fuonlyknew

…in the Glen a nightclub where the Fae like to gatherLights flash and magical mist pours across the dance floor, allowing privacy to those desperate for touch. Fae aren’t plentiful, and neither are establishments for us to gather. That’s what makes the Glen fun. It doesn’t just bring my kind together, it frees us. No glamour, no pretending. We discuss magic and the old realm, curse Death for destroying it and celebrate our survival.

With a shimmy and a shake, lavender and silver wings sprout from Dahlia’s back. She stretches, relishing the feel of simply being herself. She winks at me, her glimmering lavender eyes and lips radiant.

A drunk mountain troll stumbles between us. She releases my hand, allowing him through before clasping my hand and guiding us through the gyrating swarm of bodies. “Let’s have a drink, darling.”

I squeeze her hand. Fae are affectionate beings. In the human world, we cage our need to caress, embrace, and make love. It’s a way to keep our identities secret and another way to prevent Death from finding us.

Bill’s broken glamour was a result of a stolen kiss. It revealed his form to a human and worst of all damaged his talisman. Our talismans remain the only way to hide from those who hunt us. Without them, it’s a death warrant with our executioners often seconds from being collected.

A banshee sprints away from the bar and through the swarm of Fae. With all the grace of a swan, she leaps into the air and straddles the male who entered behind us. “David!” she screeches. “Sorry,” she adds when we groan and cover our ears.

“David” loses his tiny accountant persona, morphing into a giant cyclops with a long blond Mohawk. He laughs, catching the banshee when her legs break free of his widening waist.

She screeches. Again. The thought of that voice in the throes of passion makes me cringe. “David is going to need serious earplugs to get through the night,” I mutter.
Dahlia giggles, her laughter like wind chimes in the soft breeze. “Perhaps. But it will be worth it, darling,” she sings.

©Unearthed, Cecy Robson, LLC September 2019