I should stop there. Instead, I grab his satchel and fling it at his chest.
It’s a dumb move. I know so, even while it’s happening. The bag hits his pecs and bursts open before he can catch it. Odds and ends clunk across the floor, including a flask and a sack of coins.
The feather he’d taken is gone.
His eyes scavenge the ground, draw the right conclusion, and snake toward me. That’s when I remember the dagger encased in his belt sheath. From the way his pupils blaze, I reckon the weapon’s newly sharpened.
Ah, shit. I don’t want this to get ugly, but with my sisters up here and a host of beautiful animals installed on our land, this scene’s gonna do just that. For one, I’m not in the mood to sweep glass and a dead body off the floor. It’ll take grit to clean up the mess, and it’ll cost money to repair the window.
I hold back a sigh. The man’s fingers twitch.
Then it happens. I spin around to butt Juniper, then Cove, out of harm’s way. I’m pivoting and unraveling my whip as the poacher rips out his dagger. The whip flies and snags his arm, yanking it to the side and forcing him to release the blade. It launches into the air and stabs a wall.
He lunges for it while my sisters scramble to their feet. Juniper and Cove fumble for their weapons, but I kick open the attic door and punt them into the hallway. With another thrust of my heel, the door slams shut in their outraged faces, and I slide the bolt in place.
The poacher jerks his dagger from the wall and roars, “You bitch!”
I yank on the whip again, sending the jackass down. He howls, shouting out the window as if he’s got friends nearby. Muffled male voices holler back from the underbrush.
Time to go. I hitch the whip to the tabs of my robe, vault around, and dive through the triangular window. Hustling toward the balcony’s ledge, I jam my fingers into my mouth and release a piercing whistle, then hop the railing.
Whinny Badass, our family’s pinto mare, pounds across the dirt and stops beneath the overhang. I jump, tossing myself onto her back. The horse flies across the high grass, soaring over the fence, through the trees, and into the open fields.
Shouts boom from the cottage and spit the word whore. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the poacher diving off the platform. Two other men emerge from the thicket, leaping atop a set of horses they’d apparently concealed.
I’d been right and then some. That git came here for the animals.
Evidently, he’d brought company. His minions must have been waiting for him to finish with me so they could prey on our wild residents while I slept off the lukewarm climax. Why else would these scum be stashed in the foliage, unnoticed when my sisters came home?
Juniper and Cove spill onto the front porch and brandish their weapons, but the men are already out of range.
They’re coming, and they’re coming fast. Good. Better me than my family.
I turn back and dig my heels into the horse. The wind rushes through my hair, whisking the cloudy waves into a storm. The gust snatches my robe and splits it wide, the cloth erratic and flapping. Can’t lead these blokes through the village unless I want people getting hurt and myself getting spotted.
Clear out of Reverie Hollow, Whinny Badass skirts alders and elderberry bushes. Twilight splashes the welkin, lightness and darkness coalescing.
Yells punch the air from behind. “Get her!”
I ride hard, sweat pouring from my armpits. The open fields aren’t gonna hide me, and the denser thickets are too far away. By that I mean the human landscapes.
These sods will catch me before then. The only choice I’ve got is the mountain valley ahead where nobody goes, not for any reason. Against the horizon, uneven boulders point their fangs toward the sky, taking a bite out of the vista, with trees filling the gaps and hiding secrets.
Leaning forward, I grip the horse’s mane and urge her faster. The stony range gets larger, the wind swifter. The mare whinnies and reels back, her hooves skittering across the dirt. Fuck, she knows where we’re headed.
Not that she has to worry. Mortal animals have never been harmed by anybody but, well, mortals and other animals.
I twist. The figures gallop nearer, pockets of soil chucking up around them. They catcall and heckle shit I can’t hear. They could have tussled with my sisters and tried to raid our acreage, with a bevy of valuable fauna living out back. To these men, I’m not as important.
Behold, the power of a wounded ego.
Then again, I remember the blue feather stuffed against my chest. That wanker must suspect I’ve got the quill on me. Taking into account the plume’s magical origins, it’s no wonder he’d want it badly enough to charge. If they get their hands on me, my whip isn’t gonna be enough to beat them down. They’ll use it to tie me up and tear open my bandeau, if they don’t plant a blade in me first.
My heart slams in my ribs. I’ll be cornered in minutes. I can race along the border and hope there’s a gap around the valley that’ll accommodate the mare.
Or I can keep pounding ahead, to where the ridges soar from the ground, their craggy steeples flecked with a mural of windswept greenery. The closer I get, the taller and more ominous the range gets.
I spot that mysterious border. Three trees stand beside one another. A hawthorn, an oak, and an ash.
The Triad is forbidden. But it’s either that or die.
Evening smothers the heavens, gobbling the remnant streaks of mauve and cornflower. My thighs burn, and my choppers rattle. I chant into the horse’s ears, listen to her pants, and lose track of the minutes.
I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice.
I holler. The mare accelerates, launching across the wild.
Straight into Faerie.
2
We live on a continent called The Dark Fables. It’s separated into three countries of grim enchantment—The Northern Frosts, The Southern Seas, and Middle Country. Elves, dragons, and an array of mystical wildlife fill these lands to the brim. Being of otherworldly origins, Magic Folk fancy themselves too good for us human peons.
Bullshit. But reality.
Here in Middle Country? Faeries thrive.
Reverie Hollow shares its rural landscape with a vicious batch of the Folk. Our village is a sitting duck, fronted by a whole bunch of cliffs, with a whole bunch of woodlands, with a whole bunch of waterways rushing through it.
The Solitary Mountain.
The Solitary Forest.
The Solitary Deep.
Three domains guarded by the Faerie Triad. Yet the dividing line of hawthorn, oak, and ash isn’t impenetrable. That’s the irony. So enter if you dare to break the rules, if you feel like sacrificing yourself to the Fae’s whims. If that’s your fancy, they’re not gonna discourage you.
Just don’t expect to leave.
I can’t think about that right now, or else I’ll lose my supper. Vaulting ahead, my eyes dart around, searching for a gap in the terrain.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
The road narrows toward a wall of boulders covered in filigrees of murky green and looming yew trees that cluster together. Other than the Triad, the vista appears normal, like any mountain scene. That’s what scares me the most—it shrouds whatever’s inside.
The trade poachers gain speed. Whinny Badass protests, resisting our direction. I speak to her rapidly, stroke her glossy coat, and hope she’ll trust me as much as I trust her.
The instant she lets up, I dig my heels in. We surge forward, my hair and her mane lashing together as the Triad gets nearer, larger. The hawthorn, oak, and ash stand sentinel, blotting out the realm beyond.
We crash through.
Branches crackle. Leaves hiss out of the way. Twilight vanishes like a magic trick.
The dirt path sprouts into tall splinters of grass. We race down a winding lane, the route curving so severely and crookedly that it almost trips the horse and unseats me. I wobble sideways but grapple upright.
The world whisks by, shawls of c
olor passing too quickly to catch. The mare propels herself across soil and exposed roots, rearing back as we hit a cul-de-sac of brambles.
I’m clad in my knickers, doused in sweat and grit. Panting something fierce, my breasts pump against the scanty bandeau.
Too much assaults me at once—the sharp flap of wings, the flash of saffron feathers, and an aerial screech. Wheezing, I scan the area. We’ve barreled into some kind of margin where the mountain, the forest, and the deep converge. The environment inclines on either side of us and forms a gorge, the foothill intersecting with the valley’s woodland and a spring that snakes through the trees.
I fumble with the reins, wrestling to keep the mare steady. Darkness pours through the canopy, the shadows not fully blue, not fully black. Gilded bulbs swim through the bracken…fireflies?
As I whirl to track the sound of another avian caw, my arm collides with one of the bulbs. The searing contact yanks a low cry out of me, my flesh sizzling as if I’d rubbed elbows with a hot poker.
Am I imagining it, or is the firefly tittering at me?
I peer at the floating dots, but they flit around too fast and begin to close in. Whinny Badass bucks, forcing them back. More chortling as they scatter, skipping farther into the crochet of shadows.
I spot a recess in one of the high hedges, a lucky slot between the cul-de-sac and incline. Swinging my legs, I drop to the ground and rush the mare through the hollow, vegetation audibly shivering from our intrusion, the underbrush releasing a sinister tune that vibrates into the air. That jangle will make it tough to stash both of us quietly, especially with the mare’s size.
At least the gap fits us, dense enough to act as a shield. My chasers know I’ve got few choices for hiding the equine beauty. But in this place, they’ll check only so thoroughly, venture only so far.
Creepers slink from crooked, glistening trees. I’d expected wickedly rich hues but not this collision of gloom and radiance. The perimeter is a mesh of syrup browns, yew greens, and peacock blues.
I squat in the half-light, my nostrils inhaling the staleness of horse and something bizarre—overripe and metallic, like plums laced with poison.
Whinny Badass swats her coarse tail in my face. She’s antsy and shifts about, disturbing the offshoots.
“Shh, hon,” I whisper. “If they get through, punt their asses.”
Not the sagest advice. If the trade poachers corner me, there won’t be room in this spot to dodge the horse when she pummels them. She wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but I’d get caught in the middle for sure.
Problem is, there’s no telling if the poachers are the threat anymore, or if I’ve ridden into a deadlier fate. I fold myself into the space, my boots sinking into a clump of muck. When I gulp, it’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
It hits me for real. I’m a mortal lost in Faerie.
And I’m not alone.
The horse grumbles. My ears perk as a melody flutters through the wild, spiking my blood with dread. It’s the deceptive tremble of a flute, followed by the sensual hum of a cello, then the unnerving pinch of a harp.
I recognize each instrument from the Book of Fables, music of the sky, the woodland, and the river entwining. The collision of notes sounds elegant, impish, and venomous.
The Folk use glamour for all it’s worth on us. According to the Fables and horrors that I’ve witnessed over the years, this happens in several ways. One trick is through music. The sounds of their instruments have the power to travel impossible distances carried by the air, the roots, or the water.
The flute notes slide up my calves and inch them apart. Likewise, I feel a tug on my consciousness that doesn’t maintain its grip.
With a growl, I snap my legs closed. The melody stops.
However, the weight of a physical presence grows, accompanied by a menacing chuckle serrated at the edges. My fingers trace the bristles of my whip. I lash my head this way and that, searching the compact recess for an intruder.
Grunts cut through the mysterious laughter. Echoing curses and stomping hooves resound through the wild, coming from outside the border. Peculiar, since I shouldn’t be able to hear the poachers from this distance. Not unless they’ve got the balls to cross the Triad.
The horses clomp back and forth at the outskirts. The poacher I’d humped doesn’t strike me as restrained, seeing as his pecker failed to locate my sweet spot. But he’s got to be smart enough not to follow me inside. He’s got to be!
The git spells it out. “I’m gonna roast that slut.”
“Forget her,” another spits. “I’m not going in there for the likes of a wench.”
“Fables,” the third one rasps. “Did you see that?”
The wind howls, the roots crack, and the brook hisses with steam. The noises converge and weave toward the boundary. My chasers speak low and quick, their voices shaken to the bone. One miserable sod rants about getting caught by them and how none of this is worth getting his cock severed by dark magic and—then he stops yapping.
And he starts shrieking. The men scream like I’ve never heard men scream before, ear-splitting cries that could peel the hide from a cow. My flesh prickles. I crouch lower, my knees quaking in the muck, my eyes wide on the ground as the wails overlap.
The mounts stampede from the perimeter, the thuds of their hooves tapering off. Once they’re gone, a hush descends over the wild.
Whatever happened out there, it gave my chasers a severe case of the willies. They wouldn’t be the first; if not bewitched into trespassing, other wanderers who ventured close to the Triad never recovered. Their only saving grace was not crossing the borderline. Still, some left with ghostly hair, while others went blind or mute.
The poachers’ retreat says it all. They’re skipping this village and not coming back, which means our animals are safe.
I slump—then stiffen up. The diabolical mirth returns, sliding around the trunks and lurking across the thicket.
Careful, little human. Be very careful now.
The words whisper up my spine. One of my palms flattens against the ground for support, in case I keel over. My other hand clamps over my quavering mouth, acid vaulting up my throat.
A small gash pierces the shrubby. I crawl toward the rift and squint through.
The spring tributary weaves through the bracken, the water’s glint impervious to darkness, the bubbling surface so radiant that peeking at it too long hurts my eyes. Though it doesn’t seem to bother them. Three humanlike silhouettes skulk around the tree trunks, hunting amidst the foothill.
I veer from sight.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
At last, I hear the silhouettes recede into the depths. My pulse beats a nasty rhythm against my neck. When I peek and catch no sign of the figures, I haul myself out of the recess—and slam into two bodies.
We totter backward, our yelps nicking through the landscape. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Then we snatch each other into a hug.
My sisters and I gasp, our voices overlapping with “Are you all right?” and “Are you hurt?” and “Are you insane?”
Pulling away, I rush my palms over their cheeks, but Juniper bats me away. Her brisk, woodsy voice could chop through timber. “You have no sense of foresight. Did you think we wouldn’t follow you?”
Cove braces her spear, agitated tendrils of teal hair splitting at the ends. “We tethered Papa’s albino outside the border, then came the rest of the way on foot,” she heaves, her lisp more pronounced when she’s nervous.
“You left an evident trail.” Juniper squeezes her crossbow, a quiver of bolts strung over her shoulder. “Never mind us, but you should have thought to conceal your tracks. I took care of them, you’re very welcome.”
Nobody’s perfect. I’d been in a hurry.
My point in leading the chase was to protect them, not beckon them into fatal territory. Juniper and Cove have a knack for not listening. That also runs in the family.
“You’re idiots,” I say.
Juniper attempts to smirk past the fear. “We learn from the best.”
I wish we had time to chuckle over that. I open my mouth, but a snapping twig cuts off my warning. We vault around, putting our backs to each other and forming a circle. My whip’s up, and my sisters’ weapons click into place. I haven’t peeked to see either of them do this, but I know how my family works. I know the noise we make—it’s a trio of sounds and a single sound.
We brace our defenses, but who are we kidding? The instant a black figment sweeps past our periphery, we disarm. Linking fingers, we hoist one another up the slope, where we huddle behind a yew tree, the trunk as wide as a troll’s ass.
The molten fireflies return, several of them on the verge of singeing Juniper’s hair. She swats at them, then gives a shocked cry at the burn, which prompts Cove to squeak. Curled between them, I whip my arms out to the sides, my palms slapping over their mouths.
We freeze. Dread crawls across their profiles.
Wings flare with a great thwack, the breeze ruffling a set of feathers.
Hooves stalk into the thicket. That’s no horse gait. I’d bet my whip on it. Maybe a deer? But what deer has only two hooves?
Lastly, a violent thrash of water spews from that blinding spring.
How does this commotion manage to sound graceful, depraved, and nefarious all at once?
Every breach in the silence causes us to jerk. I fixate on Juniper’s wide, green eyes, then Cove’s teary ones. I wait for another invasion of music, but it doesn’t come, nor does that snicker from earlier.
It takes an eternity for the noises to wane. Finally, I draw away from my sisters’ mouths. On the count of three, we totter down the slope and return to the cul-de-sac to collect Whinny Badass. Thank Fables, the blue feather nestles safely inside my undergarments.
As we race out of there, a draft sweeps up my spine. I feel an aerial weight brush the flesh of my back—a pair of glittering eyes watching from an unseen perch.
3
The darker it gets, the brighter the stars get. As the hour clicks from one to the next, sleepy blue glosses the sky. We shuffle down the back-porch steps, our sheer nightgowns ballooning, about to take flight. If we had wings, I wonder which of us would soar the highest, the fastest, and the farthest.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 2
