Percy Jackson Meets the The Iron Fey in this Clash of Greek and Irish Mythologies
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Alexandra is a foster-child turned graduate student whose only passion in life has been studying fairytales and folklores from all over the world.When the...
Latulippe dismisses both Robin and I with assurances that some other graduate students would be covering her classes for the rest of the day. Robin trails after me through the humanities' building, silent but for a tuneless hum kept up underneath his breath. Good. I'm not inclined to talk to him either. As we exit the building he saunters off in another direction, tossing a cheery "see you later!" over his shoulder and leaving me to scowl darkly at his retreating back.
As I begin the walk home, the bite of the wind has me stuffing my hands in my pockets and shooting a furtive look at the nearby trees. Their boughs toss and sway to and fro in a rhythmic dance, moving with the breeze. Satisfied that the wind was adhering to the laws of physics and not about to mysteriously laugh at me, I head back to my apartment, mulling over the events that took place in Latulippe's office. Donovan had clearly found me a suspicious character, but I was doubtful she believed me involved in Liza's disappearance. Robin, however, was another matter entirely. She and I both had noticed his strange behavior when we'd walked into the office. And, as far as I was concerned, he was a prime suspect.
There were several aspects of Robin's s appearance that were fishy. Showing up the day of Liza's disappearance? Check. Mysterious late enrollment into a program consisting of only Liza and I? Check. Knowing strange, intimate details about my life that I've never told anyone before? Check. Thinking about it now, it was rather odd that Officer Donovan had never asked Robin a single question. She didn't know the whole "I know who you are and what you bit," no, but those first two coincidences were condemning enough on their own to place Robin near the top of the suspect list. They warranted a cursory investigation at the very least. But Robin, I realized, hadn't actually said a single word during the entire interview. He hadn't even introduced himself—Latulippe had spoken for him. And afterwards, all of Donovan's focus had been on me, never once switching her attention to Robin. Strange, but perhaps there was a greater purpose behind it. Perhaps a tactic not to let Robin know the police deemed him a suspect?
I wondered where Liza was. I wondered if she was alive. I wondered if Robin kidnapped her. I wondered if he had killed her. And if didn't have her, who did?
Consumed with thoughts of Liza and Robin, I don't notice the passing scenery until I stop at faded red door of my apartment. Pushing my worries aside, I turn my key in my apartment door, shrugging my bag from my shoulder and letting it thump to the floor, suddenly weary. My secondhand armchair lets out a discontented groan as I plop into its overstuffed cushions. Resting my face in my hands, I peer around at my home with critical eye. Motes of dust filter through the watery light of an ancient window that that provides little protection against the late fall chill. The unmade bed, blankets rumpled, bits of paper and various notebooks scattered across its surface. A kitchen area with a counterspace taken up by the assorted detritus of everyday life, adorned with bills, junk mail, and books, rather than any useful food-related appliances. The near-empty fridge is a perfect complement to the near empty kitchen and a testament to my daily staples of cold cuts, take out, and ramen.
Resting my face on my hands, as I am, and peering through my spread fingers, I feel as if I am looking through the bars of a jail cell. My home is impersonal and interchangeable. No photos or art on the walls, and the collective affect is a home with less personality than a cheap motel room. I've always felt semi-transient, maybe a result from moving between so many foster homes when I was young. Either way the only spark of individuality, touch of me, that I carry from home to home are my collection of second-hand books from Judy, including the tattered copy of the Iliad that got me started on my mythology obsession.
My phone buzzes, and I make a frantic grab for it, forced to swipe multiple times before the notification page unlocks for me. Some part of me had hoped it was Liza, texting to say she was fine, laughing off the worry she'd caused everyone else with her typical nonchalance. New Text Message fromJudy: the screen reads. I click on the icon and the text bar pops up Breakfast tomorrow. Let me know if u plan to come. I bite my lip, debating. Once a month, Judy holds breakfasts open to all her local kids and ex-kids; it's both a chance reconnect with kids you used to do and a way Judy connects current kids with positive role models, if I go, I'll be expected to take part in some of the farm's daily chores. For many of Judy's kids going back was the closest they'd get to going home, and for me, well it was close enough. It was also far enough away from the craziness of my past few days in Amelia to send me over the edge in favor of an impromptu trip. The heavy labor of farm work would also help take my mind off things.
I glanced at my watch. If I left now I'd make the hours drive with daylight to spare, and, if I took the backroads, I should pass wherever Liza's car had been found abandoned. Shooting a quick text off to Judy, I spring up and start throwing toiletries in an old duffel already half filled with clothes I'd never unpacked from my last trip down.
I keep my eyes peeled the entire time I'm driving Route 29 South, but even as slowly I pass the outskirts of Amelia and head into rural Virginia I haven't spotted anything that might signify the spot where Liza's car had been abandoned. The car itself must have already been impounded by the police. No signs of what I might expect left behind following a carjacking, no piles of shattered safety glass, no fresh skid marks. My stomach turned over and I pushed on the gas, accelerating on to Louisa and leaving Amelia behind.
