Child of Light

One

"If I have to hear the words 'it's in the unit outline' come from one more lecturer's mouth, I'm gonna turn him into a frog."

Kennedy Barlow, painfully average in both looks and athleticism - although one may well be the cause of the other - collapses onto her bed. The pine scent of the freshly washed pillow muffling her words floods her nose; irritating, but not enough to make her move. No, that incentive is definitely the ache in her breasts, crushed under her body weight against the hard mattress. She struggles to breathe properly but the lethargy of the week keeps her pinned down, paralyzes her muscles, and reminds her how long it's been since she's had a good night's sleep. It might be partly because she doesn't get to bed until four a.m most nights, or possibly because when she does she forgets to take off the Doc Martins and faded jeans. She's found it isn't the most comfortable to sleep in an ill-fitting bra.

"It's the first week of semester, Ken. I suggest not doing anything that'll get you kicked out for at least another fortnight."

While her name may bring to mind the kind of wishy-washy flowerchild trope one would see in a fiction telling of Woodstock '69, Patience Esther is anything but. Positioning herself in the centre of Kennedy's bedroom, lying face up on the floor, her image is more that of a misunderstood teen rebelling against a traditional upbringing. In short, she's gone the way of the punk. There is more product in her massive hair than twigs and leaves, but only by a small margin. Even her snapback is studded, like the bracelet she proudly declares is the most expensive piece of jewelry she owns. She strives to be the stereotype, but swings far too low when it comes to her shiny personality.

"I say he gets what's coming to him. He gives me the creeps."

Ilsa Rankin leans against the closed door, arms crossed over her chest. She's smirking, head tipped slightly to the side, her legs crossed. A model reclining. She wears tall boots, a skirt with ruffles, a corset, her hair is the colour of fire.

"Bullshit! Nothing creeps you out, Ilsa," Patience grumbles, throwing an arm over her eyes.

"Don't be a bitch, Pat," Kennedy all but yells, the pillow in her mouth lowering the volume considerably. She hoists herself up onto her elbows, flicking a worn out expression in the direction of the floor.

"I'm just saying, when we were dealing with the zombies last week she wasn't fazed at all."

"The undead don't have much of a scare factor, I'll admit," Ilsa replies, pushing off the door to step over Patience and drop down sitting on the bed beside Kennedy's legs. "Mostly because they're all blind and can't run for shit."

"Yeah, well, if they were 28 Days Later zombies I maintain you would've kept it together."

"Does it not ever occur to you guys that our daily lives should probably involve less fighting the undead and more late night parties?"

Ilsa and Patience look at Kennedy, their faces blank until Patience cracks a smile, stifles a laugh, and all three girls dissolve into a fit of giggles. Kennedy presses her forehead into the pillow, her chin against her chest, as her body convulses with suppressed laughter.

"Too fucking right, Ken Doll," Patience laughs. "Because the wild parties are totally why we're shacked up together."

--

The crisp winter air digs into Kennedy's skin as she makes her way across campus, heading for her afternoon lecture. She pulls her coat tighter around herself, watching her breath escape as steam into the stillness. She smiles to herself as she pushes out another breath, imagining what she would look like if she were really a dragon, and not just pretending. Her smile falters when she notices that she's being watched, and she hurries to compensate for the blunder. She can't react to unseen observers.

The creature is thin, wiry, and bare to the cold. Its skin is drawn tight over its bones, grey and sickly, making it appear fragile, as if a mere feather-light touch could break it. It's tall, taller than any human, and long arms lead to spider-like hands with six fingers each, one wrapped around the streetlight pole the thing hides behind. Eyes too big for their head stare at Kennedy, following her progress across the courtyard outside her student lodging. A forked blue tongue darts out to taste the air, revealing dull, yellowed teeth against blackened gums. It can smell her.

Kennedy carefully keeps her pace even, hyper aware of the spindly creature watching her, invisible to most eyes. She reminds herself not to draw attention to herself, not to let on that she's aware of the faerie at all, lest the stories be true and she end up with both eyes torn savagely from her skull and her body scavenged by its brethren. Instead, she carries on smiling like she's imagining herself as a dragon.

That's the thing about faeries, though, she thinks. There's all this lore about them, all of these gruesome tales of warning, but somehow they've been twisted up into tiny girls in dresses made of leaves with dragonfly wings. And we all know who's to blame for that, don't we, Mister Disney. But, Christ, if half the people who claim they've seen Tinkerbell actually had, there'd be a lot more eyeless dead people and a lot less fairy tales.

She digs into her pocket and pulls out her phone; she begins to enter her password before she realises she's still wearing gloves. Wrenching the glove off her hand with her teeth, she types out a message to both Patience and Ilsa:
2:23 pm
Message from: ken doll
hey guys there's one of those gang guys following me to class. be careful on the home stretch.
'One of those gang guys' here meaning a creature of unknown origin and intent. It always pays to have code words when the supernatural is involved.

Kennedy is just entering the building her class is in when her phone vibrates, signalling an incoming text.

2:27 pm
Message from: pattycakes
gotcha covered ken. want me to tell Ilsa to get the protection herbs ready for us? she's got the arvo off coz jekyll's off dying somewhere (i assume)

Ken quickly taps out a reply as she takes her seat in the lecture theatre, telling Patience to do just that. A little protection spell is always helpful, especially when one is unaware of their stalker's intentions. She'd lost the faerie as soon as she'd entered the building, but she could feel it standing outside, watching other people go about their university lives. She could only hope it latched onto someone else to follow, because when a faerie takes a special interest in you, it's not likely to go well.