Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1)

by Natalia Jaster

  That’s how I realize he is young like me. But I hadn’t known the villagers trapped Faeries my age, as well as animals and grown-up Fae. Why would they do that?

  He scans my fake plumes with an air of amused repugnance. Or it could be fascinated disgust. I’m getting both vibes.

  A rope of wind slings around me, tying me down so I can’t budge, can’t look away. Neither can he, for whatever reason.

  I want to know the color of his irises and hair. I wish the sun were shining, but I’m also glad it’s not, since this moment feels like a secret, and secrets are always born at night.

  Air hisses from his mouth, a lot slower than a mortal’s breathing. The oxygen slides from him and flits into the air. Each time it does, I feel a tug on my cloak and the nightgown hem.

  Is he doing that? Naughty!

  The white dots inside the Fae boy’s pupils gleam. He’s toying with me, playing a game with me. Welp, I know games.

  I sidestep him, circling the cage. He swerves like a predator.

  I change direction, whipping the other way. So does he, sliding across the compartment like a breeze but careful not to touch the iron. We do this a few times, me shifting quickly, him shifting as well, mirroring the movements.

  Then he veers, claiming the upper hand, turning the tables to bait me. And I match him. And I realize, he’s trying to make me slip, fall, and crash, while I’m trying to make him dizzy.

  The whole time, we study each other. Then, out of nowhere, I giggle. And maybe, just maybe, he smirks.

  ***

  Each night, I return to the forge. Each night, I’m a little terrified that he’ll still be there. Each night, I’m a little terrified that he’ll be gone.

  Funny how you can feel two different things at once. But that’s how it is, and I don’t like to think about it too long.

  I go back after dark again, and again, and again. I sneak out while my sisters dream, kissing their foreheads before I go. Maybe it’s because I’m a tad scared I won’t see them again, that the Fae boy’s gonna find a means to glamour me in spite of the iron bars, then force me to open the cage, then force me to make an idiot of myself, or force me to do something vile, or force me to leave with him.

  So why do I keep going? Maybe a tiny part of me wants to know more. Maybe a tiny part of me can’t help myself, because he wears that owl mask. And maybe a tiny part of me fancies our games. And maybe a tiny part of me wants to win them.

  The iron weakens him from using enchantment. As for the wind? Juniper says mountain Solitaries have a bond with it. Seems the Fae boy can toss the air about, but he’s not strong enough to do worse right now. He can’t even reach through the bars and choke me. Even if none of that were true, maybe a tiny part of me doesn’t believe he’d hurt me anyway.

  But analyzing is a hobby for Juniper. And fretting is a hobby for Cove.

  Me? I’m the wild one who flies into the gale.

  So I kiss the spruce green of Juniper’s tresses and the watery blue above Cove’s temple. I smell woodlands and brooks wafting from their hair—earthen animals and sea creatures, as if my sisters have been doing their own private frolicking. But that’s silly, because they’re always here when I leave, and they’re always here when I get back. I’m imagining things.

  I feel guilty that I haven’t told them about him, but I want this secret to be my own. Every night for thirteen days, I traipse into the fields, where the crickets croak and the nightingale whistles. I inhale the fragrance of Fables—feathers, hides, and scales.

  I take the whip Papa Thorne’s teaching me to use. I make sure to arrive when I know the glassblower has retired, snoring the good snore at home. Always, I have to use my feather to jimmy the bolt. I wear my crudely patched mask and hide my hair in the cloak’s hood, because in case this all goes awry, I don’t want the Fae boy committing my looks to memory.

  Midnight drips through the roof, puddling on the floor as I slip into the workshop. The Fae knows I’m there without me announcing it. Oftentimes, he’s staring at the door before I show myself.

  All right. My kind isn’t supposed to tamper with his kind, but I’ll admit it. This birdie is cute. Uppity but cute. If his pupils and the lower half of his face are anything to go by, the rest of him is just as fetching.

  I jog to the cage while balancing a basket. Behind his mask, the Fae boy seems to grimace in distaste, as if I’m a nuisance and he’s grown bored. Sensing his thoughts feels natural, instinctive, though I can’t say how or why. Maybe he’s skilled at projecting himself, mask or no mask. Either way, my chest winces.

  But at once, the grimace melts into a sly slant of the lips beneath the beak. My heart grows wings, delight and shame mingling together. I shouldn’t be giddy that he’s pleased to see me, but I am. This Fae boy likes that I’m here, even though he won’t say it.

  In all this time, he hasn’t said anything.

  Propping the basket on the floor, I go through the motions, withdrawing a vial of milk, plus wedges of Papa’s rye bread. This boy isn’t a twig, but he’s not a cliff, either. I’m not sure if the villagers are feeding him, but he enjoys my offerings.

  I wave the bread like a flag. “Come and get it.”

  Giving me a mild look, the Fae plucks the morsel too swiftly for me to see it happen. He chews slowly, like a fancy noble. I still haven’t gotten a clear view of his hair or irises. Despite the moon, it’s too muted in the forge.

  All I see is shaggy layers, the reflective dots in his pupils, and tapered ears. Oh, and that ivory throat as it pumps down the milk. Due to the compact bars, a vial was the surest thing I could find to fit through. Casually, he tosses the empty vessel onto the ground by my toes, not so much as a thank you.

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter.

  He gives a dismissive shrug. That’s when I notice the welts peppering his wrists beneath the shirt sleeves, angry slashes bubbling across his flesh in a horrible robin red, as though someone has been poking him. My hand is halfway to the cage when he veers back, and I feel his glare eating me alive.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He twists away, flippant as you please.

  “What are they doing to you?”

  Still nothing. I have so many questions, but I know he’ll have zero answers. Even if he did, and even if he can’t lie, he’ll find a way to twist his words and speak in riddles. That’s what they do, right?

  Those welts must hurt. He might be immortal, and he might be a snooty bugger, and it might be sacrilege to pity him, but the sight of this Fae harmed does terrible things to my chest.

  I grab the basket cloth and flee outside, where I travel to the nearest gurgling brook and douse the material. Flying back into the workshop, I move too quickly for him to object. I crush fabric in my hand and shove my arm through the bars.

  As I snatch one of his wrists, he stiffens. Those eyes slit behind the visor, his shoulders tensing. With sweaty fingers, I press the wet cloth onto the first welt—and he freezes. Stunned, he watches me pat down the wound, watches me tend to the next one, and the next one. My pulse darts all over the place. I’m touching the softest skin I’ve ever felt, and he’s letting me.

  I should minister to the other arm, but that might overwhelm him. Finished, I pull back to find him gawking. “Again. You’re welcome.”

  The Fae boy’s head slants, the motion suspicious and irritated. Oh, right. Faeries don’t like favors or owing people.

  So why am I surprised when a wicked gleam alights his pupils? I won’t be receiving gratitude. Rather, he flicks his digits. A sheet of wind swoops into the workshop and coils around me, lifting my arms.

  I gasp, resisting until the Fae bounces his flat palm, indicating for me to calm down. I relax my arms and close my eyes. The breeze buffets me, splaying my arms to the sides and turning me into a bird in flight.

  It’s another game. He’s repaying me with the wind, letting me feel it, really feel it.

  My breath stutters into a laugh. And I chortle some
more as my nightgown billows, my hooded cloak riding the draft.

  I’m weightless. I’m a cloud in the sky.

  When my eyes flutter open, I meet the Fae boy’s stare. Under the costume’s beak, the slices of his cheekbones rise, his mouth lifting into a conceited grin.

  The wind bumps my backside. I squeal, chuckling as it chases me through the forge, where blue and green glass balls wink from the shelves. I dodge and duck from the current. All the while, I laugh, and he smiles.

  Just like that, I make a forbidden friend.

  Just like that, he pulls a fatal trick.

  Just like that, he steals my heart.

  ***

  I don’t want to leave, so I stay. After the wind stops chasing me, I spend the night while moonlight shadows our bird masks and illuminates the iron bars. He settles on the cage floor, and I hunker on the stony ground.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Are you an owl?” I ask.

  “Can you talk?” I ask.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing. Suppose that’s fine and dandy. If he answers, I’d wonder whether to believe him. Speaking of which, he should be spinning words like yarn to confuse me. Despite the iron grille protecting me from glamour, clever turns of phrase can do the same thing, according to the Book of Fables and every account we’ve ever read. He could play with that skill rather than clam up. So maybe he really can’t speak.

  What’s it like in his world? Does he have siblings? Do they miss him?

  Leaning back on my palms and crossing my feet at the ankles, I try one more question. “Why are you wearing a mask?”

  Again, nothing.

  I let out a charming little sigh, if I do say so myself. “I reckon owls are wizards in disguise.”

  The Fae boy glances sideways at me, his ears piercing the air. When I ask if that’s why he chose an owl mask, his lips flatten and veer sideways. Uh oh, he’s insulted. Animals are sacred to them, which means he doesn’t like pretending they’re something they’re not.

  I nod, sheepish. “You’re right. They’re amazing as they are.”

  He offers me a snide inclination of his head. Well, that explains a lot and nothing at all. I improvise, “Faeries must know a bunch about the fauna, if you’ve got bits and pieces of their traits. I wish humans knew as much about mortal creatures, but then, they could if they made an effort. Guess people miss out that way, if they don’t give things a whirl. Like, what if you’re the world’s greatest bird watcher, but you don’t know it yet, because you’ve never tried? That’d be a fun skill.”

  He crosses his legs, managing an unruly sprawl although he can’t touch the bars. Balancing his elbow and his knee, he props the slope of a cheek in his palm. It’s hard to say whether he’s intrigued or entertained.

  Encouraged, I get to my feet and shuffle toward him. We play another game, inventing experts that don’t exist in either of our worlds but should. He nods at some of the professions I list and sneers at others, his mouth wrinkling like a towel. In the end, we settle on a bubbleleer, a dragon groomer, a weapons blesser, a masquerade planner, and a candy maker for animals.

  His silent chuckle fades into bafflement. The Fae boy realizes he’s gotten caught up and backs off, shaking his head. I recognize the unspoken question: Why are you doing this?

  Why am I keeping him company? Why am I feeding him? Why did I bathe his wounds? Why am I being nice?

  I glance at my unshod toes streaked with dirt, which reminds me of soot. “I know what it’s like to be trapped.”

  It’s true. I know what it’s like to be squashed in a small space, stuck there with no way out and nobody who cares. I don’t tell him I was a chimney sweep, but I do tell him, “I know what it’s like to be alone. I know what it’s like to be plucked off my feet and forced someplace that isn’t home. I know what it’s like to be frightened and lose hope.”

  Fingers appear before my eyes, so sudden that I flinch. Long, slender digits sneak past the bars and reach toward my jaw. I glimpse a pair of ethereal pupils, easy to fall into. The forge blurs. The tools, furnace, and stone walls disappear, leaving only him and that hand extending toward me. I stall, gobsmacked as his knuckles curl with indecision, then come to rest on my face. His palm frames my profile, light and feathery.

  He doesn’t dissect what I’ve said, like Juniper would. He doesn’t try to sweeten what I’ve said, like Cove would. He doesn’t try to fix what I’ve said, like Papa would.

  And it’s not because this Fae’s incapable, since he communicates in other ways. No, he just cups my cheek as if that’s all I need, as if I can handle the rest on my own. Then he flashes a wayward smile. That barest hint of chiseled canines would terrify Cove, but it seizes my breath, taking my fears with it.

  A laugh trips out of me. A stunned, silly laugh that soars into the rafters.

  In the murk, I savor the traces of his grin. I want to see if he’s got satiny or coarse hair, and if he’s got blemishes or birthmarks. I want to know the shapes of his eyebrows and width of his forehead. But even if he removed the mask, we’d need more light, and I can’t be here until dawn.

  Yet it doesn’t it matter. My heart’s already done for.

  The good: I like this Fae boy.

  The bad: I really like this Fae boy.

  The ugly: I love this Fae boy. I love him like I love my whip, and that’s a whole lot of loving. His touch makes my chest stutter. He’s never said a word to me, but I love the hell out of him anyway.

  Why? I’ve got no clue.

  I love him just because I feel like it. I love him because he’s made of feathers, and he plays games like I do, and he listens, and he touches my face, and he lets me feel what I feel. No theories, comforts, or fixes. No pranks or double speak. No magic but the wind.

  He opens his mouth. I gulp and wait. I wait so very much.

  His head whips up and darts to the side, surging toward the workshop door. I blink—and hear it. Somebody’s horse whinnies, its hooves cantering through the field. A muffled voice drifts from outside and gets louder. I register the glassblower’s meaty drawl, cooing to the steed.

  Dread ripples up my spine. If the tradesman finds me here, I’ll be in a pickle. Papa will find out and forbid me to return.

  The glassblower might yell if he catches me, and he might take it out on my friend, and my friend might try to hurt him. They might both get hurt, and either way, I won’t get to see this boy one last time before the villagers take him away. I won’t get a chance to say good-bye.

  But I don’t want to say good-bye. Not like this. Not knowing what’s going to happen to him, one more creature that I can’t save.

  I swing toward the Fae and choke the bars in my shaky fists, which suddenly look so tiny. Am I really that small? Are we both really that small? Air pumps in and out of my lungs, my scalp tingling. Am I angry? Am I terrified? When it comes down to it, maybe they’re the same emotion, only with different shapes.

  My head jumps between the door and the Fae boy’s profile. In minutes, this will be over.

  His pupils flare as he veers toward me. Through our visors, we fixate on one another. Those black orbs swell with menace, and his desperate fingernails claw at the cage floor, ready to shred our visitors.

  Still, some inner battle stunts his breathing. Those fathomless orbs kindle with brutality and something else as they pin me to the ground.

  With a rightward click of his head, a surge of wind pushes me away from him, pushes me toward the door. The force of it urges me to flee. He knows if I’m spotted here, I’ll be punished.

  I totter sideways, my feet sliding over dust bunnies. But tonight, it’ll take more than a gale to bring me down.

  Everything the Fables taught me springs through my head. They’re vile and gruesome. They’re corrupt and lewd. They use humans as toys and slaves. They’ve vicious Faeries.

  But I don’t care. I race to the basket, grab the errant mask-feather I’ve been using to pick open the forge, and scurry to the cage. My
actions must stump him, because he doesn’t try his wind stunt again.

  On a grunt, I jam the plume’s tip into the bolt. The device shudders and splits with a rusty pop. I shouldn’t be able to tell, but somehow I sense confusion and shock blasting across the boy’s face as he stares at the lock—then at me.

  I hustle backward, leaving the door open for him. Before I lose my nerve or start to cry, I lift my chin. And I whisper, “Go.”

  He watches me, the lower half of his face unhinged, apparently dumbstruck behind the owl mask. Thuds approach, a pair of booted feet thunking through the grass. The boy fixates on me, then slowly crawls from the cage and rises to his feet. All the while, he studies my face.

  He’s taller than I am—by a lot more than I thought. And he’s willowy, though his arms look strong, flexing with tension.

  His slender shadow wraps around me as he approaches. His tipped ears cut a harsh line as he cocks his head; I get the impression his gaze is tracing my mask with a glare.

  He’s mad. Really mad.

  Again, they don’t like favors, don’t like owing people.

  “Oh, for Fable’s sake.” I rip one of the plumes from his mask and hold it up for his inspection. “There. That’ll do for payment. Go!”

  His gaze slackens, processing what I’ve done. A single digit drags along the side of my jaw, sharp and tender, resentful and affectionate. I close my eyes, feeling the gentle sweep of his touch—and then his lips.

  The air whirls around us. My heart flaps madly as his mouth brushes mine, sweet and weightless. I pucker up and kiss him back, tears springing to my eyes.

  At the workshop’s rear, the glassblower audibly tethers his horse to a post. Meanwhile, the gust of the Fae’s mouth disappears. The wind stirs around my calves, threatening to shove down my cloak’s hood and expose my hair.

  “Go,” I hiss, squeezing my eyes tight.

  There’s a moment’s pause, then a voice floats into my ears, the thread of a whisper. “My name is my own. No, I’m not an owl. And yes, I can talk.”