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“Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem for the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.”
~ Pat Barker
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Prologue
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“Het” Heron Harlowe Huntson
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One thing my mother never really told me about being half-human, half-fae was that nobody would ever trust you. Human or fae—it didn’t matter: To be of mixed race was contentious enough, to be a curious hybrid between two species was a whole different sort of limbo.
With a whole different set of rules and expectations to the dance. Forbidden fruits that dangle just out of my, and only my, reach. A sense of being somehow both blighting to others upon sight, as well as an awareness that my natural self can be of such primal, carnal allure to them, that most will instantly hate me for it.
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But, hate is easier to understand than love. As it turns out…
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And, then there’s the dismal and utter loneliness of it.
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Of being me, a mixed being pinched out from two distinct classifications of terrestrial life—forever braided intrinsically between the two polar identities of what is known and considered to be human—and that which, quite simply, just isn’t…
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Another fact my mother either didn’t know about, or had somehow forgotten to mention entirely, was that only five female fae were supposed to grow wings at a time.
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“Supposed” to: As in, only female fae have ever grown wings, since all of recorded history. And, only five at a time.
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And from these five females, who each grew a resplendent pair of colorful wings, the next leader of the fae monarchy would be chosen. The Fae Queen; the only fae with wings who ruled the hive through a direct psychic link.
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The other potential rulers either voluntarily had their wings severed annually for the rest of their lives or they were defeated in combat during the Royal Tournament for the fae crown.
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Never, before, had a male fae ever sprouted wings for himself.
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And never, before, had a half-human, half-fae creature sprouted wings before either.
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Never, that is, until that one fateful day, I suppose, in 1966. Let’s see, I think it was a holiday, wasn’t it? That one with all the cupcakes and pink confection icing? Ah, that’s right. Yes. I remember now.
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It was Valentine's Day, 1966. Monday.
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The day I first started to grow wings.
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