Free Faerie Blood by Angela Korra'ti

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” in flawless Klingon, complete with thumping his chest, shaking his fist in the air, and grimacing fiercely out at the bar at large. When he returned to the table everyone showered him in praise and offered to buy him drinks for the rest of the evening, while he grinned boyishly and pronounced in serene satisfaction that he’d been waiting for months for a chance to do that.
    It was almost impossible to follow a performance like that. The next three entrants didn’t even try. One of the staff had to coax the fourth contestant after Alex to come on up and take his turn, and the poor guy swallowed hard as he stepped up to quaver his way through “It’s Now or Never”. His voice wasn’t bad, but either stage fright or the realization that Alex had just blown anyone unlucky enough to follow him out of the water made him keep flubbing his pitch.
    As Jude had predicted, the entire affair got funnier with alcohol factored in, and by my second daiquiri I’d started joining in on the laughter. But while Alex’s successor struggled his way through his chosen song my attention wandered, drifting around the room to read the print on the movie posters and idly take in the other details of the décor. I was pondering whether the penguin logo on the sign outside would have come out the same if the bar owners had been Debian users instead of RedHat when something prickled through my flesh and along my skin.
    The feeling was starting to get familiar. I’d had it last night on the Burke-Gilman trail, this morning by the hedge, and on the way into the bar—and each time it had accompanied things that should not have had any place in actual, three-dimensional life. It cut through the mellow glow of the rum I’d downed, stirring up the panic I’d been doing my damnedest all evening to bury. I thought disjointedly of pricking thumbs and Scottish plays while my gaze, without my willing it, jerked over to the door. It opened, and Christopher MacSimidh walked in.
    I blinked. Twice. Two daiquiris weren’t anywhere near enough to make me see things—under normal circumstances. But the last twenty-four hours had been anything but normal, and between the drinks and the impact of everything I’d seen since last night, I wasn’t certain of anything unfamiliar crossing my path. Christopher, though, I recognized in an instant. His features burned—in my memory and in my line of sight—like a brand: honey-brown hair in a ponytail, short beard lining his jaw, pale and weary features punctuated by the bandage on his brow.
    He’s real
. The shocked fragment of a thought shot across my brain at the sight of him. And then, borne up on a surge of rising dread, another one followed.
Does that mean everything else was, too
?
    Christopher paused at the door, uncertainty darkening his eyes; for just a moment or two, I felt those prickles along my skin grow sharper. I wondered if he would turn his head, if he would see me—but then the moment broke as he shut his eyes and drew in a long, steadying breath. Then he looked up again, and with the single-minded focus of a man stepping across a bed of hot coals, he stalked towards the bar.
    Before I’d fully registered what I was doing, I mumbled in Jude’s direction, “Be right back.” I didn’t wait to see if she heard me; I was up and moving to intercept Christopher before the words had finished leaving my mouth.
    He beat me to the bar, leaning across it when he got there and waving to catch the eye of the young man mixing drinks behind it. “Jeremy,” he called out, rough and low, “I need a moment.”
    The bartender blinked with almost as much surprise as I’d felt seeing Christopher at the door. “Holy crap, Chris, what happened to you? You get hit by a truck?”
    “Somethin’ like that. Is Margie about, then? I need a word with her—”
    “You look like you need to sit down, if you don’t mind my saying so, man!”
    “And those of us at the back