Proto stared at the Lord of Dreams, hovering in a mirk of whirling stars. His words echoed in Proto’s head: “Now, there’s something I have to tell you! I hope you’re listening, because this is awfully important.”

  Learning Astrid, Lilac and Dahlia had been false with him had hurt a bit. It reminded him of when a girl in high school had pretended to like him so he’d give her his second ticket to a Muse concert.

  Vexing. But it hadn’t come as a surprise. In fact, he’d suspected something like this for some time. Hadn’t he said so?

  “Sometimes, I feel like all my friends have some secret that I’m not in on. And they’re all leading me along toward doing something for reasons they’re not telling me. And I wonder, ‘Can they be trusted?’”

  Well, he had his answer now. Those three thought they were playing a love game, and he—the dupe who didn’t realize it was just a game—would be picking the winner. His “true love.”

  Heh. The joke was on them. He had no interest in picking any true love. He wasn’t sure true love was even real—and if it was, it sounded boring.

  But they were right about one thing. He’d pick the winner. And what he’d pick was far more exciting than love.

  Weeks ago, something had happened that’d changed him. It’d only lasted for a moment. But after that moment, life itself seemed less than life. What was life without that?

  A pale reflection? A muffled echo? The metaphors leapt toward that feeling and fell short.

  This was the moment his life’s B.C. became A.D.

  This was his nirvanic enlightenment—the moment so full of meaning it made all else meaningless, except for how it’d led him here.

  All he wanted to do was that. It was sort of like that song about the guy who didn’t want to sleep and just wanted to keep on lovin’. Except . . . not lovin’. At least, not that kind of lovin’.

  . . . I think? He wasn’t quite sure, actually. All he knew was, he needed it.

  His relationship with Muse Concert Girl, rather improbably, had taken off. She’d become his first. Not the night of the concert, but a week later. They’d broken up soon after. But he still remembered something she’d said to him that first time:

  “It’s like you filled a place I never knew was empty.” He had supposed he’d never know exactly what she meant.

  Well, now he knew. Now, having felt full—deliciously, gloriously full—all he’d known since then was emptiness.

  But not for long.

  Zeal gleamed in Somnus’ gaze. “There’s something I have to tell you—”

  “Just a minute.” Proto held up a finger. “There’s something very important I have to tell you.”

  “Oh?” blinked the Lord of Dreams, zeal turning to confusion. “Well, let’s hear it.”

  He’d already told Somnus, of course, that he’d found no true love here. He’d been polite about it. After all, who could blame those three dream-girls for hoping to live? He wasn’t going to act all brokenhearted and make them feel bad. They’d been nice enough. If false.

  False—and yet they’d led him to something true. Someone true. There was one here who’d shared her true feelings with him, who’d truly sought to take him under wing.

  Unlike those three, she had absolutely no need of anything he had to offer. Indeed, she was far beyond him in every way. And yet that glimmer in her pink gaze . . . ! It’d seemed to hint that, maybe, just maybe . . .

  He hadn’t maybe’d himself so much since Muse Concert Girl at age 18!

  Meanwhile, the red-laced mists had dwindled down. They now were back inside the lounge. Everyone there was still frozen.

  “As I said,” Proto replied, “I haven’t found true love here.”

  Somnus rolled his eyes and tsked. “Yes, well, no need to rub it in. I tried! I knew this was a possibility. I can’t say it’s the one I guessed, or the one I hoped for. But if there’s no true love, there’s nothing for it. You’ll have to leave, I suppose!”

  “But that’s the thing,” replied Proto. “I’m not sure I will.”

  “The rules, Proto! I don’t make them, but I follow them,” shrugged Somnus helplessly. “And if you don’t have someone here—”

  “But I do have someone!” rejoined Proto.

  Somnus tilted his head. “But . . . you just told me, two times now . . . ”

  “Someone who’s always been open with me about all she wanted from me,” Proto went on. “I felt it at first sight.”

  The Lord of Dreams stared in bafflement, then chuckled. “I confess, Proto, I don’t know where you’re going with all this! Is it Uberta? Those Velma-sweaters of hers?”

  Through Proto’s recollection, glory passed. And it was red and purple, with a matching little dress. And it was flapping.

  “Somnus, the one I’m meant for is Anima,” he declared.

  Somnus’ jaw dropped. His wand dropped.

  Apparently, he was so shocked he let his room-freezing enchantment slip. Because, abruptly, everyone in the lounge was moving again.

  “Anima? My sister?!” Somnus turned to Astrid, Lilac and Dahlia. “Well, you’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, no,” Lilac was murmuring, her hand on her face. “This is all my fault. I never should’ve had him carry those Breath Tokens for me!”

  “You took him to meet Anima?!” Dahlia was flabbergasted.

  Astrid threw up her hands. “What in the world were you thinking, Lilac?!”

  Lilac cringed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking!”

  “Like taking Mister Moth to meet Miss Flame!” said Dahlia.

  “Like taking Mister Moth to meet Miss Pretty Butterfly Wings!” said Astrid.

  “I’m sorry!” cried Lilac.

  “Well, what’s done is done. No point crying over spilt fairy dust.” Somnus turned to Proto. “So, I’ll tell you what, Proto. I can’t help you here. Forget the whole get-a-body-from-Somnus-and-go-live-together thing. Giving Anima a body is quite beyond even my power!”

  “Her body’s quite enough as-is,” shrugged Proto.

  “Oh, try to restrain yourself, you ponce! She’s my sister!” scolded Somnus. “Anyway, maybe she’ll have some way of keeping you around her domain. Or maybe not! She has to follow the same rules as me. But you’re welcome to go find out.”

  Proto nodded. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done. Even if it turned out differently than expected.”

  “Yes, well, as they say,” shrugged Somnus, “sometimes it’s not the journey’s end, but what you see along the way that matters.”

  “‘It’s not the catching, it’s the chasing,’ right?” mused Proto.

  The Lord of Dreams sighed. “Yes, you do sound like her. Birds of a feather, I suppose. Or fairies of a wing? Anyway, you two have fun. Come visit sometime. She may have an elysian paradise, but I have better drinks.” He held his hands forth winningly.

  Proto saluted farewell and strolled down the stairway behind the bar. The Lord of Dreams waved. And the three would-be true lovers just sighed and shook their heads.

  Down Proto went, passing the many doors and floors of Somnus’ Palace, until he reached the grand foyer. He hastened through that blue room, brushing past the colorful passersby, barely noticing the Milky Way overhead.

  Out hurried Proto through the courtyard, scarcely seeing its trees and flowers and twelve fountains as he left them in his wake. No, he had a mind for only one thing now.

  And he was nearly flapping with excitement!

  Out he went from Somnus’ Palace toward the cliff that overlooked the wandering shadowy dreamers. Down the cliffside path he hied, until the cave mouth yawned pink before him.

  He felt a tingle at the sight.

  Into the mirk and mystery he advanced. He deftly followed the path he’d learnt upon his odyssey here with . . . what was her name? Some flower or other?

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  Already, his old life’s inessentials were falling from his memory. But he remembered the way through this cave. He’d never forget the path that led to Her.

  Whatever that girl’s name was, he’d have to thank her for their odyssey. It hadn’t led where she’d wanted, but it’d sure led him to what he needed.

  As a boy, his dad had read him that children’s version of the Odyssey a dozen times or so. The ending was happy enough, he supposed. But his mind always went back to an earlier scene—where Calypso had offered Odysseus eternal life beside her in an island paradise.

  He’d always thought it was a darn good offer. He’d always suspected that, later in old age, lying bald and decrepit, aching as he creaked about in bed, Odysseus must have recalled that goddess he’d rejected—and mused to himself, What the F was I thinking?!

  Well, Proto wouldn’t make the same mistake!

  On went Proto toward his destination and his destiny. He hopped the dazzling river of pink. He climbed The Cliff. Reaching the four tunnels, he dashed into the one She’d taken, wending and bending through the mirky pink.

  It felt so near, so soon, and yet so faraway!

  But in time, finally, the gloam gave way to the dim glow of day. It streamed around the corner ahead. He raced into the light.

  And there she was, flapping in the grotto, her gaze of pink upon him.

  His mouth fell open, but no words came.

  No, he was too busy admiring her from top to bottom. From those shimmering pools of pink, now blinking at him curiously, to . . . wow.

  Rude as it might be, he couldn’t help but trace those curves—those luscious red-and-purple curves—of her gossamer wings. They sparkled as they slowly flapped. Their luster sparkled through him.

  Anima smiled. “Do you see the satyrs playing yonder?” She gestured toward the field outside the grotto.

  There, some goat-legged men were prancing about merrily, playing pipes, laughing raucously, rubbing their horns, and drinking to excess.

  And they were chasing fairies. The winged creatures flitted to and fro, glimmering purple and yellow, blue and green. And at their winged backs were horned satyrs.

  “There’s a lot of wisdom in satyr play,” mused Anima. “It may look like frolicking wastrelry. But in the end, they do what needs doing in life. And they do it much more than most of us.” She eyed them fondly. “And those horns! Those long, curved, lovely horns.”

  Proto looked at her. “ . . . um.”

  “Yes.” She turned back to him. “Welcome, Proto. I knew you’d be back. You keep coming back.”

  “What do you mean I keep coming back?” he wondered. “And how did you know?”

  “Oh, I knew from how you looked at me when I . . . mm.” She flapped and said nothing.

  “When you what . . . ?” he asked.

  “Never mind that. What matters is, you’re here!” Her pink eyes sparkled dazzlingly.

  “So, about that.” That gaze made it hard to focus. And those wings, and the way they were . . . He shook his head. “Somnus says I have to ask you whether I can stay here. It’s not allowed unless I meet some exception to the rules, right?”

  Anima waved dismissively. “Oh, you let me worry about the exception. I’ll make sure it’s satisfied. I leave nothing unsatisfied.” Her eyes widened, and her lips parted.

  Suddenly, the air about her wings was dustily glowing and swirling, as when a breeze brushes pollen from a flower. And it blew toward him.

  Proto opened his mouth to ask a question—then squinted, struggling to remember the question.

  “Now, now, no more boring, technical questions,” she chided. “I’m Anima, not Somnus! We do things differently here.”

  Part of him thought these questions were important. But she was a heady brew. And, as he drank deep, he found a different part of him shouldering its besotted way into the conversation. “Not Somnus? What, you don’t wear robes, drink absinthe, and wax philosophical about the nature of dreams?

  “Bleagh!” Anima made a face. “You know he tries to make me drink that when I visit? Says I’ll like it someday. How many more aeons before he gives up!”

  “How about his eighty-year old armagnac?” suggested Proto lightly. “Does that do it for you?”

  “Eighty? Why? You are what you drink!” she pointed out. “Do I want to look eighty? Do I want to act eighty? Do I want to feel eighty? Then why would I drink eighty?” she reasoned. “No, I make him stock something pink and fizzy for when I visit. It’s how I wash down his drek.”

  Come to think of it, Proto was feeling a bit parched. “What drinks do you stock here?”

  “Something much better. I make it myself.” Her pink gaze shimmered. “Here, let’s go get some!”

  Taking the lead, she fluttered to a plant pod with a leaf overtop. It looked like a lidded cauldron that’d grown from the foliage. She removed the leaf-lid.

  The clear pool of liquid inside had a pinkish tinge. It was dazzling, somehow throwing off far more sun-sparkles than water would have.

  And he was so thirsty. He felt like Merry and Pippin looking on the ent-draught.

  “May I?” asked Proto, cupping his hands.

  “May? I insist!” Anima cupped some in a curved leaf and handed it to him.

  Proto lifted it to his nose, swirled it and inhaled, as Somnus had taught him. The aroma was alluring. Roses. Honey. And . . . something. “Is this as strong as absinthe?” he asked absently.

  What is that smell? It was tantalizing.

  “Strong? I like to think it’s delicate,” mused Anima. “But then, maybe strength can be delicate. What do you think?”

  “I think . . . I want it.” He lifted the cup to his lips.

  She sparkled with pleasure. “Yes, that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  Some pinkish sweetness. But something savory too. Like . . . like what? Something familiar. He felt it seeping through him as he sipped. He felt it fill a part of him he’d never known was empty.

  Proto shivered. “This is like nothing I’ve ever drunk.”

  “Well, I should hope not! I put a lot of myself into that drink.” Anima blushed and fanned her face.

  He chuckled at her winsome modesty.

  Well, maybe modesty. Or maybe just the fact that it was hot out here. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. But now, he could feel a sweat sheen forming underneath his robe. He was probably flushed himself.

  “Yes, I agree,” affirmed Anima. “You do look hot.”

  Proto blinked and wondered if he’d accidentally spoken. It was possible—he was feeling a little liquored up.

  “Here, let me help.” She flapped her wings at him and squinted. He seemed to see her pollen-dust swirl toward him. But maybe that was just a trick of sunlight in his bleary eyes.

  Then, his Somnus-robe started misting away.

  He gasped and covered up.

  “Oh, no need to be concerned!” she laughed musically. “I’m not indecent. Look!” She pointed.

  He saw that, beneath the dissipating robe, he now had on—well, something.

  It looked like what a 1500s Vatican seamster might have fashioned if he’d been ordered to make a ceremonial loincloth. It was blue and yellow and white. And—indeed—it had a Saturn emblem.

  “Ooh, that suits you!” she cried.

  A sort of leafy garland was also strewn about him decoratively, and he had on a laurel crown. It was like what all the male fairies were wearing, he realized.

  “Wha—what are you doing?” Part of Proto found this distressing. But another part just wanted to drink more of that Anima-draught, whatever it was. He found himself doing so.

  “It’s not that Somnus’ tastes in clothes are bad,” she observed. “Just a bit stuffy. We can do better. Also, your robe won’t work anymore, for obvious reasons.”

  “ . . . obvious reasons?” Proto felt so thirsty, so hot and bothered, that he couldn’t seem to understand anything she was saying. That drink! What was that familiar flavor?

  He shifted his weight, feeling a prickling and a tickling underfoot. Glancing, he saw that he was standing on a patch of springy blue and yellow primroses. When did those get there?

  “Yes, drink up!” she urged. “There’s more where that came from.”

  Proto dipped his leaf-cup to refill. “At this rate, I’m going to drink you dry!”

  “Oh, my! You’re welcome to try!” She fanned her face again.

  Yes, try he would. “I take it this isn’t eighty,” he observed, savoring the liquid’s life and freshness.

  “No, not eighty. Hm. It’s aeons, I suppose!” she mused. “But what’s age but a number?”

  Proto wasn’t sure what she meant. Probably something about nature being ageless and eternal, blah blah. He just wanted more of it.

  “What is it, anyway?” he asked absently. “Some sort of herbal liqueur . . . ?”

  “Herbs? Liqueur?” She double-blinked her pink eyes. “I told you, I made it myself.”

  Proto tilted his head. “But where it did come . . . ?”

  “Myself.” She smiled.

  Proto’s eyes widened.

  Anima’s smile widened.

  Proto’s shoulderblades widened.

  What—! He tried to look, but couldn’t look back that far.

  At least, not at first. But they kept growing and—wait. Those aren’t shoulderblades. They’re . . . !

  Flap flap.

  He gaped behind him. Two big fairy wings were flapping there, in gossamer hues of yellow, white and blue. He gaped at Anima.

  “As I said,” the smiling Daemon went on, immersed in swirls of shining pollen, “you let me worry about the exception. Mother’s rule is, no living humans down here, unless true love requires it. Somnus found one exception. Me? Another.”

  Proto continued his—what to call it? Transformation? Metamorphosis? Apotheosis? Whatever it was, with every second, he felt less human and more . . . flap flap.

  “Yes, my brother’s ‘one true love’ bit is sweet and all that. I feel it, I really do,” Anima mused idly. “But, honestly, after an eternity, it’d get a little . . . old, don’t you think?”

  “What we do is older than love. And yet it keeps things young. We have more fun. Fun’s not in what you do; it’s how you do it,” explained the flapping fairy. “And now you, too, will do what we do. And we’ll explore the hows together.”

  “What? How?” Warm intoxication seeped through Proto. “I don’t understand . . . ”

  “Who said anything about understanding?” she chided. “Were you even listening to what I was talking about?”

  He struggled to recall through the haze. “Fun?”

  “Me.” Cloudy radiance swirled from her wings, curling about him alluringly. Her pink lips parted, and her pink gaze widened. Their shimmers lured him into rapture. And that aroma! Roses and honey and . . . “Me!”

  He couldn’t help himself. Flap flap.

  The red-and-purple-winged Being beamed back. Flap flap.

  “I suppose I should’ve told you before you drank,” she mulled. “But—I’ll be candid—I didn’t want you saying no! All’s fae in love and war, yes? I hope you don’t mind.”

  Proto was too absorbed in the manifold new sensations thrilling through him to answer audibly. But the flap flap of his wings, and the blossoming of blue and yellow flowers at his feet, said all that needed saying.

  “I didn’t think so.” Anima’s smile was roses and honey. “Yes, I’m the sort of girl who throws fairy dust to the wind. I just . . . go for it!” From her flapping wings there wafted glowing dust, which swirled about him.

  Roses, honey, and . . . He shivered and drew breath.

  “And, in that respect,” she concluded, “I think we’re two pixies in a pod!”

  “We will be soon.” Proto advanced toward her.

  “Ooh! Will we?” She touched her lips.

  “All we need is the pod,” he affirmed.

  “Oh, you leave that to me!” Anima flapped her wings at a nearby plant, sending a stream of shining dust swirling about it.

  In seconds, the plant had burgeoned into an enormous leafy thing with room-sized hollow pods, their vertical lips parting faintly, alluringly. It looked like something a free-love-hippie fairy godmother might’ve conjured forth when Cinderella asked for somewhere to go after midnight.

  “Yes, you leave everything to me,” urged Anima. “All you have to do is . . . catch me.”

  Proto thrust his hands out and seized both of hers. “But I already have.”

  “Are you sure?” Her pink gaze shimmered. “Or have I caught you?” She flapped, and shining pollen swirled about him.

  Breathing in, he was suddenly in a whole new world. And the way he’d be flying through it was not by magic carpet.

  As he smiled dumbly, his eyelids drooped, and absently he let loose her hands.

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured happily.

  Proto needed more. His eyes fixed back upon her. He flapped forward.

  “What’s this?” the fairy innocently asked.

  He held his open hands toward her.

  Hand to her breast, she breathed in. “Oh, my!” She flap-flapped backward, her eyes gone wide and gleaming.

  He flap-flapped after her.

  She pointed a delicate finger at him. “Stay back, you lascivious winged satyr horn!”

  “Your lascivious winged satyr horn!” he replied.

  “Oh, my!” exulted Anima, her fearful fingers to her lips. She turned and winged away, her red and purple curvature spraying sun-glimmers. Flap flap.

  Lured along by the curling wisps of shining fairy dust that wafted from her wings, he chased the eternal creature fleeing him. Flap flap.

  And in a land of bliss, the sun shone, and petals fluttered in the breeze, and two beings of wing and spirit flapped their way toward bliss still greater.

  . . . Flap flap!

  Who were you rooting for?