Free Tooth and Nail by Jennifer Safrey Page B

glances at her profile—the portrait of serenity—I had pressed my forehead against the window and watched without seeing the D.C. streets. As the familiar scenery blew by, my eyes rested on nothing. Instead it served as a moving backdrop for my thoughts.
    Now, I glanced around in a near panic. We were only a few blocks from Smiley’s Gym. I could easily break free from this surreal living dream, run from Frederica and whoever else waited for me inside, kick open a window at Smiley’s and lie across the hard row of chairs until morning. That was me, that was where I belonged: in there. Not where I was going.
    But I didn’t run away. Probably because I knew that if I did, Frederica wouldn’t make the slightest move to stop me. I was here on my own volition, and now I had a responsibility to myself to see this through.
    So now, I entered through a magical door and allowed Frederica to usher me down a very tight, spooky stairwell. Dark stairwells were generally spooky, and at best, made me wonder why I didn’t take an elevator, and at worst, gave me the feeling of fleeing from fire or gunmen. I looked over my shoulder as we descended, flexing my hands and ready to spring if I needed to, but Frederica didn’t so much as glance around her. Her ballet-slippered toes made no sound, and I clunked behind her in the platform sneakers I’d dug up from my last stay at Mom’s.
    We emerged on the underground floor and stopped at a red door at the bottom. I didn’t know what I expected—a sign that said, “Welcome Tooth Faeries” or something—but it was just a door—one I could see—and my heart started to pound. On instinct, I tried to take mental note of possible escape routes. To my left was an impenetrable silver steel wall, but on my right was a hallway with doors, ending in another steel wall.
    Closed in and suddenly short of breath, I grabbed Frederica’s shoulder but immediately loosened my rough grip. She was a living porcelain doll and I wouldn’t want to hurt her. But she looked at me, seeming to understand my bout of claustrophobia.
    “Where are we?” I asked her. “What was that illusion of a door?” What was I getting myself into?
    Ever patient, she smiled. “We’re in a fae safe house.”
    “Safe house?” I repeated stupidly. “Safe from what? What’s after us?”
    “We’re vulnerable, Gemma,” she said. “All the time. Innocence is delicate, and the collection is fragile, even though most humans have stopped speaking of fae as real and mischievous or evil, and instead relegated us to Disney movies.”
    Her gentle teasing didn’t ease my discomfort. “Then why a safe house?”
    “They’re for fae to come together, like for tonight’s moon gathering, or just to be able to talk freely to other local fae. It’s a community center. Of course,” she added, “as a safe house, it’s properly equipped as a shelter in case of natural or human disaster. We have rooms to sleep in down there.” She gestured down the hallway. “Well-stocked, brand-new kitchens, and rec rooms with virtual games. Locked vaults. Emergency headquarters with all the technology we need.”
    “Survival,” I said.
    “Yes. Everything we fae do is about survival.”
    “The carved wings?”
    “A marker for a safe house, but also a bit of an inside joke by a fae around the eighteenth century. It was human folklore for a long time that faerie could be killed or frightened off by cold iron. So these simple people would create weapons from iron, and put iron objects outside their homes to keep faeries out.”
    “We live in a major city,” I pointed out. “We’re surrounded with iron and steel.”
    “Exactly. And the Earth’s inner core is made up of iron. We live on iron, and have done far longer than humans did.” She laughed. “Silly. And ironic, isn’t it, that now our safe houses are protected with iron, to keep the humans out?”
    “The bakery’s a front.”
    “A fae-owned front, yes. Like at all our