I squint at the raptor slashing across the grove, the knives of its wings chopping through the canopy. There’s something eerie about the way it flies.
That isn’t a mortal bird.
It dashes into the thicket behind the caravan. I sprint after it, pumping my legs while envisioning Juniper’s polished spectacles and Cove’s blushing smile. My pulse escalates as I slam through the bushes, trailing the avian’s shearing hoot. I barrel into a small enclosure of hedges—and damn near smash into the owl.
It charges toward my chest, forcing me to duck. Straightening, I yelp as it heads for me again, thrashing its plumes against my face. Averting my skull from the creature, I choke my whip and give the weapon a deft flick. It’s a bluff, the cord whisking toward the owl but not striking it, prompting the animal to back off.
I brace my weapon and face the hovering raptor. It’s a horned owl. My eyes stumble across the fella’s incandescent bronze plumage, its ear tufts rising higher than physically possible for its breed—the length rivaling a broadsword—and the hollow basin where its left eye should be.
The owl heckles, punching out another sinister hoot. My fingers tighten on the whip.
“I wouldn’t provoke him,” a voice says.
My back tenses. My gaze flips toward the source and scans the empty copse.
But there’s someone here. Someone with a masculine timbre that flutters into the space, his tone light and crafty.
The owl jerks. My whip raps toward the bird, keeping it bay.
The breezy voice tuts. “We’ll have to do something about that pluck of yours.”
I hiss in no particular direction. “Who are you?”
“Lower the whip.”
“Show yourself first—”
A finger of wind sweeps beneath my jaw, clapping my lips together and silencing me. “I saaaaid, lower the whip,” the speaker instructs. His voice is a tenor in flight, but as elegant as the command sounds, it also has a diabolical ring to it. Whoever—or whatever—this stranger is, he’s not going to ask twice.
Juniper. Cove.
I lower the whip.
“Marvelous. Now retreat three paces,” the voice bids.
Grinding my teeth, I do as he asks.
“Hold his gaze, nice and long,” the tenor continues, enunciating so that I hear his artful tongue unfurl. The noise slips beneath my nightgown, grazing my knees and licking higher.
My hips twitch, denying further progress. At which point, I detect an arrogant chuckle.
My eyes lock on to the owl. A single aquamarine iris passes judgment, then the deadpan bird flaps away to perch on a tree.
That wispy tenor sneaks up behind me. “Under the vicious stars, in the rural plains of Middle Country, it’s dark and light at the same time.”
I twist, finding nobody there.
The next words swing from a different direction. “Under the vicious stars, mystical tales float through the sky, and root themselves in the woodland, and swim in the river.”
I spin the other way, my eyes darting across the enclosure. Nothing but creepers and shadows. Yet the recitation is everywhere, surrounding me from all vantage points, too mobile and agile to catch.
The narration continues, this time from above. “Under the vicious stars, the crests rise, and the forest sniggers, and the waters rage.”
My head snaps in that direction, meeting tufts of clouds swimming in a black sky. I stumble around. The voice has a talent for whispering, caressing the air with wicked strokes.
“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark.” The voice quizzes me from somewhere ahead, “And what did the Lark say?”
“You’re a dead man, is what it said,” I growl.
Except he’s not a man at all. He can only be one kind of monster.
The wind swoops from the trees, shuddering the boughs. The current circles my body at a languid pace, akin to a rope patiently nabbing its prize.
When it teases my nightgown and fiddles with the low neckline, my hand reacts. My whip belts into the air. Another thrust of wind rams into me, knocking the weapon aside, so that it falls limp in my grasp.
The branches groan. The horned owl leaps into the sky.
A displeased, menacing voice prowls across my skin. “That—was incredibly stupid, pet.”
I swerve toward those patronizing words and snap my weapon—which thwacks into a masculine arm that blocks the strike. The impact causes me to stagger. For a second, that unflinching arm remains crooked at the elbow and fixed in place before finally lowering.
And then I trip over a pair of disturbing, glittering irises.
Fables. I take an involuntary step back.
Out of nowhere, a lithe male form stands before me. He’s got the appearance of a human in his mid-twenties, with a thicket of hair lashing around his face. It’s the most dangerous shade I’ve ever seen, an obsidian-blue that’s richer than dawn, deeper than dusk.
A long, thin cord of braided hair dangles from the tousled layers, with a feather of the same pigment sprouting at the end.
It’s the same shade as…
I jerk the thought from my head, because no. It might be a dazzling hue, but it’s not the same one as the blue feather I’d protected today.
It can’t be the same type of plume. It’s impossible for one indisputable reason.
A reason I don’t want to think about.
This stranger’s the picture of disheveled elegance. Black boots soar up his legs, fitting around loose trousers. A white shirt hangs from his torso, the material as rumpled as an unmade bed. The garment dips into a shameless V, the neckline descending to his navel and exposing the majority of his chest.
Man, this fucker’s got some nerve.
A long coat billows around him, dyed the color of eventide. The hem taps his calves, and the collar flares along his jaw.
I retreat even farther, put distance between us, and take a wild guess. “You’re one of the Three. You’re the one who rules the sky.”
The Fae smirks. “Come now. You make me sound vicious.”
Although Faeries speak their own language, they’re fluent in the mortal tongue. But unlike my rustic drawl, his accent has a lofty, upward slope to it.
My attention jumps to his lips, coated in an ominous dark blue. Did he paint his mouth that shade? Or is it a natural part of his skin?
He’s a tall swig of water. My eyes trace his physique—slender yet toned where it counts—cresting to an exquisitely lethal visage. The hollows and ridges of his face are all points and inclines, his cheekbones slanting toward a pair of pointy ears.
My hands suffocate the whip. “I’m no man’s pet.”
“Indeed? Such a shame, and such a waste.” His irises gleam, their rings encrusted with a spectrum of blues, comparable to the vivid quills of a blue jay. “Though it’s a pleasure to know you haven’t been claimed yet.”
Yeah. I walked into that one. “What did you do to my sisters?”
“Mulish, meddlesome, mutinous little girl. Where are your manners?”
I swear, their hypocrisy is the stuff of legends. Nevertheless, I compress my lips, fighting to remember everything my sisters and I have been over, everything the villagers have been threatened to remember.
Read between the lines. Stay vigilant of twisted words and promises they won’t keep. And no matter what, be polite.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna have trouble with that last one.
“I’m no little girl, either,” I say.
His eyes slide down my nightgown and spark with intrigue when they land on my pebbled nipples. “Oh, but I see that,” he says while sauntering toward me with careless grace. “I saw it before as well—a most unusual, most beguiling, most intriguing sight in The Colony of Fireflies. Your body clad in nearly nothing, the smut of your attire exhibited to the wild.”
This shocks me for all of three seconds. That’s a lot for me. About three seconds too many, which I realize is the point.
App
arently, that alcove beyond the Faerie Triad is called The Colony of Fireflies. Guess that explains why those insects were hanging around, cindering whatever surface they landed on.
And those hidden eyes, watching me. That had been him.
“Hmm.” The Fae pauses, observes my stupor, and grins. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Where are my sisters? Please?” I grit out.
“A question for a question. What’s your name, pet?”
“Who wants to know?” But when he stays quiet, I fume, “Tell me where they are.”
“Not to worry. Your rambunctious siblings are safe, though when next you reunite, be wary of what you tell them. Your name?”
“Why? What are you planning to do with it?”
“On any given dawn or dusk, I plan many things and nothing whatsoever. In this case, it depends on your reply and how much I like the texture of your name on my tongue. Will it be coarse or slick? Will it taste of brine or sugar?” He tips his head. “Does that assessment suffice?”
The hell, it does. “I’m afraid not.”
“You’re hardly afraid.” He leans in and hisses, “Shall we change that?”
“Let ’em go. Please, let ’em go.”
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but: What you speak, you cannot unspeak.”
And the Lark said, “Will somebody snatch these two so I can have a break?”
“The Fable?” I balk. “I wasn’t serious. I was improvising.”
“Be it a joke, a lark, or a farce, it’s all the same.”
Because I’m three inches away from roping his otherworldly prick, I glower, letting the temptation show on my face. From the start, I should have coated the handle and end of my whip in iron, the way Juniper had tipped her crossbow bolts and Cove inlaid her spear with iron scrolls.
The Fae inspects my noose with distaste. “Mortal weapons. It appears your trio takes after one another.”
I fake a saccharine smile. “Nah, we just like props. Wanna touch mine?”
This earns me a leer. “A touch for a touch.”
What he means is, don’t test him. Reluctantly, I loosen the whip.
Humans used to believe that giving Faeries our names meant trouble, but the Fables dispelled that myth long ago. Matter of fact, it’s the opposite. Learning a Fae’s true moniker is the real power.
“My name’s Lark,” I say.
His blue lips crook to one side. “Call me Cerulean.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s your name.”
“You didn’t ask for my name, but there it is. As far as I know, it’s the only one I have. I wasn’t born twice.”
“Fine. I’ve told you mine. Now tell me where my sisters are.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You said if I—”
“I said a question for a question. I never said an answer for an answer,” Cerulean replies, the side of his mouth still caught in that invisible hook.
I grate out, “Crossing the Triad was an accident. I was being chased by a bunch of bloodthirsty wankers and had no choice. And with the Fable—”
The Fae flicks his wrist with a dismissive flourish. “Forget the Fable. Worry about your penance.” From the tips of his fingers, a snowy feather appears midair. With every twist of his digits, the wind dashes about, twirling and flipping the quill. “You see this plume? It’s you, dancing to my tune. Do you like to dance?”
“What do you want?”
The feather swoops toward my chest and brushes between my collarbones. The shaft tips my chin high to meet Cerulean’s gaze. “I want you to be sorry, pet. So very sorry.”
“It’s Lark,” I murmur furiously, my breath coasting against his hair. “Look, trespassing wasn’t my plan.”
“That is a defense, not an apology.”
“Listen, assh—”
The quill spears to my heart and pauses there, pricking through the material as easily as a blade. I swallow my words. Satisfied, the feather sweeps across my mouth like a finger, advising me not to finish that sentence.
My molars slam together. The plume vanishes.
Cerulean steps nearer, his silhouette stretching across daggers of grass. His coat brushes my nightgown, the contact stirring a scent between us, an unnerving combination of musk and tempests.
Scents that permeate the atmosphere. Scents with stamina.
The aromas dredge up kernels of the past, yet I can’t place them.
His expression strikes a balance between flippant and imperious, his irises mapping a lustrous path across my throat, then soaring to my face. Meanwhile, I struggle not to kick, bite, or scratch.
Cerulean bears down on me, his eyes slicing through the darkness. “Now, then. In the forest, and in the caravan, you heard the flute. Why did you not follow it?”
The warm texture of his breath glides down my throat. “It was off key.”
“Never lie to a Fae.”
“Never doubt the truth.”
“Choose your truths wisely.”
We’re whispering, waiting for the other to buckle. But considering how long he’s probably been alive, Cerulean’s honed more patience than I have.
His angular features are one heck of a sight, not a flush to his ivory skin. But fuck if I don’t see the volatility blazing there.
“It was a trap,” I answer. “The music was a trap.”
Cerulean’s expression narrows. “I see. Well, then, it appears I’ll have to be extra creative with you.”
A shiver crawls up my nape. The Fae’s body heat clashes with his frigid voice, inciting mayhem beneath my nightgown.
It’s a mistake to cower in his presence. Disgusted, I stand on tiptoes and blow a bitchload of moxie into his face. “You and every other bloke on this continent.”
“Careful,” he warns, the murmur sliding across my throat. “Very, very careful.”
“Do you what you want to me. Just let Juniper and Cove go.”
“Sacrifice,” the Fae observes. “How pitifully human. Except we never stole them to begin with.” With a vindictive grin, he whispers, “But now you know we can.”
Feminine shouts tear through the trees. “Lark!”
I veer around. “Juniper? Cove?”
The wind funnels, releasing its suction around me. I swing toward Cerulean, but he’s gone. My eyes tear apart the thicket. The owl’s nowhere in sight, the branches hang still, and the evening colors have dulled, the rasp of night less piercing.
Oxygen returns to my lungs. I wobble as though I’ve been sleepwalking, as though I dreamed the whole thing.
But I hadn’t. Although he didn’t touch me, I still feel those graceful digits scraping every exposed part of my body.
My sisters shout again. I bolt out of the enclosure, surging through the hedges at a breakneck pace and crashing into them outside the wagon. Juniper’s spectacles have been knocked askew, and Cove’s hair is a knotted mess. They cry in relief. We fling our arms around one another, shaking and muttering over each other.
“Are you all right?” and “What happened?” and “Where were you?”
I pry myself from the hug. “What do you mean, where was I?”
“You disappeared,” Juniper says frantically, then turns to Cove. “So did you.”
“That’s n-not true,” Cove bleats. “I-I was here. You two were gone. I searched everywhere.”
We trade confused glances. The caravan brims with warmth. Did they relight the lanterns? Or had the wicks never blown out?
No. It was real. He was real.
And tonight was an introduction, I realize. That Fae came here to play with me, to show how easily he can take away what matters most, even before the real fun begins.
Actually, it hadn’t just been him. When he issued that exit threat, he hadn’t been referring only to himself.
…now you know we can.
“Did you hear anybody?” I ask. “Or see anybody?”
A gust pinches our nightgowns. Juniper presses her lips togeth
er, and Cove shuffles her bare feet. They’re holding back. I know those gestures too well, but while Cerulean cautioned me to be wary of what I tell my sisters, like hell am I gonna let that monster control me.
I open my mouth, however Juniper cuts me off. “There was no one.”
“I didn’t see anyone, either,” Cove claims.
So I muzzle up, too. We absorb the lies, pretending we can’t tell, pretending to believe each other.
5
Raindrops slide down the sashes, droplets tapping the roof. It’s morning, time for the rooster to piss everyone off. At the first bumpy string of crows outside, I groan and roll onto my back. I’d slumbered too fitfully last night, then jolted awake as the sun rose.
Cerulean’s fiendish whisper surfaces in my mind—residue of the ruthless dream I’d had.
Very, very careful.
Blessedly, the grub bell rings, pulling me from the memory. It’s Juniper’s turn to cook breakfast, and she despises tardiness, especially in times of crisis.
I flop out of bed, slip into a pair of leggings underneath my nightgown, and toss on Papa’s long knit sweater. While piling my hair into a lopsided bun at the top, I descend the stairs on a hunger mission.
My family’s got a sturdy home built from logs and stones. It’s got nicks and chips, but it fights the hard weather fight, and its bones will last longer than I will. With two floors and an attic, shutters framing the iron windowsills, and a wrap-around porch, the Fable Dusk Sanctuary is our whole world.
Papa and Cove have decorated the living room with a tapestry rug, a cluster of lanterns in a corner, and watercolors mounted on the walls. The smells of coffee and freshly baked pastry flood the kitchen. In the corner, a pail of milk sits on the floor next to a barrel of fluffy spelt flour, and a dozen eggs nest in a basket on the counter.
Protectiveness wells in my belly when I spot Juniper at the stove and Cove at the dining table. I remember the poacher judging us for being strays—foundling fleabags, as he’d called us—who grew up on the streets until we were ten. And well, he’s right.
Trade poachers had been forcing Juniper to work for them. Apparently, tykes have a better shot at being quiet while hunting. Hence, her tattoo.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 4
