Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1)

by Natalia Jaster

  To be honest, those were some of my favorite Fables. But not my sister’s.

  Fireflies swirl, pumping gold into the murk. Puck halts in front of me, spiced cloves and sharp pine wafting from his leathers. Up close, I note the intricate streaks of white and black lining his eyelashes, reminiscent of a deer.

  Cerulean’s striking. As for his brother? Puck’s a racy one with that frisky getup, those dangly earrings, and that smoldering hair.

  Whereas Cerulean fancies his linens relaxed and unfettered, Puck fancies his leathers snug, the clasps ensuring that each stitch of clothing would be tedious to remove. I wager that’s intentional—and not because the buck wants to prevent it. If I were a gambler, I’d say stripteases amuse him, toying with restraint excites him, and getting his partners worked up empowers him, especially if his conquests are inexperienced.

  I know the type. I’ve had my share of wankers who like to play with their dessert.

  “If I’ve touched her,” Puck repeats, his shameless timbre stroking the air like a lover. “Hogwash. Touching is for amateurs.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I volley. “How’s about you tell me more?”

  “My, my, my,” he draws out, impressed. “I see prudishness doesn’t run in the family.”

  “Nah, but our right hooks do.”

  “How lucky for you. Pain and sex are a luscious combination. The sheer number of morons who take that for granted boggles me.”

  “What are you making my sister do?”

  A sadistic grin crawls across his face. Juniper never says anything without a scowl chiseled into her features. By comparison, this trickster doesn’t know the meaning of a straight face.

  His eyes roll down my body, mentally peeling off the dress and admiring what’s beneath. If I lasso his balls, how much will Juniper pay for it?

  That’s assuming a lot, since it’ll take grit to send this one to his knees. My mate’s got a lithe physique, his willowy muscles toned, whereas this buck’s built to last, neither bulky nor trim. He’s fit, with a flexing body made to wrap around a cello.

  Based on the lore, that’s his instrument. Seems to suit him—like the longbow and quiver strapped to his back. For the first time, I register the predatory weapons curving along his spine. This satyr might be one hell of a coquettish rake, but he’s a lethal one, too.

  A finger steals beneath my chin, tipping my head to meet those sinful brown eyes. “Give my brother a message from me, won’t you, luv?”

  “Seems you’ve mistaken me for some glamoured errand girl.”

  “Actually, I have you pegged for the only sister who’s won.”

  Shit. I can’t ignore that. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “News travels in the Solitary wild. Your victory is quite the smoldering topic.”

  Right. Cerulean had said that would happen. “I’m the only sister who’s won so far. If you don’t know that yet, you haven’t gotten to know my sister well enough.”

  Another smarmy grin. “Make sure you deliver that message.”

  I snarl, “You haven’t given me one.”

  “Bloody true. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  For fuck’s sake. If Cerulean is a master at twisting words, Puck is a fucking wizard.

  “You’re craftier than Juniper,” I say. “But make no mistake, whatever game you’ve got her playing, you’ll never be smarter.”

  Puck leans in, his earrings tinkling and his breath stirring my hair with delighted menace. “Now who said anything about her needing to be smart?”

  I’m about to whip him to the ground when the rogue struts backward, clasping his hands behind his back like he’s stashing a prank. “Now you see him,” he singsongs. “Now you don’t.”

  On reflex, I jolt forward and thrust my whip. The tail catches nothing but air as he evaporates into the woodland with a conniving chuckle.

  35

  I squeeze the whip and glare at the empty spot where Puck disappeared. Fireflies tease the oak leaves before the tree dissolves as well, leaving behind the residual scents of cloves and pine.

  If he’s done something to Juniper…

  If he’s hurt my sister…

  He wouldn’t have come here. He’d have gloated or bargained with me. So what’s his game in showing up and being murky about it?

  Do not let him see your tattoo.

  Cove’s warning to Juniper is one more thing to fret about. On the other hand, the satyr had referred to Juniper as a huntress instead of a poacher, which has to mean he doesn’t know about her marking.

  But what does Puck know? Is he aware that his brother no longer rules the sky? If so, does that worry him?

  To the former? I’m betting yeah.

  To the latter? No idea.

  According to Cerulean, the woodland has its own relationship to its fauna, diverse from the mountain and river. No matter what happens on Cerulean’s side of the wild, Puck still commands The Solitary Forest, and Elixir still reigns over The Solitary Deep.

  But dammit. There’s gotta be a hiccup, something that would threaten Puck’s power to Juniper’s advantage, if she hasn’t already figured it out herself.

  Has Juniper heard about me and Cerulean? Does she know anything about Cove?

  Why did Puck come here? What did he want?

  Did I give it to him?

  I close my eyes and rehash what I know, what Papa said, and what Cerulean reminded me about. If I got this far, my sisters can, too. They’re stronger and more resilient than they look to the Faeries. I’ve seen Juniper handle her crossbow, and I’ve seen Cove wield that spear. They’ll be all right. They will be. I have to keep faith in that. If I learn otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay, and I’ll be liable to do something mutinous.

  Mutinous Lark. The nickname reduces my boiling blood to a simmer. Yeah, that’s me, and that’s why I’m here, whether or not it pisses off Cerulean’s kin, whether or not we’re mated.

  I whirl and race up the stairs, my heart hammering. At the top, I reach the alcove, which disintegrates to unveil the labyrinth entrance.

  I bypass the threshold and veer toward the rotunda. At The Parliament of Owls, I halt before the throne, my hair scattering around my head. The chair sits empty, but the raptors perch on its arms and crest rail. They observe me calmly, their medallion eyes slanting in recognition and admiration.

  I bow, sinking to the emblem carved into the ground, the mountain skewered by a javelin—and the javelin wrapped in a whip. He’s no longer a ruler, but the engraving remains a fixture, along with an addition, as if it’s become part of lore.

  Dazed, I prostrate myself further to show my gratitude. “I’m honored.” Then I rise. “And…if it’s not too much trouble…I need your help. Any chance I can hitch a ride? I know the way, but it’s a tad far from here.”

  A subtle hoot brushes through the silence. A belt of air sways over the vista, carrying the avian call.

  Seconds later, Tímien skims the range. He shifts, his ear tufts cutting through clouds glazed in nightfall, and swerves my way. When he lands, the regal owl greets me with a bemused expression. I rise and slide my palm over his bronze quills, the fringe glinting and sleek.

  “Will you take me to ’im?” I whisper.

  ***

  Flying through the air, I unleash the loudest, most savage howl. My arms splay wide, and I fling back my head, and it feels so very right. It feels like another type of home.

  There was a time when I thought I fit into only one world. But then, I’ve never been good at following the rules.

  Curtains dance in the archways of The Fauna Tower. White and teal starlight trickles onto the lawn. When we land, I kiss Tímien’s head, startling the creature, and launch from his back. The second my boots hit the soil, I wrestle to get them off my feet, hopping in place and grunting, craving the grassy texture under my soles.

  At last, I sprint toward the wild park. The hummingbirds flit across the hedges, and the canary tweets from its nest, and the
hawks keep vigil in the treetops, and the antelope capers around me. I stop, happy to greet them. After that, I hustle down the trellis paths and around lanky spear trees and rowans and—I jerk to a standstill.

  Moth blocks the trail, her silken wings spread like a barricade and her papery hands fisting on her hips. Combs bite into her tumbleweed hair, and her feet are bare like mine. The marigold ribbon dress fluttering down her runty frame compliments her milk-and-honey complexion.

  The cougar slinks from the hedges and slides along my calves, her peridot eyes sparkling. I kneel and scratch behind her ears while keeping vigilant of her enthusiastic paws. Once satisfied, the feline prances off to join the mountain goat in a game of chase.

  I gain my feet. Moth must have heard me coming, because she hardly bats an eyelash, her topaz irises slicing and dicing my face apart. She puffs out her chest and sizes me up. “You didn’t say good-bye.”

  I blink. Hell if that isn’t the last thing I’d expected.

  Her grumpy face creases with offense, yet her pupils glitter with hurt. The trinkets she’d taken from me hang from her dainty frame. The jute bracelet wrapped around one wrist, the string pouch of stones wrapped around the other, the rope necklace of chestnuts, and the pressed flowers newly pasted to her arms.

  Despite her surly expression, guilt pinches me, along with a balmy sensation that nestles in my chest. Although there’d been no chance—I hadn’t expected to leave so fast—I regret not saying good-bye.

  Just hadn’t thought she would, too.

  It’s awkward being nice to each other instead of being wise asses, and Moth’s got her chin hiked to the heavens, so I do her a favor and shrug. “Guess I’m not that good at leaving.”

  “Are you better at staying, mortal?”

  “Pretty certain, whippersnapper.”

  She huffs. “We’ve never had a human live amongst our kin. It’s a controversy, to be certain. Hardly anyone’s acknowledging us, as it is. They’ve shunned him, including the ones who defended his actions at The Lost Bridges.”

  Anger hardens my jaw. Despite what we revealed and proved, despite what Cerulean did during The Trapping, and despite the fauna’s support, the mountain Fae have snubbed their former ruler for binding himself to a human.

  Well. My village would do the same thing to me, if they found out.

  “No matter,” Moth says, as if trying to ease the blow. “However much Cerulean cares about the ones who sided with him in the battle, he’s not mourning the loss of those who tried to attack his beloved. Notwithstanding, we’re equipped to handle the rebuffs. We’re Solitaries, after all, and the fauna haven’t nixed him. They welcome his counsel, no matter what his kin think.”

  “Maybe it’s high time things change,” I suggest.

  “Eventually,” she hopes. “They might yet, in time.”

  In which case, I’m not gonna sit by and let them judge us, and neither will he. So what if it takes a while? We’ll prove our link is enduring, as strong as any bond, able to tough it out. Because if we don’t, nothing will improve in either world.

  Someday, mortals will demand another reckoning with them unless we find a way to bridge the gap, unless every being recognizes what we have in common and admires what we don’t. There’s a crossroad between magic, humanity, and nature. It’s our job to find that place, to remember we’re all creatures of this earth, living and breathing amongst the fauna.

  Moth grumbles, “I suppose you’re not that horrible to bunk with. But don’t think you can boss me around, mind you.” She nicks her head toward the wildlife park. “I’m no one’s servant but theirs.”

  “How’s about we try being friends instead?”

  She purses her lips, dragging out the moment. At last, a small grin crooks the corner of her lips, and her tongue gets restless. “Soooo…”

  “Don’t,” I warn, reading her nosy mind. “That’s our business.”

  “He’s written all over your face.”

  “Keep it up, and you’ll have pain written all over yours.”

  “You never answered me. Do you love him?” Immediately, she lifts an upturned palm. “It’s merely a prompt. I’m not the one who needs to hear it.” She examines my unshod feet and dress, then steps aside and tips her head to the trail. “Go on, then. I tire of hearing him play the same petulant melody over and over. Do something about it.”

  She pops into the air, her wings flapping. “I’ll dismiss the servants—the ones who’ve stayed loyal, at least. They’ll delight over an intermission of rest, and I could use a respite at my cottage.” Zipping off, her squawks resound from the tower. “All of you! Out!”

  With a laugh, I dart along the path, crashing through foliage and moonflowers.

  ***

  Hate breaks hearts. Love reinforces them.

  Papa’s words rush back, mingling with the silvery slide of music. I quicken my pace, following the notes of a flute. The melody sways through the park. Up a flight of steps, I reach another level and bear east, where I burst through the shrubbery and stumble in place.

  He stands inside the gazebo, leaning against a post and facing the vista. His flute quiver sits on the railing while he plays a tune that floats along the breeze in one long and continuous ripple. A pewter-dyed coat hangs off his shoulders, billowing against the current, and the ends of his hair brush the upturned collar.

  My antsy heart punches into my breastbone. He’s so lost in the flute that he hasn’t heard me. It could be that, plus several other culprits, his senses reduced because we’re not those kind of mates, and maybe because his battle wounds haven’t fully healed, his power drained until then. The wings are invisible, stashed in the plates of his shoulder blades, so I can’t tell for sure.

  My knees wobble. I shuffle and fidget and do shit that I normally don’t in front of blokes, because none of them mattered like this. None of them stripped me to the bone and then confessed I’ve disarmed them. None of them showed me the wind yet believed I didn’t have to fly to save myself.

  None of them loved animals like I do. None of them understood that passion. None of them shared it. None of them pushed me to rage one second, rapture the next. None of them confessed their demons and listened to mine. None of them were raised by wild fauna. None of them filled me with loss and longing.

  I love you.

  The music trails off, then halts abruptly. His head raises, and his body stiffens, a cliff of arms and limbs flexing with tension.

  Slowly, his head twists. Over his shoulder, he sees me.

  The flute clatters to the floor. Cerulean’s eyes flare, his irises bright with disbelief. He turns unsteadily, blinking as if I’m an apparition. His slackened features absorb my face, savor the white dress, and soften at my bare feet before meeting my stare again.

  Absently, I grapple for the nearest torch pole, to keep myself from buckling. It’s all I can do not to hurl myself at him.

  The wind tosses the hem of his coat, the material slapping his calves, and he’s got the sleeves jammed up his forearms. An untucked shirt slumps over loose trousers the color of iron. The long tail of obsidian-blue hair extends from the rest of his shag, the feathered tip swinging over that perpetually exposed chest.

  He always did have some nerve, I think with affection.

  “Mutinous Lark,” he whispers, the sound rolling down my spine.

  My tongue flops inside my mouth, unable to muster up a snarky comment, or a genuine one, or a broken one, or a tender one. Not until the second Cerulean breaks from his stupor and strides from the gazebo. A mishmash of emotions—riveted joy and predatory determination—consume his face, but if he touches me right now, I’m a goner.

  And I’ve got stuff to unpack first, and I also don’t know how to do this, how to be raw with someone, and I don’t want to muck it up, and I’m scared, and so I gush out the first thing that’ll stop him from reaching me.

  “Tidings from Puck,” I blurt.

  At the halfway point, Cerulean’s boots stall in the
grass. The torch poles bathe his countenance in amber. “My brother cornered you?”

  “He showed up past the Triad.”

  Cerulean hisses, the words honed like the edge of a blade. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not a chance, but he…” I give up. “I’ve got no fucking clue what Puck’s up to. I barely understood half of what that riddler said.”

  I plow ahead to fill the silence, describing my encounter with his brother, including as many details as I can remember, down to the prick’s wily smirk and nonsensical remarks.

  Cerulean scans the ground, thinking. “Puck wouldn’t have shown up if he weren’t placed in a vulnerable position. He came to you, hunting for information.”

  My, my, my. You honestly want to know.

  The satyr’s comment echoes in my mind, realization dawning. “He knows I won. Now that I’ve got the upper hand—not to mention, he found me dallying in the wild—he assumed I was helping Juniper, until he realized I wasn’t. Because if I were, I wouldn’t have pelted him with questions about my sister’s whereabouts or what he’s putting her through. I’d have known those tidbits. But why would he think…?”

  “Because whatever he’s forcing her to do, she’s exceeding his expectations,” Cerulean concludes.

  Sounds like Juniper. Puck had dubbed her a show-off, which is accurate. If my sister’s anything, she’s an overachiever.

  Now who said anything about her needing to be smart?

  I buck myself up. There’s no way I’m letting Puck’s parting gibe trump my hopes for Juniper. I’ve gotta keep faith in her, the way she’s keeping faith in me. Don’t know what the satyr’s playing at, but my sister isn’t an easy target.

  Cerulean nods. “If he met with you, there might be leverage to spare, some remote tactic to benefit your sisters. However, Puck is shrewd, Elixir’s malevolent, and nature isn’t to be trifled with. Securing an advantage will take scrupulous planning.”