“Not this room,” I say.
Silence. I turn to where Cerulean hovers, his height dominating the hall. “I need another room,” I repeat. And because there’s no other way to explain, I add, “A room without a fireplace. Please.”
Moth squints, parsing through my words for a ruse.
Cerulean’s penetrating gaze tests my patience. Other than my waterskin and the hidden feather, there’s nothing left in the pack strapped to my back. Definitely nothing he’d value and nothing I’m willing to give up.
To compensate, I yank on the decorative tassels dangling from the strings at my cloak’s neckline. It takes a few tries, but the garment wasn’t of quality to begin with, so they eventually come off.
I offer the tassels to him. “All I’ve got, but here.”
Cerulean bats away the frippery. He leans toward Moth and murmurs private instructions, then finishes in a droll tone, “Jakadun fér.”
With that, the Fae turns on his heel. But halfway down the hall, he changes his mind and wheels back. Wordlessly, he accepts the tassels and plunks them into Moth’s hands, then glides down the hallway without a backward glance, his figure slipping around a corner.
Appeased, Moth jams the tassels into her pocket and knocks her head toward the opposite hall. She shepherds me along the mezzanine and passes over another curtained threshold. This chamber’s fancier than anything I’ve ever snored in. Inside, there’s a poster bed draped in bone-dyed cloth, plus a tripod table, a cushioned chair, and a wardrobe that resembles a monument rather than a closet, so tall it might climb through the ceiling one day.
More of that ivy laces the corner wall. There’s no fireplace in sight.
It’s tough not offering thanks, until I glance at the pinched countenance next to me, and I remember to whom it belongs. “What are you—”
“I’m the groundskeeper,” Moth answers. “I tend to the fauna when Cerulean’s not here to do it himself. Though he’s stubborn, insistent upon handling the responsibilities himself.”
I stare at her, waylaid. When Cerulean showed up at The Black Nest, he was angry to find Moth with me. I’d thought he was scolding her for neglecting some trivial or shallow job, when it turns out he was miffed that she wasn’t looking after the park and its creatures. Though in Moth’s defense, she was trying to unlock the mystery of Cerulean’s impotent flute.
“I’m good at my job, mind you,” the whippersnapper insists, then glares at me with every fiber of her being. “Don’t you wish to know what he said before leaving? He asked me to behave myself, but I’m not in the mood to be charming. He should have let you tumble. Nothing’s stopped him before.”
“Hey, now.” I dump myself on the bed, which bounces beneath my rear. “I don’t want to be here, and I don’t know why I can’t leave, so stop looking at me like that.”
“Escaping will do you no good.”
“Me? Escape?” I ask innocently.
“Feel free, but you won’t get far,” Moth warns. “Cerulean—”
“—will know,” I predict. “Well, he should also know that stealing a whole day from me isn’t fair, nor is it…what’s the word you monsters use? Polite?”
“Daft human. Didn’t I tell you in the cottage? Middle Moon begins tonight.”
Ah, shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Moth had told me about Middle Moon, the period that marks the historical birth of fauna. Except she hadn’t mentioned when that lunar event began.
“So long as black swells inside the moon—a globe within a globe, so to speak—travel on the mountain is forbidden to every soul except for the fauna,” she says. “We can’t go anywhere during that time, other than to the revels, which doesn’t include you. As a mortal, you’re to stay put. Unless you want to take your chances insulting the animals, then go ahead and do me the favor. While the raptors are busy pecking you to bits, I’ll be dancing my wings off.”
Again, shit. The masquerade. She’d mentioned that as well.
However, Moth had omitted the part about not being mobile. So that’s what she meant in the cottage, about the celebration setting me back.
“Sounds dandy,” I mutter. “When does this circus begin? Where does it take place? What happens there?”
“It’s none of your concern. Either way, you’re hence delayed from reaching the top.” A smirk unravels across the runt’s face. “I’ll leave you to sleep on that.”
“You like it?” I ask, unable to help myself. “You like tending to ’em?”
Moth pauses her retreat. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“For Fable’s sake,” I groan. “You’re one defensive nugget.”
“I’m not defensive, I’m hostile. Your people made sure of that.”
“Meaning, you weren’t hostile before The Trapping?”
Moth crosses her thimble-sized arms. “I love tending to the fauna.”
An awkward smile slants across my face. “I get that.”
“How would you get anything about me?”
What’s the point? She wouldn’t believe me if I told her, and I reckon it’s not worth the effort. What do I expect? She’s been raised to scorn humans, same as we’ve been raised to rue the day Faeries were born.
Moth hesitates, sifting through the residue of our conversation. She opens her mouth to squawk something else, but instead she turns up her backside and batters her way through the curtain.
I unstrap my pack to make sure the feather and waterskin are accounted for. Reassured, I abandon the bed, pace toward the window, and grip the sill. I’m marooned for a full day, until the passing of Middle Moon. If I’d clung to my rope better, I could have avoided bunking here.
Dawn crawls over the range, the window offering a view of the multilevel park, where wild grunts and chirps resound among the hedges. The crush of greenery quivers here and there to indicate a wandering animal. A roar rumbles from the trellis paths, and it sounds like…a very big cat.
I crane my neck, hoping to spot the source. Eventually, I give up, smiling wanly at a chartreuse mallard with paddle-sized feet splashing through a rivulet.
How far is this spot from the mountaintop? Astride the owl, I’d committed to memory as much of the vista’s terrain as I could, all the while swept away by the sensation of flight. Still, I can’t pinpoint this area’s location in relationship to the peak.
Beyond the tower, I spot that circular building perched on an adjacent peak. The structure’s entwined offshoots rise in a vertical grid, forming the building’s shape. The gaps appear open, lacking reflections of light or any hints of glass. Instead, foliage flounces from the rifts, as it does at the crown.
And is that a bridge leading to it? Where does it start?
Returning to the bed, I collapse on the mattress, realization slapping me across the face. I should have plummeted into that valley. If it weren’t for the nightingale and the owl, I’d have lost this battle for my sisters.
I’m not gonna credit Cerulean. But in a roundabout way—guess that’s the only way in Faerie—I’d done myself a service by not taking advantage of his name. It ensured my own survival from The Mistral Ropes.
But I almost died.
My palms shake. The numbing shock begins to thaw as I curl up and cover my wilting face, my body shuddering.
As my eyelids drift shut, I remember the sensation of flying. Though it hadn’t been me soaring, because I’m no bird, much less a drifting cloud. I’m just a girl who’ll fall the moment her foot slips, the moment she reaches out for things she can’t have.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time…
17
Nine Years Ago
In the field at night, I dash after the melody of birdsong. It’s a whistling lullaby, curling its finger across the wind and beckoning me in its direction. The moon swells like a great big puddle in the black sky, and the elderberry bushes rustle—shh, shh, shh—their leafy fingers snagging on my nightgown. My bare toes kick up moist, sable clumps of dirt.
I’d snuck out again with
my sisters. For fun, we’d been playing a wildlife game of hide-and-seek, complete with our favorite animal masks. But we’d gotten separated, which happens sometimes. That’s when I’d heard the nightingale.
I try to sing back, but my gritty voice makes me sound like a crow that hasn’t slept. I shouldn’t be chasing after the bird’s ballad. Being alone without Juniper and Cove is scary Fae business, especially with The Trapping freshly over. Even though the villagers have captured the Faeries who tried to save their fauna, some of the Folk might be spoiling for vengeance. Papa’s warned us about this a thousand-and-three times, but it’s so hard to obey.
Plus, I’m no babe in a bassinet. I’m ten years old. That’s two whole digits.
On the other hand, wherever they are, I bet Juniper is vexed by now, and Cove is crying. I don’t like to think of Cove crying, so I’ll leave in a minute. Just a minute, and everything will be all right, and we’ll finish our game.
If we don’t, I’ll have another nightmare about those poor, mystical animals I can’t save. I’m too little and don’t have special powers, so I’ve been blubbering myself to sleep most nights. The villagers say they’re doing this to protect us, but I don’t understand it. Thinking about those creatures, all I want is to rescue them, because how different can they be?
And what’s so bad about being different?
My sisters feel the same. So does Papa Thorne, but he keeps telling us not to say anything like that in public.
The elderberry bushes give way to reeds of green. Hunkering low, I’m a lark whistling through the grass. When I find the musical nightingale nesting at the base of a tree, I give it a bow and then twirl to its merry lullaby. Beneath the stars, I laugh and hop in circles…until something happens, because in a land like this one, things always happen. I spin so fast, yet my mask doesn’t fall. Instead, I do.
I fall because I’d been whirling too quickly, and a sudden wind chops through the underbrush, and the nightingale swallows its own whistle. It stops singing, then flees in a flurry of plumes. I land on my ass with a grunt and peer through the holes of my costume, gawking at the avian’s retreat.
Then I hear another bird.
A strange bird. A strange, screeching bird. A strange, screeching bird that I’ve never heard before.
The sound is something like a caw and nothing like a caw. I don’t know what to call it other than magical. I should run, run right now, run and find my sisters.
Papa would slay me. Juniper would lecture me. Cove would plead with me.
And I wouldn’t listen to them, so I don’t. After adjusting the lark mask, I crawl across the field, heading toward the glassblower’s forge. Muck stains my nightgown and cakes my nails. My white hair tumbles from my cloak’s hood, so I tie it into a knot and tuck it beneath the material, out of sight and out of the way. One of these days, I’m gonna take shears to my head.
The stone forge huddles in a pocket of trees at the end of a cobbled lane, surrounded by verdant stalks that move with the wind. The sliding door is bolted shut. Scurrying to the entrance, I flinch at the shrill noise thrashing from inside. My skin pebbles with delicious, stupid fear. What’s in there?
Who’s in there?
Because I can hear better now, I realize it’s not a bird, because birds don’t grunt and growl. The sounds jumble together, freakish, furious.
The forge trembles. I dart back on my haunches, pluck a feather from my mask, jam the tip into the bolt, and give it a jimmy. Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit, it won’t—yeah, it will! The lock slumps open like a mouth, emitting a thin wheeze. I cringe, because I’m probably doing something that shouldn’t be overheard, not by the glassblower—I forgot his name—and most definitely not by the thing inside his workshop. The villagers have clucking tongues and eyes as wide as the sky. If anyone catches me, I’ll be in a heap of trouble.
But then, nobody’s around at this hour. And I’ve already done plenty to get in a heap of trouble, so what’s one more crime?
The thing inside makes too much of a racket to detect me as I creep open the door and peek inside. Along with pails, funny-looking tools clutter the walls: tubes and pipes, tongs and clipperlike objects, and long rods. In a shelf case, glass balls with blue and green reflections perch on blocks that keep them steady. An elastic knitting of cobwebs spans the rafters, directly above an unlit furnace. Starlight and moonlight trickle through the roof.
It’s enough illumination for me to spot the cage. Behind the lark mask, my eyes pop. I grip the door, goggling around its corner at the curving iron bars, the iron door handle, and the iron latch. Stooping in the middle of the workshop is a figure. It flails about, fighting to get free. Limbs beat and scratch the bars, fingers singeing, tendrils of smoke sizzling. The prisoner doesn’t seem to care, just keeps battering the cage and making it shudder.
The figure’s head twitches, turning this way and that. The movements threaten and beg at the same time. It’s desperate stuff. The stuff of frustration. I can’t decide if the display is pitiful or perilous.
My heart jumps into my throat as I squint harder. I see loose trousers and an oversized shirt. I see tense shoulders. I see kneeling legs and bent fingers clawing at the iron. I see a hunched spine and a shadowed profile with a beak.
I see pointy ears. I see a boy who’s not a boy.
And when the not-boy stops throwing his tantrum, the back of his head snaps up in awareness. And when his head whips over his shoulder, I see a mask. And behind that mask, I think he sees me, too.
Small, dark blue feathers—the shade of nightfall—fan around his head, covering the upper half of his face. I imagine he’s got vicious eyes. In this murky forge, and from this distance, and because of the visor, I can’t make out those orbs. But I sure do feel them.
A Fae. This creature is a Fae.
I’ve never seen one of the Folk before. I’m either gonna retch or laugh. Probably, I’ll do one first, the other second, since I don’t do things halfway.
But I don’t feel like screaming. Maybe it’s because the Fae looks my age: ten. Or maybe he’s older, lots of years older. Don’t Faeries show their age slowly? Because they live forever?
My knees crush the dirt. My fingernails root into the forge’s door. My heart’s a mean bastard, fluttering in the hive of my chest.
The Fae’s gotta be one of the captured, one of the Folk who tried to save their fauna. Although I can’t see his eyes, I sense glittering irises that pierce the shadows. In spite of the costume, the Fae boy—who’s not a boy—traps me in the net of his stare. Behind those feathers, the weight of his gaze cinches around my neck and squeezes. And just like that, I know he’s doing it on purpose.
I don’t like this. I don’t like that he’s trying to scare me. I don’t like this because it’s working, so I’ll stop it from working.
Gulping down the fright, I slink to the threshold and stare back. We stay like that for the count of one hundred.
A murky nest of hair surrounds his face. Black? Blue?
It’s more than he can detect about me, since I’ve got my hair knotted inside the cloak’s hood. Best if I keep it that way.
Midnight coasts into the workshop, the shadows as thick as syrup. Outside, crickets rasp.
I muse, this Fae boy comes from one place, me another. And I muse, it’s a place of magic versus a place of mortality. And I muse, it’s a world of trickery against a world of honesty. And I muse, it doesn’t matter that he’s partially covered because this Fae boy’s got one heck of a stare. It may be shielded, but it’s heavy enough to reach across the divide and prickle my arms.
The feather visor shifts, hinting at a change of expression—and not a friendly one. I picture his face creasing with elegant malice. As if to prove me right, he turns away with a dismissive swat of the head, like I’m beneath him.
My hands ball into fists. Shaky fists, but still.
I’m not supposed to care. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to talk to him.
�
�Hey!” I snap, my voice bouncing off the rafters.
He vaults around again. A gust of air sweeps across the forge, matching his movements. The gale hits me with a wallop, punting me onto the grass.
He doesn’t laugh, but I do catch a quirk of the lips, and that’s what nettles me the most. I scramble to my bare feet and slap my nightgown clean. Then because I’m a right dummy, I step inside and march straight toward him, not waiting for an invitation.
The garish plumes outline his mask, splaying outward around his upper and lower eyelids. It’s the likeness of an owl, the beak stabbing downward. Tucked beneath that, I notice the lines of a mortal-shaped nose.
The Book of Fables says Faeries have animal bits, but I don’t see any real ones on him. If he’s got wings, they’re nowhere in sight. Unless he’s hiding them? If so, do they have feathers? Or are they bright and thin like ladybug wings? But that would make him a ladybug Fae, not an avian Fae. And now I’m confusing myself.
Three paces from the cage, my footfalls slow. I spot his collarbones beneath the shirt’s sagging neckline, his chest pumping with spent energy. As I pause in the starlit beams, he notes my own mask. I’d forgotten about that, but no way am I taking it off, because I feel safer and smarter with it on—two words that I normally don’t pay mind to.
Safe is Cove. Smart is Juniper.
Stupid is me.
He probably can’t tell it’s a lark mask. When I made it, I couldn’t find stray lark plumes, so I used whatever fallen quills I could salvage. It’s a patchwork of bird feathers.
I like to pretend I’m a lark, since I’m fond of that name. Ha.
The Fae boy waits on all fours, his fingernails lightly scraping the cage floor, as if in contemplation. His owl mask is fancier than mine.
Tiptoeing forward gets my feet dirtier than they already were, but I don’t care. Inches from the bars, I study him from behind my visor. He does the same. I like that we’re hidden this way, in this forge, in these masks.
Up close, hints come into view—traces of his pupils. Twin pinpoints of light swim in those wells, potent enough that I feel a hyperawareness of them. Within a shrouded glimpse, somehow they manage to reflect a million emotions.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 16
