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

by Natalia Jaster

  The notion had swept through my mind back in the wagon with my sisters, when I struggled to narrate An Owl Meets a Lark.

  In stories, a kiss breaks the spell. Apparently in this world, a kiss enacts one.

  But we were tykes! We hadn’t known what we were doing. That kiss had been desperate and impulsive. It was a kiss good-bye, shared with nothing to lose or gain, nothing to prove. It had been…unconditional.

  Shit. Oh, shit.

  “What link?” I draw out. “As in, fated? As in, mates?” When the Horizon makes no reply, I growl, “Does he know about this? He may not recognize me, but he remembers the girl who saved him. Does Cerulean know he’s bonded with her?”

  “He does not.”

  My relief is short-lived. How can he not know? How can he not realize who I am? His heightened senses should have picked up my scent, if not my older voice.

  And aren’t mates supposed to feel an intense sensory connection? Shouldn’t we have experienced that from the start?

  An epiphany rings in my ears. “We don’t need any connection. If I tell ’im the truth, he’ll release me. If I freed ’im once, he’ll free me back. Fated or not, he’ll let me go, and then my sisters—”

  “No, he will not. He made a vow that cannot be unsaid. You know why, Lark.”

  I sag because they’re right. As ruler, he has a duty to restore the lost fauna. Their death alone is a tragedy, but it’s also weakened this mountain. By extension, that threatens the Folk’s existence. He can’t betray or condemn them.

  Being linked—bonded, fated—won’t help me get out of here, and it won’t prevent him from targeting me. What’s more, I can have as many feelings for Cerulean as I like, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him for forcing me into Faerie, separating me from my sisters, and tossing me into this maze.

  And I can’t quit the game. I’m fighting one-third of this battle, while my sisters are doing the rest.

  Do I want Cerulean to know my identity? Would he care because of who I used to be? Or who I am now?

  Fucking magic. No matter Cerulean’s point about its complexity, this so-called bond happened without our consent. We created it unaware, robbed of the choice. With that between us, with a link shackling us together, how can our hearts be real?

  How do I feel about him? Do I love the past or the present?

  How does he feel about me? And how much is the answer going to hurt?

  24

  Tímien returns me to the tower. I bow and watch his body cinch into its smaller form. Once he flaps to the ivy spire, a calmness settles over the landscape. Back in the guest chamber, panels of indigo glaze the room, and I retreat into deep, dark dreams.

  By the time I’m done snoozing, it’s still early for the Fae. Groggily, I mosey to the wardrobe, where an assortment of dresses fills the rack. My eyes sweep across rich pigments of royal blue and robin’s egg blue, and majestic tints of alabaster and salted white. Lustrous colors of the sky, woven of textiles that don’t exist in my world. The clothes ripple beneath my fingertips as if threaded with mist from the clouds, the radiance of raindrops, and filaments of moonlight.

  All my size and fancy. None that I’m planning on hopping into.

  The nightgown had been fine, an exception when I got to this tower scraped, bruised, and grimy. But my general rule? I dress myself. I choose what goes on my body, nobody else.

  That aside, I need something spiffier for what I’ve got planned. Where am I gonna get that?

  I slink out of the tower once more, hoping a stroll amongst the fauna will provide an answer—better yet, a thousand answers to a thousand questions. Inside the park, I amble down a random path, pausing under a moonflower trellis to grin at the antelope curled in a bed of grass.

  “If you don’t leave, I’ll make you,” a voice grouses.

  I swing around to find Moth festering on a tree branch. Her diminutive legs peek from a hazel skirt, her bare toes wiggling. I should have known the groundskeeper was an early riser.

  I approach the trunk. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad for the distraction.”

  Her frown turns waspish. “In that case, I’m leaving.” But she doesn’t move. “I mean it.”

  “Suit yourself. But I’ll be awful comfortable out here with all this wild peace. And I’ll have you to thank for it.”

  She hisses but stays put, watching as I dare to climb the tree and dump myself next to her. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Moth assessing me, her gaze oozing with judgment. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I was lonely.”

  “Ha. Humans and their lies. You must be getting desperate, terrified to continue your ill-fated trek up The Solitary Mountain. Thinking about what’s in store?”

  Guess she doesn’t have many people to take her petulance out on. “Thinking about my sisters,” I admit. “They’d love this place. I wonder what they’d do if they were here, in this maze.”

  That shuts her up. For a second. “I do that sometimes…with Cerulean. He’s like a brother to me. We learned to read from my parents, and we used to play hiding games in The Watch of Nightingales.”

  Cerulean told me some of that. “Must be nice to have a brother.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a sister, too.” The ghost of a smile quirks her mouth, then she realizes what she’s doing and scowls. “That’s not a request.”

  I can’t help the snicker that topples out. I must be more jittery than I thought, because why mention my sisters to Moth otherwise? And who the hell knows what possessed me to perch beside her.

  I reconsider what Moth grumbled in the tower about having a right to be hostile, which reminds me of her family’s empty cottage. “Where are your parents?”

  Her glare scrolls toward me. “They tried to save the fauna. You captured them.”

  Fuck. I don’t need to hear the rest.

  She’s no different, detesting humans for being humans, then detesting them for rebelling. Her mama and papa were among the rebels who fought to rescue their animals, then they got caught and…well.

  Only three survived the ambush. Moth’s parents weren’t that lucky. My people took that from her.

  “I’m sorry.” When it comes to this, I’m not good at saying the right things. That’s Cove’s specialty, so I phrase my words carefully. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose my parents that way. But I sure do know what it’s like to live without ’em.” When Moth’s brows crinkle, I confide, “They left me.”

  She turns away, dissecting that information. For a while, we sit in silence.

  “Do you really have a sanctuary?” she asks.

  My head snaps toward her. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I eavesdropped on you and Cerulean last night, when you sat on the tower ledge. I listened until you followed him into the park. Is that what you meant? When you said you understood why I love tending to the fauna?”

  “It was. Poachers are a reality where I’m from—some got no choice,” I’m quick to say when Moth grimaces with outrage. “For some people, it’s either that or go hungry. But other gits do it for profit, and somebody’s gotta stop them. Somebody’s gotta help the wild, so that’s what my family does.”

  Moth rolls her shoulders, loosening a crick. “I can…respect that.”

  That’s why she’s a keeper at The Fauna Tower. I’m not gonna pry more about her parents, but I can respect what she does, too.

  Speaking of family… “Cerulean’s brothers,” I hazard. “He said they’re brethren, bound by history instead of blood. None of that’s in the Book of Fables.”

  So what else don’t we know about the Three? I’ve learned scores about Cerulean, yet I’ve got nothing on the other two rulers. I leave the comment open, hoping she’ll lap up my ignorance with a hefty dose of snobbery.

  Moth doesn’t disappoint. “Whereas Cerulean favors a complex game, Puck favors a merry party.”

  “Like the Middle Moon masquerade?”

  “Worse.”

&nbs
p; “All right, let’s get this out of the way. Murkiness isn’t gonna work on me, so wipe that gleam off your face.”

  “If it weren’t working, you wouldn’t be telling me it’s not working.”

  Dammit. But there’s a jauntiness to her tone that I appreciate. It reminds me of bantering with my sisters, partly in jest, partly out of spite.

  Moth explains, “Puck’s got a lively thirst for hedonism.”

  I cringe, because I’ve known my share of wankers like that. But Juniper hasn’t. Her flinty demeanor could neuter a randy boar, and her experience with lecherous chaps amounts to zero. She claims that humping is unproductive, and she doesn’t have the time for “hobbies.”

  “And,” Moth continues, “what’s there to say about Elixir? He’s as majestic as he is venomous. He doesn’t favor games or parties. He merely strikes.”

  Son of a bitch. Cove may wield a spear like nobody’s business, but she’s too sweet for the likes of a brute. Her love of sea creatures aside, she wouldn’t recognize that sort of viper if it wiggled a forked tongue in her face.

  And Juniper has that trade poacher tattoo, a fact that turns my stomach. The marking won’t do her any favors in The Solitary Forest, if she doesn’t keep it hidden. If any of the woodland Faeries discover it…if Puck finds out about it…

  Do not let him see your tattoo.

  Those were Cove’s last words to Juniper.

  What are my sisters staring at right now? What are they being forced to do?

  None of this is fair. But none of this is completely out of our hands, and I know better than to give Juniper and Cove less credit. My no-nonsense sister learned how to wield her crossbow from the poachers who nabbed her off the streets, whereas Cove and I are self-taught in weaponry. We survived as foundlings, and we’ve thrived as a family. They’re resilient, and I’d be lost without them.

  I draw up my chest. “Worrying about my sisters isn’t going to keep ’em safe. I’ve gotta do my part.”

  Moth examines my profile. “What part is that?”

  What do I tell her? How will she react?

  There’s nothing else for it. “I need to know what I’m up against,” I say simply, then scoot across the branch and climb down the tree. I hop onto the exposed roots and head toward the winding lane blanketed in torchlight.

  “Wait.” Her voice wrings around my ankles and yanks my feet to a standstill. “Are you going to ask me for a favor or not?”

  I whirl on Moth. Her deadpan expression puts me on the offensive. Does she know what I’ve got in mind for tonight? Why would she help me?

  “Depends on what it’ll cost,” I hint.

  After a moment’s thought, Moth flutters to the ground. “Call it a gift, freely given.”

  I cackle without humor. “There’s no such thing here.”

  “I agree.” Up close, her topaz eyes probe mine, and her features loosen. “But I think there’s a reason his flute didn’t work on you. And I know Cerulean. I see the way he looks at you, which is the same maudlin way you look at him. Besides, we Faeries enjoy the unexpected, so this will cure my boredom.”

  It’s a right foolhardy idea, conspiring with her. Yet after what she said, my defenses crumble. Her parents were tailors, after all.

  I buck myself up. “I might need something to wear.”

  She smirks and knocks her head toward the tower.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I’m short on pride—for resorting to magic—but armed with a spool of enchanted thread.

  As I’m leaving Moth’s chamber, she calls out, “Lark?”

  I pause by the curtained exit and glance to where she fidgets in the middle of a room with butter yellow accents and wicker furniture.

  Quietly, she warns, “Don’t take off the mask.”

  I’m hankering to say something an ally would say, or at least to thank her, but that would piss her off. So I settle for, “Shucks. Not even to stick my tongue out at you?”

  For somebody that prickly, I didn’t think Moth had a smile in her. And yeah, for a minute, I didn’t think I’d get it out of her. But there it is, sharp and flashing like a flipped coin.

  The tower’s gonna wake up shortly. I return to my room with minutes to spare.

  Moth tipped me off that Cerulean will be swamped when he rolls out of bed. Preparing for the revels guarantees we won’t see each other.

  The masquerade is off limits, but curiosity is the devil, and that’s what led me to him as a tyke. After what I’ve learned about my bond with Cerulean, I need to know more. I’ve gotta see him in his true element, apart from me.

  To know what’s real and what isn’t, I’ve gotta crash a death trap. Plus, snooping might yield a weakness in these Faeries. The Horizon dealt me a shocker, but I’m not about to let my guard down. I’m vulnerable enough.

  Moth had ticked off instructions. I cross over to my bed, place the spool on the mattress, close my eyes, and conjure up a visual. I think about Cove. She’s water—pure and nurturing, and essential for my sanity. To be specific, I picture the shade of her hair.

  When I peek, there it is. The fancy, teal confection has a ruffled neckline cut to bare the shoulders. The snug, silken bodice drops to a low waist, then bustles into a long, feathered skirt, the cascade splitting down the middle.

  The gown splays atop the bed. It’s a brazen, flirtatious getup meant to hug curves, lick the ground, and take no prisoners.

  For the next visual, I repeat the steps. A second later, a lark mask rests atop the garment.

  I’d destroyed my old mask when I was ten, but I remember every lopsided and clumsily sewn feather, every sloppy application of quills around the edges. Must’ve taken me weeks to collect plumes for the border.

  I hadn’t used actual lark feathers. I’d made do with what I found and pretended the rest.

  Tonight, I could have envisioned an identical visor from memory, but that just wouldn’t feel the same. Besides, Cerulean would recognize that old mask. No matter how I feel about him, jogging his memory in the midst of a Fae masquerade would be the shittiest possible time.

  Instead, this mask is a lavish imitation. I’ve created my own version, improvising since the lark’s actual quill colors wouldn’t match the gown. A white face band—true to the bird—layers in stripes with my preference for teal. Both colors streak to the sides, where the top stripe rises upward like tiny horns.

  It’s half reality, half imagination. I can deal with that.

  25

  Torches light the way. Flames combust from the poles, searing the night in sienna hues and marching across a bridge dripping with honeysuckle. The crossing leads to that circular building, its facade glowing.

  Tímien flies me to this spot and then catapults across the ravine. The wind rattles the wooden planks suspended over a carpet of mist, the platform jostling under my heeled slippers.

  My white hair rustles around my face. I’d left it hanging free to conceal my rounded ears, an extra precaution in case Moth dealt me a fast one, and the enchanted mask fails to do its thing.

  My outfit’s a waterfall of teal silk, the plumes fanning around my hips. The gown’s middle slit bares my limbs, revealing my thigh cuff. Also, I’d fabricated a pocket to stash my whip.

  As I walk, the hem swishes across the ramparts. Stopping halfway, I clutch my stomach and register the Middle Moon. The lunar ring pours a frosted film across the range, the black pupil of its center glaring down at me.

  My palms grow clammy. The mask hangs from a tie around my wrist. I unknot it, fling the tether into the abyss, and jam the visor over my head.

  The rails narrow toward whatever mayhem waits beyond. I migrate down the bridge, passing through the torches’ hot glow.

  A surge of anger and shame prickles my arms. It’s me that my sisters should worry about. Me, because unlike them, I’ve got a weakness in this realm. Though I never really knew him beyond thirteen days in a forge, when I was ten and believed anything was possible, the impact lasted. Which
means that to get through this maze, I’m gonna have to break my heart.

  I remind myself of everything he’s done, stride with my head high, and reach the opposite end of the bridge. A signpost points at the offshoots.

  The Night Aviary

  I expel a breath. The masquerade’s inside an aviary, one that lives and breathes at night. A tiled walkway tapers toward the building, spikes of green stabbing through the cracks. Thistle hedges compound and flank the lane, thorns poking the skirt of my gown, brambles prodding my shoulders as I pass through.

  A cautionary touch. A warning.

  Sweat leaks into my armpits and neckline, my breasts pumping under the silk. An unidentifiable emotion ripples across my bare shoulders, a treacherous frisson that betrays everything I once believed, amplified by the energy brewing inside that mysterious building.

  So much sound. One moment, it had been quiet. The next, music swoops into the pathway.

  Beyond the rowans and nettles, flutes and pipes swirl from the edifice and sweep through the bones of this wild. The jagged edges of laughter carry on the wind. The type of ruthless mirth that peals from between fangs and behind costumed visors.

  Torch poles whisk metallic light across the passage. My legs bear me to the end of the path, where I peer through the snarling hedges, the building drawing my gaze upward.

  There it is. The Night Aviary.

  A grid of erect offshoots forms a bird sanctuary, but where glass walls or netting should be, dense greenery fills in the gaps. At ground level, a ring of compressed foliage surrounds the structure. Beyond that, silhouettes twirl within the interior.

  They’re dancing. The pulse of stomping feet ricochets across the ground and shakes my soles. The commotion is so thick, I could catch it with my whip and string it up for weeks. Hell, months, even years.

  I cross the gravel path into the loop. Either side leads to different paths and niches like another type of labyrinth. Ahead, an archway carves into the aviary, framed by a set of torches. Looks like the curtained closure enables flocks to enter and exit whenever they want.