Still, I need information. “An answer for an answer. And I won’t mince words, so long as you don’t twist ’em.”
Moth fondles her new treasures. “You think it’s that simple, do you?”
“Unless simple’s too difficult for you.”
Her hackles raise. Since there’s no way I’m doing this while bedridden, I hobble to my feet and settle into a chair before the fireplace. Moth crawls near and crosses her arms over the coffee table. I used to love sitting like that for breakfast, lunch, and supper.
An arched hallway connects the living room to a kitchen crammed with hanging dried herbs and a circular dining table with curved benches. Despite the fruit incident, a famished part of me wouldn’t mind trading a couple of fingernails for food and water…maybe ointment, too. But I can’t trust anything she provides until we’ve had a chat. Or until I’ve got no choice about quenching my thirst and stuffing my belly.
I change my mind and hunker beside Moth. The runt balks, flashing a set of incisors that have probably severed a few pinkies in her lifetime. Like their ruler, she’s got teeth made of ivory, so damn clean and straight. Privileged choppers that only immortality can achieve, that no commoner in Reverie Hollow has ever flaunted.
And Moth’s fingernails? No signs that dirt’s ever clogged the crevices.
Juniper once read aloud how the Folk groom like felines. Sure looks that way.
The Fae huffs. “Ask, but don’t expect me to be forthcoming.”
“Where am I?” I ask.
“I should have known. Mortals and their constant need to orientate themselves. You’re in The Watch of Nightingales, and this is my family’s cottage. You’ve been snoring for a full day.”
I’ve lost an entire day sleeping? Shit. No wonder Moth didn’t rouse me until now, because a delay puts me at a disadvantage.
And this is where she grew up? I ponder if she has siblings, since offspring are rare amongst her ilk. Breeding doesn’t come easily to them, despite their fated mating tradition in which, typically, a force of destiny unites them. Either that or…instantly, I’m back in the wagon with my sisters, trying to recite An Owl Meets a Lark. That Fable talks about the second way Faeries mate, through some kind of special kiss.
Never mind. That’s neither here nor there.
The cottage is large enough for a family. A ladder appears to climb toward an upper loft, presumably the sleeping quarters, and baskets cluster near the fireplace. The woven containers hold bolts of airy fabrics—lace, gossamer, organza, filmy cotton, and a hoard of textiles I don’t know the names of, either because they’re too fancy or otherworldly to identify. The latter panels are translucent and vibrant, like shavings from a rainbow or samples of a thunderstorm.
Ruffles, embroidery, and other trimmings embellish the vivid blue, green, brown, yellow, and white dyes. Some of the frills remind me of hail while others resemble yarns plucked from the clouds.
One of the squat baskets contains draperies. Another consists of gemlike thread spools and elaborate animal masks, including the likeness of a raven.
“My parents were expert tailors,” Moth brags. “They supplied the Solitaries with the finest garments and linens, entwined with magic for the right price. Sunlit chiffon that sustains your curves for a lifetime. A scarf dipped in the hues of dusk, which renders you immune to anything you eat, be it poisonous, rotten, or raw—it comes in handy when you’re visiting the Unseelie Courts. Or perhaps a raindrop-beaded bag that produces whichever item you desire whenever you dip your hand inside.”
And probably won’t release your hand once it’s submerged. Not that I say this aloud.
“See anything like you like for a trade?” Moth coos. “There are many fine specimens that might tickle your fancy, in exchange for your darkest secrets.”
“I’m as open as a pair of thighs,” I say. “I’ve got no secrets.”
“That is one critical lie.”
“Then call me easy to please. I don’t need much, which is just as well since you already stole whatever I had to offer.”
She sits back, petulant. “I’ve answered your question. It’s my turn to pick up where we left off. I was able to glamour you before a congregation, however you withstood our ruler’s music. That hardly aligns. No mortal has ever resisted Cerulean’s flute, yet behold, a measly mortal covered in welts and contusions has succeeded. Moreover, you’re still in one piece.”
“This hurts me more than it does you, but it’ll take worse than a hunky Fae with an inferiority complex to knock me down.”
“Watch your mouth!” Moth scrutinizes me. “Then again, it shall be a wonder if you last beyond Middle Moon.” Whatever that means, the notion perks her up, the revelation bolstering her features. “Even if you do, the revels will provide a significant drawback. You’ll be increasingly invested in reaching the mountaintop by then, presumably depleted and in dire straits, which means your downfall shall cause greater suffering, which shall be lovely to witness. There, I feel much better.”
I open my mouth to give her royal highness the smart-ass reply she deserves, then think wiser of it. “What’s this Middle Moon business?”
“It’s none of your business.” All the same, she inflates her chest. “It’s an annual revel when the moon’s center becomes a black circle. It marks the birth of our fauna, as it came to pass millennia ago. Each of the Solitary landscapes has its own way of celebrating. Here in the mountain, we gather for the Middle Moon Masquerade. It’s a night of many splendid pleasures, in a place where only Faeries are welcome.”
I know about Samhain, one of the festivals celebrated by the Court Fae. As for Middle Moon? That’s a new one.
Fine by me if I’m not allowed near the revels. I like a party, especially if there’s a pie buffet and a harem of strapping lads to pick from, but a spree crowded with monsters? Crashing the masquerade sounds like a great way to lose my liver.
I mock whine. “Aww, shucks. Now why did you have to tell me there’d be shenanigans? Guess I’m lucky, not being invited, since I haven’t a thing to wear.”
Moth calls my bluff. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t stay on for long.”
I hide what that statement does to my gag reflex. “There’s a second time for everything—or a third.”
“I repeat, only Faeries are welcome. And as I predicted, on the off chance you haven’t perished by Middle Moon, the revels will set you back, thus preserving my jovial mood.”
“Meaning what?” I demand. “Set back, how?”
“Enough. No human has ever resisted Cerulean’s flute. Why you?”
“So this is what happens to the humans who end up here,” I grind out, repulsed. “Cerulean beckons mortals with a jolly little ditty, pries them from their families, and makes them climb his mighty mountain. I got the gist a while ago. What I want to know is why this particular game? Is it for sport, revenge, or both?”
“You dare talk about being torn from families?” Moth hisses. “You had no qualms about tearing—” she bites her tongue, bunching her mouth into a prune.
At The Black Nest, Cerulean described the labyrinth’s makeup but not the Fae’s obsession with forcing humans to navigate the terrain. Based on Moth’s glower, I won’t get any crumbs about the maze from her, nothing that will help me understand what’s in store.
Not to mention, I recognize her bereft tone. And one thing’s missing from this cottage: a flesh-and-blood family. What happened to her parents?
“Back to my inquiry,” Moth says after composing her grouchy self. “I don’t like being sidetracked.”
I’m too sapped to fight the matter. “I hate to break this to you, but I’ve got no clue why I foiled your ruler’s glamour. I don’t even know how I’m still alive. I just am.”
“You have an oversimplified view of your plight.”
“Nothing wrong with simple.”
Yeah, I’m equally stumped that Cerulean’s flute serenade hadn’t wooed me, but I’m not gonna analyze the reason with this clu
cker.
However, I will tell her a story. I’m good at that, so I rehash each episode when I heard the instrument, laying it on thickly and dramatizing the details. The tale yields no misplaced answers or theories about Cerulean, but it entertains Moth, buttering her up to the point where her wings retract.
Funny how shallow Faeries are, even when on a mission for the truth. I wager…the same could be said for my people.
“Very well. Are you healed yet?” Moth complains with impatience. “What’s taking so long?”
“I’m a human?” I suggest.
She grunts. “Verbena tea will speed things up. I enjoyed watching time slip away from you, but that’s no longer diverting. The faster you recover, the swifter I can kick you out, the quicker you’ll be on your way, the nearer you’ll get to failing in this expedition, the better off my kin will be.”
“Says who?” I interrogate. “How will your kin be better off?”
“Merely in terms of amusement,” she deflects.
There’s another reason, but the whippersnapper’s keeping that cliffhanger to herself. If she knows a tidbit about my trek up this mountain, it’s possible all the Solitaries know. Until I concoct a plan to find out, I’ll keep my trap shut.
Moth rises, the assortment of baubles jingling. She trots to the curtain entrance and fixes me with a glare. “I’ll have to forage for that tea. Touch anything, take anything, and I will know. If that happens, I’ll pick out your intestines, yard by yard.”
“You have my word, I’d rather take my chances against Cerulean,” I remark, which isn’t true, but it’ll tame Moth.
She beams. “Oh, do not worry. After the tricks you’ve pulled thus far—”
“How do you know what tricks I’ve pulled? You saying you weren’t here by accident?”
“I can visit my family’s cottage whenever I wish! It has nothing to do with you!” she carps. “This may be a Solitary wild, but we Fae watch, and we talk, and news travels swiftly. As I was saying, you’ve done enough to incur Cerulean’s wrath, between escaping The Black Nest and fooling the hornet swarm. At this point, you’ve given our ruler an invitation. He doesn’t need a second one. The next time he snatches you—”
I totter from the floor. “I’ll be out of here before he catches my scent.”
She regards me with a humorless smile. “Silly girl.” Then she sweeps out of the cottage, letting a blast of blue-green light pour inside.
I stand there, processing what Moth meant. Silly girl. Of course.
What makes me think he doesn’t already know I’m here?
***
Wind chimes plink from a distance, the tease of music tapping through my ears. If there were ever a noise that sounded like foreplay, it’s those mobiles, the jingles consistently withholding something just out of reach.
My eyes have been cemented shut, and I don’t know how, or by whom. I wrestle with my thoughts. I’d been in a cottage, chatting it up with a surly, runty Fae named Moth. After she left, the room had tilted, bringing me down with it.
I hadn’t made it to the cot. Someone had put me there.
I’m on the mattress, prone on my back, a thicket of down draped over me. Another noise eclipses the wind chimes. It’s much closer, logs crackling and spitting, heat brimming. Someone has set the fireplace ablaze.
It wasn’t Moth. She wouldn’t stay quiet. She wouldn’t start a fire for my benefit.
And she doesn’t smell of musk and tempests.
That deviant scent wafts from beside me, as intoxicating as a poisoned apple—ripe and fatal. The mattress slants, and a blanket rustles, swooning across the cot.
I’m wide awake now. And I’m not alone.
It takes an unspeakable amount of willpower not to budge. Sweat beads down the backs of my thighs. Defensiveness and a noxious thrill shimmy along my arms, urging my knuckles to curl. The swine moves slowly…too slowly, the motions fluid and intentional. Faeries can maneuver a lot faster than that, unless they’re in the mood to play.
I force myself to breathe evenly and feign sleep. I prepare to pounce first, stab second, and ask questions last.
What I’m not prepared for is the phenomenon that comes next. A masculine weight leans nearer, hovering over me. I sense an arm stretching past my body. That’s when slender fingers glide across my hip, brushing the curve of bone.
It’s all I can do not to buck, out of repulsion or some other forbidden reflex. Certain Fables reminisce about the Folk’s bawdy ways, describing their twisted revels, debaucheries, and orgies. I’d be reacting a whole lot differently if I thought this creature was fixing to split my thighs and weasel on top of me. I’ve had practice busting an uninvited bloke’s nuts before he gets the chance. But that’s not what this creature is doing. It’s not my tits, nor the cleft between my legs, that it reaches for.
Nope. It’s reaching for the only greedy thing I prize above an orgasm and a certain blue feather.
My eyelids flip open. Reeling my lower body, I hook my thighs on to Cerulean’s waist and flip him over quicker than a griddle cake. Then I land right on top of the fucker.
13
My limbs fall astride his narrow hips, my whip taut against his larynx, the ends gripped in my fists. The whole thing happens before I’m done exhaling. Our stomachs pump, beating against one another. Lithe muscles flex under me, outfitted in storm-gray trousers and a matching linen shirt with another deep V in the neck.
Cerulean’s rumpled hair curls at the ends, the obsidian-blue layers parting around his face. I meet that gaze and wink, elated with myself. He stares up at me, impressed and breathing too shallowly for a normal Fae. Behind those lips, I glimpse chiseled teeth.
The position spreads his neckline wider, revealing an ivory torso and a dark cherry nipple. He’s trim, willowy. Yet his body contracts beautifully, powerfully, not a frail bone in sight.
My eyes have a mind of their own, tracing that exposed nipple, a naughty disk of pink that tightens under my gaze. “It’s not polite to stare,” Cerulean murmurs, and if it sounds gruff around the edges, it’s not on purpose.
I burrow the whip deeper into the Fae, forcing his throat to contort. “Careful,” I get in his face and parrot his words. “Very careful now. It’s also not polite touching what isn’t yours.”
“Indeed? I had no idea,” Cerulean ridicules. “However, what if I told you I was going to give the whip back?”
“I’d say you’re full of Fae shit. But you already knew that.”
“And where did you learn that frisky, savory, rowdy little bed trick? You have no idea how curious I am.”
“I’ve got experience putting swine in their place, including the ones who got a yes from me. And I’ve got even more experience staying on top.”
“Is that a fact?”
I yelp. The cottage capsizes, the ceiling pivots, and I crash onto my back. In a flash, Cerulean switches our position. He lands gracefully between my thighs, which splay wide around his waist. He uses the whip to brace my hands above my head while I growl a string of fucks and you’s.
Cerulean tips his head. “What was that, again? I didn’t hear you the first time. Fuck who? Muah?” He clucks his tongue when my knee jabs at his groin. “Now, now. What has my phallus ever done to you?”
“Nothing, and it never will.”
“That much you can be certain of,” he promises, revulsion pinching his tone. “I don’t fuck humans. I merely fuck with them.” He rolls his eyes at my thrashing. “Keep this up, and you’ll defile my handiwork. Those dressings won’t redress themselves.”
Baffled, I turn into a sack of flour, my muscles slackening. What dressings?
I take a gander and register two facts. One, I’m wearing nothing but my short, flouncy drawers and thin bandeau. Two, strips of cloth protect my cuts and that hornet sting, which must have injected some kind of venom into my blood, and that’s why I’d collapsed here.
A blanket covers the pallet, though there hadn’t been one before, and my na
vy dress and cloak now slump over a chairback. The garments have been cleaned of grime, the gashes mended.
In the kitchen, a steaming buffet weighs down the dining table, the platters steeping the house in gamey, yeasty, and fruity aromas. A chaotic grumble lurches from my belly.
He did not do this. He did not. It makes no sense.
I swing my gaze to Cerulean, a dozen questions crowding my tongue. With his head slanted at an exaggerated angle, he studies my features as though he’s never seen a human before, as though searching for flaws. That blue gaze is so direct you’d think he had nothing to hide, despite his elusive veneer.
I register the weight of his body slung over mine, the slopes of his hips nestled in the slot of my thighs, my limbs steepled around his waist, and my breasts pitching into his torso. It would be easy for my nipples to pucker against the skimpy material. It would be natural for them to brush his chest and graze his own nipple, still peeking from that linen shirt.
Everything about this moment is awful. Everything I’m thinking is unforgivable and coming out of nowhere…or maybe it’s coming from somewhere, a deserted place I can’t stand, dredging up the sensations of loss and longing again.
Our bodies press hard, oxygen pumping in and out. Because I’m scarcely covered, his linen skims my bare flesh, the material thin and the texture finely woven. My throat bobs, and his eyebrows knit in consternation. He absorbs my expression, reflecting it back to me as we stare at each other, searching, searching. For what?
Who cares? I don’t, and I’m not about to change my mind, and neither is he. It’s more productive to disgust each other.
Cerulean wrinkles his nose like a compulsive snob, as though blaming me for demoting him to the roles of housekeeper and nurse. “Wounds are unattractive, as are tattered garments. I can’t say you mortals excel at aesthetics, and I’ll never praise your fragile constitution, but—” he holds up a finger, “—I’ll not having my latest acquisition looking deplorable after two days. I like my toys shiny before I break them again.”
Surprise, surprise. That’s not far off the mark from what Moth had said.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 11