The rawness in my throat gets worse. Lots of blokes have yanked those knees apart in a hurry. None of them have paid my scars any mind.
Tonight, my skin tingles there. My joints go limp into the mattress, and the sheets sigh across the bed. It’s all I can do to maintain an ounce of resilience, to hold my own against this. I’d counted on wicked moves, but I hadn’t counted on this one.
Maybe neither had he, because the breeze slips and retreats for a second. I whine and pitch my knees high, searching for him. Then the gust returns and reshapes itself, taking on the texture of a mouth that licks a path between my sloped thighs. My eyes clench shut, the stillness of my body amplifying the sensations.
Nevertheless, when that draft splits between my thighs and sweeps them far apart, my hips buck. The wind snakes around my waist, restraining me until I calm down. By now, my center is swollen and slick with moisture.
But the draft bypasses my pelvis, gliding up to my navel and between the points of my breasts. At my collarbones, the onslaught forks, coasting north with an agenda. It grasps each of my wrists, links around them, and extends them over my head, pinning me to the pillows.
My gasp punctuates the movement, my eyes flaring open. I arch my spine. My tits lift proudly, my nipples stiffening under the nightgown. Even at this angle, I see them poking through the garment.
And I see the wind. Now that he’s shown me, I see it.
The silvery blue vapor is weightless, hovering over me. Sprawled beneath, I dart my tongue across my lips and blow humid air. “Cerulean.”
That sets off a chain reaction. The wind whisks in a discreet direction, veering downward. The nightgown bunches around my hips, exposing my core to him, every wet and wanting part of me. Open like this, I feel the sharpness of his gaze—the dark, mesmerized thrall.
My groin thrums. The nub protruding my body pulsates, desperate for friction. If he doesn’t fix this, I’m going to scream.
A second later, the wind dives, looping into the rift between my legs and curving up my slit. In one prolonged pass, it slides along the gap that leads into me and ascends to the tiny crest hidden within the curls.
On a shocked cry, I go taut as a noose. My body whips off the mattress and bows upward.
The wind narrows—and tastes me. Quick flicks lap up the soaked opening, feeding on the dampness. It’s almost the same as a tongue, but not quite. It’s something more, without edges or limitations.
Therefore, it reaches deeper.
The pressure tapers to a point and works me into a frenzy. Each lash is agonizingly gentle, whipping against my folds, drenching me anew. It licks me relentlessly, over and over, coaxing out more wetness. My entire being reduces to the place where my arousal floods this wind.
I’m feverish all over, humid and sweating. When the wind fans out the walls of private flesh and dabs into my tight, slick passage, I’m ruined.
“Oh, fuck,” I stammer.
I lurch from the bed, my pelvis grinding itself into thin air. My head thrashes, and my hands fist the sheets, and I can hear someone sobbing with pleasure.
It’s me. And the guttural noise carving through the air is him.
I imagine his head bobbing between my shaky thighs. That diabolical tongue of wind flexes in and out, drawing on my moans, each one louder than the next. Then out of nowhere, the gust withdraws and flies toward that sweet ridge of nerves.
Oh, my Fables. Yes.
My mouth falls open, disjointed cries falling from my lips as my apex grinds against the wind. It dashes over that peak, stroking and teasing, doing endless damage.
At last, it latches and suctions around the soft flesh. The hot tug moves with short, swift pulls, yanking stuttered noises from my mouth. I’m shouting, weeping for more. I need it to end, and I’m desperate for it to last a lifetime.
I can’t take this, I can’t, I can’t.
But I will.
My pelvis chases the wind, chases the shape of his touch. Then my body seizes up. And I spring apart, a great convulsion of heat bursting from my core.
I come against the mist of his lips, spasming at a breakneck pace. My moans fly out the window, ecstasy rushing through me as I squeeze the sheets, my legs parted as far as they’ll go.
I crash right quick. My body smashes into the mattress, my limbs sprawled akimbo.
Carefully, the wind gathers the sheets around me. By the time, my glazed eyes search for a glimpse of air, it’s gone.
Sneaky Fae. He must have expected me to pass out after that. But nestled under the bedding, all I can do is grab one of the pillows and hug it to my chest. I squeeze it like a body, as if he stayed behind.
He’d wanted to. I’d felt his impulse like I’d felt his resistance.
I know, because it’s the same thing I wanted. But we don’t know how to do that with each other—stay behind.
I know something else, too. None of the blokes who’ve tasted my body ever wrenched a spellbinding, soul-shattering climax from me. And while the aftermaths were lonely, they were never heartbreaking. They weren’t painful or terrifying.
None of them had touched me with the wind. None of them had caressed the side of my face with affection.
Only one creature has ever done that.
Releasing the pillow, I lurch upright and swing my legs out of bed. Hopeful, petrified tears sting my eyes as I rush to my pack on the floor. Even if I already know what this means, even with everything Cerulean told me last night, I can’t hedge my bets. Not for this.
To reveal the truth, The Horizon That Never Lies needs an offering. I’ve bartered or lost my trinkets, but that’s fine.
I’ve got one thing left.
23
I wait until I’m certain he’s gone to bed and won’t return. Three hours remain before dusk. Hijacking that gap of time, I get dressed, then sneak out of the tower and into the gawk of sunlight. Tímien’s perched on his throne atop the spire, an emperor contemplating the scenery through the lens of a single, aquamarine eye. Still as a statue, the raptor reigns over the mountain, impervious to the wind disturbing his feathers.
I bow, my forehead sinking to the ground. A moment later, a horned shadow flaps past me, and I peek as a set of clawed feet hook around a branch. The owl grants me an audience, bearing down on me from the prow of his beak, the left socket making a dent in his face, a scarred cradle of tissue. In spite of that, I get the feeling he can see a whole universe through that surviving orb.
This creature owes me nothing, so I keep my head lowered and wait. I’ve spent years watching over birds and communicating with them in our own private way. So when I hear the owl descend to a shallower bough, I take that as an invitation and lift my head.
“I’m hoping for answers. Can you take me there?” I entreat. “Please?”
I’m not fixing to cheat on this game or disrespect the fauna’s history by traveling during Middle Moon. But a question’s been gnawing at me, and this is my one chance to get an answer. Besides, I already milked this loophole earlier with Cerulean.
Tímien observes me, deliberating and then launching off the branch. He slingshots into a gargantuan figure, patterns of sleek, incandescent quills rippling outward. Tier sheets of feathers flap, the whooshing sound powerful, hypnotizing.
During The Trapping, the villagers of Reverie Hollow had tackled the size-shifting problem by weakening the creatures with all those iron weapons and traps. My eyes water to picture this magnificent specimen reduced to bars and a lock, one half of its vision stolen. I can’t begin to imagine what happened to the Fae children during the uprising, much less to Cerulean when he stumbled upon the gruesome spectacle and found his winged father mutilated.
The ground shakes as Tímien lands, his silhouette dwarfing my frame. I mount his back, and we take off, shooting into the late afternoon.
The Solitary Mountain is quiet, its residents entombed in slumber. Below, a handful of rowans bob at steep angles, seesawing against the wind, while others stay put. Lanky trees i
mpale the mist, and climbing plants embroider the rocky landscape, everything connected by a labyrinth of steps, bridges, and aerial facades.
Exhilarated, I spread my arms and close my eyes. I hear the bird’s massive wings swat through the air, because he’s safe and healed and free now. As for me, I’m a drifting cloud, always in motion, always changing shape. Even the sky can’t hold me down.
Except when Cerulean used the wind to touch me last night. Of all the ways to rope around my heart, he’d exploited the one thing I’ve always wanted to feel enveloping me. More than once, he brought me to those heights.
I’ve fucked loads of mangy blokes, desperate to replace the boy I wanted and lost. But last night, I hadn’t cared about replacing anyone. I hadn’t needed to.
Tímien plunges. My stomach swoops. I flex my limbs astride his plumes, the fringes shuddering as we land. The impact jolts my eyes open to a panorama of summits and boundless sky slathered in pastel hues.
The Horizon That Never Lies.
I stumble off the owl and approach the center, unsure what to do next. Do I need to perform a ritual? Say the right words?
My shuffling feet dislodge pebbles. I glance at Tímien for guidance. The creature’s bejeweled eye darts toward the sun, indicating where I should look. Still, I fail to utter a syllable, my tongue flopping around in a feeble attempt to shape words.
Once I do this, I can’t undo it.
Hope circles in the cage of my chest. Terror, too. Both whisk up a blizzard’s worth of emotions that shove my voice to the surface. “Um, is anyone there?”
It’s like speaking into the womb of a canyon. A current of air grabs hold of my question and carries it away, funneling it someplace I can’t see. All at once, the sky dances, pivoting into a brilliant mobile of dots.
The motes shiver into being. Faint winged outlines manifest, attached to swishing tails and oval muzzles. On a gasp, I step closer.
Pegasi. The sylphs are Pegasi.
In physical form, they’re extinct. As apparitions, they live on.
Their ancient voices collect and vibrate into a single force. “Welcome, Lark of Reverie Hollow. What may we do for you?”
“I…” Licking my lips, I speak quickly, afraid they’ll vanish. “I seek the truth, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“And why would you seek this truth?”
My heart speaks for itself. “To let it go.”
Silence. But when they finally reply, they sound intrigued. “Indeed, that is a first. Very well, then. Make your offering and ask your question.”
Hadn’t known I’d been intending to let the truth go. It just came out, uprooting itself from a spot buried deep inside me. If I know the truth, I can free myself from the past—whether that means releasing my guilt or affirming what I’ve been brooding over since last night.
With shaky hands, I dig into the pocket of my navy dress and fish out the blue feather. The one tender relic of my past. The one treasure I’ve managed to save during this game. The last prized possession I’ve been willing to give up.
Nine years since I last saw him. Five years since I stopped waiting for him to rise from the dead. Three years since I stopped crying.
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.
I hold up the plume. “I’ll give you this feather if you tell me something about it. The quill once belonged to a Fae. Is he alive?”
“Yes,” the Horizon choruses.
“Where do I find ’im?”
“You already have.”
The wind slows. Quiet descends, so that I hear my thunderous pulse.
Everything drops to the ground. I falter, my knees plummeting to the grass. Then my heart follows, shattering on the way down. The feather is last, floating from my fingers.
In a helpless daze, I watch it swing on the breeze. The air scoops up the plume and loops it back into the hemisphere. It spirals into the vista, where the Horizon swallows it whole.
He’s alive. All this time, he’s been alive and right in front of my face.
Why am I prostrate? Hadn’t I already known?
But it’s one thing to learn a secret by accident or surprise. It’s another to see the revelation, the confirmation, coming.
It’s one thing to figure out the truth. It’s another to hear it spoken. And it’s a whole other thing to accept it.
So much for letting it go.
I shake my head. “How, if that boy died nine years ago?”
“Did you see it happen?” the Horizon counters.
I hadn’t. But in the aftermath of the Faeries’ escape, I’d heard the villagers in the market square, heard them whispering about that infamous night and that boy, how he tried to get away. Where did the cluckers go wrong? Why didn’t I investigate more instead of choking on that grapevine?
“You mortals are quick to believe the words of others,” the Horizon says. “Rather than respect knowledge by examining it closer, by taking a deeper and patient look for yourselves, you accept secondhand narratives. You choose that, rather than seeking the truth on your own. Do you place so little value on your own perceptions, that you would take the first spoken word afforded to you?”
I surge to my feet. “You want to talk about the truth? Here you are, acting like you’ve got all the answers for a price, like you have all the facts. Isn’t that the same thing? Yet you’ve got the nerve to judge? What gives you the right?”
“We’re spirits of the sky. Nature speaks through us and has done so for centuries. If that isn’t enough to convince you, then bear this in mind: There is a distinction between the truth we tell you and what you decide to do with it. Which matters more?”
“I was a fucking child. I didn’t think to question the story.”
“Not when you grew up?”
“Especially not then.”
Because as I got older, every truth got tougher. Because what if everything I believed about the night I lost him turned out to be false? What if the village had been plain wrong, gotten their facts mixed up? What if he survived and became a monster? What if instead of rescuing a friend, I’d set loose a demon?
The years gave me that perspective, but fear came with it. That’s why I’ve been hoping and dreading this discovery. Hoping that he’d lived and dreading it as well.
My voice comes out brittle, pulverized by another glaring possibility, one that aches so badly. Have I been duped? Have I been that much of an idiot?
Jumping to conclusions will validate what Horizon said about mortals’ regard for the truth. I get what they meant about deciding what to do with it. Deciding what to trust and where to place my faith—well, that’s in my power.
“Does he know?” I grit out. “Does he know who I am?”
The Pegasi fan their wings. “What do you suppose?”
I pause, because in hindsight, the assumption is folly. As a tyke, I helped Cerulean flee, and we were friends. If he’s known all along I’m the girl from his past, he wouldn’t have been eager to put me through this. In spite of his oath to restore the fauna, he’d wouldn’t be terrorizing me with a leer on his face.
Would he? What if he fooled me back then? What if he’d been a trickster from the get-go, cackling at me when I wasn’t with him in the forge? What if he’s been watching me longer than I thought? What if those sneaky jaunts from the wind into my bed hadn’t been random?
And what about this morning? What if I’m nothing but a trinket to him?
What if he never cared at all?
Images of childhood flip through my mind. The glassblower’s forge and that cage. The games we played. The things I shared with him. The way he cupped my cheek, tender and true.
There’s more. In this labyrinth, I witnessed in Cerulean the same loss and longing I’ve been dealing with.
A monster doesn’t bandage his adversary’s wounds.
A monster doesn’t save his victim from falling off a cliff.<
br />
A monster doesn’t speak fondly about a human girl from his past.
A monster doesn’t make a haven for animals and play the flute for them.
Tímien waits at the ledge. Behind him, The Fauna Tower’s spire lances through the clouds.
“That’s why I felt a connection from the start,” I say. “He’s the boy that I—”
“Your memory is strong. However, that is not why you felt a bond.”
I squint at the translucent wings fluctuating against the setting sun. “I don’t have anything else to offer.”
“You needn’t bother. There’s a multitude of layers to a single truth.”
“How many you got left?”
“As many as you’ll listen to.”
“That’s real cute, but I’m being serious.”
“You felt a bond because you’re inextricably linked.”
“Come again?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You kissed him, did you not? That cemented this fate.”
Warmth floods my neck. I kissed the Fae I’ve longed for in dreams. I kissed him, knowing who he might be. “What happened this morning was—”
“We are not referring to the present.”
I pause. It hits me that our lip-lock on this mountain hadn’t been the first one. Fact is, the first kiss happened a long time ago.
The Horizon explains, “A human lacks the power to compromise a Fae—with one exception.”
“If the human has the Fae’s real name,” I recite. “I know.”
There’s a chagrined but dignified pause. “Very well. There are two exceptions.”
If I weren’t antsy, I’d guffaw. In any case, I relinquished that advantage after making a deal with Cerulean. There’s nothing else left.
“A human in possession of a Fae’s real name can control that Fae,” the Horizon prefaces. “But a human who shares the purest of kisses with a member of the Folk will be intricately attached to that individual. You may call it a bond.”
A chill rolls down my back. I tense, recalling a tale from the Book of Fables. It’s one of Juniper’s least favorites because it touts romance, insisting that if a human kisses a Fae—a genuine and unconditional kiss—yeah, they’ll be linked.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 23
