He’s more normal than you expected. Your family history said something about horns, and long ears, and pointy teeth…
The man on your couch looks like a beleaguered IT guy. His text (sent from the flower emoji and no number) simply said “I’m coming over.”
He has your grandmother’s favorite ‘Crochet-y Old Woman’ mug between long spindly hands full of Hibiscus tea. He is drumming his fingers against the cartoony ‘crocheted shotgun’ image on the side.
“We have to talk,” he says in a soft unobtrusive voice with an easy American accent. Fey don’t usually manifest American. Maybe he’s trying to appeal to you, seem less formal than most Fey. Maybe it’s a trick.
“About these?” You pull out the box of scrolls that say ‘you’re welcome’ each marking a different time he had saved your life whether you knew it or not. You put the box on the coffee table between you. You’re on the loveseat and you’ve given him the couch so you have a better view out the windows. Your Dad always said to watch your exits. Your Dad always said to pre-heat the grill. Your Dad always said to bow politely to rainbows. Your Dad said a lot of things you try not to remember.
“Yes.” He puts the mug down and rests his hands on his khaki pants. He smoothes the fabric against his thighs and stares at the banker box of scrolls. “How many of these do you think I’ve sent you over the years?” He looks up at you thoughtfully, the only nod to his true nature being that you were sure he had brown eyes before, but now they’re a deep lovely green.
“Maybe thirty, not including these?” You shrug, “I’m not sure. Thank you, though.”
“Up until today, it’s been a pleasure.” He sighs. “I am old, Rachel. So old.” He picks up one of the scrolls, unrolls it. “And the times are changing.”
You wait patiently. Your Dad always said to never rush an immortal.
“Times are changing, Rachel.” He sits back into the old ratty couch cushions and affixes you with a blue eyed stare. “And the humans are changing with it.”
“So someone tried to kill me… this many times?” You gesture to the box and sigh. You can’t think of any reason someone would try to kill you so dutifully. You have a dead-end but stable job, a group of friends you see for drinks on Tuesdays, a couple hobbies like watching TV and hiking that keep you busy… you aren’t the person people would want to kill.
Except apparently you are. Maybe it’s the ‘being female’ thing. You never know. That could be a death sentence under certain circumstances.
“It’s complicated.” The Fey sighs and leans forward, folding his hands, elbows on his knees. “Rachel, the world is changing, and the Seelie Court have re-categorized this new modern world for us. Today the ruling came in and it was backdated to the turn of the human century.”
“Re-categorized?” You raise your eyebrows, politely curious.
He taps the edge of the box. “These are backdated times I protected you, Rachel.”
“Ah. Thank you… this many times, then.” You smile, but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Here.” He pulls out one of the scrolls. “You’re thirteen years old here,” he says, tapping it, “you wanted to try out for Juliard. You decided to go to a public school instead because, and I quote you ‘won’t make it anyway’.” He raises red eyes to you. “Remember the bus breaking down on the way to your exam?”
You do. It was a terrible day. Your Dad said that if you wanted to dance so badly that you could just go be a stripper. That day it rained and your bus to the Stuyvesant exam broke down and you couldn’t get there in time. You had been forced to go to public school, but they’d had a dance team so you hadn’t been upset about it.
“I broke the bus.” The Fey explains, expecting praise. “It was… out of contract at the time, but your father-. Well, part of our agreement- your grandfather’s and mine, that is- is that I protect you and that includes-” he waves the scroll. “So. Don’t be alarmed. These fell under contract now.” He rummages through the box while you’re still processing.
“This is the one I want to talk about, however. It’s in-contract now and falls under my jurisdiction.” He grips the scroll too tightly. “It’s from when you were eighteen in college, two days before finals.”
Oh no.
You feel your hands curl into fists.
“I will not say anything more.” He puts the scroll on the table. “But this is in-contract now.” He taps the scroll pointedly and his eyes narrow, purple and deep and fathomless. “So no matter how high the bridge, or how many pills there are, you are protected by me.”
You both sit in your living room in silence while the connotations of what he’s said settle on your shoulders. They aren’t as heavy as you’d anticipated.
“Guns have iron,” you say, probably incorrectly, just to be contrary.
“No they don’t.” He taps the table with two fingers. “And even if they did, I am older than you know and more powerful than you can comprehend.”
You look away from him.
He slides a card across the table past the box of scrolls.
“This is Aisling.” He taps the card with a well-manicured pink fingernail. “Talk to her.”
“College was a long time ago,” you pick up the card anyway. It says Aisling Wells: Psychic on it and has a number with an address nearby. “And I don’t need a psychic.”
“She isn’t psychic, she’s a con artist.” He grins, and his teeth are pointy. His eyes are pitch black. “But she gave me her soul, so I know she can help you.”
You look curiously at him.
“What do you expect us to talk about?”
He shrugs.
“Human things? I don’t know. I have a different contract with each of you, but I’m obligated to protect you under both. So. Go. Talk. Make human conversation.” He makes a shooing motion with perfect long pointy gel tipped nails. His eyes are a matching teal.
“Why?” You look at him, noticing that he seems calmer, more relaxed again. The same cocksure trickster your Grandfather always wrote about in his journals.
“It’s the oldest trick in the book,” he wags a finger at you, nails trimmed and natural looking for once. “The best way to protect someone is with a safety net. We’re going to build you one.”
“I’m not agreeing to anything not in writing,” you warn him.
He rolls his honey colored eyes at you. “Go in there and let her ‘read’ what you should do and go from there! I’m too busy for this new Seelie Court contract. Humans are so complicated! I’d rather set you up and stop worrying about you. So go. Play. Make friends. Get your palm read.”
He smiles in the way of an immortal with no woes.
“I’m just protecting you,” he explains, “contractually of course.”
“Of course.” You exhale softly. It can’t hurt to meet Aisling. She sounds like a Character at least. And a conversation with her would be better than cheese wiz and The Bachelor. “I’ll check her out.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, and smiles a little more genuinely.