NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!


As another wave of the pain washes over me, I try to struggle into a standing position, but I fail pathetically and slump down again. Damn him! We'd gone out together. We'd walked around the city, through the park. He'd bought me a drink when we stopped in a pub. Then he'd dropped me off at my house and announced, despite my repeated, forceful and unrepeatable assurances to the contrary, that he was sure he'd see me again soon. I'd slammed the door in his face.

Then it had all gone wrong.

I can feel it every time he takes another step away from me. Each one brings another stinging jolt of ice-cold pain with it. He'd been gone less than half an hour, but I was getting what felt like withdrawal symptoms. I hated his worthless guts, but I'd felt… warm. Warm and safe when I was with him. Which obviously made no sense at all. Given the chance, I'd have cursed him to the seventh circle of hell and back again. Twice. Then again for good measure if I was really, really angry. But today… I'm so sure anymore. He'd been almost sweet. In a duplicitous, lying bastard kind of way.

And now he'd left and I'm in the kind of pain that all the morphine in the world won't fix. I don't think for a moment that he put something in my drink – this feels wrong, otherworldly and distinctly Fey-induced. I spit out something unprintable and reach for the phone. It's no good; I have to ask him what the hell he's done to me and how to get rid of it. If I leave the inevitable any later, I won't be able to string a coherent sentence together to hurl abuse at him when he gets here.

I find the number he's put on my phone and press the call button so violently my nail splits the rubber.

I don't care.

I don't care about anything, except making this stop, stop, STOP!

He picks up the phone.


'Keenan!' I snarl, my teeth gritted. 'Get over here, right now!'

'Moira! What's the matter?' He sounds so concerned, almost panicked, and that's what gets me. I descend into uncontrollable, hacking sobs.

'I don't… know… I don't know… Ahh, Keenan! It hurts… Help me!'

'Don't move. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

He sounds tense, worried, and I could hear the car engine roaring into life before he'd even hung up. The phone drops out of my hand, and just before everything goes black, I have one last irrational thought:

Keenan is coming now. Everything will be ok.

Then I scream as pain racks my body again and the dark covers my eyes.

I wake up screaming too, as the ghost of the pain dissolves into the air. Then I realise that it doesn't hurt any more. Gingerly, I open my eyes. I'm in my bed, fully dressed, with the duvet twisted into disarray around me.

Keenan is here. That, for some inexplicable reason, makes me feel better. He is holding my hand, his other hand on my forehead. His hands are so warm, I want to stay there forever.

'Keenan,' I croak, wincing. My throat hurts from all the screaming. 'What happened?'

'I think I know,' he says, his expression torn between grim and elated. 'I misjudged how far this has gone.'

'This? What's this supposed to be? Some kind of stupid faery thing? Because I tell you right now, I don't want it. I don't want… any of it!' I manage to snap forcefully before I start coughing alarmingly.

He looks at me, shocked speechless.

Then I remember he didn't know I can see the Fey.


'You… you see us?'

I nod wearily. I'm not scared of him at all now. 'Always have. I can't get away from it.'

'So, you knew I was…'

'Fey? From the minute I first saw you.'

He tips his head back, but I can see his look of dawning comprehension.

'Oh. That's why you hated me so much.'

'I hate all of you.'

He looks hurt, and, to my horror, I feel bad. 'Even me?' he says, almost whispering. He looks heartbroken. I relent, just a little bit.

'Well, maybe I don't hate you anymore.'

'And that's why you were in the forest.'

'Yeah. I had to get out of here. Stupid mistake, I miscounted the days. I never meant to be there on Midsummer's.'

'That's how you knew Don was there.'

'The girl? Yes.'

'Maybe that's why all this is happening so quickly.'

That reminds me. What's he talking about? I don't want this. I never wanted this, I never will. It isn't fair.

My litany. But I don't think I have a choice. I mean, I get withdrawal symptoms when he leaves. That's never, ever good.

'What is this? Keenan, what's happening to me?'

He takes a deep breath.

And he tells me everything.