Asylum (Touched by the Fae Book 1), page 7
He’s as terrifying as he is beautiful.
And then he shakes his head. His perfect lips tug into a frown.
He holds out his hand again.
“Zella. Come.”
I don’t know what it is that he said. Not the part where he orders me to come to him like I’m a dog or something—that part I’ve got. But that first word? It seems familiar, almost like I should know it, the way it sings in my ears and settles in my soul. I grasp at it, trying to capture it, but it disappears before I get the chance.
Besides, I’m a little bit preoccupied with my body’s strange reaction to his command.
I actually obey the fae.
I don’t have any control over my actions. Like a puppet being manipulated by its strings, I rise from my laying position, my arms jerking wildly, my legs weak and wobbly. I swipe the blanket aside, then get to my feet. Once I’m standing, I try to dig in my heels. Doesn’t work. Something is pulling me toward the golden fae—magic, charm, a compulsion—and it’s too hard for me to fight against it.
I finally manage to break the spell when a precious few feet separate us. I shake my head, scrabbling backward so that he can’t reach out and touch me. It won’t stop him from striding closer, but I don’t care about that right now.
I only care about the power he just showed me he has. Though I can’t tell you how he did it, I know his little display was on purpose. A calculated move to remind me that he’s in charge. That, despite every bone in my body refusing to willingly move toward him, he has the magic and the strength to command me to go to him—and I did.
That scares me more than knowing I’m in the same room as him.
I swallow back my frightened gasp. “What did you just do to me?”
“You made me do it.” He can’t deny it—we both know he was responsible for dragging me from my bed—but I’m not surprised to hear him blame me. Of course it’s my fault. The fae are never wrong. “I need you to understand this, Riley. There’s too much at stake here. I don’t want to have to compel you to listen to me, but I will if you force my hand. Time is short and I’ve come for you as I promised.”
He did. Six years ago, when he sacrificed Madelaine because I told him to leave us the hell alone, he promised that he would return. That he would come back for me.
In the safety of my dreams, I let myself think back. He might have control here—but he can’t hurt me while I sleep. It’s not how it works. It’s not how any of this works. He can talk to me, he can show off his magic tricks, he can remind me of promises—of threats—that I’ve long since buried… and that’s all.
The golden fae is the reason I allowed myself to accept that the fae were nothing more than an elaborate hallucination because I was mentally unwell. If I made them up, then I didn’t have to worry about them chasing after me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t have to spend years looking over my shoulders.
I’d be able to forget his sworn promise that he’d come for me again one day.
And now he’s here and, instead of panicking or closing my eyes to shut him out, I’m watching him closely, absolutely sure that he is as real as anyone else I’ve ever known.
I shake my head. “This can’t be happening. You’re not supposed to be real.”
“And you’re not supposed to resist me.”
That’s all thanks to Nine. If he hadn’t warned me what the fae were capable of back when I was a kid, I would’ve been lost the first time I met this monster. I saved myself then—it was Madelaine who paid the price for the fae’s interest in me.
And now he’s back.
“Why? Why me? What do you want from me?”
“I’ve waited long enough. It’s time that you become my ffrindau.”
His what? It’s another unfamiliar word in a strange, harsh accent that is at odds with his lyrical voice. I don’t think it’s English, but if it is? There’s only one word that sounds like that that I know.
“Friends? You want me to be your friend? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
His golden eyes flash. His lips curve as he peers down at me. The fae is wearing a… a hungry look that has me stepping away from him again.
That doesn’t stop him. Honestly, I’m not sure if there's anything I could do to him that would.
He glides toward me. Everything about him is graceful, peaceful, lovely—but I know better. I’m staring up at a man-eater who doesn’t know whether he wants to toy with me first, or go straight for the kill.
“Stay away from me.” I throw my hands up in warning. “Back off— whoa.”
As if I needed another clue that this has to be a dream, I get one when I see my hands.
My bare hands.
I’m not wearing my gloves. I always wear my gloves.
It’s bright where we are. The light shines on my mottled skin. I marvel at the blotches, the scars, the fine lines, and the raw pink patches that mingle with the once-damaged flesh. Looking at my reconstructed hands is even worse than coming face to face with the golden fae.
At least, when I wake up in the morning, he’ll be gone. I’ll have these hands forever.
I remember a time when my hands were my own, not these monstrosities. Back before me and Madelaine decided we should skip school that Monday morning and hang out in the basement of an abandoned house down the street from the Everetts. Back before the golden fae appeared out of thin air and convinced Madelaine to dance with him, no matter how much I begged her not to. Back before the fire and the pain and the realization that Nine hadn’t lied, that the fae and all of Faerie was real.
The fae don’t live by the same rules that we do. They can hurt you—and they will.
I made a mistake. Staring at my ruined palm, letting the memories distract me from what the hell is going on right now, I made a huge mistake. I sense movement, a rustle of the wind, and when my head jerks up, he’s right there.
He holds up his hand. His perfect, bronze-colored hand. Fingers pointed up, palm facing out.
“Dance with me, Riley.”
I almost hurl.
Dance with me, Riley.
He knew my name then, too. He commanded me to dance, then he commanded me to leave with him, and I refused. Just like now, my refusal surprised him that day in the basement. I tried to warn Madelaine, I tried to tell her that he was beautiful, but he was fae, and that made him more dangerous than anything she’d ever known before.
Sometimes, on my worse days, I remember the look of betrayal in her big brown eyes the instant before he took her hand, then snapped her neck.
“Never.”
“Zella. Dance.”
There’s that word again. I hear it and I’m helpless to do anything except obey.
Under the sway of his power, I lift my hand and press my palm against his. I don’t know what’s worse: the spark, the sizzle when our bare skin touches, or how his long, lean perfect fingers make mine look like they belong on Frankenstein. My stomach twists. My mouth clamps shut, choking on a silent scream. I try to yank my hand back and I can’t. I just can’t.
His other hand is a brand on my hip. I feel the heat through my Black Pine tee. When he pulls me closer, lining my front along his lean, muscular body, it’s like I’m burning up inside. He’s full of fire and temptation, burning bright as the sun, and his golden eyes flash as he tilts his head, gobbling me up with his gaze.
“Zella,” he murmurs again. “Stay with me.”
I give in. I can’t fight it. Knowing it’s a dream, praying that this doesn’t mean a thing, I recognize that some part of me doesn’t want to pull away from him. For years, I used to hate Madelaine for giving up so easily, falling prey to this monster’s charm before he snapped, but I can’t help myself. Everything from his soft voice to his mesmerizing eyes is hypnotic. If he killed me right now, I don’t think I would do a single thing to stop it.
I don’t like the idea of dying. I want to live. In two weeks… two weeks and a couple of days… I’ll be released from the asylum. Not free, though. His hand against mine, his body against mine, his soft voice echoing around me as he starts to sing… I figure out something that will be devastating when this dream is over.
Now that the golden fae has found me again? I’ll never be free.
Music starts to play. A soft hum, it tickles my ears, makes me forget that I’m playing with fire. Literally. I’ve seen the golden fae create enchanted fire with the snap of his fingers. It’s how I burned my hands, after all. After throwing Madelaine’s broken body on the floor, he surrounded her in a circle of fire, daring me to save my sister.
I couldn’t save Madelaine then. Something tells me that there’s no saving me now, either.
So I dance.
It’s easy to lose myself in the sensation. With his help, I move so lightly that it’s as if I’m drifting up off of the floor. He laughs softly in time to the music, a mix of a chuckle and a sigh.
I keep my eyes closed so that I don’t have to look at his.
I don’t know how long we’re dancing for when he speaks again. I hear him clearly, his mouth right next to my cheek as he whispers, “You know what I am.”
I’ve always known. “Yes.”
“But you don’t know who I am.”
I know enough. He’s the golden fae. A monster. The creature who killed Madelaine.
The creature who’s trying to seduce me right now.
I’m not innocent. I’m not all that naive, either. I wasn’t always in a good foster home; I spent the long months in between in the system, bouncing from group homes to institutions. I lost my virginity at thirteen with an older boy before I went to live with the Everetts, before my haphephobia got so bad. When I could give permission, I actually liked being touched. It’s just… when you start to see monsters everywhere, it’s hard to know who to trust.
I know better than to trust him. A dance is just a dance, even if the way he’s moving right now reminds me of so much more.
But not with him. Never with him.
He presses closer.
“Do you want to know who I am?” he whispers.
Hell no.
I shake my head again, so frantically that his lips kiss my ear. It burns and I try to pull away.
He holds me tighter.
“So be it,” he concedes. “But know this: I will always come for you.”
I don’t know if he means that as a promise or a threat. Some of the fog lifts. The words… I’ve heard them before. From him? I’m… I’m not sure.
The music grows louder, as if trying to drown out my thoughts. My heart is beating in time to it. I try to focus. The magic is fading, my senses returning. What the fuck am I doing? I push with my free hand, yanking with the other. His grip is so strong, I begin to suspect that he’ll never let me go.
We’re spinning now. When I finally find the strength to open my eyes, everything is a blur of gold and white. I don’t know how far I fell under his spell. Pretty damn far and I’m still trying to crawl out from under it as we go faster and faster. He slips his fingers between mine. Another touch.
“Don’t fight it—don’t fight me. You’re safe now. I’ll never hurt you.”
A shiver courses through me. Or maybe it’s him. I’m trembling as he saps all of my strength. Not only do I stop fighting, I actually lean into his embrace. I’m not sure I can support myself without holding onto him.
I wait for the twist in my belly that tells me that he’s lying to me. The fae can’t lie, but how can I believe him after he killed Madelaine?
I can’t—but my stomach stays settled.
He means every damn thing he says to me.
I don’t know how long I’m sleeping for but, when I finally come out of my sedation, I wake up to the sound of music in my head. It takes me a second before my dream rushes to the front of my mind.
When it does, I pop up in my bed like a panicked jack-in-the-box. I lift my hands high, putting them in front of my face, flipping them back and forth until I’m sure that they’re both covered all of the way with my leather gloves.
Because it was a dream. Just a dream brought on by the sedatives.
There was no golden fae. No dance. It was a terrible, strange nightmare that I forced my broken brain to live through after the way I hallucinated that the blonde tech had eyes just like the golden fae. I imagined her hazel eyes were gold, and paid for it by being sedated by the nursing staff.
At least I didn’t wake up strapped down. That’s a plus. And there’s weak light streaming in past the six bars on my window. It’s morning.
But which morning?
I get my answer shortly. It’s Amy who comes in and does my vitals. Just seeing her is a big clue that I lost more time than I thought. If she’s here, then it’s Thursday at the earliest. I lost all of Wednesday.
She confirms it as she rattles on, going a mile a minute as if she’s trying to make up for the time I was out. Not once does she mention my sedation, though she swiftly checks the bruising where they jabbed me with the needle before she covers the purple lump with a fresh bandage.
I wait until she takes a breath before I ask her the only thing I care about.
“Where’s the other tech? Where’s Diana?”
Especially on the heels on my strange dream, I know I never want to go near her again. The dream put things into perspective for me; with a clear head, it’s a relief to realize I had been seeing things. The flash of gold I saw in her eyes? It must have been a trick of the setting sun since it was early when Diana and Duncan came to bring me my medicine.
Still, just the thought of coming face to face with her again—just the chance that maybe I’ll see that flash again—has my breath picking up. It’s a little more labored than it was before.
Amy looks touched, almost like she mistook my worry for concern or something. I wonder if she got my motives wrong.
Yeah. She totally did.
“Oh, Riley.” She goes to pat my hand, remembers in an instant which patient I am, then pats the edge of my bed instead. “It’s so sweet of you to worry about Diana.”
Sweet? Nope. More like covering my own ass. I can’t have another attack like that. I’m so close to getting out of the asylum. I’m not about to let anything jeopardize that. I could just see it now. The nursing staff and the techs tell the doctors that I’m a threat and, look at that, my release gets put on hold. Instead of going to the transition house, I get referred to an adult facility.
I can’t let that happen.
“Where is she?” I ask again.
Amy frowns, like she has bad news and doesn’t want to share it. My pulse picks up, settling only after she tells me, “Well, the truth is that she was transferred out of your age group yesterday. Now, don’t blame yourself, okay? Things happen. It’s not your fault.”
From the tiniest twinge at the bottom of my stomach, I know Amy is lying. It’s a kindness, though. She’s actually trying to make me feel better.
Because Diana getting tossed off our floor?
We both know that it is my fault.
8
No rain today.
I peeked out of my window before I shimmied out of my hoodie, tossed it onto my dresser, and followed Amy into the hall. I know it’s not raining, and the morning message says some motivational bullshit about sunshine in our lives so I know it’s another gorgeous sunny day that I’m missing out on.
The morning passes me by in a haze. I’m jumpy, the last of the sedatives working their way out of my system. It makes me feel off, and it’s only worse when I notice a couple of the other patients watching me closely.
It makes me antsy. I’m supposed to be the people-watcher.
Their stares have me hunching my shoulders, ducking as I walk, anxiously tugging on my gloves as I pretend not to see them gaping in open interest at me.
My daily check-in is a lecture. I’m not looking forward to my meeting with Lorraine the next time I see her. No doubt that Black Pine informed her about my meltdown as soon as they sedated me. I’m starting to get worried that what happened the other night’s gonna affect my chances of getting released on time. I spend most of lunch toying with my meal, trying to come up with a good excuse for how I reacted when Diana tried to bring me my meds.
One thing for sure? I’m not about to admit that, for a second there, I thought she was the golden fae in disguise. Especially since I can still feel the heat of his hand against mine from the dance we shared while I was under.
I don’t know what kind of group therapy I was expecting that afternoon. It’s not raining, but a cheery therapist named Tonya claps her hand and insists we try some more creative therapy. She’s too new to realize that it’s a real bad idea to treat our age group like we’re some kind of democracy. When she offers to let us vote, most of the therapy session is wasted when half the group wants music therapy and the rest decide on art.
Now, I’m not a big fan of art therapy. I’ve always thought it was a waste of time, especially for our group. But if it’s art therapy or music? I’m going art. Just the idea of a music therapy session is a trigger for me after last night.
Nope. If I never hear another note again, I’m good.
The vote is a joke. We’re split down the middle, six to six. I blame Whitney for that. She kept quiet at first, only making her vote when she figured out it would create a tie. I’m not surprised. That’s Whitney for you. She gets a kick out of watching our group argue like children.
I’m so not in the mood.
“I don’t care about the rest of the group,” I announce to the room, “but I won’t do music therapy. Get a tech. Take one of my points. I don’t care. I won’t do it.”
Tonya is new to Black Pine, but she’s an experienced therapist. I might not test that way, but my refusal today is a clear example of ODD. Oppositional Defiant Disorder. No matter what she says, she can’t make me.
Her voice immediately adjusts. Instead of happy and go-lucky, she’s suddenly calm. As if her soothing tone will get me to change my mind.
