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

by Natalia Jaster

  Gasping, I flip my lids open.

  He’s gone.

  On a cry, I dash outside. Quavering, I close the door and jerk the bolt in place, then keep to the trees and skirt to the opposite side of the forge. I hear the glassblower plod to the threshold, a ring of iron keys clinking.

  I sprint, following the wind. Gripping my mask in place, I stumble across the grass and elderberry bushes.

  One more glimpse. One more.

  In an open field, I skid to a halt and crane my head to the sky. The air teases strands of white dangling around my face. No bird, no wings, no plumes. Only stars over a mountain range, home to countless monsters that I hate and one monster I’ll never see again.

  I clutch the blue feather in my free hand, angry tears seeping into the quills of my mask. Now I understand. It’s possible to love the enemy.

  Papa and my sisters are my first family. But he was my first friend.

  Days later, the villagers recount the mysterious escape. That’s how I learn what happened next, how the Fae boy was recaptured that very night. My neighbors murmur that he’d tried to attack, so they’d run him through with an iron dagger. He died like that, flightless in the grass, gawking at the heavens.

  And that’s why I continue weeping into my pillow for weeks. Because it’s my fault, because I did that to him. Because that’s how Fables end, with a lesson learned and a heart broken.

  18

  An owl’s hoot pries me from slumber. Snippets of my dream skate along the outskirts of my mind, delicate and winsome, before thinning out. I wake up on the tail end of a whimper, with my body coiled above the sheets, the mattress plump and the bedding soft. Although I didn’t make it beneath the covers, it’d been the deepest sleep since leaving home.

  Amber strings across the chamber from the sconces. Past the windows, scarves of white gauze sail past a full moon. The tripod table beside the curtains balances a capped trencher that emits the savory aromas of pastry and spices. A corked bottle of fresh water and a pot of coffee stand beside the covered platter.

  Enchantment? Or did somebody tiptoe inside while I slept?

  No time or luxury to act bullheaded. Dignity’s one thing I won’t forfeit, but pride’s got no place on this mountain. If I want to win, I’ve gotta take care of myself.

  I take a flying leap to the chair, lift the trencher’s cover, and moan. Compared to its size, the platter reveals more fare than should be possible, including pheasant and shallots drowning in cider, a steaming pie loaded with apples, and a medley of strange, frondlike greens. I give the contents a hearty sniff and devour everything, then pull the bottle’s cork and chug. Last, I drain the coffee.

  While licking my fingers clean, I pad into the bathing chamber. Tiles cover the floor and form the roof. The night sky spans a vaulted window, the split curtain drawing in fresh air.

  Instead of a tub, there’s an alcove with bell-shaped nozzle sprouting from the ceiling. Curious, I stand beneath it, and water rains down, the warm spring dousing my dress and cloak. I jump back with a surprised laugh, then get naked and step beneath the cascade.

  A stool holds bottles of milky liquid and bars of shimmering soap that emanates a minty fragrance. I snatch a bar and glide it over my skin. The suds swell into bubbles and float without popping, the orbs glistening like transparent pearls. Next, I pour the milky liquid over my head and knead through the roots, inhaling a floral essence. If this bathing chamber didn’t belong to a villain, I might stay here forever.

  Juniper and Cove would love this showering alcove. Thinking about them brings Papa Thorne to mind, which brings home to mind. The aromas of eucalyptus and jasmine. The clatter of crockery as one of us takes our turn at the stove. The croak of Papa Thorne’s chair as he sits by the fire and recites from the Book of Fables. The wild racket of animals—fluttering wings, swatting tails, and splashing fins—greeting us as we mind the sanctuary. Lanterns painting our shadows across the wagon floor as we narrate folklore.

  Everything I had. Everything I lost. Everything I miss.

  Guess sorrow’s like this. One moment it’s gone, then it surges back with a jolt, kicking you right in the teeth.

  What if I succeed but my sisters don’t? What if they succeed but I don’t?

  What if I never go home?

  I won’t cry in his tower. I won’t cry in his tower. I won’t cry in his tower.

  As the water plunks onto my shoulders and drenches my hips, I buckle over, folding myself on the ground. I wedge a fist into my mouth and sob. And when I’m done, rivulets wash away the evidence. Until I ended up in Faerie, I never knew how many emotions a person could feel in one day, and the thought is poignant and agonizing.

  One of the bubbles distorts my features, my gray eyes swallowing my face. I slump, cross my legs, and sit for a while. The upside-down fountain drenches me with heat, steam unfurling into petals. The soothing trickle reminds me of Cove’s lisping voice, massaging the ache until it vanishes.

  Afterward, I feel better, stronger. Maybe that’s what hope is—a good cry before getting up again. So that’s what I do. I rise, throw back my head, and savor the rest of the downpour.

  By the time I pluck one of the linen towels from a peg, I’m back to my old sassy self. Also, I get another stunner because the fibers dry my hair instantly. “Get the hell out of here,” I hoot.

  Rejuvenated, I debate over a plan…any plan that gets me through this. If I’ve got to stay here, I’d best make use of it. Maybe Cerulean’s got a map or compass stashed in this tower, or some other advantage I can leave with.

  Music flits through the bathing chamber’s window. It’s a wispy strand of noise, the notes spry and light. I’ve heard the tune only two other times in my life.

  The flute’s melody skips into the room from outside. But I can’t see anything from the window, so I drop the towel, grab my clothes, and rush into the sleeping quarter. I pause, frowning at the sight of a nightgown strewn across the mattress, the floor-length garment tailored in folds of dove-white cotton. It’s expertly stitched, with thin shoulder straps and a scooped neckline.

  It hadn’t been here when I woke up. After shimmying into my knickers, I wiggle into the nightgown with a sigh. The textile feels as though it’s been spun from the clouds.

  It’s a balmy night, so I make do without my boots. Retracing my steps through the tower, I chase the music. At ground level, the main threshold opens to the park, though I spot another archway at the opposite end, which leads to the overhanging promontory.

  The tune drifts in from that precipice. I trail after the notes, sucking in a draft of eventide.

  That’s where I find them. Cerulean sits at the edge of the world. His naked back flexes, muscles contorting from his shoulders to the low waistband of his onyx silk trousers. The skinniest quiver I’ve ever seen hangs diagonally from his back, attached to a thong that wraps around his torso. It’s too meager to fit a weapon, though.

  When his profile shifts, I spot the flute. Perched between his lips, the silver instrument sprinkles notes into the air. The composition gives the wind texture, so that if I reach out and touch the breeze, I might feel it.

  That’s what the quiver must be for, to hold the flute.

  In Reverie Hollow, we’ve got our bonfires, feasts, and jubilees. We’ve got our lutes and fiddles. But the only wind instruments I’ve ever heard are wooden ones—pipes and pan flutes—not a silver one. I reckon humans only experience that kind of splendor in royal ballrooms.

  But in Faerie, the instrument serenades the wild. The music grows butterfly wings, flapping and dashing about. It’s a jaunty but private song, which seems to fit the life of a Solitary.

  His long fingers flit over the slender object, agile and quick. It’s been a long time since I heard music. I want to shut my eyes and let it scoop me up.

  Cerulean’s shag of hair sweeps across his nape. The lithe rail of his spine ripples up his bare back, smooth and toned. The fauna surround him, gathering on the fringes and ma
king themselves at home while he plays. Some I recognize from when I got here, others not.

  The antelope from earlier has shifted into miniature form, its bovine features pruned down to the size of a piglet as it curls on the lawn with the canary whose wing is bent at a misshapen angle. The emerald hummingbirds cluster atop a rock, the hawks observe from their nests, and the cardinal coasts above Cerulean’s head, keeping time with the music and dribbling gold dust from its tail. A cougar—a fucking cougar!—and the mountain goat with stumped horns chase one another playfully across the grass, enlivened by the performance. The pika squats on the lawn, nibbling on weeds.

  My chest softens. I miss my sanctuary friends back home. I miss them so much that I’m halfway across the green before realizing it. I’m spellbound, eager to be part of this clan, even if it’s not my own.

  The animals tense. Ears perk and wings lock.

  Cerulean flinches. The music halts.

  Shit. He’d warned me that coming too close would spook them. The cougar alone should have restrained me, the creature’s stunning feline hunch, peridot irises, and intense stare causing my unshod feet to freeze in place. Well, now I know what made that roar I’d heard from my room.

  Adrenaline races through my veins, my palms beading with moisture. I scan the fauna’s alert eyes and inch backward.

  “Stop,” Cerulean says without turning around.

  His voice doesn’t sound arrogant. Maybe irked, but that’s all. If I were in my family’s sanctuary, I’d want a visitor to mind what I say, seeing as I know the dwellers better.

  When I stay put, he continues. “Come back but slow your pace.”

  How does he know how fast or slow I’d been going? I heed his instructions, moving forward with the lagging gait of a sloth.

  Still facing away from me, the Fae murmurs, “Circle them, sideways so they can see you.” And when I comply, an evil grin fills his tone. “Kneel.”

  I scowl but do as he says, lowering myself before the animals.

  “Whistle,” he commands. “Be dainty about it.”

  Dainty’s not a word that fits me, but all right. I do my best, blowing a tentative noise into the air. Some of the fauna hesitate, but others creep nearer, their tension unraveling as they conclude I’m not a predator. The cougar’s got my blood pumping, the wildcat’s sinuous joints rotating as it approaches, graceful despite its missing back paw and pronounced limp.

  “Good,” Cerulean says. “Now moo.”

  “What the fuck?” I bleat.

  He doesn’t answer. But he’s must be jesting, right?

  We’ve got a milk cow at home, so I imitate her. Puckering my lips, I moo, sounding like a calf with a stomachache.

  The dwellers waver, tip their heads, and do things that perplexed animals would do. My eyes shift toward Cerulean’s shoulders, which shake with laughter, the flute quiver rattling. That motherfu…

  I plop my fists on my hips. “You prick.”

  Cerulean twists, smirking in the half-light. “That last part was for me.”

  “Uh-huh.” I fake-smile. “Fuck you.”

  “If you want my help, then do not rise.”

  I keep quiet. He holds my gaze, presses the flute to his lips, and plays a new tune. This one is patient, reaching out with long notes that stretch across the distance.

  The animals close in. A petrified thrill coasts through me as they crowd around my limbs, circling and sniffing my nightgown. The winged fauna perch on my head and arms, which I extend for them. The pika settles on my foot, the wires of its whiskers vibrating and longer than normal, extending like balancing beams.

  The cougar slinks around my calf, a circlet of intricate markings—the same vibrant color of its eyes—stringing naturally across its forehead. The beauty rolls over like a kitten and gets comfortable, and I laugh quietly.

  The music drifts off. My gaze travels to Cerulean, who watches me in puzzlement.

  The Fae assesses my audience. “I stand corrected,” he says, referring to the original warning that I’d startle the animals.

  In unison, they withdraw, and I watch them fly into the air or ramble through the grounds. From the corner of my eye, the Fae studies my profile. He’s not one to glance away, even when caught peeking, and neither am I.

  What do I have to lose?

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Thank them, not me,” Cerulean replies flippantly.

  “You told me not to approach ’em.”

  He swings toward the chasm, his limbs hanging over the edge. “I changed my mind. After witnessing your frolic with the nightingales, I figured I’d best get it over with and introduce you. It was only a matter of hours before you came out here to snoop.”

  He spins the flute deftly from hand to hand, the same way he twirls his javelin. Don’t want to overstay my welcome with the dwellers, so I don’t push it. They’ll come to me if they want to.

  As for the Fae perched at the edge of the world, I can handle his ass. His attitude hasn’t thawed, and neither has mine. For some queer reason, that makes it easier to settle next to him.

  When I’m sure my tush isn’t going to slip off the ledge, I take a second gander at the instrument, a sudden thought infesting my mind. I’m ashamed it hadn’t come to me right away. Snatching the flute, I say, “You lured ’em?”

  Cerulean snatches the thing back, his nose crinkling with disdain—as much because of my words, as from me groping his possessions. “In case you weren’t aware, ignorance is annoying and clashes with your snark. Fae fauna are sacred and superior by all measures—they cannot be lured or commanded. Even if they could, I would never do that to them.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “Do I hear a threat, human?”

  “I’d advise you not to underestimate my size.”

  “And I’d advise you to put some clothes on,” he remarks.

  “Come inside and help me pick ’em out,” I mock-simper.

  Deviousness rolls across his tongue. “Be careful what you ask of a Fae.”

  “If you’re hoping for a shy human, you’ve got another thing coming. This one—” I aim both thumbs at my chest “—has got a history of buck-naked stories. I’ve accepted as many dares as I have tumbles. Once, I lost a bet and sashayed through the village square in a dripping wet chemise. Do your best, but you’ll meet your match.”

  Gauntlet thrown. Cerulean swerves my way, his eyes tracing a long trail down my nightgown, to where my tits fill the material, the pits of my nipples in danger of tightening from the breeze. He makes a show of inspecting me, his gaze dripping with ridicule. Yet those wicked pupils dally on the swells of my hips before dragging to my exposed thighs, where the hem bunches high because I hadn’t bothered to adjust it.

  My skin pebbles. The infestation plots a course across my nape, down my forearms, and along my lower back.

  Now, I wasn’t fibbing about my antics. The first time I galloped into Faerie, I’d been clad in my knickers. I’m no flasher, but a peek from prying eyes never bothered me.

  But this look Cerulean tosses my way…

  This blunt look is a tide of air that sneaks beneath the surface, slipping under the nightgown’s flimsy straps.

  Point taken. But two can play at this game.

  I dish out the same attention, my eyelids ducking, my attention climbing from his own bare feet—high arches, a beauty mark dabbed into the pinky toe—to the clench of his abdomen. The ramps and hollows of his torso inflate in a shallow rhythm I could get used to.

  My eyes rise to where a hard knob rolls up and down Cerulean’s throat, the muscles pumping there. I think he likes what he sees, as much as it sickens him.

  We stare at each other, neither backing down. Then we straighten and retreat into our own shadows while the moon drapes a chalky film across our legs. A yawping silhouette of black cuts a line over the range.

  Should be weird, sitting and not talking with Cerulean. But it isn’t. However, I’m restless and in the mood to bicker.
I’ve got this urge to keep picking a fight with him, to see how often I’ll win.

  I’d lasso him with my whip if he manipulated these wild dwellers, but I shouldn’t have needed to ask. Like he said, animals are sacred to the Fae, and this refuge is one example of that. Not that it pardons him from other crimes.

  I say, “So then, you lure only humans with that flute. How noble.”

  “I like to think so. How I love nothing more than favors, flutes, and fuckery,” Cerulean says unapologetically, making my fists curl. “Regardless, nights such as these are more diverting.” He nudges his chin toward the resident animals, his tone dedicated, faithful. “We enjoy the melodies together.”

  “Sounds like a fine pastime. Why not make animals and music your life’s work instead?”

  “I will someday. I’ve a surplus of time ahead.” I open my mouth, but he’s not done. “You’d said that you favor winged creatures. Tell me your favorite.”

  “You’ve got me confused with somebody who wants to get chummy.”

  “You came out here on your own. Unless my instrument prevailed at last, and you’re glamoured?”

  “Were you trying?”

  “I’ve never had to try, until recently.”

  I beam. “How much did it hurt to admit that? Details, please.”

  Cerulean’s mouth twitches. “I was not summoning you.”

  “I wasn’t lured.” Leaning back on my palms, I swing my legs over the valley. “Your owl sidekick woke me up is all. I was feeling impulsive and nosey. Two things I’ve got a knack for.”

  “You’ve left out the most crucial truth. You fancied a camaraderie with the fauna, despite my caveat.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you that animals are sacred to me, too?”

  “I observed you for an ample length of time in The Watch of Nightingales. You, cavorting on bare toes with the avians.”

  My legs stop swinging. “How long?”

  “Hmm.” Balancing an elbow on the opposite wrist, he slides a finger over the tip of one ear. He squints, as if trying to recall. “I’d imagine as long as you spied on me tonight. At least indulge me for a spell. The moon is bright, the fauna have come out to play, and I’m feeling selfish. It’s a curious hour, on a curious night.”