“For the most part,” he hedges.
I shiver. “For the most part?”
“Like I said… both species evolved. The magic of the stone made it to the Underworld, and some Dark Fae were able to make their own rips into the veil that separates this reality from the Underworld. It’s a rarity because the magic required to do so requires immense power, and the Dark Fae had been stripped of their strongest. A few have been able to make something just big enough for a small amount to slip through over the centuries, and they now walk among us. Glamoured, of course, which is a magic that all fae yield. But those rips are found and repaired by Light Fae, who have no wish to see their darker counterparts come to earth, where they could then potentially find Faere. But the vast majority of Dark Fae that make their way to Earth were actually summoned here with stone magic on this side of the veil. Humans dabbling in dark magic, summoning dark creatures to do their bidding sort of thing. The thing you need to know is that both Light and Dark Fae have managed to reclaim some of the powers—to varying degrees and depending on their access to stone magic—that were stripped away by God and are not harmless creatures. All fae are immortal, have super human strength, can glamour their appearances to look like anything they choose and can potentially have powers they gained through stone magic and later through evolution.”
I press my fingertips to my temple, a throbbing ache forming there as I try to digest these incredible claims he’s making. It’s not that I completely doubt him… but I don’t necessarily believe him either, despite the fact that the story is actually credible sounding. I think it’s just Carrick himself that I don’t find to be trustworthy, but that’s all gut instinct right now and I’m sure stems from our very first meeting where he clearly took an instant dislike to me.
“And daemons?” I ask, letting my hand fall away. “What are they?”
“As I said, the fae—both Light and Dark—have difficulty reproducing. It’s incredibly rare within their own race. But, somehow, over time and as both races evolved, it was discovered they could mate with each other. The offspring of a Dark and Light Fae is called a daemon.”
“But I’ve been assuming the Light and Dark Fae don’t like each other,” I say with a frown. “Why would they—um—do they have sex to create offspring?”
“Yes,” he replies with a smirk. “They have sex. They look far different from humans, but the anatomical parts are the same.”
I gape in surprise.
“For the most part,” he adds on with a gleam in his eye.
Surprise turns to shock, but I shake my head to leave it behind. Anatomical parts of fae are not high on my priority list right now. “So why do they reproduce if they don’t like each other?”
“As I said, you can be born light and turn dark, and vice versa. And in between, there are always shades of gray. It’s not prevalent for light and dark fae to come together to produce, so daemons are rare, but they are more prolific than two faes producing within their own races.”
It’s overwhelming, the stories he’s telling me. I have a million more questions bubbling, and I’m trying to quickly sort them in order of importance because I suspect Carrick isn’t a man who’s long on patience.
“The Light Fae that are still here on earth—”
“Enough,” Carrick growls low in his throat, but the word is surprisingly powerful when it comes out. When his hand goes up, my mouth clamps shut. “You’ve received your information. Now I want mine.”
“But—”
“No buts. Tell me how you see them.”
My mind races as I try to figure out some details to reveal without giving everything away. I still don’t trust this man as far as I can throw him.
“As I said, I was a little kid when I first started seeing them. Or at least as far back as I can remember. They were like cartoons to me. Make-believe. At first, I didn’t think it was all that odd. When I’d mention it to my dad, he just chalked it up to me being extremely imaginative.”
“And your mom? What did she think?”
“She didn’t think anything. She died in childbirth.”
Normally when someone says something like this, the other person will give words of regret or empathy. Carrick does neither. He only nods. “Go on.”
What an ass.
I clear my throat. “But I kept seeing them and kept talking about them to my sister and father, and when it went well beyond the age where it couldn’t just be chalked up to imagination… well, then they were called ‘hallucinations’.”
“By your family?” he queries.
I shake my head. “By the shrink my dad took me to. He was getting concerned because I wouldn’t stop talking about what I saw. Fallon had written me off as just being an obnoxious brat, and she wouldn’t even talk to me about it. But my dad listened to me. He never made me feel bad or crazy for the things I said I could see, but I know he was scared. So he took me to see my pediatrician, which turned into a visit to a psychologist. After that, it got much more serious.”