Page 30 of Twisted Fate

“I expected you to run,” he says. “Even more so when you found out about your family’s involvement in the fae world.”

“Figures.” I sigh. “What would’ve happened if I had? I wouldn’t have gotten far; I know that. I don’t have the energy or desire to fight this. So long as it doesn’t affect my life any more than it already does, I’ll accept it. I think you can agree there are more important things. You have your world, and I have mine. Sometimes they overlap, but when they do, we’ll just have to deal with it. I mean, preferably without the two of us having to interact, but I suppose some sacrifices must be made.” Perhaps this is the wrong moment to be snarky and make jokes.

He stands there, staring at me with what I can only interpret as a look of wonder on his annoyingly attractive face as the scene slips away.

Iwake up on the couch with a knitted blanket draped over me and a cushion under my head. The TV is off, and the room is dark except for a crack of light coming from the kitchen.

I stare out into the darkness. Tristan can waltz into my dreams. Great. Now not only do I have to deal with him during the day, but I also can’t escape him at night, either. Can’t escape the way he makes my heart race and my stomach flip.I’m so screwed.

Exhausted as I am, this is the perfect opportunity to look through the house for some answers. I have to be quiet; I don’t want to wake anyone and have to lie about why I’m searching through old family things.

I tiptoe into the office, a small room with a couch, a desk, and chair. One wall is lined with bookshelves filled with old textbooks, some of my parents’ books, and our family albums. I cross the room, flicking on the lamp on the desk as I pass, and run my finger along the spines. I crouch and pull out an album.

I flip through the pages. Nothing. This one is far too recent to hold any answers.

I sigh, glancing at the shelf full of matching binders. They’re all too new. If I weren’t half asleep, I’d have realized that before I wasted my time in here. If I crawled into the attic, I might be able to find something that dates back far enough, but I can’t do that when I’m trying to stay quiet. I’m not going to get any answers tonight.

With a yawn, I drag myself to my bedroom and fall onto my bed, hoping Tristan will leave me alone for the rest of the night.

When I find myself in another dreamscape, anger swiftly rises, and I grit my teeth. My eyes focus on the ground beneath my feet. Cracked pavement. I frown as I lift my head, and gasp sharply when realization knocks the air out of me.

I’m not in my dream anymore. I’m inTristan’s.

He’s standing atop a mess of rubble, staring right at me, but doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know I’m in his dream.HowamI here?

I shiver, coughing on the smoke that’s heavy in the air, and blink until my vision is as clear as it’s going to get in this war-torn environment. There’s nothing left for as far as the eye can see. Buildings are gone, nothing left but piles of concrete and metal, and leafless trees are fallen, scattered in the mess. It looks like a scene out of a dystopian movie.

My eyes shift back to Tristan. He’s a mess. His dark clothing is torn, all but shredded in some places along his midsection, and his hair is darkened with dirt and ash. I walk closer, careful where I step, and watch his face pale. His eye are bloodshot and wide, rimmed by dark circles underneath. They’re bouncing all over the place, never stopping in one spot too long, but growing more and more frantic by the second. His chest rises and falls quickly, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides.

“Tristan,” I whisper, my voice cracking, and suddenly I’m fighting this all-consuming urge to comfort him. The pain in his expression is hurtingme.

I say his name again, louder this time, but he still doesn’t hear me.

My eyes burn as I watch the dark fae leader fall to his knees and stare at the ruins with an utterly hopeless expression that makes my blood run cold.

Tristan wasn’t alive during this fae war, during the destruction of his people’s homeland, but he’s forced to experience it in his nightmares.

My eyes fly open, and daylight streams into my room. I stretch my arms and legs, taking a few minutes to shake the scene I just witnessed. Once my heart slows to a normal rate and I stop sweating, I try to enjoy the fact I’m waking up in my own bedroom.

There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed at home. Compared to the old, twin mattress I sleep on at school, this bed feels like a cloud of comfort and warmth. Everything about my room makes me want to stay here: the Polaroid photos I have hung on one wall, the desk that’s covered with books on business and marketing, the window seat my dad built me the first summer I got into reading when I was thirteen. The giant bookshelves are the best thing about the room, though. They hold so many books that I’ll probably never read them all. I glance longingly at the keyboard set up across the room. If I could somehow make it fit in my room at school, I’d have it there. I’ve been playing piano since I was little. Playing always makes me feel in control and at ease. It helps make life less chaotic.

With all of my belongings unchanged, my bedroom is one of the things I miss the most when I’m at school.

I head down to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and find Mom sitting at the breakfast bar. “Morning,” I keep quiet in case Dad and Adam are still asleep.

“Morning, honey. How’d you sleep?” She ties the belt on her soft blue robe and yawns.

I shudder. “I slept okay.” I don’t want to think about the vividness of that dream. My stomach is still in knots.

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Adam is happy you’re home.”

My chest tightens at the mention of his name. I’d give anything to have yesterday be a nightmare, to wake up and find out Adam isn’t sick again. I pour some coffee into my mug and smile. “Yeah, I’m happy, too.” I take a drink. “I’m guessing they aren’t awake yet?”

Mom’s soft laugh lightens her eyes. “You know Adam is a monster to get out of bed before noon, and your father went out to run some errands.”

I glance at the clock on the stove; it’s just after eleven. “Gotcha,” I say. “So, in class the other day, we were talking about things running in families...”Nice segue, Aurora.“Businesses and traditions and such,” I add. “Do you know if our family had anything like that, maybe a long time ago?” What a time to be completelynotsubtle. I don’t know how else to search for what I’m looking for. Hell, I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Maybe bringing this up was a bad idea. Maybe it’s best I don’t know.

She glances at me. “That sounds interesting. I can’t think of any on my side,” she pauses, biting her bottom lip. “Your dad’s family was always more...eclectic than mine. Maybe you could ask him?”

---