Our breaths clash, a congestion of wide-eyed emotions surfacing. It’s as if I’m a tyke again, being introduced to certain feelings for the first time. The mystery of sorrow, the delicious thrill of fear, and the perplexity of desire.
Most of all? Loss and longing.
That’s how it is to look at Cerulean.
His brows crinkle, something puzzled and a little bit anguished flashing across the scythes of his irises. At last, he grimaces with disdain and drags himself backward.
I recoil, fresh rancor pumping through my veins. How dare I share a bona fide moment with this Fae, when everything about him is twisted and wrong, and any connection to him is twisted and wrong, too. His ilk has terrorized humans for eons, and his brothers have forced my sisters into their clutches. Cerulean expects me to survive a landscape of violent magic, or die trying to reach its zenith, and entertain him while doing it.
All because I’d crossed a borderline. All because I’d broken some arbitrary rule.
Well, guess what? I’m about to break a whole lot more than rules. Come thirteen days from now, I’ll bust his mind open like a treasure chest and rob him of everything inside.
Then again, why wait?
“You creatures aren’t very creative on your own, if it takes a lowly mortal to amuse you,” I say. “Keep wasting your energy like this, and one will think we have a lasting effect on Faeries. One might call it power over you.”
Cerulean’s eyes flash. He stalks so near that his mouth brushes my chin, his words scraping across my flesh. It’s almost sensual when he warns, “Be. Very. Fucking. Careful.”
The rotunda evaporates into a thicket of clouds. The crescent niche reappears, eclipsing the throne summit—or rather, The Parliament of Owls.
I startle at the transformation. If nothing is as it seems, how am I supposed to get through this place in one piece, with my sanity intact?
Stars spray the hemisphere with white and teal. A breeze loops through, stirring up a wall of sparkling fog that hovers before the niche. I spot a camouflaged rift in the vapors, a cranny swooping up the center. The milky film splits with a hiss, spritzing me with steam.
The signpost has returned, except now it wields two markers instead of one, both pointing toward the crescent. Beneath The Parliament of Owls, the second one reads, The Solitary Mountain.
Cerulean’s shadow dallies behind me, extending across the mesh of rowan branches. “That cuckoo clock you mentioned is ticking,” he advises.
I’m not afraid of heights. If I know anything—besides how to woo a scoundrel and whip a foe—it’s how to climb.
I can do this. I can.
No, I can’t. There’s no way I can reach the top of a Fae mountain, for a hundred reasons that don’t need listing.
I muster up the images of Juniper’s spectacles and Cove’s shy grin. Then I step past the veil. The entrance vibrates on either side of me, leading to a courtyard. In the center, another signpost erected within a patch of swaying grass wields a half-dozen labels spearing in different directions. Beyond that, I see a whole lot of nothing.
“Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you a tip,” Cerulean says from the entrance. “Only one direction is reliable. Oh, and don’t waste your head start.”
“What?” I blurt out, swerving in time to catch his cavalier grin—right before he flicks his wrist. The veil of fog snaps shut, closing with another hiss and flooding me in darkness.
9
If I were a character in a book, one sister in particular—I don’t need to name her—would be screaming at the page right now. Because how could I forget the Fae power of omission?
I should have remembered. Games need opponents.
…don’t waste your head start.
Here I thought I’d be playing alone. I’d expected to have a fair shot.
Big mistake. Cerulean made no such promise.
Seems I’ve got a competitor. Or I reckon the term is, saboteur. Cerulean doesn’t have to puzzle through his own land, so whenever that Fae’s in the mood, he can use magic and show up. But how will he know my progress or where to find me?
I shake my head. Too much dallying, not enough moving.
Juniper would say it’s stupid to travel alone at night. Problem is, making camp isn’t an option, particularly not in the beginning. In a foreign land dominated by nocturnal Fae, I need to keep my wits about me whenever they’re awake.
If I’ve got a head start, I’d best hop to it before losing that slack. The farther I get, the more advantages it’ll yield when that prick catches up.
I scope out the signpost and its markers.
The Wayward Steps
The Black Nest
The Watch of Nightingales
The Horizon that Never Lies
The Night Aviary
I glance around, but there’s no chance of orientating myself. The stars don’t help, failing to act as a compass. Since I’ve never seen teal celestials before, much less the constellations of this land, I can’t figure out their arrangement.
I narrow my eyes at the choices. Cerulean mentioned that only one direction is reliable. That doesn’t mean it’s the correct route to the peak. Whereas the rest may not lead to where they say, one of them could still head where I need to end up.
Hidden behind the murkiness, the immediate environment refuses to show itself.
Refuses to show itself…
Curious, I step in a random direction, toward The Black Nest. The darkness clears and opens like a cackling mouth, exhibiting an incline bordered with trees and woven sacs dangling from the offshoots—a swarm of hives. Skidding backward causes the sight to vanish.
Ah-ha. The environments are only visible when I make a choice. I test this theory a few times, the murk spilling into diverse settings: a net bridge that emits steam; a fleet of intersecting bramble hedges; and a ladder propped against a craggy wall, the rungs slipping into an opaque blanket of mist.
Fear the wind. Follow the wind.
That note. The one that turned into a flying object and led me to the summit.
I press my fingers to my temple and think, think, think. What else did it say?
Don’t look down. Watch your step. Fear the wind. Follow the wind. Lose your path. Find your way.
So for me, the wind will either be a tool or a trap. I unspool my whip and give an outward thrust. The air snatches the weapon’s tail and swerves it toward The Wayward Steps.
Well, then. Wish myself luck or kiss my ass good-bye.
The nothingness slips away. A lane burrows into a stone channel that chips through the mountain like a shortcut, torch sconces burnishing the walls. The bower’s notched ceiling hints at a stairway directly above—or a series of stairways. I tread past them and then up a steep slope, emerging from the cavity and pausing to catch my breath. Ahead is an erratic path of flat stepping-stones disconnected by wide gaps and a fathomless pit beneath.
On either side, vapors mingle with slanted rowans leaning over the route. Hedges crowd around the trunks and emit the sickly-sweet putridness of decaying fruit. Berries droop from the branches, the sage orbs clustered in bunches and bloated with juice. They remind me of gooseberries, if gooseberries oozed mucus.
I peer over the side and flex my thighs to keep from pissing myself. Can’t see how far it drops and don’t need to, because the depth surges up my calves.
I close my eyes and remember the aviary at the back of my family’s cottage. I remember the rush of scaling those trees, my desire to climb until I hit the treetops. Every time I reached a new pinnacle, the victory taught me to love heights, wiping out the years I spent unclogging chimneys. I worked damn hard for that passion and won’t let this place steal it from me.
“Don’t look down,” I recap from the missive. “Watch your step.”
I reckon they’re not called The Wayward Steps for nothing. These slabs can’t be trusted, but I’ve got no choice. Because the scattered steps have no order, there are several options to start wit
h. I’ll have to use trial and error.
I plant my foot on the first stone—and scream.
The plate plunges. The slab drops fast, plummeting into an abyss. My arm shoots out, my hand grasping the nearest plate, breaking my fall and yanking on my shoulder socket. I cry out, black dots of pain bursting behind my eyelids.
By some miracle, my joints and bones stay put. I dangle there, my legs flailing, my body shrieking. Pillars hold up the steps, the stems dropping down, down, down into a void.
My palms sweat, skating across the stone and about to lose purchase. I fumble for my whip, attempting to strike an overhanging branch, but the leaves block a clear shot, and my vision struggles against the darkness. It takes multiple attempts to snag a thick bough, the whip lassoing around the bark.
Planting my soles against the column, I rope climb. It’s not a far journey, but with my limbs on fire, it’s far enough. I belly flop over the step and wheeze into the chilled surface, my limbs reduced to jelly. My palms sting, flecks of red streaking my flesh, but at least I’m not bleeding.
Serrated laughter peals through the night, its source tucked within the trees. They’re watching, probably waiting for me to make a deal in exchange for help.
I ignore my spectators and reexamine the drop. If this path is consistent, the wrong steps will have the same consequences.
A breeze nudges my skirt, urging me forward. The brush of air reminds me that a stronger blow—the bluster of a gale—could bring me to my knees at any point during this trek. Or it could shove me off a precipice, with or without Cerulean’s influence.
My teeth grind. If he can ride the wind, I’ll learn how to resist it.
I wobble to my feet, unravel the whip from the branch, and wince from the abrasions at my wrists. It’s going to hurt like a bitch every time I wield my weapon.
Mist swirls around the trunks and fills the abyss. Using the slack to steal a bundle of sage berries from the bush closest to me, I toss the morsels one by one at every plate of stone, watching the bogus steps collapse under the barest weight, until only the right ones remain.
My limbs quake. I round my achy shoulders, take a great big sniff, and keep going. The distance between slabs forces me to hop, the pillars jostling as I land, my pulse leaping into my throat. I’m not supposed to look down, but that’s exactly what I do, because I love heights, and I’m not giving that up. I won’t let anyone condition me to fear them.
I cling to visions that propel me along. Juniper and Cove smiling at me through our attic window, their childlike hands kissing the glass. Juniper and Cove swallowed by an ominous woodland and fathomless waters. Juniper and Cover lost in Faerie, lost to me forever.
Papa Thorne telling us a Fable. The sanctuary of our home.
A Fae boy in a feathered mask, giving me a long look before fleeing into the wild. Him, my one and only secret, even from my family. Him, my one exception.
Me, sitting in an empty forge. Me, awaiting his return, my lips dry and chapped.
My heel slips. I totter, but my reflexes click into place, preventing me from losing balance.
Harsh chuckles leap from the vegetation. I ignore them and leap to the next stone, and the next one, and finally, my feet stumble onto a flat of grass. I clasp a trunk for balance and glance over my shoulder at The Wayward Steps.
I made it across. But all I feel is drained and battered. Perspiration beads on my neck and in the webs between my fingers.
To my surprise, the air caresses my chafed wrists. I slump against the rowan tree until I’m able to stand upright again. I’m scraped up but still in one piece, all body parts accounted for.
I survey my pack to see if anything fell out, double-checking that the blue feather is safe in its hidden compartment. Then I give myself a pat down. My fingers seize the instant they land on my hip buckle, where the whip should be.
Terror lances up my spine. I dart around and spot the weapon sprawled on the final step I’d taken. My jump must have unhitched the spool. Curse me for not securing it better.
It’s one thing to cling to memories for strength. It’s another to let them distract me. For shit’s sake, the whip could have tumbled over the edge.
Nevertheless, a tide of relief rinses away the panic. I’ve had that whip since I was a tyke, though it was too long for me back then. The recollection of my wee limbs constantly tripping over the cord while I battled imaginary goblins pushes a weary, and possibly manic, chuckle from my mouth.
To retrieve the weapon, I’ll have to backtrack. With a sigh, I secure my pack and jump onto the correct slab.
And that’s when I plunge.
10
I’ve fallen lots of times before—fallen into a heap of trouble, fallen in and out of love, fallen down chimneys, and fallen out of trees. Be it emotions or my actual body plummeting, the crash was the worst part, a bone-crushing, soul-breaking shocker. I’ve got the knee scars and recurring visions to prove it.
None of them measure up to this drop. The ground sinks beneath my feet, the abyss swallowing me whole as I shriek, the guttural sound distinctly feminine and cavernous. My stomach flips, and flips again, and flips again. Air surges upward, turning my dress into a thrashing sail.
I can’t feel my pack. Or the whip.
My hands grapple, searching for the length of my weapon. My brain scrambles to process the void, the cracks in the darkness. It’s not a well or a tunnel, but it’s not without borders, either. Skeletal appendages emerge, licorice wings fanning out in thin swathes of black, attached to dozens of beady eyes with dotted pupils.
Bats. I’m falling through a channel of bats.
Their wings splay into various formations, so that I bang into them on my way down. Several feet below, I spot the whip’s descent. With a growl, I force my head down, capsizing so that I plow headfirst, my hair flying behind me. I extend my arms and pretend to dive, desperate to believe this won’t end fatally, that I haven’t failed already.
But this is Faerie. Nothing is what it seems, what it seems, what it seems.
The inversion has me falling faster through the chute. My fingers wiggle, grazing the whip, then grabbing it. A puddle of moonlight floods my vision, widening fast.
“Shit, shit, shiiiit!” I squawk, yelping as the bats pelt my ass.
There’s zero I can do—except one stupid thing.
These bats want to test me? They’ve got their wish.
I quit flogging them and spread my arms, the whip clasped in my fist. Unlocking my muscles and surrendering to the fall, I hope this isn’t an idiotic move. The creatures seem to realize what I’m doing, their wings springing into action and forming a tent to cushion my descent.
One final scream tears from my throat as I slam into a basin of twigs. The switches crack and rattle, skewering the places where I’m not already scuffed. I lie sprawled, gawking at the overhead chute, which seals like an eyelid.
In its place, a lattice of twigs fence around me and form bars. The offshoots extend downward, encasing me inside. I groan, every muscle shrieking. I’m terrified to move and discover something’s broken beyond repair.
I wiggle my fingers and toes, then gingerly sit upright. The world spins. Also, I must have bit my lower lip on impact. It throbs, but at least I don’t taste the metallic brine of blood.
And thank Fables, the whip’s akimbo beside me. The pack rests by my feet, not as full as it was before, a couple of the trinkets and supplies having fallen out. Alarm squeezes my throat. I rifle through the bag and find the blue feather tucked in its compartment.
The relief is short-lived. My waterskin has toppled from the pack, clear liquid spilling onto the twigs. “No!” I snatch the empty vessel and tip it into my mouth, a mere droplet hitting my tongue.
With a curse, I fling the container at the bars, and it bounces off the grid. The gnarled twigs and branches are as black as Cerulean’s soul. I’m trapped in a crate, the creepers strung so tight I’d need a saw to chisel through them.
Outsid
e my cubicle, several trees rise from the ground, woven hives bloating from the offshoots. Beyond that, a lane of glistening hedges stretches into the mist.
I think back to The Wayward Steps. The final slab had been a correct choice, yet it changed after that, collapsing when I tried to retrace my path and retrieve the whip. The route had marked the right trail, but only temporarily.
If this environment alters once I’ve made my choice, I won’t be able to change my mind. Whatever direction I go, that’s the one I’ll have to stick with…so long as I escape this cubicle of branches.
A cell? A cage?
The braided bars don’t allow much wiggle room. Locating a cavity in the grille, I slip my arms through and pat the coarse exterior. My fingers trace a knot with a hole in its heart. It might be a lock that requires a key.
I collect my scattered cache, pile the stuff into my bag, and hitch the whip. Although I took a massive drop, it doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten closer to ground level.
White and teal starlight pools onto my lap. It takes me this long to register the elevation, the looming bluff encrusted with climbing ivy, the cobbled mountain peaks topped with lanky spear trees and rowans. Nearby, several of the slanted trunks croak audibly and teeter forward, undulating as if pushed by a draft. I spot that cylindrical tower rising from a thicket and that bizarre circular edifice erected upon another peak. Entwined offshoots frame the latter building, foliage bursting from its crown.
When a breeze tickles my nape, I get the feeling I’m floating. My eyes dip, then swing carefully to the side—over the side, to the valley below. Dread squats in my belly. I goggle at the narrow ledge where my cage perches precariously. The barest movement will cause the thing to tip over.
My fingers wrap around the bars as I stare. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe deeply.
“Well, well, well,” a perky voice warbles. “That didn’t take too long.”
I scramble around. The female sits atop one of the hedges and smirks with relish, her silken wings on display. Since it hasn’t been that long, she’s wearing the same cocoon gown, its hem scratching the leaves.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 8
