It’s also fairly empty. Only one table has a few fae sitting at it, drinking out of what look like drab ceramic cups. At the bar, there’s only one fae sitting hunched over his cup who talks quietly to the bartender standing opposite him.
Behind the bar is a wooden ledge that holds only a handful of bottles—some glass and others ceramic. A grimy mirror runs the length of the wall over the ledge, and that’s essentially it.
No games.
No jukebox.
No fancy neon lighting.
Just tables and liquor, and, for some reason, I think that’s exactly how the Underworld should be.
I’ve not felt a single dark vibe, and the fact I’ve walked through busy streets without being accosted and I knew to come here means I have no qualms about walking up to the bar. I don’t have any type of currency to buy anything, but I confidently pull out a stool and climb on it.
The Dark Fae and bartender swing their heads slowly my way. The patron is uninterested, but the bartender straightens and comes my way with a huff of annoyance.
“Want the usual?” he asks. He’s on the rather ordinary side for a Dark Fae, boasting fairly humanoid features and a portly belly. The big giveaway that he is not, in fact, human is the one eye in the center of his forehead.
“Um… sure,” I reply, and the bartender shuffles off. He chooses one of the ceramic jugs, pulls a cup off a shelf that I’m quite positive hasn’t been adequately cleaned, and pours a thick, viscous liquid the color of anti-freeze into it.
He shuffles back and sets it in front of me. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
“Thanks,” I reply, and he gives me a strange look before ambling back toward the other customer at the bar.
The dream has turned surreal and I throw caution to the wind, taking a tiny sip of my drink. It burns like hellfire and tastes like skunk’s butt, but I manage to swallow it without even grimacing.
I have no clue what to do.
Should I strike up a conversation?
Should I down my drink and go explore?
I lift my head and look at the mirror that runs behind the bar. It’s dirty, but it’s still clear enough to see my reflection, and I gasp as I take myself in.
That’s me… my face, nose, cheekbones, and green-blue-gold eyes. My hair is even the right length, all spazzed out with curls and waves sticking in all directions.
But I’m not in my pajamas. I’m wearing some type of brown tunic made of wool.
And my hair isn’t a vivid red, but a snow white, as are my eyebrows.
“Everything all right, Zora?” the bartender asks, and I turn slowly his way with trepidation.
He knows me.
My name is Zora.
“All good,” I mutter before turning to look down at my drink. I glance back up at the mirror, and I’m just as shocked the second time when I see the white-haired woman with my face there.
It’s then that it becomes abundantly clear I’m not in a dream.
I’m in my sister’s body, and I’m seeing everything through her eyes.
I can’t read her emotions, and I can’t communicate with her.
Wait. Can I?
“Zora,” I think to myself hesitantly. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing happens, and I just stare at myself in the mirror. Or stare at her in the mirror. This is so confusing.
But I can communicate with the bartender, so maybe this really is a dream. Maybe I’m making this all up in my head—that I have an identical twin with white hair who drinks nasty liquor in a Dark Fae bar.
Or it’s very real, I’ve taken over Zora’s body, and I’m the one controlling it.
I decide to try some conversation with the bartender to see if I can learn anything, but the feather on my legs starts to burn.
And burn bad.
“Ouch,” I exclaim as I reach down to rub at it, which causes the pain to flare worse. I pull my pants up—which are oddly my pajama pants again—and the feather is no longer white but scarlet red with an orange glow emanating from it.
As if it’s on fire.
“Fuck,” I scream as my skin sears and it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.
I come awake, sitting bolt upright in Carrick’s bed with my heart racing. I kick the covers off, jerk my pajama pants up, and see my feather is as ordinary as ever. It doesn’t even itch.
Without any thought, I scramble off the mattress and run into the bathroom, half expecting to see that I have white hair.
But it’s just me.
Redheaded Finley.
I press a hand to my heart, willing it to slow down.
“What the hell was that?” I mutter.
I decide to find Carrick and Zaid as I know they’ll be up and about since I saw the clock was approaching eight AM. Carrick was working on finding Stan again so he could take us into Faere today, and Zaid is always lurking around ready to make breakfast or offer snide remarks, at both of which he is equally adept.