Desire is Red
Black lipstick smudges against the window. Everything is wet. Warm. Like soil after a summer evening’s rain. The backseat of—what’s his face’s car—smells like weed and moldy pizza. Maeve likes the way the glass feels against her cheek more than the sex. She doesn’t remember his name. Just the cross between sob and groan as he—well. You know. She didn’t bring a condom—so fill in the blanks—like he did.
She pops a Plan B at the request of her Plan C because her Plan A was Connor. Her boyfriend. He was with her best friend, so what’s his face (massive, debilitating sigh) had to do.
She doesn’t stay with him. He asks, panting and out of breath. She grimaces and slams his door too hard. He curses and chases after her, feelings written all over his face. She kicks him. He falls. She takes his lighter. She leaves him on the ground.
Later, she has another hookup across town. She punches in the address when she gets to her car. She drives silently, drumming a tune on the steering wheel. A sharp right turn leads her into the parking lot of a Motel 6. Sketchy. Abandoned. She’d met the guy—Joshuah—on Tinder. His profile was mostly dark, except for a beautiful face with green eyes. Maeve grins—arousal rising at the prospect of being a victim.
She types a message:
Here.
Come upstairs. 207.
Her heels clack on the way up. She is ready—mouth wet. Body warm. Use me. Turn me into dust. Make me bow.
She lifts her hand to knock, but the door creaks open gently. The smell of stewed meats and spices wafts to her—making her mouth water for new reasons. Mingled with stew, the scent of spring flowers—and leather. A woman stands at the stove, humming as she cooks.
“Will you just stand there?” she asks, not bothering to turn. She lifts the spoon to her lips and sips the deep brown broth. She hums again, and the floor reverberates with the noise. Maeve stifles a fearful shiver.
She saunters in and the door closes by itself. Her heels sink into emerald grass. Trees seem rooted to the plaster on the wall.
“Wha—”
“The Faye High Table convenes,” the woman says, tapping her large wooden spoon. “Your reckless behavior has caused quite a stir.”
Maeve would have laughed, but the woman turns. Horns. Fangs. Boundless beauty. She gasps—facade cracking like clay.
The woman grins.
“Not quite what you expected, darling?”
I watch as the girl sinks into her seat. She’d nearly collapsed when the elders emerged from the walls.
They ring the table—all eyes peering at her. The head of the table is empty as I serve stew. I gently place a bowl in front of her and take my seat. She sets her jaw—but I can smell her fear. I address my council.
“Imalo. Show yourselves.”
Each elder looks first to Eudora. Slight, pale, deadly. Her lavender irises find Maeve wanting. She judges every breath.
“Dora. High Faye. Keeper of the Reeds. Slayer of the Gruhl.” She sneers on the last line. I hide a chuckle behind my spoon. Gruhl. Mortal. Dora can be such a kidder.
Dora bangs like a gavel when she sits. Eustoria rises before Dora can recline. She eyes the girl like a curious feline. Maeve averts her gaze. Wise girl.
“Ria. The maker of Moons. Prowler of Night.” She curls in, her wings wrapping around her, head held high.
The remaining elders stand in kind. Brief introductions with titles. Maeve’s jaw unhinges as I rise.
“Adira Dearest. High Faye. Queen of the High Table and the hearts of men. Are we all in attendance?”
Somber nods all around.
“Very well. Let the judgment begin.”