Faetality |✓|

Chapter Seven, Part Four - Red Rum

"You disappoint me, Tamsyn. I thought for sure you'd figure it out."

"What d'you mean?" I said, dragging my eyes away from the fruit.

"Glamour, Tamsyn--it's only Glamour. Nothing but smoke and mirrors. To be honest, it's not even close to me best work." He continued to watch me as I sat there, blank and puzzled. "Oh for the love of o' shite." Westley rolled his eyes. "Eat it and the spell will break."

"Seriously?" I glared at him. "That's disgusting."

"No, that's the Fae," corrected Westley. "And most of them would love to do worse. Especially to you."

"Why? Why would someone wanna kill me? I'm not important. I'm not special--"

"I get it," he said quietly. "You think the more you say it, the more true it'll be. You want to hold on to what you were, who you used to be because that's much easier than facing up to who you are now. But you can't do that--because you are important. You are--" Westley looked away. For once, I decided to cut him some slack.

"So what am I?" I asked. "I mean, there's gotta be a name for it right?"

"From what I know, you're what's called a Luduan. You can't be lied to, and eventually you might become powerful enough to force someone to speak the truth--even against their will."

"But I can already do that," I said, looking down. "Normally when I ask a question, people don't have to answer me unless they want to. But sometimes, when they do answer, it's like they don't have a choice. It's like I'm forcing them to speak. I do it without even trying." I looked up again, expecting Westley to appear concerned, or shocked at the very least. But the shock was mine when I saw his smile. He was pleased.

"You're strong--like your mother. Your real mother."

"Is she a Luduan too?"

"Aye," he said softly. "That she was."

"Was," I repeated, feeling hollow. "Does that mean she's dead?" Westley pursed his lips and said nothing. "And my biological father? What about him?"

"I couldn't tell you. I don't know who he is."

"Right," I slid from the cot to stand, stiffly, on my feet. "This power of mine? Can I use it to protect myself--and my family? Can it keep us safe?"

"Aye. And so can the box."

"I'll bring you the box," I said, as feelings of developing trust for Westley pushed aside Margie's earlier warning. "I found it last night. You can have it--as long as you don't try to stop me from finding out who tried to kill me."

"So you're ready for that, yeah? Then prove it." Westley pointed at the apple with his chin. "Dig in."

I looked to the apple where it sat, patiently waiting. Taking a deep breath, I plucked it from the air and brought it to my lips, squeezing my eyes shut to block the image of it rotting in my hands. I tore into the fruit with my teeth, expecting to taste the skin of apple and maggot...

"Well?"

"Nothing. The spell's broken," I said, opening my eyes. "It's just a regular apple."

In that moment, as I proudly chewed the apple, I experienced something I'd never had in my entire life–power. Damnit, Westley was right–I was strong. I didn't have to be that weak, scared little girl protecting herself from falling glass. I wasn't that fragile anymore, and earlier I may've been hurt, but at least I was alive...

My thoughts were cruelly shattered by the reminder of awful news–that I was alive, but someone close to me was still dead. The apple slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. As it rolled away I sagged against the cot, feeling the crushing weight of unbearable sadness.

"Dean. Dean Taylor... Is it really true? Is he dead?"

"Aye. The other teachers were talking about him in the break room this morning. I'm sorry."

I shut my eyes and took in a deep, hitching breath. "It was suicide, wasn't it?"

Westley narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess," I said, straightening. "I have to go. I should get back to class..." I needed to speak with Lana, and soon.

"Not so fast, darlin'." Westley moved to block my path to the door. "Nurse Hatchet-Face thought you were really dead. It took a fair amount of convincing on my part to assure her that you were still kicking. Now, I may've stopped her from calling the men in white coats, but she still called your father. He's on his way to bring you home, so here is where you'll stay."

"That's just great." I sighed. "And what am I supposed to tell him?"

"That you were dehydrated because you're a wellington head. He'll believe that."

"You... have the manners of a wart hog."

"And shite flies high when it's hit with a stick..." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, and smirked. "You don't see me complaining."

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