I’m embroiled with my nemesis, who’s likely the boy from my past, and who’s offering to pound me. I can’t help imagining our entwined bodies moving hectically. My legs strapped high around his waist. His hips snapping and spreading me wide.
I want to claw through that dark mess of hair. I want to dishevel it even more than it already is. I want to know the texture of his skin. I want that vicious mouth.
I can’t trust this. I can’t trust myself.
It takes a shitload of effort to wrestle past his touch and focus on what he’d confessed. “What does that mean? That I’m a priority,” I mumble. “And don’t twist the truth, or you’re a coward.”
That does it. Cerulean drags his face to mine, the fog clearing from his eyes. Delirium subsides, and sanity returns as we untangle ourselves, our lungs drawing in oxygen. I’m panting and confused, and I’m sure my expression is as accusatory as his own, each of us blaming the other for this havoc.
“The sky doesn’t hide,” he says resentfully. “Neither do I.”
“You really want to go there with me? Because you hop around the truth more than a jackrabbit.”
“Or sometimes you miss the truth. It comes in many forms if you listen thoroughly.”
“And sometimes the truth is mightier when you say what you mean. Call it a dare or a deal. Call it a surprise, since you fancy surprises. Call it whatever the fuck you want. Just tell me something real!”
This isn’t entirely objective, seeing as we’ve just spent most of the night yakking about plenty of authentic things. He confided more than I expected. He shocked me more than I anticipated. And we’ve revealed more than I could have predicted, including an urge to make each other moan.
But this isn’t about the fauna or the wildlife park, and it’s not about mutual cravings. My frustration’s coming from a different place—a place that was broken long before I entered this mountain. An unfulfilled longing that he might be responsible for.
Cerulean makes no reply. Behind him, clouds froth within a dawning canvas.
Then his gleam returns. Without a twisted word, he straightens and offers me his hand.
***
I should have known this Fae would take advantage of a loophole during Middle Moon. Being a ruler has its perks. We may not be allowed to wander on our own during this intermission, but the fauna can. So why not beg a ride?
Cerulean detours to the tower, to drop off the flute quiver. He returns wearing a long coat, which he must have thrown on, the flaps splaying to expose his bare abdomen underneath. He glances at the tower’s spire, then bows and makes a plea to the owl. Feeling the same reverence, I follow his lead, lowering myself humbly.
The avian launches off the building, shifts into its larger form, lands before us, and nudges Cerulean softly with its beak. “Tímien.” Cerulean rises and frames the raptor’s head. “Vvjúkan ojjur fankade?”
“Tí…Tímien?” I echo. “Is that his name?”
“It’s a moniker from Old Faeish,” Cerulean says while stroking the bird’s feathers. “It means timeless.”
“That’s beautiful.” I gesture to the wildlife park. “Do they all have names?”
“Indeed.” He tosses me a sidelong glance. “But they haven’t told me yet, the cheeky ones.”
I laugh. According his brief explanation, nature gives the Fae fauna their names.
We mount Tímien’s feathers. Behind me, Cerulean straddles the creature, his chest aligning with my back. In the shell of his body, my thighs mold to his hard limbs.
He whispers artfully, “Don’t fall.”
And the advice tickles my nape. “Me or you?”
The owl vaults from the peak and sails into the elements. I relish the sting of wind against my limbs, the air howling past us, and the rose gold and periwinkle hues of early morning. The ladders, bridges, and ramps. The labyrinthine stairways. The Fae homes and buildings of stone and woven offshoots with colonnades and pavilions. The high windows and open archways. The curtains that replace doors and sashes.
This is a breathable world.
We slingshot through chinks in the mountain and coast sideways over the valley. Too soon, the owl descends upon a plain of wildflowers covering another zenith. The pinnacle is round and small, no wider than a lake.
After we dismount, I watch Tímien dive over the edge and crimp into his original form. His body grows tinier, shrinking to a ribbon of wings and dissolving into the vista.
“There’s only one place to receive the full truth in our domain,” a voice intones over my shoulder. “However, it’s tricky.”
I study his lithe form shadowed across the ground. “I’ve heard that anything real is always the trickiest.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Have a look.” He steps closer, his trousers tapping my nightgown, whereas I hadn’t thought to get dressed before we left.
Hovering his chin above my shoulder, Cerulean points. “There.”
I follow his extended finger to the sun crawling over the range, a compass melting the landscape with warmth and swabbing the terrain in a rosy palette. “The horizon?”
“The Horizon that Never Lies,” he says. “From here, you see the vista’s true form, a tapestry woven by the sylphs—your Fables call them spirits of the air. If you have an inquiry, the Horizon will convey the truth plainly—ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, my Lark.”
“What? I didn’t—”
“You were about to. The truth comes with a price. The Horizon will only answer your question if you offer it something, and it will only answer a question about the offering you’ve given. Though be wary, that’s not what we’re here to do. I’m merely introducing you to this setting for good measure.”
“Seems like something I shouldn’t know if I want to conquer this mountain. Why bother tossing me that breadcrumb?”
“Because it’s impressive.”
“No. It’s because you doubt I’ve got anything the Horizon would value.” And if so, he’s probably correct, but my heart pounds all the same. “What’s this got to do with the girl who helped you escape?”
“Nothing and something. If I’m going to impart a truth, I’d best do it here with the Horizon as my witness. Are you going to turn around?”
“Are you getting to the point?”
“Oh trust me, I’m getting to many points,” he bites out sweetly. “First this: I’m not afraid to search for her. Indeed, I’ve dreamed of it, but as I informed you, I’ve lacked the time to act. I’ve been busy targeting other mortals.”
“To make them run this labyrinth for revenge.”
“For longevity.” Cerulean’s silhouette is reflected on the grass, a dark specter traced by the sun’s glare.
Dread climbs up the back of my skull. After The Trapping, the villagers believed they’d botched their mission. But what if they hadn’t?
“Are you saying…,” I trail off, stricken. “Are you saying we succeeded? That we weakened the mountain?”
Cerulean looms. “We’ve been rectifying the damage.”
Fables! The Fae are in danger of fading. But what does he mean, rectifying the damage?
“Your people took a rather large chunk out of mine. You kept our striplings behind iron bars until they died alone, their tears not yet dry. You poached and mangled our fauna,” he says. “Hence, what you took from the mountain, you’re destined to give back. We seek penance not merely for retribution, as you’ve been led to believe.”
His arm slides around my midriff, pinning me to his torso. “After becoming ruler of the sky, I made a vow to avenge the fallen Faeries who weren’t as fortunate as my brothers and I, as well as loss of our fauna—the loss of my wild family. I carved open one of the iron scars given to me by the humans, offered my blood, and asked the Horizon for guidance.
“My visit yielded an unlikely lifeline. There is a chance to restore the fallen. Not the Folk who died, because tragically, they cannot come back.” The pressure of his voice mounts, then ejects with force. “But t
he fauna can.”
I blink. They…they can what?
Cerulean continues. “For every human nuisance we eradicate, a creature who was vanquished shall be granted a second bout of life. Be aware, it’s not a resurrection. Call it an extension. For as animals are connected to nature, the lost will return through the earth, springing from the cliffs, the roots, the waters. They’ll be whole again. Thus, our land shall flourish, and we’ll live on.
“However, our task must be achieved to completion or it’s forfeit. And rather than outright eliminating the victims, we must offer a challenge—a bargain, as is our timeless custom. You might call it a game.”
“The mountain,” I realize.
“The mountain,” he echoes. “Either the mortal accepts, or they die without preamble. In the former case, it cements the deal and the path toward restoration. In the latter case, we end the human’s life and must seek out another sacrifice. Given that many have surprised us by choosing their immediate demise, it’s taken us longer than anticipated to account for the lost fauna. They won’t return unless that bountiful number is reached before the mountain withers. We have until the thirteenth year.”
It’s been nine since The Trapping. Not much time by Fae standards.
Cerulean reveals that when he learned about this, he told Puck and Elixir, arming them with the meat to revive their own territories. That’s the reason they have Juniper and Cove.
I shiver in the cage of his embrace. “That’s why you lure humans one by one. You’re ticking off the body count.”
“Sometimes, they’re bewitched by my flute, Puck’s cello, or Elixir’s harp. Sometimes, they wander past the Triad on their own.”
Like me. That’s why I’m really here, why he’s trying to wreck me—to recover one of the fallen, to keep Faerie from fading. Since Solitaries are neutral and have no allies, this crusade is all on them.
For his wild family and the longevity of his kin, he needs me to lose. That means his brothers need my sisters to fail as well.
I’m repelled. Hell, I get the need to live. That isn’t the clincher. They may be doing this for survival, and a game might be the custom, but it’s still a sacrifice of innocent lives. And a hideous one. Nobody’s forcing them by the tip of a sword to prolong or magnify each mortal’s suffering.
It’s unforgivable. Yet I don’t recoil or swerve to clobber him.
What dark magic is this? What’s happening to me? To us?
“Would you like more truths?” Cerulean asks bitterly, passionately. “Should I give you something real? Many things real?”
If I didn’t know this Fae, that would sound like a pledge. It’s not.
The threat plunges down my belly. I’m caught between squirming away and curling into his body. The sensations clutter, so jumbled that I can’t tell fear, shame, exhilaration, or lust from one another.
This is wrong. So very wrong.
Maybe I’m not the only one stuck in a tug-of-war, because he grips me tighter. His heart rams into my spine. He speaks faster, his whispers strung taut and on the brink of snapping.
A limit has been struck. A nerve, hit.
I want to flee and dive off the edge. I want so badly to turn around.
Tell me something real!
That’s what I demanded from him. And so he gives it to me.
“You were a chimney sweep,” he says. “Abandoned by those who should have loved you most but raised by those who grew to love you most. You’re restless yet loyal, and you’ll fight to keep what’s yours, because losing it is the one thing you can’t endure, because it’s happened too many times before. You were comforted by a bird, then inspired to rescue yourself from servitude, yet you still long for wings. You’ve given a home to animals, and they’ve healed you as much as you’ve healed them. You’ve shared your body with men but not your heart, because it’s broken.
“Your eyes are the pale gray of a storm. Your laughter is a swift current of air that I can’t stop hearing, no matter the hour. Your voice is mist, intangible yet penetrating, filtering into my dreams and raiding my slumber. Your name is an addiction, soaking itself into my tongue, nesting itself into my throat, so that every other word I speak threatens to slip, to utter that name.”
Cerulean blows humid air into my ear. “Lark.”
When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to be nestled in the arms of a certain unearthly being. But not this one. My eyes prickle with sadness, resentment, and regret. And always, always loss.
Loss and longing.
Cerulean’s incisors graze my earlobe. “Do you know me so well?”
“Do you want me to?” I gasp, my head rolling onto his shoulder. Because I can’t, I just can’t anymore. Right now, right here. I don’t recognize myself. Yet this moment unravels as though it were destined to happen. A dormant, unconditional part of me surfaces and grows wings.
“You’re a devious one,” I start. “On the outside, you make people think you’re as transparent as the sky, so cavalier you’ve got nothing to hide and no vulnerabilities. You make others think you’re accessible, that unraveling your weaknesses won’t require much work, and so they don’t even bother to try very hard—and that’s your fancy trick. That’s what makes you so elegantly formidable. Not so much that enemies underestimate you, but that they overestimate themselves. When in reality, you’ve got plenty to conceal. Or make that, two things.”
Fear of captivity. Fear of losing the ones he loves, failing to protect them in the process. I know this because I’ve seen these things in him, and because he’s shown them to me, and because my fears aren’t much different.
“You’re afraid of cages,” I say.
He nods, rapt. “You’re afraid of chimneys.”
“Confined spaces.”
“Being trapped.”
“No escape.”
“Ah, but there is a way to free ourselves. It’s called magic. If you knew Faeries, you’d understand that wielding it is not cowardice or laziness.”
“If you respected humans, you’d know that magic comes in simpler forms,” I counter. “Raising a family. Nurturing a friendship. Caring for an animal. Facing your fears. Helping those in need. Learning forgiveness or humility. Painting a picture. Planting seeds. Building a house. Teaching someone to read. Loving another person. Giving somebody hope.”
All the things humans are capable of. All the things they do.
That’s magic, too. That’s strength.
Cerulean contemplates this. “Then show me your magic, and I’ll show you mine.”
Slipping his fingers through my digits, he weaves us together. Sparks pop at the tips. His skin is smooth, his touch magnetic. He aligns our arms and spreads them wide.
“The zephyr,” he whispers as a dainty breeze swishes between us.
“The gale,” he hums, summoning a thrust of air and maneuvering our arms along its trajectory.
“The wuther,” he rasps as a stream of turbulence roars dully and blows me into him, the blast pummeling our clothes.
It’s a delicious rush. The impact whisks my white locks with his obsidian-blue ones, a cloudy layer flapping against that single, longer rope of hair.
We become the sky. We become dawn and dusk.
And I can see the texture and shape of each flow. I can see them.
He’s showing me the wind. He’s showing me every type and shape possible. A swatch of hazy, floating opal. A prismatic streak zooming past. Then a fluid funnel, metallic and blurred at the edges, raging against our garments.
Our bodies inhale and exhale in tandem, his shoulders bracing me, my hips framed by his waist, my ass resting against his pelvis. Hoarsely, Cerulean lists a dozen names for wind. Some of them I know, others I’ve never heard of.
He tells me magic must be honed to be wielded. It takes patience to understand it, respect to bond with it, discipline to wield it, and humility to honor it. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, just like he’d never viewed natural acts as magical.
This moment is familiar because I’ve known it before. Years ago, another Fae introduced me to the wind, making me chase it until I giggled out loud.
Tears pools beneath my closed lids—
“Very careful now,” Cerulean warns.
—until I can’t take it anymore.
I slide around to face him, my breasts dragging over his bare chest. My body’s alive, thrumming against his muscles. Craning my head, I let my eyes scroll from those dark blue lips to those eyes.
Provocative eyes. Wicked eyes.
This Fae ruler. This vicious creature.
My thighs spread an inch, and he takes that inch, slipping through enough for me to feel the ledge of his cock. It juts along my inner thigh, inciting a pleasurable throb beneath the nightgown. My fingers climb through his hair, itching to trace the blades of his ears.
I use my thumbs to pop the winged caps free, the jewels tumbling to the ground. The second my fingers scale those slender points, my restraint snaps—and so does his.
The Fae grabs my face, his nails pinching my skin. His head swoops down, his lips seething against mine. “You fucking vice of a human.”
Then our mouths slam together.
21
It happens without a warning, like most things between us. I don’t wait for him, and he doesn’t wait for me, because we’re done with that shit. So the instant his lips slant over mine, and my lips surge into his, it’s over. I’m finished baiting, finished resisting.
And hell yeah, I’m through with talking.
Cerulean’s mouth fits around my own. The contours of those lips shove into me, sharp and swift, a violent gust of a kiss that knocks me off my feet. His lips rock into mine, the force of it yanking a gasp from the back of my throat.
My arms fling around his shoulders, the tips of my fingers prickling as they carve through his hair and cling to his scalp. I pull on the roots, punishing him, savoring him.
A hushed groan vaults from his chest and ripples across my mouth. One hand dives down my back, burning a trail over my flesh and then catching my ass in his palm. Seizing the back of my head with his other hand, Cerulean hoists me against the cliff of his naked chest, his coat flaring open around us. The nightgown rubs his flushed skin, softness mashing into muscle and bone. Separated by a swatch of material, my nipples bud over hard, heated flesh.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 21
