“I’m sorry,” I blubber, snot dribbling from my nose. “I’m s-so s-sor-ry, Pap-pa.”
“Don’t,” he shushes me, wiping my face with his palms. “Don’t, my girl.”
He holds my hands while I tell him everything—well, almost everything. The tale pours out, how I met Cerulean when we were tykes, how I freed him from the glassblower’s forge, how I thought Cerulean died because I tried to help him. Then I jump to the present, when the poachers chased me into the wild.
The Triad. The Faeries’ invitation. The separation from Juniper and Cove. The mountain. The mystical animals. The labyrinth. The game.
The Fauna Tower. The Lost Bridges.
Moth. Cerulean.
Cerulean. That’s where I omit the private stuff. It hurts too much to go there, and besides, how can I admit that part to Papa after what he’s been through? How can I tell him I gave my heart to the very person who caused that pain? How can I fess up to loving a Fae?
But I don’t want Cerulean to rot in Papa’s eyes, so I share how we remembered each other from childhood and became friends again. I tell him about Cerulean’s haven for animals and his mission to restore the fauna. I tell him how Cerulean wanted to free me but then remembered I couldn’t forfeit without my sisters. Though it doesn’t ease Papa’s grimace, it does plant a seed of compassion in his mind, albeit one that’ll take a while to grow.
Papa Thorne’s a gentle soul. He’ll come around.
Without Juniper and Cove brightening the corners, sorrow takes a bite out of the house. They haven’t come back, which means they’re still astray in the wild, still toiling for survival.
Papa settles on the couch, nestles me against him, and we cry ourselves out. Then we pour words into the quiet, stories about Juniper and Cove, until we’re hoarse and able to chuckle without choking.
After that, I’m anxious to see my sanctuary friends. Papa says I need rest, but I protest—and then pass out anyway.
In the middle of the night, I stumble outside in my nightgown to hug Whinny Badass and feed her a carrot. Then I dash to my makeshift aviary, climb up the tree, and greet the avians who flock to me. When they recognize my voice and settle along my arms, I sob all fucking over again because I’m happy.
Time passes. One week, I reckon. I don’t pay much mind.
I sleep like a stone, alternating between Juniper and Cove’s beds. In my nightmares, branches strangle Juniper, a water rapid swallows Cove in its vortex, and I repeatedly drop from a bridge. Faeries cackle while I crash into the forest valley with a bloody splat.
Papa lunges into the room whenever I spring from the mattress in a cold sweat, my lips sputtering names and words that dissolve before I can catch them. He feeds me mince pie and warm milk, then sits with me until I fall asleep.
Another week passes. It’s my turn to linger at his bedside, watching him slip into dreams.
By the third week, we’re slumbering, eating, and working to our regular schedule. I help Papa tend the animals, reuniting with the avians and taking solace in their company. I stroke the starling’s feathers and feed it birdseed from the basin of my palm. With my bare toes swinging over a branch, I admire the falcon’s aristocratic profile and the pinchers of its beak, whistle with the hermit thrush, and share tales about the raptors I’ve seen in another land.
I coddle Juniper’s companions, promising her favorite fawn that she’ll return soon. I play-splash the pond serpent and make the same pledge on Cove’s behalf.
To my surprise, half a dozen village lads and girls volunteered to help Papa while I was gone, since he’d needed the extra hands. At seventeen and eighteen, they’ve taken to the animals, so I show them more of the ropes.
What I don’t do is indulge the cluckers of this town. I’m only one person, so I’ve gotta pace myself, dish out my tale in crumbs if I want a chance for peace someday. Restraining myself isn’t hard, seeing as I’m reconciling my own thoughts, and I’m not ready to talk about everything in detail.
So when they ask, I’m careful. Yeah, I was in Faerie. Yeah, I made it out alive. No, I don’t want to chat about it yet, other than to say I won my freedom fair and square.
I want to say that I made allies along the way, because not all of them are like we thought. Most of them are vicious, but some aren’t.
One of them has a grumpy disposition but a fragile heart.
One of them has an arrogant smirk but an infinite soul.
They have families, like us. They live amongst beautiful and fierce fauna, same as we do.
But I save that for later. The villagers won’t be willing to digest that yet. And the last thing I need is an outraged mob targeting my family.
Since my return, no humans have disappeared or been glamoured. My neighbors pay heed to that while keeping their guard up. Don’t blame them, since there are plenty of Fae who aren’t about to change their ways in a blink.
That’s the week I stop having nightmares and start dreaming about a blue feather, a flute’s melody, and the texture of wind. I dream about masculine whispers, hands that manipulate quills midair, and a flying javelin. I dream about an owl mask. I dream about that mask coming off, revealing the face beneath. I dream about naked bodies splayed on the grass, his body filling mine. I dream about a kiss at the top of the world.
I dream about loss and longing.
Comes with the territory, I guess. There’s a hurt that only one person can put on you. It’s a hurt they’ve invented without knowing it, one created solely for you.
At the end of that first month, I huddle on the front porch, swaying on the rocking bench. I hear Papa washing the crockery from our supper. Overhead, the stars wink, dappling the lawn.
Whinny Badass neighs from her stall, the falcon cries, and the hermit thrush whistles. I cuddle into the womb of Cove’s oversized woolen sweater, the knit dwarfing my nightgown, the scent of jasmine wafting from the collar.
The front door sighs open. Papa pads across the boards and reclines next to me, his arm slinging across the bench and cupping my shoulder. He inspects the trio of lanterns by the railing. Still haven’t mustered the grit to visit the wagon, but I light the lanterns each evening, just in case.
A ceramic bowl of apple crumble appears beneath my chin. “Guilty pleasure,” he says. “When Juniper gets home, don’t tell her I forgot to grate fresh nutmeg.”
With a mild snigger, I take the bowl and stuff the contents in my mouth. A moment later, he grunts affectionately, “You’re eating too fast, Lark.”
I swirl my spoon into the dish, the cutlery clattering. “The slow-poke doesn’t get seconds.”
“Are you quoting from The Viper in the Waterfall?”
“Can’t remember the title,” I say around a mouthful. “Anyhow, if you wait too long on things, you miss out—on the first chance as well as the second.”
“Mmm-hmm. Are we still talking about my baking?” he asks gingerly.
He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.
Papa follows my gaze to the mountain silhouette beyond the trees. Sometimes, I wait out here for my sisters, hoping they’ll stumble around the bend. Other times, I wait for a horned owl, for a message, for handwriting that says, I miss you. I need you.
Come back to me.
My father’s burly sigh filters through the porch, tucking us into the sound. “I lived alone for so much of my life, I’d forgotten what it felt like to love someone. That is, until you three came along. I’ve never cherished anyone the way I cherish you girls. You’re my treasured riffraff misfits, you know that?”
If I speak, the dam will shatter. I set the bowl on the ground and nod while gazing at that mystical range.
Papa chuckles. “You girls were tough ones from the start. Juniper, trying to prove her worth by showing off her smarts. Cove, trying to comfort others, not knowing how to soothe her own wounds. You, trying to fly so you’d never be stuck.”
My tongue flexes but fails to whittle out a cheeky reply.
; “You, always doubting what’s not in your control. You, always keeping us close, fearing you’ll lose us like you’ve lost others.” His head swings my way. “You, always thinking we’re all your heart needs, as if you’d even have to choose. Don’t you know, my girl? Don’t you know we’re not going anywhere?”
The question pries my heart open and burns my eyes.
“It’s you who’s going somewhere,” Papa says, the words coming out chunk by bittersweet chunk. “Lark?”
“Mmm?” I manage, blinking at the cobbled vista.
His intakes stumble, then come out solid. “Make sure he treats you right.”
My breath stalls. I swivel toward Papa’s knowing gaze, toward the understanding there. Then my features crumble, and I fling myself into his arms, and I cry.
He knows. Somehow, Papa knows.
When I pull back, I wipe my eyes. “I fell in love with ’im.”
His brawny chest hitches, then releases. “Loving someone is better than loathing them, isn’t it?”
I chuckle weakly. “Hell, you’re as sappy as Cove.”
“She takes after me.”
Our laughter tinkles into the woods. From the market square, the bell tolls. I share the fragments that I hadn’t before about Cerulean, the memories I hadn’t dared let myself replay.
With a grudge, I tell Papa about the bond. Magic tied me and Cerulean together without our say so. This connection should have come only from me and him. It should have been our choice. Our fates should have belonged to us, whether or not I was heading home.
“My girl, we never know which direction our fates will turn, much less where our hearts will land,” Papa Thorne says. “But what we do from there? That’s up to us. It’s a balance, a compromise. That’s what love is.”
“What if that love breaks my heart?”
“Hate breaks hearts. Love reinforces them.” His thumb sweeps across my cheek. “Ask yourself, how did you feel before that first kiss? Before all this—” he clears his throat ,”—mate business? Wasn’t the kiss your choice? Weren’t those feelings real? Have they gone away or gotten stronger?”
He’s right. Fables, he’s right.
Papa cups my jaw. “I wasn’t expecting you, and suddenly there you were, a sooty little girl who became my daughter. That’s magic, if you ask me. That’s a fated bond, and I don’t regret it one bit.” An unconditional light brims across his face, orange from the lanterns warming his features. “I’ll miss you so much. I love you to the clouds.”
I clasp him in another hug, my voice croaking. “I love you, Papa.”
What he said about compromise swirls in my mind, along with hope. I said I wouldn’t leave Juniper or Cove, and if I can’t join them wherever they are, I can be nearer to them. And even if I didn’t bind myself to Cerulean, I would have.
I don’t leave the people I love—neither human, nor Fae.
“I’ll come back,” I swear. “I’ll bring ’em back, too.”
Papa crushes me to him. “I’ll be here. The sanctuary will be here, and the wagon, and your rooms. It’ll be here whenever you want to return, as often as you want, for as long as you want. Home will be here.”
34
Papa and I stay up all night reminiscing, savoring these final hours on the porch, and in the cottage, and out by the sanctuary. After sleeping through the day, I wake refreshed at dusk and get ready for whatever comes next. My cotton dress flows off my frame, the material a blank canvas that matches my hair. It’s got a deep V, sleeves that taper to spires at the wrists, and a skirt slit. No frills or fuss, but it’s sturdy and has plenty of sharp points.
Once I’ve donned my cloak and boots, I commit the attic bedroom to memory and shut the door. I say farewell—not good-bye—to my avian friends, one by one, promise by promise. And at the porch, Papa crushes me to him and kisses my forehead, breathing endearments into my skin.
I inhale his scent and soak up his baritone. For now, the neighbors will think I’ve gone batty and returned to Faerie, on a quest to get my sisters back. It’s partly true.
What else they learn afterward? Can’t think that far ahead.
I buckle up my whip and leave on foot, sparing Whinny Badass the trek. Besides, I want this to take a while, to feel the journey, the change.
For this trip, I don’t need to follow the wind. I know how to get there.
The mountain glimmers beneath a puddle of moonlight. I quicken my pace toward the Triad, passing the trio of hawthorn, oak, and ash trees. The air ripples with magic and that strange reek of poisonous plums, but I stride through without a hitch. If I’m gonna choose this, I’m gonna choose the light and dark of it.
Syrup browns, yew greens, and peacock blues enamel the landscape. The Colony of Fireflies glints, the sizzling orbs illuminating the crooked trail.
At the cul-de-sac, the veil shudders, and the mountain steps appear. In this spot, I hugged my sisters, then we traveled down unknown paths. The memory scorches my throat, but I gulp it down. I’m here now. I’m close to them, and that’s how it’s gonna stay until they’ve won.
Although the other two portals hide within plain sight, I sense them stretching across the ground, carving through the underbrush toward the forest and the deep. I scowl at the invisible routes. “You picked the wrong sisters.”
“Oh, I should hope so,” says a masculine timbre. “It’s more fun picking something that’s bad for me.”
His words strum through the wild. I whirl and follow the voice, stumbling across a pair of naughty eyes. Loops of sable surround gleaming pupils, the irises a rich, molten brown. The pigment oozes from his face like the contents of a chalice, potent enough to get a person drunk.
Rakish eyes. Devilish eyes.
And the smirk of a troublemaker. I recognize the type, since I’ve earned a similar reputation in Reverie Hollow.
The Fae lounges atop a knoll, sprawled amidst the exposed roots of an oak tree that wasn’t there a moment ago. His arms sling wide along the chunky ribbons of bark, one leg stretched out, the other bent at an angle. The wily pose brings pranks and seductions to mind.
The reddest hair I’ve ever seen tumbles in waves from his head and sweeps his shoulders. I can’t describe the vivid, inflammatory color, except that it’s warmer than rust, livelier than titian, and more provocative than scarlet. It’s the erotic shade of carmine or, if you’re feeling morbid, the shit that pours from a fresh wound.
That wanton hair coils at the ends, flicking the sides of his pointy ears. Bronze earrings dangle like ropes from the lobes, the slender chains ornamented with leaf charms. You’d think that would get my attention most of all, but it’s not.
It’s the antlers. Stag prongs crank from his head, forming a barbed crown that slings to the back of his skull.
Like Cerulean, the Fae’s smooth mien has been sculpted from ivory, though this dandy lacks the excessive slants. If anything, he resembles a male wood nymph, particularly with that smattering of white freckles across his nose.
Pages surface from the Book of Fables.
Brown eyes. Red hair. Stag antlers.
Only one chap fits that description. My eyes jump from the leather vest molded to his chest, to the buckskin breeches hugging his waist, to the tan fur covering his calves, to the cloven hooves where his feet should be.
This fucker’s no nymph.
My choppers grind together. “Puck.”
The satyr bows his head with an exaggerated flourish. “At your service. You must be the infamous Lark. Why so far away, luv?” He pats the ground and coos, “Join me. I don’t bite.”
Ha. And they say Faeries don’t lie.
His tone’s got a flirty swagger to it. Whereas Cerulean whispers like an elegant breeze, Puck flicks his tongue like he’s sampling the flesh of your neck, right before his devious canines break skin. Yeah, trouble.
My digits grasp the whip. “What have you done to Juniper?”
The ruler of the woodland cocks his head and taps his crinkly mouth.
“Naturally. No time to waste, asking about the scholarly, show-off huntress. What have I done to her? Now there’s a merry question.”
“Where is she?”
“What have you done to Juniper? Where is she?” he parrots, rolling his eyes. “You know, I’ve been here less than three minutes, and already, I’m bored. You don’t want to see me when I get bored. I tend to overcompensate for it.”
Puck drapes himself there, as though he’s the guest of honor at an orgy. No doubt he’s also used to creatures sitting on his lap, stringing themselves around him like beaded ornaments.
But whatever emotion creases my face, he seems to realize something unexpected. His irises flare with surprise and…something I can’t decipher, something with a jagged edge. “My, my, my. You honestly want to know.”
What he’s done to my sister? Where she is?
Why the fuck wouldn’t I want to know?
I step nearer and unravel my whip. “How’s about you quit putting me in suspense and answer the questions?”
The unidentified emotion wilts from his face. In its place, Puck’s gaze sparkles with mischief, and he shrugs. “Alas, I don’t fuck and tell. Sorry, luv. Though you may inspire me, if you like. You have the mark of a lark who’s had her feathers thoroughly plucked. Cerulean’s good at that—not as good as I am, but then, no one is. Tell me, what’s it like to spread your core for someone more powerful than you?”
I see blood red. “If you touched her—”
Puck rises so swiftly that my fingers choke the whip. I’d have thought those cloven hooves would stifle his gait, yet he saunters down the knoll at a sinuous, sensual pace. I can’t tell from the breeches, but if what I’ve read is true, the stag limbs end above his knees and flesh out into the thighs of a common human.
The rascal’s somewhat tall, though not as statuesque as Cerulean. Yet with an impish face like that, Puck doesn’t need lofty height to get his point across.
The Fables contain dozens of pages about The Solitary Forest, with its nymphs, centaurs, hobgoblins, brownies, and, most of all, satyrs. The tales caution virgins and purists against the perverse whims of Puck’s kind. Their appetites are legendary, their ilk branded as sexual deviants who crave seduction and debauchery. This Fae’s the epitome of all things lustful, all things that inspire wet moans and hard cries of pleasure.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 34
