Page 12 of Faun Over Me

Cricket muttered something Avery couldn’t catch, and she twitched her face to the side, catching the inhuman from the corner of her eye. Nurse Almaden perched on a stool in front of Cricket and was unwrapping the filthy ACE bandage from her ankle. She’d pulled a rolling service tray up beside them, the surface loaded down with antiseptic spray, gauze, gels, and a fresh bandage.

Cricket’s leg stretched between them, the nurse careful not to pinch her calf with the neatly filed points of her short talons. Her upper lip was curled back, blunt teeth clenched together. She gripped the armrests, the tips of her fingers bent slightly backward. Sunlight glinted off of the metal caps she wore on half of her fingers—three on her right hand, covering her thumb, index, and middle fingers, and two on her left, capping her index and middle finger.Avery turned all the way around, puzzling the purpose of the caps.

“No nails,” Cricket gasped. She hitched in the seat, shoulders rising as the nurse sprayed antiseptic on her hoof. Avery flicked her gaze up to the inhuman’s, heat burning her cheeks as she realized she’d been caught staring. Cricket waggled the fingers of one hand as Almaden prodded her hoof with a Q-tip. She hissed, eyes clenched in pain, arching her back in the chair. Her head fell back, and Avery’s gaze was drawn to the long line of her throat. She coughed lightly into her fist and aimed for the door. “I should go start the paperwork.”

“No need,” Nurse Almaden called out.

“No need?” Avery whirled around. “Cricket was hurt on camp property; I need to file a report.”

“That’s not necessary.” The nurse didn’t bother looking up from her task. She poured a measure of hydrogen peroxide on the hoof, and Cricket grunted as white foam rose, squirming but managing to remain in the chair.

“What if she sues?” Avery gestured at Cricket, who cracked open one eye.

“I live in the woods; how would I retain an attorney?”

“Okay, so you know you’d need to retain an attorney, which suggests a certain amount of risk.”

Cricket snorted, and twin patches of blonde curls on either side of her head danced. “I’m not going to sue the camp, but I do need to talk to ‘Director Murray.’” She crooked an over-long finger on each hand, palms still flat against the armrests, as she said the director’s name. “Need to tell her about what chased me.”

“Why don’t you fetch the director, Avery,” Almaden said, beady eyes intent on Cricket’s hoof. “I’m sure she’ll echo what I’ve said.”

Avery left without a word, jogging down the stairs and charging across the center promenade toward the director’s cabin. The lights were off inside, save for the small lamp on a table beside the door. The light Director Murray always left on.

“To keep my wife from tripping,” she’d explained. “They’re an early riser.”

Turning on lights as she went, Avery headed to the office where the filing cabinet with the insurance forms lived. Despite Nurse Almaden’s instruction, she had every intent of filling out the appropriate forms and maintaining a record of events. Just in case, she told herself.

Settling at the desk, she glanced over the form, hesitating with a pen poised over the line asking for Species.

What was Cricket? Avery had never seen an inhuman like her. Granted, she’d never seen half of the inhumans at Elkwater Music Camp before starting this job, but still—what had long graceful legs and cloven hoofs. A satyr? Were those even real? Inhumans had only come around in the last fifteen years; the news reports of the sudden influx of mythological and fae creatures were some of Avery’s oldest memories, but satyr had been depicted in ancient art. Had inhumans always been here, only just now deciding to come forward?

And if so, why?

She scanned the desk as ifDirector Murray’s papers held the answer. Grocery and supply lists submitted by the dining hall and counselors were strewn across the surface, along with bills, marketing proofs, and a blueprint for the proposed renovation and expansion of the camp. Additional bunks, a second marching field, an acoustic dome for the amphitheater, a theatre complex, and a chorus room—all the dreams Director Murray had for the camp that would never be realized if she failed to find investors and sponsors.

Avery set the blueprints aside and frowned at the yellow notepad with her name scrawled at the top.

She snagged the notepad, deflating in the chair with a sigh as she read the message:

“Avery – your dad called. Call his office. –M”

She sighed again, setting the paper down and pinching between her eyes. There was no time listed to tell her when her dad had called, but knowing Nathan Payne, he’d be in his office for another few hours until her mom had finished putting the youngest kids to sleep.

Steeling herself, Avery pulled the phone closer and dialed his work number, silently praying for the line to keep ringing and clenching her jaw when her father’s secretary answered.

“Payne Strategies,” Mrs. Jones greeted, her voice crisp yet kind. “How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, Mrs. Jones. Is my dad available?”

“Eliz—Avery!” She corrected herself, the formal tone giving way to what sounded like a smile. “Hey honey, how are you? How is summer camp?”

“It’s good. Busy, but good.”

“They feeding you enough?”

Avery laughed, her apprehension put at ease by the middle-aged woman’s care. Mrs. Jones had worked for her dad for close to a decade and for the lobbying firm her dad had inherited for a decade before that. Her cheerful, kindly nature hid a cunning secretary with a steel-trap of a memory that had put no small amount of politicians in their place. “Almost too much, but nothing’s as good as your tater tot casserole.”

“And that is how you get yourself a care package of cookies,” Mrs. Jones said. “You calling for your father, honey?”

---