Kiss the Fae
Vicious Faeries, Book 1
by Natalia Jaster
Copyright 2020 Natalia Jaster
Cover design: Covers by Juan
Map design: Noverantale
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For the Goblin King—the first villain I ever adored
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Table of Contents
Map of the Solitary Mountain
From the Book of Fables
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About Natalia
Books by Natalia
Welcome to The Solitary Mountain
Don’t look down. Watch your step. Fear the wind. Follow the wind. Lose your path. Find your way…
From the Book of Fables
Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark…
Prologue
I’d tell you how to kill them—if I’d figured that out yet.
Sometimes you’ll feel their presence lurking outside your door. Maybe they’re really there, maybe they’re not. If you peek out your window, you might find a wicked silhouette, a blade of shadow within a shaft of moonlight, its presence sending a ferocious shiver down your spine. And if you’re lucky—or cursed to hell—you might catch a glimpse of feathers, antlers, or scales.
Don’t stare too long. Instead, close the curtains.
I’d tell you how to defy them—if not for glamour.
Sometimes you’ll sense them on the woodland paths between the village and the water well. These brutal, beautiful shits will hide in plain sight, enchanted to look like you and me, eager to make you do things.
Peel off your clothes at the market? Bite off someone’s earlobe? Steal somebody’s dagger and drag its tip across your navel? Wander into a glade and never return? You bet your human ass, that’s them.
What I’m saying is, don’t go outside alone. Or if you do, bring a weapon.
I’d tell you how to avoid them—if I’d ever done it myself.
Sometimes they’ll slink into the private corners of your bedroom. You’ll take a second look at the mirror, having sworn the pointed flap of a wing had been there moments ago. You’ll feel their magic sweep by on a breeze, sneaking between your naked thighs while you’re in bed. And you’ll gasp, but is it out of shock, outrage, or a deeper impulse?
No matter your reaction, you might hear a chuckle whisking through the night air, as if its source knows your body better than you do.
Don’t listen. Just mash your face into a pillow. It works, trust me.
I can tell you more, or I can skip to the worst part.
They’ve always existed, tricking and tormenting us. But one time, one very pissed off time, we tricked and tormented them back. One short, magical time, mortals captured their kind.
But three of them escaped.
Since then, they’ve become more powerful, or so the Fables say.
Since then, they’ve become more vicious, or so the whispers say.
One who rules the sky. A Fae with obsidian-blue hair and darkly hued lips. A monster who wields a javelin and plays a devious flute.
One who rules the woodland. A Fae who sprouts antlers from a thicket of red waves, his limbs tapering to a pair of cloven hooves. A monster who wields a longbow and strums a lusty cello.
One who rules the river. A Fae with an onyx mane and gold serpentine eyes so harsh they’ll blind you at close range. A monster who wields forked daggers and plucks a vengeful harp.
Actually, I should tell you one last thing. We live by rules in these parts. For a start, if you’re mortal, watch your back.
Keep the lanterns brimming. Keep the candles burning.
Stay out of their territory. Stay away from the mountain, the forest, and the deep.
Don’t answer the wind, the trees, or the water. Or they’ll hear you.
1
I’m naked and on my back again, only this time I’m alone. My bare ass rests on a pile of cushions as I blow cool air from between my lips. I’ve gone and made a selfish nest of pillows on the balcony jutting from the attic. There’s a big, sexy sky yawning above me, the lazy clouds sliding through a twilit canvas of mauve and cornflower.
My family’s cottage burrows into a glade, the chirps from out back tugging on my heartstrings. The front overlooks our yard, where fence posts sink their teeth into the property line, a woodland lane spilling from the gate and ambling toward the village. There, the path converges with the main road and coils into a snail shell, scrolling through the center of Reverie Hollow.
Sure is a funny name for a village, akin to a place of sunken, empty dreams.
A mile away, our neighbors will be closing up business. The brewer and cobbler will pull down their shutters, and merchants will roll pickle barrels through the market square. I picture the usual suspects: the blacksmith flipping over her sign from “Gimme Money” to “Go Away,” the dressmaker sprinkling his stoop with salt, and the beefy cloth-dyer spilling from his shop to leave a jug of cream by the door.
Most of them will be in a hurry. Nobody roams after dark.
Well, almost no one. Rest assured, some idiot’s thinking about looting the flour mill. And I swear, the stocks are a right mess, crammed with crooks but no guards.
I’ll bet several pip-squeaks are planning on sneaking out of their cottages to squat at the livery, where they’ll pass around a bottle of elderberry wine. I know, because I used to be one of those rascals. Each time on my way back home, I’d cavort with the nightingales.
A chill pebbles my skin. While distant villagers finish doing distant village things, I’ve just finished doing my latest admirer. The wanderer had been passing through the Hollow and hankering for an hour’s company. He was older than me, maybe twenty-five to my nineteen years. With my family gone, I’d craved an orgasm and brought him up to my room.
At one point, the wanderer bit my neck, so I had to elbow his funny bone. I’d spelled out the rules before we started. No roughhousing or nipping.
&
nbsp; It was over quick. He’s snoring in my bed now. Gotta wake him up soon.
I curl up on the pillows I’d brought outside, relaxing to the sounds of birdsong. Then the air shifts, brushing the scars on my kneecaps. I tense and lurch upright. The current could be what it seems, just a current, just a lash of wind. Or it could be something else.
The early evening breeze slips by, rustling the leaves. Once the sensation’s gone, my shoulders unwind, and my eyes close. Words from the Book of Fables surface in my head and fall from my lips, “Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark. And the Lark said—”
The market square bell tolls, the brass gong vibrating through the trees. Better hurry. I’d brought my knickers outside with me, so I stand and wiggle into a pair of skimpy drawers, then wrap a ribbon of cloth into a bandeau around my breasts. Once I’ve harnessed the goods, I shrug into my robe and strap my feet in ankle boots.
A triangular window leads from the balcony to the attic bedroom. I climb through and drop into the space, where three wardrobe cupboards and slender beds claim each of the wood-slat walls. A perfectly made quilt covers one mattress, the lip folded neatly beneath a matching pillow. A soft sheet drapes fluidly across the other. And on the third bed, a bolt of cotton slumps across a bulk of muscles.
I admire the man sprawled facedown atop my mattress, his arms flopped over the edge. He’s got buzzard-brown hair, the longest damn eyelashes in history, and a sword scar puckering from his shoulder. Hot damn. He’s a looker, if there ever was one. Shame his loving hadn’t been as blessed as his face.
When I glimpse his lower back, I realize I’ve got a problem. Inked crossbow bolts form an X at the base of his spine. Bile washes up my throat, my fancy for him taking a nosedive.
Shit. A trade poacher.
From the backyard, our resident falcon belts out a rasping “kak.” The avian can’t know what’s happening, but the alarm call causes a surge of protectiveness to climb up my fists. Of all the wanderers I could have rolled with, I’d gone and picked this git.
Some people poach because they’re starving. Not this one. His tattoo marks the difference, a symbol of the louts who stalk animals as a trade, profiting from valuable fauna parts.
Not many people know about that secret tattoo, but I know what to look for—thanks to Juniper.
I want to kick this man’s tail out of my bed. I want to boot him so hard, he’ll be airborne and flying off our land. He’s an outsider, not a tenant of this community, so this whole thing might be a coincidence—or not. Because of my family’s specialty, this chap might have come here with an agenda but got sidetracked by my tits. With a bunch of innocent animals roaming freely in his proximity, I can’t be too careful.
He’s a log, so I check his pant pockets, using a sleight of hand I’d learned from Cove. After that, I mosey to the chair and fuss with his satchel. My hand fumbles around, feeling something long, fringed, and tapered. I stiffen, recognizing the size and shape. Oh, hell no.
I yank out the blue feather, its fringes bathed in the ethereal, blue-black pigment of nightfall.
My heart stutters, the Fable rekindling in my mind. And the Lark said, “We may fly separately, but let our direction be the same.”
I must have left the feather someplace where this git—whatever his name is—noticed it and licked his chops. A prize like this is the stuff of otherworldly magic. This quill’s the perfect candidate for a fat sack of coins, which’ll likely turn out to be phony, since the nearest bargainer in a three-mile radius isn’t known for being a sucker.
I’ll be taking my possession back, thank you very much. As I wedge the feather into the binding around my chest, a groan rumbles from the bed. The scruffy noise lets loose as if it’s been stuffed in a jar, collecting dust all this time.
I can tell a few things about men based on how they fuck. For a start, this poacher’s got no swagger. He’s rash, all brawn and temper, considering the love bite he gave me. Not to mention what his movements did to the headboard and the vicelike grip he kept on my hips. He holds tight, which means he likes control, which mean he’ll get testy if I try to rush an exit. In case this really is a fluke, I’ve gotta butter him up, sweet talk him out of here.
My whip is looped around one of the footboard finials. I pluck the weapon and sling it over my arm like an accessory, then grasp the footboard and lean forward to expose my cleavage. “Finally,” I purr. “Have a deep one, handsome?”
The git sits up, the wide goblet of his head balancing on the thin stem of his neck as he aims a lopsided grin at my chest. “Well, aren’t you a sight.”
“Sorry it took you so long to wake up. I’ve got bad news, hon. Seems you’re trespassing.”
“Want me gone already?”
“I’m a busy girl.” I sway the whip and tease, “Better get moving, or I’ll have to string you up.”
“That sounds like a naughty threat. With this kind of bawdy talk, maybe I’d like seconds.”
Fables curse him. “The first romp was for fun, which means it was free. Seconds don’t come cheaply.”
I don’t sell myself, so I’m not serious and make sure my smile is coy. Keeping it simple is keeping it believable. Longer explanations bury people in a pile of dung.
He laughs and drags himself to his feet, fixing to collect his things. That’s when the front door downstairs opens and closes with a perceptible click. My back stiffens as two sets of feet hike toward the room and pause on the threshold’s opposite side.
The first voice quacks, “Lark!”
The second voice flows like sweet water. “Lark?”
“Please tell us you’re alone.”
“But if you’re not, it’s all right.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Go on back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”
On the outside, I’m casual. On the inside, I’m stressing about the feather this trade poacher still thinks he nabbed.
There’s a beat of silence, followed by retreating footfalls—measured footfalls.
Son of a bitch. Sometimes, I wish they didn’t know me so well. They’d caught the traction in my words, which means this is gonna get complicated unless I wheedle this poacher out of here.
“Who the hell was that?” the man asks.
“Time to get going, handsome,” I simper. “Make it snappy.”
“What? No good-bye kiss? A hostess shows her lovers courtesy, unless you haven’t been taught manners.”
Well, fine then. I grin. “My sister’s in the room pointing a bolt at you.”
Beside the attic window—where she’d crawled through after mounting the side of the cottage—a spindly, petite figure plants her foot on the iron sill, her fingers poised on a crossbow. Spruce green hair frames Juniper’s spunky face, the straight layers pinched into a low, side ponytail that falls over her shoulder. Her cotton blouse is tucked primly into a pocket skirt, the short sleeves revealing a gold leaf bracelet that winds around her arm.
“Hello, there,” Juniper says while aiming the crossbow.
“The other sister just walked in with a spear,” I finish without needing to look.
“Pleasure,” Cove greets, having doubled back and swept through the attic door.
Her watery blue hair ripples into a loose but intricately twirled bun at the nape, a few errant waves trickling from the back. A muslin dress drapes around her tall frame, the graceful neckline dipping modestly down the back to reveal a gold chain and a waterdrop pendant. She’d look the part of a dainty damsel, if it weren’t for the spear angled subtly between her fingers.
What can I say? Caution runs in the family.
My latest mistake assesses our trio. His brain must be experiencing a growth spurt, because he blinks. Thing is, my sisters and I don’t share bloodlines, but we’re the same age, and we’ve got another trait in common that strangers tend to gawk at. Our irises match the rare shades of our hair. Pale gray to the white mane flouncing from my head, crisp spruce green, and tranquil teal blue.
The colors are unusual, but stranger things do happen. Anybody who’s been living here for a week or so can vouch for that.
Both females pause, processing the scene and my guest. Papa Thorne will be home soon, and I don’t usually bring my fun home with me.
Juniper shakes her head. “I knew it.”
Cove sighs. “Lark, for Fable’s sake.”
“What do we have here?” The git looks impressed and assumes we’re entertaining him. The flirty way I’d announced their arrival had done the trick.
But because Juniper’s crummy at recognizing banter, my sister clips her pert chin toward the man’s tunic slumped on the floor, then to the man himself. “You. Get dressed.”
“If you please,” Cove amends, the words ending on a delicate lisp.
Thankfully, his immediate frown melts. “Hey now, I don’t like being told what to do,” he jokes while whipping the tunic over his head and taking our measure. “But you know, this makes sense. I heard talk in the square about you three. A strumpet, a show-off, and a spinster. That’s a trilogy I wouldn’t mind getting to know better. What’s the price for guests to slip through those doors?”
And that’s where I draw the line. “Keep talking about my sisters like that, and in a second, you won’t have legs to carry you through any door.”
His eyes narrow at the warning. “Is that right?”
This git’s intentionally dragging his feet. If I hadn’t been sure he plotted his way into my bed, I’m damn sure now. Lovers never take this long to scamper away after rolling off me. Plus, if he heard about us in the market square, he’s gotta know what we do for a living.
He tried to steal a priceless feather. That’s not all he planned on taking.
To accentuate that point, the falcon’s cry lurches from out back again.
The poacher’s head ticks toward the sound, then he says, “Now that I recall, a few of the locals did use the word strays. Is it true you were foundling fleabags before your guardian took pity on you? What’d you do to get abandoned by your real kin?”
Juniper scowls, scarlet puddles over Cove’s cheeks, and anger skids across my tongue. “We’re done with each other, so we’re done here. Piss off, handsome.”
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 1
