Chapter 4: You're On The List

I knew the danger of wishing too often and too hard. Wishes were not simple things: there always had to be a magical balance in the world, and this fallout from my last wish—catching the eye of Sy Dage's entourage—should have been enough to warn me. I had a sinking feeling that if I wished myself out of my Stellar Lounge obligation, I might end in a plane crash or some other terrible accident. I wanted to continue my mortal life. I just didn't want to do it anywhere near Sy Dage.

I didn't set an alarm for the next morning, so I woke up comfortably at noon, cocooned in the nest of overstuffed pillows and fluffy blankets that made up my bed. I'd taken a lavender salt bath the night before, but as soon as I levered myself out of bed, I wandered back to the bathroom, stripped off my overlong t shirt, and sank into a fresh bath. I knew I spent too much of our precious spare cash on creature comforts, but the creature comforts of mortality were too valuable to me. The smooth, ticklish lick of salt against flesh, the small chemical pleasures of senses responding and thrilling.

Mornings like this were rare: usually I was up at some ungodly hour, even after late rooftop evenings, to get into Toby's tired little car and take off for the night's gig. Cass always had us arriving professionally early, even for open mics. But these next few days were special. I had three shows in London. No day-long journeys, no cramped legs from riding with the gear. Just a long, sweet bath.

I sank up to my chin in the warm water, feeling the tingle of cleansing salt against my jaw. My hair, usually a bright and substantial weight around my shoulders, floated around me some kind of darkly silver sea creature. It was utterly a peaceful moment, almost a sacred peace I'd built around myself. A sweet, quiet interlude in a life of art and adoration. And still, I couldn't shake the troublesome anxiety: the Stellar Lounge show. What could I do?

Mortal life was never simple. But that was what I loved about it. Usually.

What exactly was Sy Dage up to? And what made his people think that I was in any way a good fit for his exclusive show?

Maybe it was time for some light cyber-creeping.

I slid my tablet from my bag, and I sat crossed legged and naked on my nest of blankets. The air was muggy and stale with the city heat creeping in through the window, but I enjoyed the small thrill of it over my flesh, raising tiny slicks of sweat over my thighs and breasts and arms. I let my fingertip play over the slick surface of the screen—momentarily thinking back to when the last century was young and humans could barely have conceived of such a device. The mortal world moved so fast—and strove to move ever faster and faster.

Sy's Instagram seemed barely used; every post received hundreds of thousands of likes, but those posts only appeared at intervals of weeks to months. I pressed my lips together. Over a million followers. It all looked so easy, when you didn't care about doing it the right way. There weren't even pictures of him: only abstract, artistic photos hyperfocused on dew drops on flower petals, the smooth imperfect curve of a pearl. Expressive, messy, beautiful.

His Spotify wasn't much better for snooping. His career was nearly as long as mine, and yet he had a slim three albums, plus some live recordings, to his catalog.

Hesitantly, knowing it really wasn't such a good idea but riddled with curiosity, I hit play on the most popular track.

The song's magic wasn't so palpable via digital recordings, but still, I felt it like a layer of old sweat on my skin, irritating and unpleasant. Unseelie magic was anathema to Seelie: chaos to order, murk and fear to balance and brilliance. Like eating food that you knew would bother your stomach, but you just really want to know how it tastes.

The music was soft and dark, seductive in its mellow but unsettled melody. The lyrics rang out like deep-toned incantations—which, in a sense, they were. All songs, even mortal ones, had their brand of magic. But fae music was something else entirely. Sy's music brought to mind foggy moors and forgotten caverns, filthy rock club basements and desolate rural ruins. It was dark and full of memory, laden with a yearning that might be called hunger rather than affection. There was a kind of shadowy, unspeakable yearning in the music, and I felt it slither coldly in the pit of my stomach. It was, unquestionably, beautiful. And, unquestionably, terrible. A nightmare love story told a thousand different ways.

I closed my eyes, trying to shift past my instinctual disgust. It bothered me more than I could say that I did actually like it. That there was an uncanny beauty to it, even below the vague nausea of my initial reaction. Unseelie beauty meant disorder and imbalance. But there was a grotesque and gorgeous fascination to it—rotten and tragic and difficult.

My phone jostled on the sheets beside my knee, and I glanced down at a text from a number I didn't know:

"Hi. It's Birdie from last night. I don't know how to say it…I can't even believe I'm talking to you. But I just needed to say thank you. I talked with a bunch of social workers and I think it's actually going to be ok. Just needed to say thanks. Again. But thanks. You're the best."

I smiled. The warm, full feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with my daydreams of coffee. I'd done something—something real and lasting and true on the mortal plane. I'd wanted to make this impact with my music, to save people in a much more metaphysical way. But the human world didn't always play by the rules. I'd had a chance to answer kindness with kindness. That's all I could really ask for.

I typed back a response to Birdie—a longish text asking her to promise to keep me updated if she could, to ask me if she needed anything. My fingers hesitated over the keys, musing over how to sign off. Was 'love' too much? Inappropriate?

Before I could decide, a fresh message burst across the top of my screen. The bright feeling inside of me withered as I read:

"Hey Hester! Sy's team here <3 super pumped to have you at the Stellar show! Sy's playing tomorrow night for his closing night at O2, and you and your closest buddy just scored freeeeeee tickets! Just give your name at the door. You're on the list ;)"

"Ughhh," I groaned, dropping the phone out of my hands and letting it fall with a muffled thump into the blankets. Was this a joke? A taunt? Or just Sy's road team making the best PR out of good PR?

And was I the a**hole if I didn't accept the offer?