I retort, “Must be a Fae fetish. I should have known that’s why you got your hands dirty.”
“Spare me the credit,” he scoffs. “It’s offensive to us both. What did you anticipate, pet? A change of heart?”
“Nah. That would require having a heart.”
“I never claimed to use my bare hands. A meager flick of magic swabbed your injuries and disinfected those wretched scraps you consider clothing. Chasing ragdolls is beneath me. Call it maintenance before I send you on your merry, messy, mutinous way. Also, it’s polite.”
“Polite? Are you fucking joking?”
He leans down, his breath tapping my lips. “Probably, conceivably, unlikely.”
I hate that my mouth shivers from the contact. I hate that I want to believe him. And I hate even more that I don’t.
The flames pop and sizzle from the fireplace. Heat strokes up my bare calves.
Otherwise, it’s dark in here, the sconce having burned itself out before I woke up. A nighttime sheen leaks through the curtains and swims across the blanket tangled around us.
Fables. I’m scantily dressed and splayed beneath a Fae, his heart thumping against mine.
I’m glad his kind don’t fancy gratitude, since the last thing I feel like doing is thanking him. He’s the reason I resemble a pincushion to begin with. Still, they like bargains, and they mean to be repaid. “What do you want?”
“A simple inspection of your whip will suffice.”
“Simple look, my titties.”
“I needn’t remind you about Faeries and fibbing. We have a taste for trinkets. What do you think I was doing while you pretended to be asleep?”
I should probably flush, but I don’t care if he was onto me. “You could have snatched my whip in a blink. There was no need to get sneaky.”
“Oh, but I love being sneaky. Notwithstanding, I wanted to see what you’d do. Lastly, if I’m not mistaken, using my power would have branded me as lazy. Am I quoting you correctly?”
“Since when does a Fae care what a lowly human thinks?”
“You forgot uninspiring and unremarkable.”
“Stealing my whip wouldn’t exactly even the playing field.”
“As I said, I only wanted a closer look.”
Well, he can’t get any closer than this. His waist spans my pelvis, my body cradling his. Tension fixes us in place, ankles and elbows and ribs knocking together.
Cerulean scans the whip strung across my wrists, the cord trapping me against the mattress. Satisfied, he shifts. Pegging both of my hands in one grip, his free digits drag the whip south, the handle’s tip scraping along my cheekbone, down my neck to the basin of my collarbones, and skimming the center of my chest, where my pulse pounds.
From there, the handle circles my navel. I gulp, fighting the urge to squirm away or wriggle nearer. I usually dominate this kind of thing. Then again, I usually don’t hate my lovers.
Yet some weak place in the pit of my stomach flutters, as if this should be natural, as if it’s a long time coming. Cerulean absorbs my reaction, his gaze intent and hunting for a specific response, so committed to the act that it’s intimidating. But I can’t look away, and I’m not sure I want to, and I detest him even more for that.
Whatever he sees causes his fingers to choke my weapon. “What an accessory, this whip,” he compliments, his molten accent pouring into the room. “When we met, I underestimated its appeal. Tell me, mortal. Have you ever tied a man up with it? Have you ever held a man prisoner while fucking him into a stupor?”
Of course, I have. “You done lying on top of me?”
A slow grin wreaths across his face, neither repulsed, nor smitten. He wants me to quail.
Well, then. Desperate times call for easy measures. As warmth drizzles into the ravine between our clavicles, I turn the tables.
Shifting my hips sinks him deeper into the vent of my legs. “How’s about now?” I purr, testing the authenticity of his leer.
Are you done yet? Or should I finish you off?
A startled, ravenous glint cuts through his pupils. Arousal? Self-loathing? They both look the same on him, and dammit, I’m not far behind. The sensations collide below my navel, clashing lower, lower, lower, but I welcome them. I want these emotions to blur, to cancel one another out. I want them to be indistinguishable from one another, impossible to feel separately. If not, they’ll have too much power.
Evidently, the feeing’s mutual. Soon enough, the Fae remembers he finds my kind appalling. He cringes, those eyes festering with contempt, which suits me fine. I need him to fuck off before I start getting used to his weight.
Cerulean releases me and slips off the cot. Air rushes in, my lungs expanding. He doesn’t nab the whip as a precaution, probably because his javelin leans against the fireplace wall, situated in within grabbing range.
Moth was right. The ruler of the sky had known where to find me.
Maybe he’d accept a fair brawl. Nonetheless, my bones are limp, and I have a feeling this is a cease-fire. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with the fire, the food, my wounds, or my clothes.
Cerulean saunters into the kitchen and returns with a chalice of water. The swish of liquid rekindles my thirst, my tongue as dry as parchment. I watch him lounge sideways on one of the chairs before the fire, his limbs thrown over the arm, the same way he’d sat on his throne. Routinely, he manages to make every lethargic pose seem polished and every careless gesture appear elegant.
The Fae drinks, the muscles in his neck contracting. Licking his lips, he inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Nothing’s poisoned or toxic, except for the canister of chimera berries. They were an impulsive addition, however they’re also native to Faerie. Sweet they may be, but they’ll char a mortal’s womb to cinders if gorged on. In which case, ingest those in limited qualities, and chew slowly.” His voice drips with innuendo. “Very slowly.”
“What is this?” I balk. “What are we doing?”
“Literally, figuratively, or magically?”
“What are we doing temporarily?”
“Ah. Consider this a parley before I send you out, out, out and back into the big, bad labyrinthine world.”
Yeah. He and Moth are two peas in a pod. “Sustenance. Bandages. The rules say I’ve gotta win this on my own.”
“There you go, being human and translating the fine points verbatim. Winning on your own does not mean favors are forbidden.”
Go figure, particularly if it’s in the Fae’s interest to help.
His eyes follow me as I wrap the blanket around my body and shuffle into the kitchen. A feast weighs down the dining table. Roasted partridge with steaming pears, bread crusted with seeds, a wedge of hard cheese, a date cake embedded with walnuts and topped with cream, that canister of chimera berries he’d mentioned—they look like raspberries, except they’re green—a jug of milk, a pitcher of water, and a pot of coffee.
I’m proud, but I’m not too proud to accept a meal when I’m dehydrated and starving. Anybody who does is plain stupid.
Problem is, every morsel might be jinxed. I thought the same with Moth’s prickly, pomelike fruit. If Cerulean can’t glamour me with music, does that extend to food? I could bite into a wedge of cheese without knowing it’s a moldy liver crawling with maggots.
From the living room, his lingering gaze dares me to find out.
A hutch displays earthenware cups, carafes, and flagons. I choose a cup, fill it with water, and sip carefully. When my heart keeps beating, and my body parts stay in the same place, and I don’t have twisted visions, I take another swig. Then, because he’s still watching, I pitch that sucker down my pipe, moaning inwardly. The liquid sloshes across my tongue, rinsing away the dryness.
Best to let Cerulean think his interest has no effect on me. Pouring another cup, I return to the living room and perch on the chair across from him, making sure to skid several inches from the flames. The fireplace writhes and spits embers. Flinching, I think about cinders c
ollecting in the pit and smoke suffocating the chimney’s throat.
I’m no fan of ashes. Or chimneys. Or anything enclosed.
Most times, I disguise this reflex, even from my sisters. Though it doesn’t go unnoticed here. Cerulean quirks a brow at my actions, but I’m not gonna explain myself.
And instead of asking, he swerves toward the flames. His ankles cross, and the chalice dangles precariously from his fingers while flaxen light illuminates the wing-shaped caps at the tips of his ears.
The blanket emits a whiff of thyme and soap. I snuggle into the folds and take hefty chugs of water.
“This bores me,” Cerulean says, swiveling his chalice. The rotation causes the contents to darken from translucent to dark grape. I blink, inhaling blackthorn wine.
I lower my own cup to my lap and whistle. “Where were you when I tried to spike the elderberry cordial at Reverie Hollow’s annual jubilee?”
Cerulean tosses me a wry, sidelong glance. “Your favorite drink, I gather?”
“Not even close: coffee.”
“That was my second guess.”
“I bet it was. Speaking of hot drinks, where’s Moth? She promised to drown me in verbena tea.”
“For the same reason I attended to you, no doubt.”
“Something like that,” I answer.
“Fauna duties required her attention,” he says, as if I’m supposed to understand that. “I relieved her of the burden in dealing with you, providing that I promise you don’t—”
“Touch or take anything? I got her warning.”
“What else did you get from her?” Cerulean peers at me. “An edge in the game?”
Moth identified my location. She tossed me a bone about Middle Moon. She said the Fae are reporting my progress to one another, if not observing the game for themselves. Nothing extreme, but it’s more than I knew yesterday.
I tick my head toward the exposed clench of his torso. “She told me you don’t like to wear turtlenecks.”
“What’s it like to lie? I’m on tenterhooks,” he inquires.
“What’s it like to imitate our lies?” I counter.
Cerulean gives me a dirty look. “Imitating you is the last of a Fae’s ambitions. Did you bribe Moth with mortal goodies? Trying to unearth the mountain’s secrets and, thus, skew the odds in your favor? She has a weakness for baubles.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Eternal damnation comes to mind, or a refreshing dip in the brimstone bog. That shall discipline her.”
“Ever heard of a good old-fashioned scolding?”
“And you call us lazy.”
“Lemme spell it out, you prick,” I snap. “If you hadn’t sent a manic flock of hornets after me, I’d have taken shelter elsewhere.”
“Yes. I did that, didn’t I?”
Silly me, I’d been searching for a shred of decency. In any case, I pick up on his airy tone. He’s got some sort of camaraderie with Moth and won’t lay a finger on her.
“What did you say to Moth at The Parliament of Owls?” I broach. “You were arguing about me in your language.”
“It’s called Faeish,” Cerulean supplies. “Moth repeated herself, venting that you were lying about being unafraid of Faeries. Quite frankly, I told her I doubted it very much.” He tips back the rest of the chalice, then flicks it into the fire, the vessel shattering into chunks and then vanishing. “Since you’re here, you can listen.”
I perk up. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll talk back.”
“Moth grudgingly implied you were snarky but tolerable. She was covered in an obscene amount of trinkets when I relieved her. So I ask again, was this a tactic to charm details out of Moth?”
“Maybe I was being polite.”
“To a contentious Fae who would sooner see you peeled to the bone.”
“I don’t attack unless threatened. I’m not gonna lower myself to your level. There’s this thing called humanity. Not that you monsters know what that means.”
Cerulean swings upright. His heels click against the floor as he pitches forward, crossing his arms over his knees. “Indulge me then,” he drawls. “Where was that humanity nine years ago? Hmm?”
I tense. Guess we’re doing this now. “I can’t speak for my elders. I was a tyke when The Trapping happened.”
“And I expected more from you than that.”
“You’re a fucking hypocrite! I don’t owe you a damn thing! The lot of you enchant mortals against their will, glamour ’em into slaves, and dangle ’em from strings for your amusement. You punish ’em for forgetting to leave gifts on their porches—shit they can’t afford to spare anyway. You traumatize and maim my people. You warp ’em into seeing ogres and hobgoblins when they look in the mirror. You slash messages into their skin. You use the wind, the trees, and the water to petrify ’em. You wipe the floor with their souls and louse up their livelihoods.”
I should take a breath, come up for air, but I can’t. Everything flies out of my mouth, vaulting into the cramped space between us. “You have the nerve to call us worthless when you’re the ones using magic on people who don’t have the means to defend ’emselves? And for what? Your Courts waste their powers fighting over thrones, not because they want to make your world a better place, not because they give a damn about being leaders, but so they can fondle a scepter like it’s a cock, step over the ones they don’t like, and piss on the rest. Meanwhile, you Solitary louts waste your time punishing us instead of dealing with yourselves, then you call it a day.
“Name one time when your magic did any good! Ever use it to inspire, teach, learn, or build? What the fuck else do you creatures do all day besides attack us?
“I’ll tell you what. Magic doesn’t make you stronger or tougher. It makes you greedy and entitled. That’s what makes you weak. That’s what makes you cowards. You expect mercy from us, when you’ve shown none to begin with? Get over yourself!”
Cerulean’s gaze burns into mine. His orbs narrow, the pigment sliced through with shards of white. “Very careful, little Lark.”
That means I should quit while I’m ahead. “Anything else you want to know, you can ask my fist!”
“Come, now. You have wiggle room for one more question.” Grasping the sides of my chair, he cages me in and whispers, “A number of our fauna are no longer here because they became mortal pawns, and a number of young Fae suffered alongside them, becoming causalities of war. Did they deserve it?”
Fuck. That shuts me up.
“You claim to be the braver, more honorable culture. I ask you this: Do your courts not fight the same petty power battles? Do your people not abuse one another, judge one another, abandon one another, ostracize one another? Do you not kill your own for selfish gain or impassioned bitterness? Do you not call someone an enemy merely because they disagree with you? Do you not pass beggars on the street without a second thought, pretending they don’t exist? Do you not sell your consciences and morals to the highest bidder?”
He pushes closer. “And do you not violate your own fauna? Do you not slaughter your animals for reasons other than nourishment and clothing? Do you not treat the creatures of your land as possessions? Do you not mount their carcasses on your walls and display them as trophies? Do you not expand that treatment across cultures and realms?”
“I’m no trade poacher!” I shout. “I don’t—”
“To vanquish us by extension, you mauled our sacred dwellers. Fae animals drowned or dismembered, their wings and hides and horns shredded or severed. Through them, your quest was to lay waste to our very existence.”
“You were glamouring and murdering my people! They were scared and desperate! They were protecting their families!”
“And what about our families?” Cerulean spits, fencing me in until our noses tap. “However rare, we have our own children. Rather than limit yourselves to our elders, you caged Fae striplings as well—anyone, at any age, who tried to save those animals. You wrested them from their parents, their siblings
, and their fauna kin. You tossed them behind iron bars and taunted them as they wailed from the blisters. Can you accuse us of that? Can you accuse us of harming mortal youths?”
My ears ring. I was young back then, yet I knew about it. You can’t live in a village full of cluckers and not know about the harshest bits of its history. Aside from slaying Faeries in combat, The Trapping had been the only other way to destroy them.
Cerulean’s right, though. The Solitaries never harm our youths. Reports circulate about changelings amongst the Court Fae, but not in Reverie Hollow.
Yet we trapped Fae tykes as well the fauna. I know, because that’s one thing I did see during The Trapping. That’s one incident I’ve got firsthand experience with.
Cerulean hisses, the temple in his head pounding like a fist. “Here you are, believing in retaliation of the same magnitude. Are you the more honorable ones, then? Is everything in your world fair and kindly? Does it make you braver?” His tongue flicks out the last word. Then he hitches his shoulder. “Granted, that’s more than one question, but I’m a Fae. And we’re so very, very greedy.”
The fire scorches my toes. Didn’t see that speech coming and don’t know what to think. The Fae played dirty, and humans rebelled for their lives by playing equally as dirty. So where does that leave us?
He traces my features, his gaze teetering on a precipice. At the last moment, he shoves himself backward, about to stand.
My hackles rise. This can’t end now, purely because he decides it should.
“Cerulean—” I hook my foot around his chair leg and give it a yank. The furnishing hits the backs of his knees and drops him onto the cushion, and I jolt the seat nearer to me, “—we’re not done here.”
He scowls, otherwise intrigued. “You mutinous thing, you.”
“It’s true. We’ve got our dark sides, same as you. But unlike you, the villagers believed they had no other choice, no other way to fight for their existence. You had magic on your side. All they had was iron and rage.
“The thought of caging tykes and animals makes me retch, and trust me, I’m the last person who’d have hurt any of them. If I’d been older, I would have tried to find another way. In fact, my papa protested the attack plan but was overruled, because not everyone’s merciful in a crusade, or a rebellion, or a war. Don’t tell me you don’t know this.”
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 12
