The Last Changeling

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  The Last Changeling © 2014 by Chelsea Pitcher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2014

  E-book ISBN: 9780738743806

  Cover design by Kevin Brown

  Cover photo © M. Pallas

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/6524824/©ANGELGILD

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For my parents,

  who took me in after the wolves tired of me.

  Thank you for everything that followed.

  1

  ElorA

  I was seventeen when death crossed my path. Before that, I’d only dreamt of twisted limbs and blood as bright as poppies. But late one night, death offered me an opportunity. She whispered dirty secrets in my ear and pulled back my eyelids with curling hands.

  “There,” she said, and pointed.

  I did not recognize her voice then. I did not know who was leading me into the darkness.

  I followed.

  Down below, a girl traveled the highway alone. She carried a hefty knapsack—the staple of the runaway. Her hair was red like mine and we might have been sisters, if not for the obvious difference.

  She was a mortal.

  As I followed the runaway along the darkened street, I thought about mortality. Perhaps a part of me knew what was to come. When a chariot of iron pulled over to the side of the road, and the girl climbed inside, I feared the worst.

  Then the buck stepped out into a pool of light, and I realized death would not be satisfied with one life tonight.

  Buck and car collided. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the worst of it. But the sound of the tires and the scent of blood did not escape me.

  Try as we might, we cannot block out everything.

  After the sounds had died down, I heard a whisper on the wind: “Go,” it said to me. Was it death, or had I imagined it?

  I approached the scene with caution.

  A crack in the front window spiraled out like a web. Before this moment, I’d thought only spiders could create such things. But the girl’s skull had collided with the glass and the result was this strange artistry. Curious, how beauty exists beside horror. Now her body lay slumped against the door. There was only a smattering of blood, there on her forehead. But even in the dim light, I knew she was dead.

  Not so for the man in the driver’s seat. His breath came out in little rasps. I reached in through the window and touched his head; just a jolt, to blur his memories. When he came to, the scene would tell a story his mind could not place. He would see the front of the vehicle smashed in, and the body of the buck sprawled out before it.

  And he would know what had happened.

  As for the girl, the one who had come into his life a few miles back, well … He wouldn’t even remember her.

  I carried her body into the woods. Even in the darkness, she was a wonder to behold: once a living organism filled with possibility; now a bag of skin containing sharp secrets. Her blood stained my gloves.

  I stripped off her clothes. Underneath, she was as pale as I am. Her hair was a duller shade of red, but that was no surprise. What human could have hair like mine? If I wanted to pass as one of them, everything about me would have to be dimmed.

  My wings rustled at the thought of it.

  I peeled off my gown, not bothering to unlace the bodice. Ribbons tore in my haste. Then we were free, clad only in the skin we were born in. Two little girls about to switch places.

  Who would have thought it—a changeling at my age?

  Changeling. That word had power behind it. That word could transform me. Surely, a loyalist of the Dark Court would never wear the mask of a human, but that’s why my plan was so perfect. I would be in and out of the human world before my family could track me.

  I had to be.

  Still, my heart raced as I pulled on the mortal’s clothes. In the pocket of her pants I found a stack of paper bills and a little card with her information on it: Laura Belfry. Age sixteen.

  A year younger than me.

  In the eyes of my mother, I was still very much a child. Reckless. Irresponsible. Incapable of creating any real change.

  I’d show her.

  I laced up Laura Belfry in my gown. At the last minute, I decided to keep my gloves. Those gloves, along with the pouch I wore around my neck, would serve as a reminder of who I was. When I lifted Laura’s corpse from the ground, her head rolled toward me. Eyes open, she asked silently: Why?

  Wrong place, wrong time, my dear.

  I carried her deeper into the woods. Already I could feel the power of our exchange. Even glamour, the simplest of magic, gave me a rush. My skin buzzed as I lay her down on the ground. Together, our bodies began to change: my features softened while hers grew rigid. Within seconds, I looked positively mortal, and a crumbling log sat where she had been.

  My little homage to the stories of old.

  I almost laughed.

  But I didn’t. The girl’s blood speckled my skin. It seeped into the creases, staining me. As I trudged back to the road, legs heavy in her boots, I summoned the rain to wash me clean. A quick wave of my hand disguised the crack in the chariot’s window. By the time my magic faded and the log turned back into a girl, I would be long gone from this place.

  I walked in the direction of the next town.

  2

  TayloR

  The minute I walked onto the soccer field, I knew we were going to cheat. The signs were right in front of me. The guys on the opposing team looked like they’d shot up over spring break, and Coach was too busy ogling the cheerleaders to give us any valuable direction. But worse than anything was the look in Brad Dickson’s eye, the one that said: Win or go home in a body bag.

  What does that spell?

  S-C-R-E-W-E-D.

  See, Brad was on our side. He was supposed to be our lead defender. But he was better at skirting the rules, and the
guys on the team tended to follow him—if nobody called him out. So I had to decide if I wanted to keep quiet (as usual) and let Brad cheat, or speak up and get punched in the face. Every day. For the rest of the year.

  Isn’t high school great?

  I can do this.

  In this corner, with 170 pounds of skin and bones … Wild and Wiry Taylor!

  I can probably do this.

  And in this corner, with 220 pounds of muscular madness … Brad “The Beast” Dickson!

  Maybe I should just duck and cover.

  The first half of the game passed in a blur. Our guys just couldn’t make a shot. Meanwhile, Carson High’s players scored goal after goal. The score at halftime was four to zip.

  I’m royally screwed.

  When the halftime whistles blew, Brad beckoned us into one of his infamous huddles. I tried to think about palm trees and breezes. If I could slip into a state of Zen, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad to have my teeth knocked out.

  “Listen up, guys.” Brad draped his arm over my shoulder like we were buddies. With his bulging eyes and spiked-up brown hair, he looked like he had the bad habit of sticking forks into electrical sockets. “Keller’s our biggest problem.”

  “Our problem is crappy coordination,” I muttered.

  Brad acted like he hadn’t heard me. He was too busy glaring across the field at Carson’s dark-skinned, goal-

  scoring god. At six-foot-seven, Jackson Keller was everything stocky Brad would never be.

  “We remove Keller, we control the game,” he said.

  “Remove him?” I asked.

  Are we going to levitate him off the field? Are we wizards now?

  “Don’t worry about it.” Brad squeezed my shoulder. I think he was trying to get me to pass out.

  Nice try.

  “I’m not worried about it.” I eased out of his death grip. “I’m worried about winning with integrity.”

  “I’m worried about winning with integrity,” Brad mimicked. “You believe this fairy?”

  The guys laughed. Of course they did. Assholes.

  “I just don’t think we should give up yet,” I said.

  Brad looked at me like I was the town idiot. “We’re not giving up. We’re in it to win it!” He was practically barking now. And that, the guys responded to; they started cheering and pumping their fists.

  I felt like I was in one of those old TV Specials of the Week.

  Everyone’s doing it, Taylor.

  Just try it and see if you like it, Taylor.

  YOU WERE JUST FOLLOWING ORDERS, TAYLOR.

  I took a step forward. “Hold on,” I said, fully prepared to get knocked on my ass. But maybe I’d get a shot in before Brad put me on the ground. “We’re not doing this. This is pathetic. And anyone who thinks it’s a good idea is pathetic.”

  Dear God, if ever you were to listen to me, please let me survive this.

  I waited for the blow.

  I kept waiting. I realized my eyes were closed, and I opened them.

  Now Brad was laughing. “Nice speech,” he said, giving me a slow clap to illustrate my powerlessness. “You guys believe this shit? Who knew we’d be getting a game and a show?”

  Now they were all laughing.

  I’d never felt more humiliated. Then Brad slapped me on the back. “Thanks for giving us a laugh,” he said. “Guys, get back to your places. If anyone sees a clear shot, pass me the ball.”

  And that was that. My heroic moment had come and gone. Brad would find a way to win, and the victory would be all his.

  I would lose.

  We all would.

  I walked back onto the field. Brad was already in position, conspiring with Guillermo Martinez to take Keller out. I knew the play: Brad would charge Keller while Guillermo came up behind him. When Keller jumped back and to the left—his signature escape move—he’d trip over Guillermo. Twist the shit out of his ankle. Maybe break his neck.

  I had to stop them.

  But how?

  Then it came to me. God, it was so obvious! I just had to play really well. If I scored enough points ethically, Brad and the rest of the guys wouldn’t need to cheat. They’d get their victory, and the glory, and no one would suffer for it. Of course, I’d been playing my best all game, and we were still losing. But I was getting desperate, so I put my heart and soul into my plan.

  Race, dodge, kick. Race, dodge, kick. Good God, it was actually working. I scored two goals in the next ten minutes, and Keller managed to outrace Brad. Everything was falling into place, for the first time in, well, ever, until Brad shifted his attention from Keller to me.

  Shit.

  He looked like Old Yeller did after the guy got rabies. He may have actually been foaming at the mouth. And he came running up to me, yelling, “Pass the ball to me, pass the ball to me,” because winning the game wasn’t enough for him.

  The victory had to be his.

  Too bad I ignored him. The guy was clearly a psychopath. He was also a purely defensive player, and right then he wasn’t doing his job, because he was running after me. And the rest of the team was watching, just waiting for a fight to break out. When Keller stole the ball from me at the last minute, there was no one to stop him from going for the goal.

  So he did. And as the ball flew past our goalie, this wicked smile spread over my face. I actually felt happy. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I experienced joy.

  Because we didn’t deserve to win.

  Then Brad fell to his knees, and my smile turned into a laugh. Coach was shouting at us to huddle up, but I wasn’t about to listen. Where had he been all game? I gave Jackson Keller a high five and headed to the gym.

  The farther I got from my teammates, the better I felt. I was in and out of the locker room before the first of them arrived. Then it was just a quick jog to my car. I called her Sue. She was my secondhand sedan. She had a long history of malfunctioning, usually at inopportune moments, so when the door didn’t open right away, I didn’t think much of it. I just wiped my hands on my jeans and tried again.

  Again, the handle snapped back without unlatching.

  What the hell?

  Crouching down to get a closer look, I reached for the handle a third time, then stopped. On the other side of the park, someone had made a sound like laughter, the kind that jumps from your mouth when you’re trying to hold it in. Not for the first time that week, I got the feeling that I was being watched. But I wasn’t in the mood to cower—the game had knocked that out of me—so I put my keys into my pocket and walked toward the sound.

  I had a feeling I knew where it was coming from.

  On the outskirts of the grounds was a swing-set, which people liked to say was the portal to another dimension. In reality, it was the sad remainder of a rickety wooden play structure, a structure that died so our second parking lot could live. But the swing-set was saved—we “kids” needed somewhere to play—and I liked to sneak away there when things got too typical at school.

  I approached the swings slowly. The girl sitting there was anything but typical. Her hair was fiery red, and her skin looked stark white in comparison. In the blue light of dusk, I could make out a black T-shirt and jeans, which seemed out of place on her, though the long black gloves didn’t.

  She looked up. “Have I stolen your secret hiding place?”

  She had a hint of an accent, maybe Italian or French, but it was too subtle for me to place. I hadn’t exactly traveled to many places.

  “No,” I said, stepping up to a vacant swing. “I mean, it’s fine.”

  I could feel this wild energy radiating from her, the way it feels in the middle of a storm. My hands buzzed, wanting to brush the tips of her fingers, her shoulder, anything.

  I had to get myself together. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked, sitting beside her.
>
  “Yes.” She smiled slowly. Seductively. “But I like it.”

  “Are you sure?” I would’ve given her my coat. Possibly the shirt off my back.

  Whoa there, buddy.

  “I’m sure,” she said, holding my gaze. I couldn’t believe how bright her eyes looked in the shadows—like the hottest parts of a fire, like blue and green flames dancing. “But you changed the subject.”

  “I did?”

  “You most certainly did. And I wasn’t finished with it yet.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, how can I blame you? First I intrude upon your secret hiding place, and then I intrude upon your privacy.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. Over in the parking lot, car doors closed and engines turned over, but here in the park I felt far removed. I had only to glance at the girl and the headlights disappeared.

  “Truly?” she asked, and the sound of the cars became a memory.

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Oh good. Then you won’t mind telling me what it is that you’re hiding from?”

  “I’m not hiding from anything. I heard a noise, so I came to investigate.”

  Like Sherlock Holmes. Sure, that’s sexy.

  “But this is not your first time here,” she said.

  I froze. It sounded like she was confessing to spying on me, and I probably should’ve bailed right then. But I didn’t.

  I told her the truth. “Sometimes I come here to get away.”

  “From what?”

  “My family. School. Life, you know. All of it.”

  “It weighs heavily on you,” she said, eyes widening in surprise.

  I turned away. It was amazing how I could spend hours, days, even weeks ignoring parts of my memory simply by keeping busy with unimportant things. Yet the minute one memory squeezed its way in, there was a flood.

  I ran my hands through my hair. I’d recently started growing it out, and I liked the way I could hide behind it when I needed some space. My mom had other thoughts on the matter: each time we came into contact she shot me veiled, disapproving glances, like the daggers in her eyes would transform, midair, into scissors and give me a much-needed trim.