When did she return from The Night Aviary?
What did she hear?
I gnash my teeth, leaping to conclusions. Moth gauges my expression, floats to the ground, and crosses her papery arms. “Don’t look at me like that. I had to retire early for a good day’s rest.”
My choppers relax. To work the grounds by dusk, she needs to go to bed before dawn. Although in reverse order, my sisters and I have kept to the same schedule, for the same reason. Still, this was supposed to be a private night.
I bristle. “You eavesdropping on us again?”
“You were screaming at each other,” she henpecks, then banks her head left and right, checking the corridors. “The servants aren’t back yet. I arrived not half an hour ago but didn’t know you were both here until the shouting gave me a migraine, though I didn’t catch much except…” Her features ease up. “He tried to free you?”
I let my expression speak for itself, and she sighs, “Impulsive Fae.”
From the beginning, the lack of influence Cerulean’s flute had over me gave Moth pause, but she doesn’t seem to know about the bond, and she can’t lie. If nothing else, she didn’t overhear that part. Otherwise, she’d be nagging me about it.
“Did he tell you about the west path?” she asks.
“I’m on my way there,” I answer.
“Do you love him?”
My mouth fumbles to respond. I could fib, but I’m not sure if my answer would be yes or no. Because of our link, I can’t be sure what’s authentic or what either of us truly feel.
Moth’s face scrunches into a raisin. “The way Cerulean looks at you. I’ve never seen the likes from him.” She sorts through that, a grunt lurching from her mouth. “I’d appraise your kiss, but I turned away.”
She admits this with a grudge, as if she regrets not being nosy. I chuckle without humor, then trail off, lest I choke on the mirth. “What I feel doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not to you, but it does to him. If you gave Cerulean your heart, he’d devote himself to it. My friend would do everything in his power to make you happy, even when he’s feeling selfish.”
My digits suffocate the newel post. The last thing I want to hear about is everything I’m giving up. “It’s a lost cause, Moth.”
The Fae huffs. “Fine, keep your secrets.”
“Thanks for the magic thread.”
“Gratitude is for mortals,” she scoffs but manages a small grin, then squares the rods of her shoulders. “Remember the rules. And Lark?”
“Moth?” I drawl.
“For the eternal wild.”
A direct hit. That old motto was created by the ancients during a bygone era when all beings in The Dark Fables tolerated one another. It’s meant to wish someone well because, in spite of our differences, we all live amongst the wild.
Can’t say most cultures live by that edict anymore. And it’s the last thing I’d expected to fall out of Moth’s mouth.
I release the newel and snatch the whippersnapper into a hug. She squawks and freezes like a snared animal as I say over her shoulder, “For the eternal wild.” Then I swivel and jog down the stairs, doubtlessly missing my opportunity to relish her gape.
***
I race from the tower and dash into the wildlife park. Veering west dumps me onto a path that winds through moonflower trellises. Shrubs twitch around the mountain goat’s cantering form, and the pika nibbles on a nut. If I kneel, they might flock to me, and we’d become kin.
I harden my face and stomp toward the hedge. A quick scan reveals a small rift in the leaves, hard to spot unless you’re searching for it. So there’s a path off this zenith, after all.
I push through the cavity where stalks of bracken pierce the gap. Not long after, the route crimps into a stone staircase ascending a gorge in the bluff. I focus ahead, ahead, ahead.
Nothing else. Nobody else.
Thirty minutes pass. Based on Tímien’s original flight from The Mistral Ropes, I don’t know what the hell Cerulean was talking about, because there’s no way I can reach the crest from here. That would place me on the eastern terrain, on the opposite side of the range.
Yet the steps level into a copse that peers over a turbulent void. Sure enough, it’s The Mistral Ropes. I have to credit whatever magic my route yielded to dump me right where I left off. That is, if I don’t count having lost my grip and nearly fallen to my death before finishing the climb.
In the copse, a shimmering signpost awaits.
The Siege of Herons
The Lost Bridges
The Wild Peak
Cerulean mentioned that last one. It’s got to be the mountaintop.
But if I know this labyrinth, this signpost points out the location but not the actual route leading there. I unspool my whip. The wind catches the rope and urges it toward heron territory.
Three days left. My pulse jackhammers from the recent trek. Unable to continue without a break, I hunker beneath a rowan and sleep.
The days blur into a single belt of time. I stay vigilant of predators, crossing paths with batches of fauna, some tame like the bobcats. Others, like the vultures hunching on brittle offshoots, wait for me to keel over and decompose for their supper. Also, I try not to think about where the cougars live, because the friendly one at the tower can’t be the only member of its species.
At The Siege of Herons, the coin of a lake reflects the stars. Bubbles steam from the surface, the water sparkling a vivid hue reminiscent of melted lapis lazuli. The blue-grey birds waddle on toothpick limbs at the bank, their beaks inlaid with spiral markings. I don’t see any eggs that need protecting, but the upright birds rustle in my direction, intending to shoo me away. If feeling threatened, they could shift size and skewer me, or they could simply attack in numbers.
On a whim, I bow. Seems to calm them, because they stride off. I make camp from the lake’s opposite end and gawk as they fish for translucent-looking crustaceans, the herons’ spiral-marked beaks elongating, extending far and burrowing deeper for their catch.
Using my cloak for a blanket, I curl up and listen to the lapping water. Cerulean said it would get worse. Don’t see it that way so far, which can’t be good. Even the Solitaries have given me a wide berth, like the calm before a storm.
As I coast into dreams, a draft brushes my hair.
The thirteenth night smears cobalt across the sky, with constellations crystallizing in the hemisphere. I scale rungs embedded into the precipice, then crab-walk across a honeycomb of interlaced hammock ropes swaying over a gulley. With a handful of hours left before dawn, anxiety churns my stomach. Once the moon yields to the sun, it’s over.
The panorama spreads before me, a great mural of summits adorned with bobbing rowans and lanky trees, the hedges speckled with torch poles. I pause and scope out the highest cliff.
The Wild Peak.
But what’s that hodgepodge of planks leading to the summit? Although too far away to tell from this vantage point, the crossing is reachable from here.
I could make it. I could win this.
Problem is, an unlucky shaft leads to that hodgepodge. I’m standing under a hole that burrows into an overhanging chunk of stone. It’s ten feet off the ground, a well of black that reminds me of…
Fuck. I step back.
It resembles a chimney flue. This is what Cerulean meant by the end hurting. He knew I’d have to face this artery, where brackets of rock disappear into the darkness.
My chest rises and falls. With shaky hands, I flick my whip into the chute’s throat. The weapon catches on one of the juts, and I use it to haul myself up into the duct. Murkiness assaults my vision, the walls shrinking, my unsteady breaths filling my ears.
Rubble skitters over the uneven stone, granules raining down. Flakes tumble into my eyes. Dust pinches my nostrils, and my cough vibrates up the enclosure.
I’m eight years old, wedged inside a vent of bricks, smoke, and cinders. I’m scared and don’t want to fall. Meanwhile, the grate�
�s teeth wait to snare me like an animal.
My toes scrape the crags, finding purchase on an unsteady surface. The rocky interior takes a bite of my elbow and scrubs my knee through the split in my skirt. Soot clogs my lungs. I throw back my head, gasping at the sky’s pupil. I’m tired, already tired, so very tired.
…you didn’t need wings to free yourself.
His words filter through. On a growl, I climb, climb, climb.
Starlight pours onto me, the canopy seeming to swell overhead. I lug myself out of the chute and slump onto a patch of dandelion puffs. The pappus umbrellas scatter, spraying the terrain. I follow their progress and hobble to a standing position, my forearms wiping grime and sweat from my face.
The Wild Peak dominates the view ahead. I hoot, the manic sound blasting to the clouds.
Then my relief dies. The hodgepodge I’d noticed comes into stark relief.
Bridges. Dozens of stone bridges converge over the wide, screaming mouth of the valley. Unlike the network of ramps when the hornets charged at me, this puzzle consists of multiple levels, some lined in rows, others intersecting. Several gangplanks are L shaped. A few hover over one another, forming parallel stacks bolstered by trestles.
The signpost had listed a place called The Lost Bridges. It’s an aerial maze extending hundreds of feet over The Solitary Forest. It’s also the only way to cross the divide.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hiss.
“You’ve always had such a mutinous tongue.”
I whirl on the Fae who looms within grabbing distance. He wears a long, hazelnut coat with decorative plumes at the collar, the unlaced garment drooping lazily from his shoulders. A shirt opens itself to the wind, and billowing trousers tap his hips, the material plunging into high boots. Purple welts sag under his eyes.
“Cerulean,” I stammer. “What—”
“—am I doing here?” His lilt is waspish, as though pushed through a grater. “I told you it would get worse.”
Figures materialize across the scene. They sprout wings and jackrabbit ears, ram and antelope horns, cloven hooves and feline pupils. The congregation lurks at the fringes, leaning against rowan trunks that shed layers of bark.
The Fae have gathered to watch the spectacle. They perch on various bridges and crowd The Wild Peak.
Moth idles alone, glancing around the column of a tree. Foreboding creases her face as it hops between me and Cerulean.
You cannot assume I’ll stand aside and watch you suffer!
Our argument at The Fauna Tower returns to me. The double meaning becomes clear, the hidden warning he’d tried to deliver.
I’ve got to solve this bridge maze in less than an hour.
But to do that, I’ll have to get past him.
30
Friend. Villain. Lover.
All four guises converge into a smirk that doesn’t reach his irises. Is he tormenting himself or toying with me? Is he being real or not?
The worst-case scenario rams its fist into my stomach. This is Faerie, and he’s the most powerful of these monsters. Was every passionate moment with him nothing but a ruse?
Gone is the Fae who fucked his way into my heart, who whispered secrets with me, who watched me come around his thrusts. Gone is the Fae who played his flute for animals, who admitted he’s afraid of cages, who claimed to love me. Gone is the Fae I’ve befriended. Gone is the Fae I want.
In his place? The trickster I met by my family’s wagon.
Cerulean saunters my way, his coat scratching the ground. “What’s this?” he inquires, his speech carrying over the range. “Have I made you speechless, squeamish, shaken?” He clucks in disappointment. “What a shame, pet. Your tongue has been such a charmer until now.”
I choke the handle of my whip. “You want charm? Ask a little closer.”
He continues to prowl around me, but his blue mouth twitches, his tone suggestive. “Beware, precious Lark. I can do many things up close, as well as from afar. I’d ask which is your fancy, but I already know.”
“Do me a favor,” I reply, tracking his movements. “How’s about you go to hell, and get out of my way? I’ve got a mountaintop to hike.”
“Oh, but that’s a request I can’t indulge.” Cerulean pauses, whisks a quill from the breeze, and flaps his palm back and forth, the slate plume swaying with his motions. “Unless you would care to make another deal. Your sacrifice for my demise, perhaps? Let me win, and you may have command of my will. Give the mountain its restoration, and I’ll cater to your every whim.”
“In the afterlife?” I mock. “I think not. Twisting your words isn’t gonna blow my skirt up.”
Cerulean flicks the back of his wrist, and the feather evaporates. “Indeed. I needn’t manipulate words to accomplish that.”
To emphasize his point, the wind teases the hem of my dress. Son of a bitch. Heat scorches my cheeks.
“Very well,” he says with a noncommittal shrug. “Do you remember our bargain when you arrived? I’ve yet to redeem my free rule. Allow me to do so now. You may attempt to reach the top, however you’ll need to outrun me.”
Heartbreak, betrayal, and fury squat atop my ribs. I’d assumed as much, but still. He’s cashing in on his rule from the throne summit, using it to take me down. But it doesn’t make sense after what happened between us, after realizing we’re bonded, after recognizing each other from nine years ago. I won’t believe it!
“This isn’t you,” I whisper, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “I know it’s not you.”
Cerulean inches nearer, his eyes flickering with an unsteady light as he whispers back, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
He swings his arm toward The Lost Bridges.
I force myself to shake off the grief. I can’t afford to shatter at his feet.
My eyes dart across the tangle of bridges punching in and out of the mist, the elevation a threat to my equilibrium. I’ll have to fumble through this delirium, learning as I go.
A lone bridge stretches from the bluff’s rim, marking the entrance. The setting moon sprinkles The Wild Peak with twilit foils of white and blue.
Time shrinks to a pinprick. There’s nothing for it.
I remember being little, telling Cerulean to go.
I remember being older, Cerulean telling me to go.
Breaking into a run, I hotfoot across the first overpass. Planks croak underneath my pounding boots, spitting dust from between the cracks. Jeers scrape the air. The Fae’s catcalls lacerate the environment, attempting to throw me off balance.
The supports jostle from the impact of my run, the rails grunting. Several hundred feet of nothing extends beneath me, and the valley’s mashed treetops peek through the pool of smog. The altitude whisks up harsh currents of air, and a gale whooshes through me, splitting my hair into filaments. I should’ve knotted the damn mane before starting, the better to keep everything in sight and my wits about me.
The extension plunges into a swirl of fog, obscuring the other side. I don’t know where I’m going or if it’s the right way, but I accelerate my pace, plow into the vapors—and rush headlong into Cerulean.
I skid to a halt. My body teeters abreast of him, my skull inches from smacking into his. The haze ruffles his hair and the lapels of his wrinkled coat. “A mutinous maze for a mutinous mortal,” he murmurs.
That whisper undulates through the miasma, curling its digit under my chin. I recoil before it can make a dent in my concentration.
Instead of a cliffside landing, I’ve emerged on a completely different bridge. My head whips from side to side, processing the change of atmosphere. Similar intricate wood slabs march along this rampart, except significant gaps cut between them, and a track of ropes reinforces the whole thing.
Each end must lead to a new beginning. Problem is, I’m farther from the peak instead of closer, having landed on a scaffold beneath where I’d started.
I glance at Cerulean. Of course, I’d be racing this final stretch against him, that hi
s last job would be to muddle and distract me. But hasn’t he done that enough?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I grate, my traitorous voice cracking.
Hearing that breach pinches his features with sadness. Hidden from our audience, the veneer drops like a curtain. “Oh, but I did.”
Yeah, he did. At the tower, he said it without saying it, cautioned me about this last leg. I study his face, the loss and longing cleaving through everything fake, every carefully placed emotion, every clever facade.
Cerulean always did look good in a mask.
A thousand stones crumble from my shoulders. He’s trying to help me, not stop me. He recouped that bargain from the summit not to sabotage me but to guard me on these bridges.
Although I’ve gotta win on my own, the closer I get to the peak, the more wrathful his kin will become, and the more likely they’ll intervene. Cerulean’s here to put on a show, to stick closely to me rather than stand by, in case I’m in danger.
That’s also why his voice traveled across the range earlier. He’s performing for the Fae, playing to their expectations.
At the tower, he could have spelled out what was going to happen today. Yet if he had, I wouldn’t have looked as flabbergasted to our audience. I role-played fine at the masquerade, but winning hadn’t been at stake that night.
Acting for these Fae during the climax of this game? While they’re sober and keener? Dicey at best.
I had to be surprised. It had to look real.
You cannot assume I’ll stand aside and watch you suffer!
He’s siding with me. He flouted rules before, catching me when I tumbled off The Mistral Ropes, telling me where to head from The Fauna Tower. But those incidents are nothing compared to openly deceiving his world at the final turn.
We gaze at one another. I don’t want to clash with him, and he doesn’t want to block me, but the game’s gotta be played to its utmost.
I want to grab him, and slap him, and whip him. I want to kiss him senseless. I want last night. I want nine years ago. I want to stay with him. I want to go home. I want forever. I want one more minute.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 30
