“Lark,” Cerulean instructs with a forced calm that only a person the verge of panic would use. “Very…careful now. Listen…very carefully. I can’t…beseech the wind…to catch you.”
A whimper bubbles from my mouth, my chin quaking. The rope struggles to bear our combined weight. Its fibers split, the tear echoing into the valley.
“Cerulean! Lark!” Moth screeches, her horrified face parting the mist as she flutters above us in her cocoon dress, the straps ripped in places. Magic-blessed or not, her visible alarm tells me she’s too small to carry either of us.
Cerulean said Faeries have various connections to the wind. How they steer and shape it, how they commune with it, and to what extent depends on the individual. That’s gotta mean Moth can’t guide the wind to fetch Cerulean and me, either.
“Fables eternal,” she brays.
“Moth, get help,” Cerulean says while staring at me. “Jalladun ánej ukluna. Fardun vvjóttet!”
Moth nods and zips into the firmament.
The rope sheds, jerking us down inch by inch. My lungs chafe, every gasp razor sharp. I inspect the noose tacked to the underside of the bridge. I don’t know much in this life, but I do know how much a rope can handle. Seeing what I expected, I think about how close I was, loss and longing tangling in my throat.
Fear the wind. Follow the wind.
The notion trickles through my consciousness. The current cinches my ankles, pulling me down, down, down. And if nothing is what it seems in this maze, if up is down, and left is right, and forward is backward…
I could be right. I could be wrong.
What I’m not wrong about is that cord. It can only support one of us.
I slide my gaze over to Cerulean’s and give him a weak smile. His eyes flare wide. “No!” His lilt cracks, piercing the dawning sky. “No, Lark! I promise, I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”
My words tremble. “You’ve always had me.”
And that’s why I let go.
31
His face shrinks above me, his mouth parting on a silent bellow. I think he’s calling my name, but the wind snatches the rupture of his voice and stuffs it inside a whooshing howl of air. The current surges up my calves and shoves my skirt into the hemisphere, the garment funneling around me.
I can’t see the world, but I feel it slicing along my skin, the velocity cleaving me into shards. The atmosphere thickens, blasting against my body, threatening to snap my bones. My mouth parts, a scream pealing from my mouth—but I can’t hear that, either. All I hear is the flailing wind, a shrill protest of noise.
Well, then. At least my whip will be waiting for me at the bottom.
The pressure has twisted me onto my back. My skirt shudders, blocking my view. Part of me wishes I could whirl the other way, see where I’m going, feel the descent.
And then a force does capsize me. Another muted cry barrels from my throat as something—someone—lands on top of me and then inverts our positions by flipping me onto my belly. I bat away the dress and collide with wild blue eyes.
Cerulean plummets beneath me, suspended on his back while clasping my hips. He clutches me, and I do the same, digging my fingernails into his sides. White tresses lash and sting my neck, and his obsidian-blue hair fans around his head.
The air frays his tattered wings. They convulse, wrestling against the momentum.
He jumped to buffet my fall. He jumped, intending to break my fall, although that’s impossible.
Cerulean glances over his shoulder to check the gulf. The crowning trees grow larger, florets of green consuming the backdrop and veering toward us. He hugs me to him, and I hook my arms around his neck, burrowing my face into the crook. This is it, this is all we can do because even if time has run out, there’s still a moment left to make a choice and hold on tight.
Suddenly, the air congeals. It solidifies, cushioning the drop so that we’re coasting to the bottom. Feathers funnel around us, severed from his wings and floating in a gentle spiral.
Oaks and evergreens part to reveal a small stone hill thatched in grass. We drift to the ground and then tumble across the undergrowth. I grunt, flopping over in a heap. The world jolts to a standstill, and the roaring wind goes quiet, caught in an invisible seal.
Woozy, dizzy, I shake myself. Pebbles scrape my knees, and my arm smarts from where the raven Fae’s talons sheared through my skin, angry lines streaking across my bicep. The gashes aren’t as bad as I’d thought, shallow enough to staunch the blood. Instead of nestled within the trees, the incline looms over The Solitary Forest, higher above the woodland than anticipated.
Cerulean’s crumpled under me, his body contorted like a marionette. His javelin is nowhere in sight, likely jettisoned on the bridge where he’d attacked the phoenix. His ragged coat and shirt sprawl around him, the split V exposing purple contusions and crusts of red across his torso. But his abdomen rises and falls…he’s breathing. Fables, he’s breathing!
I hitch a teary breath. His eyes flutter open, hazy and stunned, because we’re alive.
We’re alive.
We hurl ourselves at one another. I whimper into his chest, and he sucks in terrified gulps of air, and we cling to each other.
Whatever saved our asses, it’s…not done.
The hill breaks into a seizure, chunks of soil and stone uprooting from someplace below. Cerulean and I split apart as the incline erupts from its base. Around the landmass, the earth collapses. Fissures ricochet across the grass, sediments of rock and clumps of dirt avalanching.
With a yawning stretch, the hill rises. And it rises, and it rises. It cleaves itself from the floor and bursts into the sky, muscles of stone broadening, the crest expanding like a pillar.
Wrapped around one another, Cerulean and I crane our heads. We fire past every summit of The Solitary Mountain, every ramp and bridge and ladder, every torch and signpost, every rowan and lanky tree, every dwelling.
The Fauna Tower. The Night Aviary.
The Horizon that Never Lies. The Lost Bridges.
The hill shoots past them, its shoulders rippling into a plain that sprouts soil and grass. When the vertex quakes to a halt, silence echoes through the panorama. We flounder to our feet, swaying atop a zenith that surpasses The Wild Peak. It’s vast enough to accommodate thousands of dwellers and, at its center, a rowan tree garnished with strands of glowing dust. The sun pours rose gold and periwinkle over the precipice, enveloping us in warmth.
“It’s th-the top,” I stutter.
“It cannot be,” Cerulean says. “I’ve stood upon the range.”
Up is down. Left is right. Forward is backward.
Nothing is as it seems. Guess I hadn’t expected my hunch to be right.
I grin at him. “Doesn’t mean it’s the highest point.”
He blinks in comprehension. “The Wild Peak, made anew.”
Knowing how this landscape works, his eyes gleam—then he bumbles sideways. I rush to catch him, the pair of us stumbling under his weight.
Protests multiply and draw near. Ravaged Faeries swarm the peak, their wings carrying them to the summit. Others materialize, bloody notches denting their bovine, feline, insectile, and avian faces. They marvel at this new pinnacle, but like Cerulean, they don’t need the wayward mysteries of this labyrinthine range spoon-fed to them. They know what’s happened.
A majority of the crowd glowers. Some who chose to defend Cerulean gawk, unsure whether or not to attack me in spite of him. One thing’s for sure, each of them scorns me because I’ve made it to the mountaintop. I’ve won.
Cerulean and I whirl, our backs aligning in a guarded stance like extensions of one another. A second later, I catch one of the phoenixes creeping from the sidelines, out of Cerulean’s vantage point. The firebird launches my way—and blasts sideways, pummeled by a tawny mass of fur. The wildcat swipes him down with a hoarse growl. It’s a cougar, but not the one from earlier.
This cat bears a limp and a circlet of markings across its foreh
ead. It’s the beauty from The Fauna Tower.
Behind her, a throng of animals from the wild park invade the scene, joined by creatures from diverse parts of the range. The antelope and mountain goat with stumped horns gallop up the craggy zenith alongside a ram, teal hoops piercing through its horns and its hooves spurting gold dust. Their heads lower, about to pummel anybody who gets in their way. The trio launches in front of me and Cerulean, shielding us from an attack. Hawks and bats circle amidst hummingbirds. The cougar bares her sabers and tacks the firebird Fae to the grass.
Dumbstruck, the mob edges backward, unwilling to engage with the sacred residents of their realm. A hooting cry pierces the morning. Tímien dives from the clouds, having shifted to his mammoth form. Along with our fauna protectors, he bolts in front of Cerulean and me, his wings blocking us from harm.
Moth hops from his back and skitters to a standstill, anxiety straining her features. When Cerulean asked her to get help, she must have raced to the tower and recruited the fauna. The trip there and back had taken too long, and Cerulean had propelled after me.
The horned owl looms, the very pissed-off picture of a raptor protecting its nest, his plumes blowing a warning gale into the Fae. I remember Cerulean saying Tímien is no less than a father to him. And once our attackers back off, the owl flies to the sideline, albeit vigilant of their every move.
Moth must have also retrieved Cerulean’s javelin from the bridge because she tosses it his way, and he catches it in one hand. “We couldn’t come back fast enough,” she blubbers. “By the time we returned, you were gone, and I thought…I didn’t know if…” Her frazzled expression morphs into a glare. “Well, I can’t work the wind as mightily you, and magic only takes us so far, and curse you for letting go of that rope.” Then to me, “And curse you for being likable.” Trauma clogs her throat, a harrowed look pressing into her countenance. “We circled The Solitary Forest, worried we’d find your splattered bodies in the valley. Instead, we brought back a souvenir.”
On reflex, I snare whatever she hurls at me. Relief gushes in as I glance at the whip.
“She cannot win!” the phoenix spits to Cerulean from under the cougar’s paws. “Not only did you fuck her behind our backs, but you helped this vile bitch of a mortal! Therefore, her success is forfeit!”
Cerulean hisses in Faeish and stalks toward the Fae as if to rip out his windpipe. Breaking from my stupor, I grab Cerulean by the waist and wrestle him backward.
“She made the final move alone,” he seethes, his tone loaded with elegant vitriol but sluggish from the wings’ injuries.
“Traitor!” a jackrabbit Fae shouts. “This human wouldn’t have made that move without your assistance. You dare to rob this mountain of its sacrifice!”
“You’re overruled, Cerulean,” a female with butterfly wings says.
Maybe the fall to hell and subsequent rise to the sun jostled the marbles in my noggin. Either way, I’m not gonna dwell, because I don’t have that kind of time. I glance from the crowd to the animals, the mystical fauna at the heart of every Fable I’ve read.
Fauna. Fables.
“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark,” I recite to myself.
The words slide across the peak, quieting everyone. Cerulean whirls my way and stares, an epiphany spanning his features.
The horde watches in confusion as I mumble the Fable under my breath. “And the Lark said—”
“What is she doing?” someone demands.
“Stop her,” another says with uncertainty.
But nobody moves. Meanwhile, I think about my people capturing the fauna, and I think about these Faeries worshipping animals, bearing similar traits, and celebrating Middle Moon. I think about Cerulean bowing to Tímien and these creatures reigning over the landscapes. I think about the throne summit, dubbed The Parliament of Owls. I think about the Book of Fables, which conveys truths about magical beings through tales about animals. I think about the mountain and its inhabitants fading, the Folk’s numbers reduced without the fauna.
I sense Cerulean pondering with me. A breath of revelation escapes him. He knows the final line but waits for me to put my finger on it.
And the Lark said, “We may fly separately, but let our direction be the same.”
My head snaps toward him. “I won, but I was never a sacrifice.”
Scoffs resound from the Faeries. “Liar,” the phoenix squawks.
“No, she’s not,” Moth mutters while squinting. From the looks of it, she’s finally getting the right ideas about why Cerulean’s flute never worked on me.
“No sacrifice,” a female blusters, her bobcat muzzle crinkling. “And what makes you presume that?”
“Because we’re bonded,” Cerulean supplies with a weak smirk.
The Fae gape, speechless. Beside Tímien, Moth’s jaw unhinges, probably because she hadn’t dared believe her intuition.
That’s why I’m not essential. My humanity aside, bonding with Cerulean renders me neutral in this land, straddling the line between mortals and immortals. As a result, my win won’t weaken the mountain or prevent the restoration of another animal.
All this time, I wasn’t a key player. Not in the way any of us thought.
That’s not all. I swap glances with Cerulean, who nods back with a sly grin of comprehension while the baffled Fae gawk between us.
“Even if I were a sacrifice, you don’t rule over me,” I tell him.
Pride animates Cerulean’s face. His chest lifts and recedes, inhaling and exhaling that statement for all it’s worth.
I direct the rest of my thoughts to the crowd. “And you can’t overrule ’im since you’re not his subjects, because he’s not in charge.”
Cerulean addresses them. “Because I don’t rule the sky.”
I follow his gaze toward the fauna. “They do.”
32
The magnitude of those words wipes noise from the range, creating a lull amongst the Solitaries. It’s a resounding hush, which the slightest draft fails to disturb.
Cerulean and I trade looks of fatigue and hope. Though there’s another magnetic, unspoken emotion mingling there, too.
His kin balk, struggling to process that we’re standing on the true summit; that I’m the one who got us here; that I’m Cerulean’s mate and, therefore, not a viable medium in the game; that I’m not crucial to restoring the fallen fauna and preserving their land; that he doesn’t rule me or them at all; that the animals surrounding us are the real monarchs, the true masters of The Solitary Mountain.
Nothing is as it seems in Faerie. And right now? I reckon from Cerulean’s expression how that fact’s never been truer.
A flurry of reactions brew through the peak, including denial, bafflement, disappointment, embarrassment, gratitude, and shame. Feet shuffle, heads duck, and complexions flush with astonishment or doubt.
There’s this and more. Finally, it ends with acceptance. The air whistles, the melody easing shoulders and relaxing jaws.
The Fae may not like a human bringing them to this conclusion, much less to this precipice, but they sure do pay tribute to the animals. Despite the worship and rituals, they’ve honored their fauna without realizing the extent of their roles. The Folk humble themselves, bowing their heads to the hovering avians and mammals mounted on the peak. Cerulean and I follow suit, sinking to our knees.
The cougar releases the phoenix with a warning grunt. The antelope, mountain goat, and ram stand proud. The birds and raptors float overhead, their wings catching the breeze.
Tímien cuts a regal figure, the draft rustling his tiered mantle of plumes. The avian regards the genuflection through that single aquamarine eye, his mien inscrutable, no different from when he presides over The Fauna Tower and The Parliament of Owls. Yet his gaze tracks over each face, acknowledging us directly, one by one.
The owl’s inspection ends with me and Cerulean. He contemplates us, then soars into the air and crimps into his smaller form. Circling us once,
the bird lands on my shoulder.
I startle, a lump bulging in my throat. Earning his favor is a blessing that fuels my blood.
The endorsement draws the Fae’s attention. They rise and dissect the sight of me with their former ruler, who threads his tremulous fingers in mine.
A knowing grin swerves across Moth’s visage. “This human risked herself for Cerulean,” she announces.
It takes Cerulean a while to speak through his wounds, but he explains how I dropped from the bridge to spare him, listing the chain of events that led to this peak. “She once asked me who is the braver force—humans or Fae?” He tips his head at me. “I think it’s become one of my favorite questions.”
“Guess that makes us equal,” I finish, remembering how he jumped after me.
His grin widens. “And her name is Lark.”
Hell, yeah. That is the best thing I’ve heard in the past three seconds.
This earns another round of silence. Questions jumble in everyone’s minds.
Where do they go from here? Since the Fae have an instinctual kinship with the fauna, some corresponding through signs in the wind, communication won’t be a problem. But will they advocate for more human sacrifices to restore the fallen? What would they propose instead?
I want to know those answers, but it’s too much at once for this crowd, and the right solutions need time. Besides, this mob is a hobbling, bleeding mess. Wounds need tending, egos need healing, and minds need rearranging. Everybody’s hungry and cranky.
As for me and Cerulean? Regardless of the animals’ support, most of the Faeries sneer at our forbidden bond, while several battered faces glance with intrigue. Not that I give a fuck what they think at the moment. And not that I’ll be staying.
The Fae bid their retreat, prostrating themselves again to the fauna before backing away. Exhausted, they dissolve or flutter homeward to bandage their injuries.
Tímien swerves to Cerulean, nudging him with parental devotion and worry.
Moth rushes to Cerulean’s side as well. “You idiot! Your wings need enchantment, ointment, and rest if they’re destined to regrow properly. As if I don’t have enough to do at the tower.”
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 32
