He steeples his fingers together. “Lark, wasn’t it? What a beautiful name.”
“Ceruleanne, wasn’t it?” I ask, deliberately mispronouncing his own moniker. “Enough heroines have beautiful names. I’d rather have a sprightly one. Makes it hard to catch.”
“A lark,” he observes. “The rare bird that sings while flying, rather than while perched and idle like the rest of its kin. Hence, a human with a sky-worthy signature and hair as white as a cloud—a stray, unattainable thing. Is that what you are? A stray?”
“I had no idea Solitaries were that interpretive of humans. You don’t pay us much attention outside of pranks and murder.”
“Oh, but you flatter me. My skill in observation is purely rudimentary. If you think otherwise, you’re setting a low bar for intellect. Which is it, pet?”
“Was there a choice in that statement?”
“Are you in the mood for a choice?”
“I’m in the mood to rip out your tongue.”
“Such savagery.” His lips coil into a grin. “In which case, you’d be dismembering my most precious commodity.”
Man, I sure do know how to pick ’em. “You don’t need a tongue to communicate. I’ve heard paper and pen get the job done,” I snarl. “And don’t call me pet, or I’ll call you prey.”
Do I want to get myself killed? Possibly. My family’s had nearly a decade to wrestle manners out of me, and look where it got them.
In blink, Cerulean’s disappears. Then a current—or a breath?—sneaks up the tight slit behind my earlobe. A voice suddenly purrs at my side, “When I said that my tongue is valuable, what made you think I was referring to speech?” Instantaneously, Cerulean has materialized within stabbing distance. “Tongues are good for so many things—so many places, with splayed, satin, soaked little parts.”
I swivel toward him. I’d forgotten how tall he is, his physique slim but toned under that skin-baring shirt. I’m no thimble, yet his height forces my head to crane.
In his proximity, my nostrils get a whiff of musk and tempests. For the second time in our brief history, the scents resurrect a memory I can’t place.
Cerulean frowns, stumped by something, though his reaction can’t be for the same reason as mine. We’ve never met before.
My whip distracts him, a single eyebrow soaring into his mussed hair as he surveys the weapon. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
I threaten, “When this is over, that’s what I’ll be saying to you.”
“And I do admire a mortal who prides herself on having the last laugh.”
He slides a finger over my whip. A shiver tracks up my spine, and I jerk the cord from his touch. “Where did you send my sisters? Where did you summon ’em?”
“I didn’t,” he replies noncommittally. “My brothers did.”
Wait. The rulers of the Solitary Forest and the Deep are his… “Brothers?”
“Not by blood. They’re my brethren by history and loyalty.”
“That exists here? Loyalty?”
The nonchalance drops from his face like a stone. “Whatever amusement my brothers require of your siblings is out of my command. I do not rule the woodland or the river. I rule, ride, and roam the sky.”
I sketch his figure. “Don’t see any wings on you.”
“I never said that I have any, pet.”
“Lark,” I snap. “My name is Lark, you fu—”
“Careful,” he whispers, his words dipping low. “Very careful now.”
That look says I’m treading on a thin breeze. And why has it taken me this long to notice his own weapon? A lance tipped with a helix blade stabs through a harness at his hip…or not a lance, nor a spear.
It’s a javelin, embellished to pierce its enemies. In fact, it’s the same one cleaving through the mountain symbol embedded into the floor. Except his weapon is shorter, the length of a sword, which I’m betting isn’t always the case.
The javelin rides low on his hips as he saunters around me. “Would you care to know the true beauty of fear? How terribly stunning it can be?”
My eyes jump from the weapon to him. “Actually, I want to know how you can use sparkly words like beauty and fear in the same breath.”
He stalks in front of me, the wind trailing his movements. “Hmm. I’ll grant you conceal your dismay impressively well. Your pluck will make it all the more rewarding to break you.”
“It takes a lot to break me.”
An imperious laugh vaults off Cerulean’s tongue. “You’re a human,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“You bet, I am,” I say. “I’ve got frail bones, not to mention poor table manners. I’m not magically gifted, and I’ll die someday. Your kind think you’re so high and mighty. You think you’re the better species because you live forever, because you have strength and power you didn’t earn. Well, what you call powerful, I call lazy.
“Seems to me you’ve got the easy way out with glamour and spells and immortality. Maybe because you can’t handle less, like we can. Humans have shorter lifespans, with fewer reserves at our fingertips, and we toil for our lot, knowing it can be swiped away from one second to the next—our health, our homes, our skills, our faith, our dreams, our kin. We live amongst demons like you, yet we’re still standing, we’re still living, and we’re doing it fully. Sure, you might be the flashier ones. But are you the braver ones?”
Cerulean twitches in surprise. Then he glowers. “I suppose by your estimation, Faeries do not suffer loss. I suppose by that same estimation, humans are innocent, wholesome, and rarely take their existence for granted.”
“More innocent than you.” I get in his face and hiss, “Take stock of your privilege, Fae.”
“Take stock of your liberties, human,” he murmurs. “I can entice you to do my bidding with relish. I can force you to enjoy the game while it slays you apart. Say the word. That illusion you witnessed earlier is but a trifle scare, for there are other bewitching sensations that stem from enchantment. You’ve never known such pleasure as glamour. It’s akin to being fucked slowly, sensually, sweetly from behind.”
“In other words, you’ll compel me like you tried to do with that flute? Because that didn’t work out the last two times,” I challenge.
Shadows sink into the crevices of his face. Apparently, I’ve hit another nerve.
How many does he have left?
My body tingles. The urge to find out is raw and primitive. It’s a contest I’m salivating to win, because if he wanted a meek target, he chose the wrong girl.
Still, I doubt Cerulean will glamour me into serving out my punishment. That would reduce him to the sloth I’d accused him of being.
“Too easy,” I predict.
“Too commonplace,” he agrees.
We glower at each other. The Fae studies me, the blast of his gaze pushing me to step back. I’m cheeky, but I’m not a moron.
At my retreat, cruel satisfaction perches on his face. He saunters backward and spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. “So be it. You declare yourself the braver species. Let us test that with a bargain, shall we?”
“Try me, pretty Fae.”
“Oh, but I intend to. Providing you reach the top.”
“The top of what?”
Cerulean’s mouth flies upward, wreathing into a grin. Mutely, he tips his head to the side, glancing askance at the throne summit. The haze dissolves, its curtain spreading to display the mountain range and its secrets. Halos of mist crown the peaks. Shingles of ivy crawl up the cliffsides. Lanky trees spear the air from various elevations along with scattered rowans in denser areas, several of the trunks bobbing in the breeze as if they’ll topple over at any moment.
There’s more. Rungs, ramps, and inclines materialize in and out of the fog, either carving through or linking passages together.
The vista resembles…
Fables eternal. The mountain is a fucking maze.
8
This might be the first time Cerulean
leaves me speechless. After a moment’s hesitation, I take sloppy steps across the rotunda and slip between a pair of trunks. I pause several feet from the rim and gawk at the panorama.
The Book of Fables says Faerie is a realm of layers and distortions to the mortal eye, if not utterly invisible. The Solitaries of the sky live in a mountainous puzzle of jagged slopes and windswept rowans, the bluff’s peaks hacked through with dizzying bridges, steps, and drops.
Lots of drops beneath the stars.
A kettle of hawks sails overhead, their wings leaking gold dust. The mystical birds veer sideways, performing a spiral formation. Rapt, I scurry nearer to the bluff’s ledge, then gasp as the elements thrash about. A feral burst of air shoves me forward. My frantic heels dig into the ground, but a second gale intercepts, yanking me out of harm’s way.
“Careful,” a voice chides from behind. “Very careful, or you’ll fall.”
I whirl on Cerulean. He leans against a rowan dripping with berries, his shoulder propped against the bark and his arms crossed. A breeze caresses his clothing, disturbing the untucked linen shirt, loose trousers, and long russet coat. The lapels split, flaunting the javelin at his hip.
He regards me with an impassive expression, one capped ear peeking from the hair whisking around his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he prevented me from taking a nosedive.
Thanking Faeries is taboo, so I round my shoulders. “What’s your price for that?”
A condescending smile tugs on his face. “Be reasonable. We’ve yet to begin. Thus, I can’t have you plummeting to your demise this early. That would be impolite, and you’re not sufficiently desperate to trade favors with yet. Do you fancy the view?” He studies me and muses, “A moment ago, you looked riveted.”
“If riveted comes with a dash of revolted, sure.”
All right, I’m fibbing. Because unlike them, I can do that.
In actuality, the scene robs me of breath—the rush of air, the elevation, those birds. As for the rest of this, I’ll see his riveted and raise him a big fat petrified.
I swerve toward the mountain. Somewhere up there, knaves infest the land, winged predators circle, and intersecting bridges lead to who knows where—or how far down. I make out breaks in the trees, the thickets brimming with torchlight.
Atop one crest, a cylindrical tower of flat stone rises from a pinnacle. From a different ridge, another circular—but wider—edifice stands.
Cerulean had said something about me reaching the top. So that’s his bargain.
Is this what happened to the mortals who were lured here? Did these monsters force or compel humans to stumble around this range while being baited, tricked, and tormented? What heinous world is this, where villains reside in the bowels of a veritable mind fuck?
The moth’s glamour had told me plenty. None of the previous humans who navigated this mountain survived. That’s why they never returned home.
I’m the newest toy.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Cerulean’s voice combs through the roots of my hair.
Again, he’s crossed the distance instantaneously. I squirm away from him and pin my gaze to the range. “You people must have one hell of a time running errands.”
With mild amusement, he whispers, “It’s not as high as it looks.”
“Bullshit.”
“Think again. I’m sure you’re aware that Faeries cannot lie.”
“Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t touch your version of the truth with the end of my whip. It’s not as high as it looks for who?”
Unfortunately, he doesn’t choke on his mirth. “I see. You’d like me to twist my words with more finesse.”
I’d better not answer him. “Reckon the distance depends on how long I’ve got.”
“Is that a question?”
“Only if I get the right answer.”
“Mutinous one. I shall give you thirteen hours, thirteen days, or thirteen weeks. Nothing less and nothing more. Which do you prefer?”
“Are you real or purely a nightmare?”
He leans in, his warm breath coasting across my cheek. “By all means, touch me and find out.”
“You mind if I use my whip to do it? Men like that.”
“And what do you like, pet?”
The question rides a coltish tail of wind that sneaks beneath my skirt and encircles my thighs. That happened in the wagon, plus a few other times over the recent years while I lay in bed. I’d assumed it was one of the infamous Faeries trying to rope me to my doom, using magic to make contact, commanding the wind to their advantage. Back then, I’d fought off the intrusion and won.
Maybe that draft had been him. I would ask, but he’s probably done it to so many humans, he wouldn’t remember.
Cerulean will pay for this. One way or another, I’ll make him pay.
Based on the Fables, the hours pass here in the same way they do at home. When I say as much, Cerulean confirms that fact, assuring me that time only slows down if you stand in a Fae ring of mushrooms. But according to him, those don’t grow on this mountain.
I juggle his offer while my eyes sketch the landscape. Thirteen hours, days, or weeks. Nothing less and nothing more…
The choices are brackets. Not less than thirteen hours. Not more than thirteen weeks.
“Thirteen days,” I answer.
“That’s a pity,” Cerulean pouts over my shoulder. “I wanted you for longer.”
“Tell me the rules.”
“The rules are, there are none.”
“Nice try,” I counter. “No rules other than what?”
Another grin shapes his response. “One, reach the mountaintop—on your own, of course. Two, you have thirteen days, as you wish. Three, either you win or perish in the attempt. And by perish, I mean by the land or my hand. That wasn’t supposed to rhyme, but such is life.”
“By your hand? How so?” Because sarcasm is inevitable, I add, “Don’t be shy.”
No answer. Yet I sense his leer, the possibilities left to my imagination.
“If this is a bargain, what’s the alternative?” I demand. “What if I don’t play the game?”
“Then you die now rather than later.”
“What about Juniper and Cove?”
“You read my note,” Cerulean replies.
All of us win—or none of us win. Meaning all three of us die now, executed while separated from each other. Fury snakes down to my fingertips, which caress the rope. I wheel toward him, our shadows colliding. “And if I win?”
“Then you win,” he says simply. “If your sisters play as nicely, each of you goes free.”
And this miserable sod calls that a fair deal. So far, these Faeries are meeting my expectations with aplomb.
My brain picks apart his statement, searching for a trick. Admittedly, Juniper is better at this. Then again, I’ve known blokes who minced their words to get into my knickers. Since I’ve got practice deciding the terms of how I get fucked, this is no different.
The wind picks up, beating the slit in my skirt. For the first time, Cerulean notices I’m wearing a cuff around my thigh. Mine’s a tad dented, but he fancies it just the same.
“Want it for your collection?” I barter. “I might be willing to hand it over.”
He raises his head, irony branding his face. “Haven’t you been taught by now? You shouldn’t bargain with a Fae.”
Very funny. “Since I’m past the point of no return, I’ll take the gamble. Besides, my family complains that I dive first and learn later; that’s how I broke my arm when I was fourteen. Turns out pixie dust haggled from a star peddler doesn’t make you fly, after all.”
“By all means, then. Raise the stakes.”
“I propose another rule change.”
“That you can’t win?” he volunteers.
“You’re a hoot,” I sneer. “Lemme rephrase. I’ll give you my favorite accessory if I get a free rule. An advantage that I can pull from my pocket whenever I need it.”
While
holding my gaze, Cerulean skims his thumb along the cuff’s rim—and it’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the groin. My hips tighten defensively. Thing is, I’m aware he’s pretty. Most would use the term, sexy-pretty.
But I’ve got my dignity. Other than spreading for that trade poacher, I don’t bend over or simper for lowlifes.
Cerulean’s despicable soul trumps his looks. The more disgusting he acts, the more hideous his face gets. So my reaction has less to do with attraction and more to do with…what?
“It appears I’ve underestimated you,” he intones. “As for that scintillating trinket hugging your thigh, I prefer to have something else.”
“Then make me an offer.”
“A free rule for a free price. If you have the choice to decide later, so may I.”
In that case, we might cancel one another out, depending on how we play our cards. I don’t like it, but I’ll cross that bridge—dammit, no pun intended—when I come to it. I’ve got no clue what’s in store for me, so I need all the leverage I can get.
I agree with a nod. Cerulean inclines his own head, stimulated by this turn of events. True to his malicious culture, the prospect of adding another bargain to the mix tickles him pink.
I hate him. I hate him so much, I want it written on my tombstone. My disgust is absolute, full-bodied to the point of painful, roasting me from the inside out.
Yet unexpectedly and inexplicably, the hurt becomes mournful. An unbidden wistfulness stings my throat and extinguishes the heat. For the life of me, I can’t justify that.
Cerulean’s finger perches beneath my chin and levels my gaze with his. “What is this expression you wear?” he asks. “I don’t understand it.”
For once, he’s serious. I’d go so far as to say he’s being genuine, his gaze jumping all over my face, unspoken questions stacking like bricks. Whatever his reaction, it straddles the line between fascinated and troubled.
I’d like to ask my share of things, too. Why does it feel like we’ve stood this close to each other before? The night outside the wagon doesn’t count. I’m thinking further back, to an earlier time, which can’t be right.
I know why his touch repels me. But why does it sadden me?
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 7
