“Why can’t I feel just one thing around you?” I ask.
“Why do I feel many things around you?” he replies.
“Why do I hear a hundred different words in a single one?”
“Why does a single word inspire a hundred different reactions?”
“Why the fuck did you block the path?”
“Why am I tempted to reveal it?”
Sure, he’s tempted. But he won’t do it.
We watch each other. Where is all this coming from?
Papa Thorne likes to josh affectionately that my hair’s white because I dropped from the clouds. Never the same shape from one day to the next, quick to change, quicker to move.
And Cerulean really is the sky, maneuvering and speaking like the wind. His features are cut high and wide. His thoughts are expansive.
But he’s got a secret. I know he does, same as I do. He shifts from lightness to darkness, from day to night, with each tint and shade of blue.
With each tint and shade of blue…
I blink. “Your true name is Cerulean, isn’t it?”
He tenses, his features seizing up. If a person knows the real name of a Fae, it gives that person control over that Fae.
“You keep it hidden in plain sight,” I accuse.
“I’m a Fae,” he says. “Many things are hidden in plain sight.”
“That’s a big gamble.”
“What is not?”
In a perfect world, this should mean everything. I could tell him to release me or order him to transport me to the mountaintop. But it’s not a perfect world, because the nitty-gritty terms had been explicit. One, if I don’t reach the peak, whatever my sisters are struggling with becomes forfeit. Two, I’ve gotta make it by myself, with my own two feet.
I’m no fraud. If I’ve got one thing to prove, it’s that a mortal doesn’t need magic.
Cerulean’s not as furious as he should be that I unearthed his secret; maybe he knows I’m fixing to negotiate. He looms over me with a guarded countenance and muses, “I do believe I’m about to be rendered speechless.”
“How do you know?”
“You haven’t failed to leave me thus yet.”
“Oh, boy. Flattery.”
His blue lips quirk with bitterness. “Do not get accustomed to it.”
“Fine by me. I’d rather flatter myself than rely on someone else to do it. Regardless, I vow to relinquish control over you—on one condition. You said lots of things are hidden in plain sight, so do us both a favor and point out the other route I don’t see.”
Slowly, Cerulean shakes his head. “A most provocative, perplexing, profound human.” His magnetic pupils gleam, then dart toward the wall where I’m plastered. “Why, you’re swooning against it.”
Well, that figures. But we don’t budge.
One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.
I slip beneath his arm and rush to the cottage, where I stutter to a halt, gulping mouthfuls of air. I’ve gotta pull myself together, because whatever’s fizzing between us means nothing. The thought alone is rotten and unforgivable, and I won’t let it get the better of me.
I mash my feet into my socks and boots. Then I don my cloak, strap on my pack, and refill the waterskin from the pitcher. I salvage the leftover scraps at the dining table, wrapping them in cloth, then snatch my whip. Migrating outside, I see that Cerulean hasn’t moved. He faces the boulder with his head bent and forearm cranked against the hard surface.
Thing is, I can’t tell if it’s more dangerous here than wherever I’m headed.
I start to move past him, but the tether of his voice slides around my limbs. “Why didn’t you ask for more?”
I halt and glance at his profile, hewn from a blade, from his calves to his ears. I had his real name in my pocket but didn’t abuse it like I could have. Mercurial as Cerulean is, he’d anticipated as much from me, which is why he hadn’t thrown an immediate, Fae-worthy fit.
What he hadn’t banked on was my request, and his culture resents being humbled. Why hadn’t I asked for more?
“Because I’m not you,” I tell him.
There’s a long pause. Finally, Cerulean regroups and slants his head my way, an impish twinkle brightening his features. “There are three ways from here. One, you shall desire. One, you shall regret. One, well, I would not take if I were you.”
I peek at the environment, then swing around as the wind filters through the wild. By the time I’ve rounded completely, he’s nowhere in sight. I shake off the disappointment. Demented as it seems, I’m getting a perverse satisfaction out of our verbal jousts. Figures that fucker gets the last word.
I whirl toward the cliff, scanning its broad girth until a camouflaged lane appears carved into the foundation. I follow the cavity, which slides around the bluff’s hip. A pair of torches flare to life, igniting the mountain’s scalloped edge. Steep stairs, chipped into the boundary, rise and dip in quick succession, each one separated by a jump. My fingernails dig into the bluff, and sweat beads across my hairline.
I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Up here, I can be a bird or a cloud.
It takes a few tries before my legs move, and then I’m mounting the steps, the increasing elevation hitting the backs of my knees. I step and pause, step and pause, step and pause, step and pause, step and pause. I think back to my chimney days, when I clung my imagination, the only means to escape tight, suffocating spaces.
Me, covered in soot. Me, pretending to flap my wings.
Ignoring the fog-laced abyss and garlands of stars, I conjure each bloody scab and clump of ash I’d survived before this—and I jump to the next set of steps, hitting the stone without breaking skin, grasping the bulbous rock handles.
I keep stepping, pausing, stepping, pausing. By the time I reach the landing, sweat drips down my thighs. I made it, but it doesn’t feel good.
Because there’s more. I’m in a courtyard where the route splits into three torchlit gorges seething with mist. A new signpost stands in the center, its markers designating locations.
The Fauna Tower
The Mistral Ropes
Back the Way You Came
The way I came? Does that mean back to a place I’ve already been or back to the beginning? It’s supposed to be an enticement, in case I have second thoughts about where I’m headed. Since once a path is chosen, it can’t be unchosen, this has got to be an exception or a hoax.
What about the other two? I mouth what Cerulean had said. One path, I’ll desire. One, I’ll regret. One, he wouldn’t take if he were me.
A route he wouldn’t take as a human—but he would take as a Fae? I mull that over, then unravel my whip to see what the breeze yields.
Fear the wind. Follow the wind.
I make for the second path. The vapor envelopes me, tendrils lapping at my clothing, the gorge so narrow I can’t spread my arms. It’s a tunnel. The stars disappear, but glowing tufts of wood sorrel germinate from the ceiling. I hear myself panting, a set of plumes skating past my cheek. All other noises dilute to nothing.
At last, the tunnel yawns open to the range, where ivy climbs segments of rock, and fog crowns the peaks. A walkway curves ahead, one side installed into the precipice, the other framed by an ornate railing. The passage winds through pockets of the mountainside, but I relax as the trail maintains an even plane.
Several hours pass. A soft blue bleeds into the dome of sky, dandelion puffs of white and teal pulsing. That signpost had offered me a choices, but it hadn’t said how long each one would take.
As I stop and realize this, churlish laughter peals from a recess. I twist, catching sight of three figures lounging in the trees, each one resembling a phoenix.
Molten red tresses. Yellow skin that crackles like kindling.
Firebird profiles. Blistering eyes. Flaming wings that smoke at the quills’ tips.
“Lost, human?” one taunts.
“Want to be found?” another tempts.
“We promise t
o bite,” a third carols.
Tingling warmth seeps into my bloodstream. A hazy sensation slides around my waist, tugging me in their direction. My eyelashes flutter, my heels skid, and I slow my pace.
Maybe they’re nice. Maybe I’d like them.
A smile tips the corners of my mouth, then drops like pebbles when a draft swoops in and hits the branches. The Faeries pout. Clarity pinches the nape of my neck, anchoring me right before I fling myself into the trees, where the monsters wait.
Stumped, I check myself, making sure nothing happened. They’d almost glamoured me.
I’m a bigmouth, but not tonight. I bolt down the walkway, only looking back to throw the knaves a grimy look. Cruel amusement scrunches their faces as they recline lazily across the boughs. One of them touts that human-thumb charm, the bones jingling between his brows.
I whip around, ignoring the echoes of “What a pity,” and “Watch your step,” and “You’ll never beat him,” and “Until we meet again,” and “Soon.”
It’s not a bluff. Even if they could lie, I’ve witnessed phony displays of bravado from village bullies. I’ve been on the receiving end of those shams, too. Those firebirds are betting on another meeting, probably with more of their kind in tow.
Hell, I’m good at bluffing, too. When the heckles don’t seem to faze me, they sing a ditty of parting words in Faeish.
The trip is a delirium of stairs, ramps, and ladders. It’s an oddity of gradients and slopes, of alluring and horrific shadows. For days, I plod up the mountain, camping in thickets and rationing the meager leftovers of partridge, bread, cheese, and water I’d packed. No idea what Cerulean smeared on my wounds, but they heal right quick, enabling me to shuck the bandages.
I can’t sleep at night and leave myself vulnerable to the Fae. But I can’t rest during the day, either, because ideally that’s the most undisturbed time to travel.
In the end, I’d rather not dream at their mercy. The lesser of the two evils is to camp when the sun is up. The instant that gilded coin rises, I fall into a restless slumber while tucked in the shrubs, hidden from slicing wings and hungry predators.
Not all the animals are safe to be near. One particular day, the resonant groan of a feline on the hunt—much larger than a bobcat—keeps me awake. While passing through the wildcat’s territory later, I stumble upon a human skull and retch into the underbrush.
The Herd of Rams is a craggy terrain, where a queue of rams trails a ledge embedded into the ragged rocks. Their spindly limbs crank, their hooves sprinkling gold dust behind them, their coiled horns pierced with teal hoops, akin to earrings.
At a babbling brook, geese wade among the ripples. The frigid water revives my scabbed feet as I watch them, savoring the respite and rapt by the verdant glow lacing through their feathers. The gaggle is friendly, their webbed feet splashing around me. Grinning, I pet their frothy heads and chuckle at their brassy honks, which seem to echo and travel for miles.
At that point, I don’t give a flying fuck who sees me, so I use the opportunity to bathe and refill my waterskin.
For whatever it’s worth, the voyage from the brook is direct—until I hit a dead end. I wobble to a standstill and blink at the rope ladder swinging in front of the precipice. Sometime during the trek, I’d almost forgotten what route I chose.
The Mistral Ropes.
I sink to my knees and laugh myself silly, mostly to keep from crying. My guffaws stumble across the range, merging with the clapping rowans. As I crane my head, I know this is going to hurt.
A baby tornado thrashes overhead, causing the rope ladder to shudder. I double check that my pack’s fastened and begin to scale the rungs. The fibers bend beneath my soles, croaking as I go.
The ground shrinks beneath me. I’m suspended above the world, unable to tell how high I need to climb. My body’s been smarting for days, and now it’s inflamed, sizzling from the inside out.
The tumult slams into me. It smears my hair into my face and kicks the rope sideways.
My heart dives to my ankles. On a yelp, I slip and hang there. Then I scramble, my fingers clamping around the weave and hoisting me back up. My forehead lands against a patch of ivy gushing through a chink in the cliff. I take a moment, reassuring myself that I’ve made it this far.
Yet I’m fuming. And I’m so, so, so, so, so tired of this shit.
The fantasy of revenge sends a fresh wave of energy through my limbs. I climb, stomping onto the rungs and hauling myself up, thinking nothing, feeling nothing but I will obliterate you.
I wonder what he’s doing right now. Right now in this dark realm, in his vicious corner of this land. Is he whispering? Is he lying on his back? Breathing heavy? Dreaming I won’t last?
How many hours a day does he shut his lids in confusion? When he opens them, how far does his gaze venture? How much of this mountain can he see at once?
I don’t know if I’m moving anymore. All I know is, I’m thinking of him, and then I’m thinking of someone else. I sink into the memory of that ethereal boy and the nights we spent together, when I’d sneak out to keep him company. Grief worms into my chest, resurrecting how it felt to miss that boy when those nights ended, to mourn what happened to him, and to blame myself.
With every successful step, a terrible yearning contracts in my belly until I’m aching from it, on the verge of sobbing. The visions of two males swirl together, one from then, one from now—and I lose balance.
My toe slides from the ladder. One of my arms follow.
I turn into a sail, the wind snatching me with a thwack. My left hand grips the rung, but the air latches around my ankles and yanks. With a guttural growl, I hang on, hang on, hang on, dangling over the forest valley.
Flurries slap me from side to side. If I fall, I might land broken and lifeless at Juniper’s feet. Or I’ll fall into a snaking river and wash away to wherever Cove has ended up.
Through the howling gale, a fluttering sound fills my ears. Everything slows as I gander sideways, to where a bird hovers, painted in a swirl of dazzling gemstone brown and turquoise. It’s the chick from The Watch of Nightingales.
The one I’d played with. The one he’d whispered to.
With a chirp, it catapults into the heights, into a wad of clouds blocking the crest. My fingers sweat, and my grip slips.
I can’t last. I can’t hold on. I can’t fly.
But my whip can.
The wind gives a mighty shove, and the rope ladder disappears from my grasp. For a second, I’m floating, flailing midair. Then I’m fighting. Wrestling against the wind, my hand unhitches the weapon and whisks it overhead, following the nightingale’s path.
The whip lassos onto a protrusion. The length jerks taut. Screaming, I snap in place, both hands wrapped around the handle. I flap there, my body blown horizontally.
With a roar, I try hefting myself across the cord. I go slack again, barely maintaining a grip while the windstorm rages. I picture a little girl sardined inside a chimney, gazing at the sky through the flue’s cap, her freedom so near, so out of reach. I think about that girl wishing she’d grow wings. I think about that girl, who grew up to save wounded birds.
I think about the aviary and my sanctuary friends. I think about soaring.
Then I don’t have to think, because my fingers lose their hold on the whip.
And that’s when I start to fly.
16
On my way down, I spot the cord strapped to a rocky stud above the rope ladder, the weapon’s tail lashing about—a thin arm searching frantically for me.
My whip. I’ve lost my whip.
I might be screaming, or I might be silent, it’s hard to tell. The atmosphere blasts into my ears, blasts of it plugging my nostrils and watering my eyes. With my arms splayed, I fumble for purchase, but it’s no use.
A winged shadow blots out the moonlight, emitting a long caw that rolls across the valley. It reminds me that I’m no bird, that I’ll never fly, because I’m too busy being human.
I’m falling, falling, falling—my chest jolts to a halt. A swatch of air slaps my body, while breath whooshes from my lungs.
The sky catches me.
Like a puppet, my limbs snap as if tacked to invisible strings, my nose punting a pillowy surface. I grunt, landing on a pallet of plumes, the vanes waxen yet downy. The wind mellows, enabling me to suck in oxygen, the odors of aged bark shooting up my nose.
A strong back revolves under me, a pair of wings spreading on either side. The bird of prey has an impossible girth, its size akin to a small dragon, though I’ve only seen those creatures in illustrations from Juniper’s books. A boundless landmass of barbs, fluff, and stems unfolds into those undulating wings, the mantles buffeting the great big nothing underneath us.
I gawk at the massive owl, my whip caught safely in its beak. As the raptor coasts across the range and I cling to its mammoth form, shock robs me of speech. Glimpsing the avian’s bronze feathers and the shafts of its ear tufts impaling the clouds, I know which animal this is.
Warm limbs straddle my upturned ass. I break from my stupor and twist, meeting a pair of derisive blue eyes.
“Careful,” Cerulean advises. “Or you’ll fall.”
“How…,” I stammer. “What the fu…”
I recall him whispering to that nightingale chick. That same bird had fluttered beside me while I dangled from the rope. So Cerulean had assigned the wee one to spy on me.
Follow the wind.
And that’s how he knows where I am at all times. Even though he sent the nightingale to watch over me, that had been a precaution. The wind tells him where I am.
The Fae sits astride his owl, the elements ravaging his hair. His arms flex, palms resting on his spread thighs, the limbs encased in graphite linen. He rides without reins, without holding on to the creature, as if he does this all the time. Like this, he lives up to his title.
He’s majestic. He’s elegant. He’s dead meat.
“You son of a bitch!” I dive across the owl for him. My hands make it halfway around his throat when his reflexes kick in, seizing my arms and hauling me against his chest.
“Now is that any way to greet your savior?” he berates.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 14
