust it for her hip, although she wasn’t used to having it there, and the slap of the scabbard against her thigh was a constant distraction. She felt silly, almost a teenager, returning to a child’s game. Even the woods had become unfamiliar. The paths weren’t in the same places, and she kept finding herself putting a foot wrong when she tried to race through them the way she used to.

But she was taller and stronger and determined to handle things on her own—determined to show her brother that she didn’t need him, determined to show herself she still could be a knight. She knew the trick to hunting the Folk was to keep your wits about you, to remember they were tricksy, to remember that the grass under your feet might move sideways, that you might be led in a circle. Hazel had turned her socks inside out before she set off, and her pockets were full of oatmeal, just as her grandmother had shown her and Ben when they were little kids. She was ready. She had to go back out there. She had to find the monsters. She had to fight the monsters, all of them, until she got to the monster at the heart of the forest and ended the corruption forever so that everyone could be safe always.

Sometimes, if she thought too much about that, her heart would race and panic would set in. Her quest was impossible, and she didn’t know how much time she had left.

Panic was what she had to guard against, because it was easy to panic whenever she remembered she’d pledged seven years of her life to the faeries. And after panic came despair—and once despair set in, it was harder and harder to shake it off again. The trick was not to let herself think about it too much. Anything that stopped her from thinking would do. Anything that kept her from pressing her hand against her chest to feel the thudding of her own heart and know that each beat was another moment lost.

It took her three long days to find the missing girl, a tall and skinny teenager named Natalie. When Hazel did find her, the girl was still alive but unconscious, hanging from the branches of a thorn tree. A thin drizzle of her blood dripped from one of her arms into a wooden bowl. Two short faerie men with long reddened noses and pale eyes busied themselves adjusting the ropes, making the girl spin, making the blood drip faster.

Hazel had never found a tourist alive before.

She knew what the creatures with the girl were from stories, although she’d never seen one. They were redcaps, terrifying monsters who delighted in butchery and dyed their garments in blood.

For a moment Hazel looked at them and wondered what the hell she was doing. She’d gotten used to living in the city. She’d gotten used to a world without monsters. She’d gotten soft and scared. The pommel of the black-painted sword wobbled in her sweaty hands.

I am a knight. I am a knight. I am a knight. She repeated the words, lips moving soundlessly over them, but she wasn’t sure that she entirely knew what they meant anymore. What she did know was that if she didn’t get herself together, a girl was going to die.

Hazel burst from the brush, slashing downward. The first redcap cried out and then slumped over, entirely silent. Her stomach lurched, but she whirled on the second, ready to counter his attack, ready to slice him in half. She might have won, too. She was strong and fast, holding a glorious golden sword, and she’d taken the two redcaps by surprise. But there was a third she hadn’t seen, and he knocked her to the ground with a single sharp blow.

They cut Natalie’s throat. She had such little blood left anyway, they said, and the new one was much fresher. A rope went around Hazel’s ankles, and they were preparing to haul her up like the other girl. She felt dizzy and sick and more scared than she’d ever felt in her life. She wanted to call for Ben, but there was no Ben to call for. She had only herself, and she’d failed. She hadn’t saved anyone.

She hung upside down from the tree for hours, blood rushing to her head, before the redcaps departed for more firewood. Steeling herself, she swung over to where Natalie hung. The horror of the dead flesh under her hands was awful, but she climbed the girl’s body until she could pull herself up onto a branch and undo the rope at her ankles. Tears wetted her cheeks, although she didn’t remember crying.

She found her sword, stacked with an assortment of other stolen things, and headed for home, shaking so hard she was afraid she was going to shake apart.

That night, she’d discovered that thirteen-year-old ferocity was no match for ancient monsters, not alone. She had to admit that her knighthood was lost, along with Ben’s music. When she finally made it home, she stood outside Ben’s door for a long time, palm pressed against the painted wood. But she didn’t knock.

Hazel had told him that she was sorry, that she had never meant for Kerem to kiss her, had never wanted it, had told him a thousand times. But in her heart of hearts she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She’d flirted with Kerem at the apartment, because he was a cute guy and Ben had everything. She hadn’t wanted the kiss when it happened, but she had thought about it before. And she’d let it happen, when maybe if she hadn’t, Ben wouldn’t have lost his music. Maybe he wouldn’t have given up their quest, either. Maybe Natalie would still be alive.

She’d told Ben that the kiss meant nothing. And she wanted it to mean nothing.

She wanted to prove it meant nothing.

But no matter how many other boys she kissed, she couldn’t bring Ben’s music back.