[pm] Well Mickey, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I don’t like meeting under these circumstances. Right now, a friend and I are with Oliver at his house. He’s exactly how you’d expect him to be. [del: I’m terrified.] Maybe all this hell is over, we can get to know each other properly with a lot less threats of death involved. Hopefully you don’t get too overrun while this is all happening.
[pm] Yeah, can't fault you there. Not exactly a meet-cute.
I'm glad he's not by himself waiting for it to happen. I've felt like throwing up since he told me about another blackout. I can only imagine what he's feeling right now.
I know you're going to, but uh- take care of him okay? And hopefully whatever goes on in your world you're not too impacted by the blackout. Seems like its different for everyone.
That'd be hella fun. I like staying busy. Besides, I'd rather have people alive enough to come into the hospital and keep me busy rather than the alternative.
TIMING: Current
LOCATION: The Apple Store
PARTIES: Regan, Isidore, ancient evil
SUMMARY: Regan and Isidore end up in The Apple Store. No, the other one. Kept hostage by an old apple fae, they're both skinned to the core. Neither of them win an Apple Watch.
Regan needed to stop going back. Jade suspected these visits, she knew, but guilt or death or both pulled Regan here several times a week: to the Apple Store, to the place where Pubik was murdered. Sometimes she stood there in the alley, her eyes tracing over where lung tissue had been splattered, or where ‘THEY’RE REAL’ had been graffiti’d on the wall before the town painted over it, scrubbing away two crimes at once. When she looked hard enough, for long enough, she could see it, death superimposed on life, or maybe life pretending to flourish under death. Other times, she went inside. She didn’t recognize any of the employees there; retention was low. They were starting to recognize her, though—that odd woman who walked around like she was endlessly searching, but always left empty-handed.
She was back today. That nasal, pubic voice that floated around her often went silent when Regan made these sojourns. It seemed to be the only solemnity the voice was capable of, as if it, too, were affected by this place. Regan pushed through the door, expecting the same interior as always—sterile white lights, tidy arrangement of products, buyers taking a walking tour around each one, pointing out minute differences between otherwise identical items. Regan always approved of how the Apple Store conducted business. It was organized, lacking in bustle and baroque.
But she was greeted with the opposite. Self-propelling apples rolled across the floor as if on conveyer belts, their destination unclear. The white walls were gone. In their place were rustic wood, almost entirely covered in paintings of red and green apples, with the occasional yellow sprinkled in. There was only one person inside, and one part of the store—if it could be called as such—with any products: a long table cluttered with apple carvings, apple dolls, apple tchotchkes, and simply apples. The man behind the table hovered over the wares, his wiry beard and long eyebrows dyed in apple shades. His spidery fingers beckoned, and Regan was reminded of the Forzen Yogluck owner who hid beneath a cloak. This man looked like something out of a children’s book.
“Come in, come in,” he crooned. “All of you. Well, hurry now. You’re just in time, yes. So much to choose from, but where to start? My quiz will show you the way. An apple for every sort, yes.“ What did he mean, all of you? Then Regan felt it, that prickling deep between her vertebrae. A fae. The door opened.
—
Admittedly, Izzy loathed technology. Maybe it was because he was born over a century ago, when these things simply didn’t exist, or maybe it was because he really liked physical media over digital. Either way, he knew that to make money, he had to keep up with the times. Plus, he was genuinely interested in digital art. After a bunch of research, he decided to go with an iPad and an Apple pencil, not really willing to dish out a bunch of money for a drawing tablet and a program like Clip Studio Paint. iPads had a multipurpose use, at least. So that’s what led him to stand in front of the Apple Store with a confused expression.
Now, while he may have been born over a century ago, Izzy was pretty sure this wasn’t what an Apple Store traditionally looked like. There were apples everywhere. Not Apple products, but actual apples. Instead of the sleek modern design they had, it was… the exact opposite. This felt like a fucking fae trap, which was only made worse by the sensation travelling down his back. There was another fae here.
As Izzy stepped into the strange store, the muse had to admit he was fascinated by the man running the place. He looked whimsical, an obvious fae. But he wasn’t sure if it was the obvious man he was picking up on, or the pale woman looking around with a mildly horrified expression. Immediately, he was drawn to the apple crafts on the front table, and he smiled up at the man with the strange fingers. “Did you make these yourself?” He asked as he picked up one of the carvings. “They’re quite good,” he murmured as he flipped it around, taking in its detail.
His gaze flickered over to the woman looking around, not quite believing what she was seeing. He couldn’t help but share her feelings. “What happened to the Apple Store that was here? Like, the company that makes the phones and computers?” His gaze darted around, then he frowned. “Not that your shop isn’t absolutely lovely and charming! I’m just confused.”
The fae narrowed his gaze as he looked at the other products, then realized the man had said he had a quiz. “What’s… the quiz? Like, you pair me with the right thing?” God, it was such an obvious fae trap. “Fine, I’m listening. I’ll take your quiz.” This was such a terrible idea.
__
The fae walked in. Or, Regan thought he was the fae she felt. Was the old apple man fae as well? It was centipedes across her skin, that presence, but she never was very skilled at determining where specifically it came from—triangulating death, like an owl on the swoop, had always come easier.
The man seemed quite taken with the apple crafts. Maybe they could distract each other while Regan slipped out, like she had never walked in to begin with. At least being in here didn’t rattle her memories of the murder; she had no ties to this version of the Apple Store. But when she turned around, the door she’d walked in through, the one the man had as well only moments ago, was… gone. Just a wooden wall full of family portraits of apples. One was of a cored apple, its peel half-shaved off in a suggestive spiral, with a cemetery backdrop… she squinted at it; what did it remind her of?
The old man’s croaking voice drew her attention. She wished the other man would stop asking him questions. “Why, this is the same store that’s always been here. Exactly the same, for a very long time.” He ran his long fingers over the table’s surface. “A very long time, yes… but there shall be no pearing, for this is a place of apples alone. We will apple you with the right apple, as we always have.” His eyes sharpened like a knife slicing an apple, as he spoke to them both. “You must download the app on the app store! The apple store app on the apple app store!” He threw his spindly arm up too quickly and knocked a wind-up apple from the table. It rolled across the floor on its own accord.
Enough. “I must be going, actually,” Regan said, not taking her eyes off the old man. She didn’t like ignoring the not-so-old man, but only one of them could have been responsible for concealing the door and for that, he demanded all attention. “Return the exit at once. It was right there! You’re keeping me from very important work. I have several autopsies to conduct today. Are you aware of how many people die in this town?” Never mind that she had come here to wallow in a self-flagellating pit. The old man only made a quiet hacking noise. Was he dying? No, no urge to scream. Sick, or… the hacking noise continued, and Regan realized it was a laugh. She seethed; it spread hot between layers of skin like blisters.
“You… whatever, I’ll take your gan úsáid quiz! And then you’re going to point me to the exit, and then I’m leaving, and I’ll report your conduct to the Better Business Bureau.” She whipped her phone out. A new crack webbed across the screen, particulates of glass chipping and sprinkling to the floor. Through the cracked screen, Regan navigated to the app store. It didn’t used to look like this—dozens, maybe hundreds of applications about apples. There were no apps that were not about apples. “Which one?” She wanted to leave.
The old man scratched at his beard. A few green hairs were shed on the table, and Regan’s stomach roiled. At least there wasn’t an open cadaver on there for them to fall into. He tapped his fingers, glancing up to the apple-shaped light fixtures as if summoning the memory. “Which one, which one… ah, search the address.” He did not specify further. Regan typed Wicked’s Rest in the search bar, but it occurred to her how strange that sounded—like he himself was unaware of their location. She looked toward the other individual, who had at least a 50% chance of being fae. “You. Download the application so we can leave.”
—
Everything about this situation Izzy found himself in felt like one of those unreality posts he read online. It was deeply unsettling and genuinely confusing. There was an Apple app on the Apple App Store? His head hurt. He was so focused on the little apple trinkets that he hadn’t noticed the disappearance of the door. Same store it had always been. For a long time. Had it always been there? Izzy thought back to his life in and around Wicked’s Rest over the past one hundred years. He couldn't say he’d ever really paid attention. Maybe this guy was telling the truth, but he really wasn’t sure.
Brows furrowed as the woman demanded the door be returned. What? Izzy turned around to notice that, just as she’d claimed, the door was gone. They were stuck in here with the apple man. This was the second time he’d been stuck in a store in too short of time. The more the woman spoke about autopsies and declaring what she did, Izzy narrowed his eyes in deep suspicion. There was no way she wasn’t the fae in the room he was sensing. She was too bizarre! Not that the apple man wasn’t, but Izzy sensed something far more ancient in him. Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was going on with that guy.
The strange man emitted an even stranger laugh, and Izzy couldn’t help but watch curiously as the screen of her phone cracked more, glass falling to the ground. She cursed in Gaelic. Banshee, he thought. No doubt. Her profession was death, she was acting strange, and her glass screen was broken. Fuck, was he this obvious to other fae as well? He really hoped not. He filed this information away for later, but did nothing with it now. “You’re going to contact triple B? Wow, you really mean business.” The muse grumbled as he slowly pulled his phone out, navigating to the App Store to look up this weird app.
Then, the woman demanded he do something. Him? Do something for her? Absolutely not. Immediately, Izzy put his phone away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Say please.” He demanded, quirking a brow in clear defiance. “While I would like to leave as well, your hostility will do nothing to improve the situation.” Why were fae always so entitled when it came to their time? This is why he was in charge of his people, because they didn’t think! He swore sometimes he was the only one that thought things through sometimes.
“Listen, the guy just wants to give us the perfect apple, and I commend him for that.” Izzy turned to shoot the old man a grin before turning back toward the woman. “Besides, I have no idea what the address to this place is.” Never mind he knew he could use his phone to find out. He was hoping she wouldn’t think about that.
__
Say please? What did he think she was, a child? A leanbh? A sorry little leanbh? Regan’s jaw tensed. “No.” She didn’t say please. Almost never. She was taught only to demand, though she had learned, since, that saying please was appropriate when asking to see and hold the most delicate, wettest parts of a live person. Regan would stick with gross anatomy for these two individuals. She would not say please. “You say please if you want me to say please. Would you prefer to stay here for longer than necessary? No? Engage with the application.”
But he continued to be difficult. “Hostile!” The lights quavered. She lowered her voice. “Who’s hostile? I’m in line. Completely. Always fully…” Regan focused on her phone, grumbling, because she could feel all of the other ways to describe how completely, responsibly in control she was piling up in her mouth. The application downloaded and she opened it up. It was all apples. She tapped the ‘QUIZ’ button. Nothing happened—apples still rolled across the screen, asking nothing of her other than patience she lacked. She tapped it again. “It is malfunctioning.”
Now the old man grinned and turned to her. “No, no my dear! It works.” He picked an apple up from the table and took a large bite out of the side. The apple’s exposed flesh stared at her like an eye. “Who did you think was going to quiz you?” There was a fine spray of juicy saliva in the air. He looked at the other individual. “Go on, my good man, and press the button. There, yes, that’s the one… now, question one, both of you. What is your date of birth?”
Regan froze. She reminded herself how completely in control she was (she had to be, because she was so certain only a minute ago). Her lungs were not burning with frustration and her throat wasn’t begging to explode. This man, this fae, had them download an application that didn’t even—Regan’s breath seethed hot, and she felt her phone screen suffer more under her fingertips. “Go leor! Which one? Which date of birth? Just tell me which one, so I can remove myself from your store and return to what I was—what do you want?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed to slits, more fleshy lids than any white. “Now, now, calm down. You don’t want to be… trappled.”
—
The woman’s anger amused Isidore greatly. It shouldn’t have, but the way the lights flickered as she demanded that she wasn’t hostile only further proved him correct. Not that this woman would ever admit to that, she was far too delusional to see it. Therefore, he would not feed into this girl’s delusions as others so clearly already had. All while he was antagonizing her, of course, he had been downloading the app. And while she struggled to keep her phone screen usable, he opened the app after she’d looked elsewhere. The weird apple man, of course, outed him immediately, probing him to press the button, to which he did.
The apples were rolling across the screen for him, too, and he couldn’t help but raise a brow in confusion. Ah, so the app was just a glorified button press so that this guy could waste both of their time. Izzy let out an annoyed huff, but did as he was told. As much fun as it was to piss off the banshee, he also liked his eardrums intact. Best not to make it worse for her.
His date of birth was asked, and he froze. Did he give a real answer? He had a feeling this guy would sense his lies, not that he was any good at them. Lying made him feel sick to his stomach, and that would always give him away. Knowing that whatever this was, it was as supernatural as he was. He let out a sigh of defeat and answered. “July 18th, 1918.” Izzy’s tone was no-nonsense and clipped. Since this child of a fae was going to trip over herself, he’d have to lead by example. As always.
His gaze flicked over toward Regan, trying to meet her gaze. “Just answer honestly. The sooner we answer the questions, the sooner he lets us go, alright? Stop trying to fight the current. You’ll only get pulled under and drown.”
__
“1918.” Regan’s face was a slab. “Sure. Why not? He was born in 1918. Of course he was.” If she were to believe him, then that made him the fae present—not the apple man whose green and red beard dangled to the table. Or they were both fae. Three (no, two) fae in a small room. What could go wrong? Advice; that was what. Part of her wanted to lash out, tell him that she didn’t need his council and would never allow herself to be washed away by a current again, no matter how resigned he might be. But the more rational part of her knew he was right. This was a ‘choose your battles’ moment, and Regan was fighting too many.
“I will be honest, but I am not going to sing and dance for him.” Her knuckles cracked tight—more nerves than anger—but she managed to cut off her own pacing. She forced her fingers to uncurl and laid her palms flat on the wooden table, amidst all of the fruity clutter. She was leaning in close enough to smell juice. “Just take your pick. Do you prefer one decade ago, or three?”
“Good enough!” the old man said, and his tone was too affable by a mile. “That’s it for the questions.” He folded one hand atop the other. There was no chance that was all; Regan was certain now that he was both inhuman and inhumane. She looked toward her only ally and saw agreement. Indeed, he continued. “Now for the fitness part of the quiz! Song and dance. Now, don’t be bashful—I’m sure it’ll be an inspired scream! Look at all of the props you have. The apple hats would do nicely, yes. Ah, and this…” He picked up what looked like a small spoon for eating soft-served ice cream. “From my brother!”
Regan stared at him, and didn't blink once. Her thoughts were stuck, inert. She had been willing to discuss her date of birth, but she would not sing. Or dance, for that matter. Never. Never. She was not going to let the wind come sweeping down the plain. The old man watched her absorb it all (she did about as comfortably as a lungful of edema), and he grinned from ear to ear, his beard moving with his muscles. She was getting out of here. Finally, Regan turned to the other man. And she marched over to him, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt to spin him away from this madness. She didn’t let him slip away. “I am not doing this,” she said, as quiet as she could muster, “I am not. We are finding another way out of here, because I will stay in this room for seven hundred years if it means not needing to sing and dance, do you understand? Seven hundred years. A deal. We’re making a deal to get out—that’s what he wants, isn’t it?”
—
As the banshee recited the year of his birth, Isidore shot her a deadpan expression. “The doors disappeared, and you’re caught up on what year I was born? Sure, go right ahead.” He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. The more he tried to reason with this woman, the more she seemed to fly off the handle. That made sense; he often regarded most of his people to be highly unreasonable. It’s why guiding those of his aos sí made things so annoying at times. Still, she seemed to find the reasoning in his statement and chose not to lash out. Small victories, even from inside an apple prison of his own making.
The woman continued to struggle with gaining control of the situation, something that Izzy had relinquished as soon as he realized he was trapped. Sometimes he smashed windows and fled the building. But this time? There was no reason to fight this. Whatever this apple man was, he was powerful. He wasn’t about to fuck with something he didn’t understand, nor could outwit or overpower. Pick and choose your battles, indeed. He side-eyed the banshee as she spoke to the esoteric apple man, hands clasping behind his back as he kept his composure in a ridiculous situation.
That was it? One question? Izzy pinched the bridge of his nose in quiet frustration, but took a deep breath to regulate himself before turning his attention back toward the apple man. “Fitness part…” The fae found himself echoing in astonishment. All of this was completely maddening, and he was frequently surrounded by madness. But this? This was on another plane of existence from what he normally dealt with. If this man were fae, he was surely king of them all. He watched in bemusement at the sight of the props as they appeared on the table, unsure of how to respond. Sure, he was a muse. He could do the song and dance required if it so came to it, but that wouldn’t stop him from feeling completely ridiculous. “You have a brother,” Izzy spoke it more as a statement than a question, as if the idea of there being two of this guy was something he accepted instead of fought.
Suddenly, the banshee was grabbing his sleeve and turning him away from the weird, grinning apple man (creature?). He blinked as she rambled on about the fact that she would refuse to meet this weirdo’s demands, which Izzy decided was fair enough. If he had a stick shoved far up his ass like she did, he supposed he’d also refuse to sing and dance. Luckily for her, however, he was a muse. If singing in dancing is what it took to earn himself a deal from another fae? Oh, he’d take it with both hands.
“Tell you what,” he began with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’ll take the test for both of us, and you’ll owe me a favor of my choosing. Nothing that harms others, I assure you.” He looked over to the king of the apple fae with a raised brow. “Can we both leave if I agree to take the quiz on her behalf? Sing and dance for you with an apple hat and whatever else you have planned?” He looked back over to Regan, who looked desperate to escape. Hopefully desperate enough to owe him a favor, too. “What do you say, do we have a deal?” He wiggled his brows towards the banshee, holding out a hand for her to shake.
__
Regan suffered through three school plays (everybody gets a part!), her assigned roles growing increasingly easy to mock, from Unnamed Girl #4 to Tree #2 to, simply, Window. But the other children spent more time mocking her singing than her role, and the stage lights blinded her no matter how close to the curtains she tried to shuffle. Adults laughed (what a cutie, Sean!) and it needled worse than the hooting of her peers. She had no note for the guidance counsellor to crumple into a wastebin. When her legs had dangled from the doctor’s examination chair, wooden tongue depressor in her mouth, that negligent pediatrician saw nothing wrong. And, evidently, he was not listening. Even diplomas and handshakes couldn’t salvage the stage for her. By the time she walked up on that stage in Ireland, stuttering to plead her case, she was already primed to expect a curtain call to punishment.
She was not, as long as she lived—however many centuries—going to be someone’s performance, ever again. If this fae (as good as confirmed now) wanted to cut a deal with her so she could avoid that humiliation, he had her attention as sure as a bloody deer carcass rotting by the side of the road. It was objectively foolish. She knew that. She could hear Cliodhna’s admonishments in her ears—leanbh, leanbh, leanbh. Her skin carried the sharp expectation of consequence. But she could also picture Cliodhna rolling in her living grave.
So that made two excellent reasons. A geas, she would forge. It wouldn’t be Regan’s first, and it probably wouldn’t be her last, and at some point, without realizing it, she had made her decision. The man had been waiting patiently. Being so near him, so close to another fae, made acid chew through her stomach lining. But she didn’t step away. His eyes held a light in them, excitement, and Regan supposed it was nice to see an example of someone who lived past one hundred who was capable of finding pleasure in something. She could not imagine it. Though that sharp look might’ve meant the pleasure was at her expense—not the other song and dance. Regan’s jaw went firm. She didn’t have to like this, but… “Yes, fine. I will owe you a favor of your choosing—nothing that harms others—if you…” She bared her teeth, gesturing toward the apple man without facing him. “Do what he asks of us, in my stead. The singing and dancing and quizzes. We have a deal.” She shook his hand, his warmer and smoother. Regan felt like she’d just given up even more of her body heat.
She had braced herself for what she knew was coming—the sensation of ivy snaking up her limbs, a quick prick of thorns… and it was done. Her vertebrae felt misaligned. Relief was heavy.
The apple man had his elbows on the table, his apple-patterned robe sliding down his arms. His hands were steepled, and his cheeks looked red and rosy. He was fae, too, Regan was certain, because she couldn’t imagine the apple man falling from the same tree as any human. His gravelly voice purred like an old cat when he looked at the fae Regan had cut a deal with. “What a good apple you are; what a good, delicious apple. Yes, yes, I could just bite into you. Sing, dance; I’ll eat it up. Come on, get dressed! Apple hat, apple overalls, don’t forget the apple mittens…” The joy in his voice could lift someone off their feet. He picked up a mitten and tossed it toward the other man, but his aim was terrible, hands shaky, so it flopped to the ground halfway between them. Then he turned to Regan, a shadow so dark over his eyes that they might’ve actually changed color. “Now, she's a bad apple.”
Regan’s jaw was sore now. Of course, just when she does something that would displease her grandmother, some other ancient fae felt the need to tell her she was rotten. She turned away, arms crossed, and marched to the edge of the room. Apple portraits and photos surrounded her. She wanted to be standing by the wall in her own home, looking at photos of Jade, not this… obscene, scantily clad fruit. “Just do it. Before the lights break. Until we die, the show must go on.”
__
It was easy to exploit someone’s weakness, Isidore found. Most of the time, he felt nothing when he did it. It’s how he was able to maintain what little power he had over the fae of his aos sí. A well-placed deal went far in terms of furthering his purpose. He watched as the banshee before him seemed to struggle with herself as he kept his hand outstretched, the expression on his face nothing more than opportunistic enthusiasm as he secretly cackled with glee on the inside.
She finally agreed, then clasped onto his hand, signifying the deal. The magic of the bind coursed through him, and the polite expression turned downright gleeful as he released her grasp. “Excellent. Now it’s time for me to live up to my end of things, isn’t it?” He walked over to the strange man, who had to be some kind of legendary fae, because nothing else made sense; therefore, it had to be it had to be the answer. As the mittens were tossed his way, Izzy caught them in his grasp as he looked over the other accessories. The hat was, as he predicted, just as stupid as it looked: a straw boater hat adorned with red apples. He put it on, followed by the apple-red overalls and apple mittens. He felt like an old-timey barbershop quartet member mixed with an apple farmer, but he decided he could work with that. He’d done stupider for power over another, things he’d rather take to his grave than repeat. Luckily, a deal hadn’t been struck that required him to repeat such things, just do a newer and stupider thing. He looked toward the long staff with an apple ornament on the tip of it, then picked it up and admired it for a moment before nodding his head. An idea was forming.
“My good apple man, I humbly request that I take the rest of the test on her behalf. I answer your questions, perform what you require, and we both walk free. As you can see, she clearly can’t handle the raw adoration that your apples so obviously require. I, however, can make sure that it is seen to. I see your power and dedication, and humbly bow before it. Bad apple she may be, but I can see to it that I am the apple of your eye. For the hour, at least.” Isidore bowed his head toward the apple man and shot him a wink before taking a step back into the center of the room. Right, it was time to be utterly foolish. He’d sucked up to the utterly powerful apple fae; now it was time to make good on that fae deal he’d struck.
The apple staff struck the ground beside Izzy as he began to perform an intricate tap routine. When did he get tap shoes? However he got them, he was strangely good at it. Perhaps it was because he was a muse, maybe it was because he practiced tap dance routines at strange hours of the night with a bizarre amount of dedication and passion. Perhaps it was both. He used the staff as an anchor, which he danced around, occasionally lifting it to twirl this way and that, spinning it around with a certain amount of whimsy that only an apple tap dance routine would require.
The problem arose with the fact that Izzy, like most normal people, had no apple facts at his immediate disposal. How was he supposed to sing about apples when the only things he knew about them were the glaringly obvious? They were round, they grew on trees, and they tasted good if you picked them at the right time. Think, dammit! The spindly old apple man watched on expectantly, waiting for the apple song that he had long waited for. Time to be bold.
The muse jumped onto the table in front of the apple man and pointed his apple staff at him, and burst out into song, listing off different apple types and how oh-so amazing they were. Isidore’s voice, just like his dancing, was good. If it weren’t for the fact that he was singing about apples, it might have been entrancing. But he felt ridiculous, so it kind of took him out of fully committing to the incredible performance he was attempting to put on. But he wasn’t trying to impress everyone in the room, just the man with a deep love for apples. The melody of his song was something akin to a show tune from an old-timey play. He had a feeling this guy would get a kick out of a classic instead of something modern. After more tapping on the table, he jumped back off the table and ended with one leg crossed over the other, and the staff planted firmly in front of him, with his head bowed.
He attempted to control his heavy breaths, hoping that the song and dance were enough to impress the man who probably loved apples more than was healthy. Please tell me you liked it, Izzy seemed to plead with his eyes as he awaited judgment.
__
Genres were a work in progress for Regan. Carly Rae Jepson was… pop, probably, but also electronica? Screamo, she could identify, but was it the same as metal? Punk was fast, but so was rap. Jazz and blues and swing were a mess of muddy chords. Rock could have been anything. And what was emo, besides a word occasionally lobbed in her direction?
At first, this display required no interpretation of pitches and tempos. The man tapped his shiny red shoes to some rhythm, and Regan knew it must be tap dancing—not unlike Irish stepdance. Then he started singing. It might have been good. It might have been terrible. Regan was only confident that it was rap—quickly-delivered, rhyming, had to be. She wished she could have been more impressed, more anything; she was never enough anything. The most she could offer was a pair of eyes and her begrudging respect. Though the lyrics did not particularly impress her. What a missed opportunity to create a song about contusions! Not even a single line comparing peel to the epidermis? Regan now had a subject to write about in her journal later (which was not, as Jade called it, a diary).
The apple man, however, was fervorous. He swayed and clapped his chapped hands when the man jumped up on the table. Regan watched him up there, as he leaned in some impossible stance, belting something about cider. Apparently he had done well. The apple man’s cheeks bloomed a new shade of livor mortis red, his tiny eyes twinkling with delight. Not paying any attention to Regan. Good. The deal had been well struck already. Whether the thorns would prick where she was tender later, that remained to be seen, but she’d accept it like a proper urn.
The performance could end now, couldn’t it? “Is that all?” She asked both of them.
The old man rose to his creaking knees and curled his long fingers around the apple staff. Which the other fae might have actually liked, because he was still holding onto it. “The power! Such apple power! Such juice!” He cackled, then released the staff with a firm pat. “You sparkle, Isidore.” Isidore? “But the staff is only the beginning, yes.” He gestured to the table. Somehow it looked like more items were heaped on it than before. “As you can see here, I have all the latest in apple fashion.” He held a shiny red apple in his hand. “We have the Apple, the Apple 17, the Apple 17 Mini and…” Now he presented a slightly bigger apple with his other hand, “...the Apple 17 Pro. And the clothes! All of the latest, yes. I can’t model it all alone.” His grin stretched wide beneath his beard, like he had a joke in his mouth. Several sharp teeth poked through the bright mess of hair. “Glamours down!”
There the joke was.
“No,” Regan said sharply, her spine prickling straight up. Like the hair on Melody’s back when something startled him. She could almost hear her vertebrae shriek. “I won’t drop it. I can’t.” Regan crossed her arms, facing down those portraits again instead of the fae making her teeth sore in their sockets. She forced herself to stop grinding them. Again. But she could see a hint of her reflection in the frames, and decided, actually, she would rather face her foes than herself.
The apple man raised a brow so high it vanished beneath his hair, which she now realized had leaves in it. “Oh, let it fall. All apples fall eventually, my dear, especially the rotten ones.”
Her lip stung. A prick of blood on her tongue. Regan clutched her necklace like someone might tear it right off, because she could not drop anything by herself; she could not even construct anything by herself. It was only more failure for them to mock. “I want to get out of here,” she finally said, pacing. Fine. She decided. Regan removed her jacket (Jade’s, actually, which was why it was a color) and placed it at the edge of the long table. The cool air of the room made her back shiver through the slits she’d cut. With a breathy groan, she unclasped the necklace and slammed it down atop the jacket. She set her black eyes on one fae, then the other. “Stare at my wings and I will conduct a vivisection right here.” She let the threat core them. “Now give me the… whatever it is you require I wear.”
—
Isidore felt his blood run cold as soon as the apple man spoke his name. How did he know it? He hadn’t said it. He let out a puff of air as he looked over to the other fae, one who was very much struggling with the fact that the grand apple man himself was very much still talking. Something about apple models. He was hardly paying attention. There was more, he felt it deep in his bones. But it didn’t take a genius to see that coming.
Then, the command was given. Izzy’s gaze snapped up to the long and spindly man, gritting his teeth. How did he know exactly what they were so easily? Could he sense their magic? Their glamours? He wasn’t sure. All he did know, was whoever this guy was, he was powerful. And power like that could be useful if on the right side. Not to mention, he’d impressed the guy with his musical number. If nothing else, he could at least make tall and spindly like him. He could at least have accomplished that much by the time he walked out of here. If he walked out of here.
As the woman struggled and bemoaned the injustice of it all, Izzy simply let his glamour fade. It was hard enough for him to maintain it these days. It was exhausting when it was supposed to be as simple as putting on a coat. Dropping it was a relief, almost. Isidore’s ears were now longer and pointed, his skin looked unnaturally perfect, and his eyes were an iridescent gold, shifting as the light caught them. Unlike the banshee, he had no fancy wings. He wasn’t looking, he just knew they were undoubtedly there. He didn’t doubt her threat in the slightest.
Had the man called her a rotten apple? That was a damning sentence coming from what he could only assume was some kind of ancient deity of apples. This was surpassing fae levels of magic, he might as well be a god. Sure, why not. In the Greek pantheon beside the god of yogurt, that brother of his that he’d mentioned.
The man let out a gleeful sound as he proffered an abundance of apple merchandise and apparel with the wave of his hand, as if the items had been there all along. Izzy was already wearing an insane outfit, he had to change again? Wonderful. He thought the apple overalls were bad enough already. He perused through the items, deciding not to kick up a fuss in order to stay on the apple god’s good side. If the banshee wanted to dig a deeper hole, that was entirely on her.
“You said you can’t model it alone. Does that mean you’re joining us in the fashion show?” Izzy chanced a glance over to the deity in question, eyes practically sparkling at the idea of seeing this guy remove himself from behind his counter. “Do you have a name? What may we call you? Since you know who we are.” He had half a mind to believe the guy’s name was Macintosh. Maybe even Honeycrisp. Hopefully not red delicious. He wasn’t calling anyone delicious in this room. Certainly not tall, pale, and spindly.
He looked back over to the banshee, the necklace that she clearly used to glamour herself. How did she manage to get an enchanted item like that? Isidore could only bet it was useful in a situation like this, with the town often losing its magic and the rest of the time, just barely struggling to scratch by. Hopefully she was keeping that close to her chest around other fae. While it barely mattered to him, there were other fae who were far more obvious when their glamour fell. They’d fiend for such an item.
__
Regan saw the glance toward the necklace. She knew Isidore had immediately understood its purpose, her deficiency laid bare. It always did spill out eventually, inevitable as purge fluid. He had no such shame, and his appearance—so easy, so postured—did nothing to help Regan identify his lineage. She was less familiar with other kinds of fae, and beyond his objective beauty (even in these ridiculous garments), she knew of no identifying features. His skin was flawless, though. Perhaps he’d allow her a biopsy. Isidore seemed the curious sort, in both regards; he might be willing to entertain. A close look into his eyes would also be appreciated, but that was not a closeness Regan wanted to welcome. Her skin was already firing warnings. She could only take so much proximity.
She distanced herself from the table, putting more space between herself and the other fae, though she kept a close eye on her necklace and jacket. Isidore could handle this, couldn’t he? Composed and older as he was. She would wait out this nightmare and be the first one to snatch at the door handle when it appeared.
“My name?” The apple fae’s attention was on Isidore. “Why, you can call me Granny Smith. I’m afraid I won’t be modeling with you. Yes, every show needs a judge, yes. And what about the prize! It wouldn’t be fair if I entered alongside you—wouldn’t you be just red in that handsome face if I won the newest Apple Watch?” He held a hand out, and an apple rolled into it from—no, Regan wasn’t going there right now; she was too distracted to consider special effects. The apple stared at her. It had a single, bulbous eye.
She adjusted the collar of her turtleneck. It didn’t compensate for her otherwise vulnerable throat. Not even close. She rolled the fabric once. Not enough. Twice. Actually, perhaps only once. No, thrice. It was the apple man’s eyes falling behind her that made Regan’s hands drop and then knuckle into tight fists. Her wings pressed closer to her spine and his gaze tethered them there. Her legs wobbled—loose sockets. She stuttered backwards on them, her wings shivering against the wall. A pit or trapdoor or cliff underneath her would have been a mercy. The Apple Watch stared. Granny and grandmother stared. Regan squeezed her eyes shut but she decided not seeing was worse. “I told you not to do that! What do you want from me? I did your fecking app. I conversed with your nonsense. I arranged for a dance to… occur on my behalf. I will not give you more. I will not wear one of your costumes. Stop this looking at once.” She’d sooner bend to another deal. She’d sooner—
Granny Smith’s beard parted. Regan could see every tooth, incisors through incision. “Whatever do you mean, óg Regan? You’ve only just removed your costume. Isn’t it time to pick another, doctor?”
Regan couldn’t push further back. She was met with unyielding wall. She panted like a tea kettle. Some of the lights above were swaying and cracking. For a second, she thought she saw the tarry darkness of Cliodhna’s eyes hook her through those sadistic apple red-green ones. Glass hissed down. How many seconds had blurred past? The searing in her lungs demanded her attention and she clamped her hands over her mouth. Not breathing. She could focus on that.
The apple fae knew he could safely turn away from her. She was nothing to him. Isidore had more bite than her empty vivisection threats. His grin remained. “I think it’s much safer for everyone if you both remain here, yes. Besides, look at all the apple to wear! Aprons, capes, parkas, sweaters, thongs—try them all!” He narrowed his eyes at Isidore. “A little heartbreak and you’re obsessed with having those pretty fingers in every pie. Tell me, is there anyone you won’t use and discard? It sliced you up. Yes, why should I turn something like you loose? Why should I subject others to either of you when I have you in my pie?” He batted those long eyelashes and extended a hand, fingers waving like worms. “Give me a reason.”
—
As his glamour faded, Isidore could feel Regan’s eyes taking in his appearance. While he usually welcomed admiration, this was far different. It felt strange, as if she was trying to understand the ins and outs of him. He looked over to the banshee out of the corner of his eye, trying to shoot her a questioning glance as he took in her own expression. As hard as she tried to swallow it down, it was plain on her face.
Fear.
This banshee was terrified. A pang of sympathy curled its cold fingers around Isidore’s heart and squeezed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this woman was struggling with what she was. He didn’t know too much about banshees, admittedly. He wasn’t one, so their customs and origins were somewhat of a mystery to him, just as his customs were a mystery to many banshees. Fae, even if they were both one, were secretive towards those who did not share their upbringing. What he did know, however, was that banshees became instead of simply being. And that didn’t sound like an experience worth remembering, if her fear was anything to go by.
Right. So he’d do what he could to take control of the situation for her. Izzy didn’t often do things for others out of the goodness of his heart, but he supposed if he wanted to walk a path of redemption, taking the first step was more important than never taking a step at all. He took one last look at Regan, then nodded his head, sure of himself than he’d been in a long time. He would do something for another for the first time in decades.
The apple fae kept talking about apple fashion, and most of it went over Izzy’s head as he began to formulate a plan to get out of there. There were no exits, and he couldn’t sense anything magical that he could exploit. This fae, whoever he was, was extremely powerful. His magic contained multitudes that Izzy’s simply did not. Whatever he was doing, it was far beyond what the muse was capable of. There would be no breaking of magical barriers on his end tonight.
Then, the fae spoke Regan’s name aloud, his creepy gaze fixating on her, and began to dig into her deepest insecurities. Shit. She continued to back herself into the wall, and Isidore knew this wasn’t going to end well for them. She was going to let out a Banshee’s wail if this guy didn’t rein himself in. Maybe, just maybe, Izzy could work with that. While there were no windows in the building, there was a skylight on the ceiling. She screamed, and the apple fae wouldn’t be able to contain her power. The skylight would shatter, and Regan could get out.
As Regan held her breath and struggled to keep it in, Izzy whirled his head around and looked her dead in the eyes and mouthed the word “Scream.” He then motioned up to the skylight to indicate what the glass shattering would do for her. She could be free. Sure, he’d be stuck, but she’d be able to escape. He could handle himself; he always did.
He continued to ignore the apple apparel that the man spoke of until he suddenly switched gears, going for Isidore’s weakness instead of Regan’s. This man sensed the muse’s power and sought to bring it down a peg. A little heartbreak? Is that what this creature dared to reduce all that happened to him to? Isidore’s gaze hardened as he stared directly into the fae’s eyes and pointed at the man.
“That wasn’t heartbreak. That was betrayal.” Izzy’s expression twisted into a snarl as he advanced towards the tall and spindly fae. “I was naive. I was used in order to get close to my own people, and I was too stupid to see it for what it was. I thought, for the first time in my miserable life, that someone loved me. I dared myself to feel something so disgustingly human because I thought I was allowed to have it.” Isidore’s words dripped with emotions so pent up over forty years, so volatile. “I stick my fingers in every pie because it’s the only way to take back control over what happened. I fucked up, and my people died for it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it, even if they can’t understand the moves I make. I do it all for them.” His voice broke at the end of his sentence.
“And to answer your question, there are people I’d never betray.” He thought of Oliver. Of Cleo. The two people whom he felt he could tell his truth to, even if he had yet to do so. “And if I had even a fraction of the power you wield, I could make a difference to the people I’ve let down. You use it to wield apples. But think of what you could do to make a difference in the lives of the people in this town! Of all the hunters who kill us because they refuse to understand us. You could do some good!”
Isidore dared to take another step toward ‘Granny Smith,’ expression going from hardened and angry to downright pleading. “You need a reason to let us go? Maybe the fact that you’re scaring a young fae who doesn’t understand herself. You gain nothing by keeping her here. If anything, let her go if not me.”
__
The scream wrapped itself around her lungs and tried to rend her open. It was pitiful, how quickly she folded and how deeply she creased at the knees. This wasn’t even a death scream. That humiliation made it worse—this was supposed to be easy, used to be easy. Regan’s fingers were probably already bruising her lips, slapped over them hard. But without oxygen, the scream was burning itself out. Her lungs throbbed, vision darkening, every muscle trying to remind her that even things like her needed air. Deny it deny it deny it. Finally, Regan slumped against the wall, her arms slack, mouth free. Silent save her gasping. She could still feel that twitchiness inside her, gasoline all over, volatility ready to pour out her throat if that match was lit again. Everything else just felt numb.
But she saw the look Isidore gave her. The word he’d said, or maybe only mouthed: scream. And that was enough to push her back onto her feet, straight as a scalpel. She could break the glass, certainly. And she probably could fly out. She’d flown up taller trees when startled (which Jade would never learn, because the cat comparisons would become insufferable). It would work. She could leave. She could return to Jade and autopsies and lies and leave this all behind. And Isidore could believe whatever he was attempting to believe. The good fae. The good, selfless, human fae—and the leanbh.
Young fae. Doesn’t understand herself.
She refused. It was yet another insult she was not going to suffer.
“How dare—” Regan’s voice whistled more cracks into the glass, and she choked it back. Even Granny Smith seemed wary, ready to block his ears. Hold. Deny. She pictured a blade against her palm. She wouldn’t feel it if there was one. Easy to conjure. Iron blistered scream as well as skin. “You.” She glared at Isidore. “I know what I am. I am not a child. You’re asking me to scream on command, display my wings, and leave you here. And you call me a child. Amadán. You do not speak for me either. You do not cut me open; you know nothing of my organs.” She hissed high, “I told you, I will not perform.”
Regan palmed the wall and pushed herself away from it. She prowled closer to Granny Smith, and well-intended, leaky Isidore. She turned to the latter. His face was knotted and tight with rage. Whatever the apple fae had said, it hit its mark. She swiped her necklace and jacket off the table and secured everything back into place. Her wings vanished. She dared either of them to speak a word of opposition to her.
Her blue eyes were no warmer than her black ones when she turned them on Isidore. “Your emotional confession means nothing to him. You are wasting feelings. Do not bother with them. Or, if you must suffer them, do not stain the carpet with your seepage. He will not clean it up.” The scream was leashed. Her face was still. “I know what I am.”
She loathed fae. She really did.
Granny Smith considered Regan only briefly, one of those bushy brows flicking up. His old hands were back on the table. For a moment before, Regan thought he really had been afraid of a scream. His fingers trembled like nervous spiders. Or perhaps it was a show of his age, however many centuries that was. He remained difficult to read. Meanwhile, she and now Isidore had exposed their bellies for him—blown open, entrails steaming. The scars across her stomach had taught her nothing.
He raised a long finger at Isidore. “Tell you what… it’s a deal you want, hmmmm? A deal, yes, but you’ve offered me crumbs! How selfless!” He made that raspy, hacking noise. Once again, Regan had to remind herself it was a laugh, and this creature was not choking to death. That would have almost been a streak of luck. Regan did not believe in luck. “Throwing yourself on the knife so this childish little seed of a fae walks free. But what do I get? Will you stay?”
Regan leaned forward, mouth opening. She caught herself, fingers to her throat. Nails in her skin. Her lungs vibrated but nothing more.
“Easy, child. Don’t make me give you an apple a day. I’m offering a way out.” His sly eyes landed back on Isidore. “I will allow both of you to leave today, right now, if you make it a heartfelt priority to bring me no fewer than ten other fae. What do you say?” He picked up an apple and bit into it. It sounded worse than glass breaking. Was she understanding this correctly? They could leave, if Isidore subjected ten other people to this torment? What a horrific—
“Unacceptable,” Regan said flatly.
But Granny Smith’s eyes glided right over Regan. She was only worthy of note when screaming. His attention fell heavy on Isidore. “It’s you I’m asking, my dear Isidore. Easy as pie for you, no?” He inserted the entire apple in his mouth and chewed thoroughly.
—
When Regan began to admonish him for his attempts to help her out, Izzy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he stared at her and listened, trying to appear as receptive as he possibly could, even if what she had said was right. He did see her as nothing but a fumbling child, desperate to find explanation in anything that made sense to her, not what was. She wasn’t the first he’d come across, she certainly wouldn’t be the last.
As the fae remained unmoved, it wasn’t surprising that Isidore’s plea fell on deaf ears. Still, it still stung when Regan reminded him of such. He gritted his teeth, then nodded towards her. She was right. Even if she was stupid for not leaving. He tapped his hand against his thigh, running thin on patience. He hated feeling this vulnerable. This cut open and raw.
Then, the fae, this Granny Smith, became receptive to the idea of a deal. As the man’s tone grew more interested and intrigued, Izzy’s ears flicked as he met the spindly man’s gaze. Of course, the deal was far worse than anything he wanted it to be. A sacrifice. Ten fae lost for the freedom of two. It was steep, and it would be noticed. He couldn’t use his own, as easy for him as it would be. At least, that’s what he told himself. In reality, the lie he told himself made him feel sick to his core. He ignored it, as he often did.
Isidore looked over to Regan, thought back to her tragic desperation to be let go. He thought of the ten fae he’d subject to whatever this creature had in store. With Oliver’s situation, he’d taken a step from the middle of the road to do something good. And now? He was being set right back to the middle with an act of evil. Fine.
Looking back over to the tall fae, Isidore gave a curt nod as he extended his hand forward towards him. “Deal.” His tone was harsh and filled with the understanding of the deal he dared to make; putting his life and Regan’s above that of ten others. Granny Smith took his hand with a twisted, too large grin, and shook his hand once firmly. The magic sent a jolt of electricity down the muse’s spine, eyes flashing bright as the magic set the deal.
As soon as the deal was made, a door appeared on the far end of the store. “An apple for the road?” He tossed an apple towards Izzy, which had ten bruises on it. “Each fae given over will cause a bruise on the apple to disappear. A reminder of our deal.” Isidore shivered, then nodded his head.
“You’re free,” Isidore spoke in a dark, saddened tone as he didn’t dare to look over at Regan. “Remember our deal. I’ll be in touch.” And with that said, he tucked the apple into his coat pocket and strode out the door, towards ten fae who would follow him into the jaws of death.
—
He took the deal. Just took it. “What? No!” Regan tried to insert herself between the two of them, but her muscles were too slow and Granny Smith’s greed was too greasy. There might have been a flash of conflict on Isidore’s face—hard to say, he was lustrous and strange—but it didn’t last long. And just as quickly, Granny Smith grabbed Isidore’s hand, gnarled against neat, and the deal was struck. Regan’s arms and neck hung limp. She expected this of the apple fae. Of Isidore, she was surprised to find something dark and heavy sink within her. Not a scream. Those rose. “No, you just—why—”
Isidore didn’t want this. Regan could see it. The gold of his eyes was hiding from her. “Why do we matter more than any of them?” This wasn’t death, might not be death. They could be fine, those ten people. And, she reminded herself, she loathed fae. But this was either some pyramid of dealings or Granny Smith had something more permanent planned for his victims. Just what were Regan and Isidore escaping right now? Did Isidore even know what he was about to condemn ten people to? He knew what he’d condemned himself to, surely.
She looked at Isidore when he didn’t look back. “What is your plan? Betrayal? You are being used to get close once again, then.” He let himself be used. She understood. Scalpel, saw, rib shearer, Regan.
“That was foolish. And don’t you dare think I will not be involved.” In stopping him or circumventing this stupid geas, Regan wasn’t sure yet. But the door was there, and Isidore walked through it with a poisoned apple. Regan wasn’t going to wait here. The deal was done, and she didn’t trust Granny Smith to fix the door in place when it was Isidore who sold himself. She didn’t look back. She could grant herself the amnesty of not studying another crime scene today.
Free. Regan straightened her necklace then smoothed a wrinkle from Jade’s jacket. No. They were just burdened with ten lives. Richard Pubik’s fluids were gathered in an alley storm drain. “I should have screamed,” Regan muttered to the door, before pushing through it to fresh air and open space, and the prick of the thorns.
[pm] Hey, got your contact info from Oliver. I’m Isidore, the one who’s watching Oliver like a hawk during blackouts. He told me you’ll be worried about him, so if you want, I can keep you frequently updated in the event of a blackout.
[pm] Isidore I think we just became best friends. At the very least best friend adjacent. Let's compromise and say probationary best friends.
Seriously though - thank you for keeping an eye on him. Ollie is a really close friend and these black outs have been freaking me out. I'll be at the hospital, but I'll have my phone. Keep me updated. If you need anything just call me and I'll be out and on my way immediately.
Oh, also the name's Mickey. Pleasure to meet you despite the shitty circumstances
