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

by Natalia Jaster

  Above the frame, a pair of vultures hunch. Sacs of rubbery flesh sag from the stems of their necks, and shawls of salt-and-pepper quills nest around their shoulders. Above their downturned beaks, the wells of their eyes stalk my every move.

  Despite the raptors’ grisly appearance, I can’t help gawking because who in their right mind wouldn’t? And because fuck, they’re huge. Massive wingspans pleat into the hollows of their bodies, those eerie but lordly expressions seizing me by the jugular.

  In my world, they only feed off the dead. I pray that’s the case here.

  Cautious, I bow my head to them and take a gingerly step forward, then step again. Once I’m past the archway, hidden inside the throat of the passage, I release my chokehold around the whip in my pocket.

  I hotfoot down the corridor while adjusting the feathers concealing my face. This passage is open and ventilated, like everything else on this mountain. No walls but for stalks of greenery and winding twigs looping overhead. I coast through the tunnel and into the bowels of the aviary.

  Dim illumination simmers from the gaping mouth of another entry. I paste myself to the nearest partition and glance around the bend, past the creepers. Lit only by torches and midnight, the scene is a hallucination, woozy with dark magic. A mammoth hawthorn tree—larger and higher than the one from the Triad—rises from the center, its branches crowning the rafters. Multiple twig-woven levels string together, some outfitted with broad hammocks and pillows for lounging.

  All manner of birds dash about, gradients of color flitting across the heights. Flocks propel through the air on copper plumes. Large raptors flare cyan wings. Some thrash above, while others prance along the overhead walkways, their spindle limbs skirting around the masked Faeries who parade up there.

  The Fae wear diadems and elaborate getups, a sumptuous mixture of leathers and satins and velvets. They throw back their heads, squawking with laughter at jokes told in Faeish, while fizzy liquid sloshes from their crystal goblets. Others pucker their lips and slurp a gloppy concoction that resembles cream.

  Although vapors billow around them, I recognize some of these varmints from The Parliament of Owls. They’re a deranged medley of humanlike characteristics, animalistic traits, and features belonging only to them.

  Pointed ears. Spiraling facial markings.

  Pigmented flesh of fern-green or rainy gray-blue.

  Beetle torsos. Prong or spiral antelope horns. Conch ram horns.

  A bobcat’s muzzle and vertical feline pupils. Jackrabbit ears.

  Wings. Butterflies, bats, and birds. Wide gossamer panels that remind me of lily pads. Slender, platinum pinions reminiscent of knives. Feathered wings, scalloped wings, and skeletal wings.

  Beautiful. Hideous.

  On the ground level, umbrellas of shrubbery and divans nestle into alcoves. Musicians glide through the masses, playing flutes, pipes, and other curvaceous wind instruments I’ve never seen before. One is a wooden horn that curves into a cornucopia shape, while another is a set of bells that hang like grapes. Sweeping melodies and foreign rhythms caress the air, warming the slots behind my ears.

  Other Faeries cling to each other. At the heart of this inky aviary, they careen across an opaque dance floor, their clothing radiant pinwheels. Sour whiffs of body heat and the cloying scent of overripe peaches from the tabletop fruit bowls invade my nostrils.

  Masks cover their boisterous, gluttonous miens. A beak extends longer than it should. One of the shields has no eyes, which should make it impossible for the wearer to see, even though he doesn’t act like it.

  Pixies flutter about, their wings dappling the space with prisms of light. Dwarves wear gemstone rings the size of walnuts.

  I feel someone watching me. A breeze ambushes my hiding spot, jostling the hem of my gown. Instinctively, I search the spiraling crowd for a pair of knowing eyes.

  But Moth said the guests wouldn’t snuff me out, whether or not I interacted with them. She said they wouldn’t catch my human scent or other tidbits that would normally give me away. Seems to be working, even if I’ve been noticed by at least one soul, so I step into the room and then waffle in the half-light.

  That’s my first mistake.

  One of the couples spins by and knocks into my shoulder. They keep going, but the collision throws me off balance—and flings me fully into the ballroom. My vision skates. I skid over the ground, my arm shooting out to find purchase on a pedestal table.

  The music screeches to a halt. In one unified move, every Fae in the room wheels. And they gaze at me through hard, shimmering masks.

  Movement in my periphery draws my attention. Moth’s a milk-and-honey vision wrapped in a gown akin to papier-mâché, the material floating around her featherweight frame. Her favorite porcelain combs bite into that tumbleweed of topaz hair. She tarries at the sidelines, goggling at me with agitated eyes behind a veil of her namesake.

  Based on her expression, my own mask was supposed to be foolproof. Echoing silence fills the aviary. My thoughts splinter, sweat beading on my palms. That’s my second mistake, letting them catch me in a stupefied moment.

  Don’t take off the mask.

  And that’s my third mistake.

  I see the partiers too clearly, too openly. My hands scramble to adjust the mask, only to discover it’s hanging lopsided off my face. The guise must have slipped when that couple barreled past me.

  Such a simple action. Such a serious blunder.

  Hundreds of revelers watch me intrude on their sacred night. Mouths peel back to reveal chiseled ivories. Pupils flash through eye slits.

  Oh. Shit.

  I straighten the visor, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. They recognize me. My digits slide into the skirt pocket and curl around the whip—then stall. Across the room, a costume of snowy feathers flashes by, but the plumes vanish behind someone’s silhouette before I can identify the wearer.

  It gets my gaze wandering, my mind tinkering. These farcical masks are no more than caricatures and warped visuals. The frozen, glazed expressions are reminiscent of bedazzled individuals, like the villagers who’d been glamoured whenever these monsters skulked into Reverie Hollow, their true forms disguised.

  I’ve seen the face of enchantment. I’ve used my own tactics to charm blokes into my bed. And I’ve spent countless nights in the wagon playing make-believe with my sisters.

  So if the Folk like their humans entranced, that’s what they’ll get. Slackening my facial muscles, I stare at them in a fake daze. I mirror the same candid devotion as their human victims, the very picture of submissive adoration.

  The masks shift in realization and pleasure. Some of the giddy attendants chuckle. They probably suspect their ruler did this, but it doesn’t matter who cast this spell on me. The music resumes, and the bodies start dancing again. Whatever else they see in me, they’re keen to take advantage of it, until I’m spellbound, until I can’t remember who I am, where I am, or why I’m here.

  Let this game begin. I grunt as an arm swoops around my middle and drags me into the fray. “We have a guest,” somebody chirps in that universal Fae accent.

  Three Solitaries prowl around me. I remember this trio of phoenixes from my quest through the mountain. Infernos of hair blaze from their yellow heads, and their flaming wings retract into their backs, leaving behind tendrils of smoke. Masks of the same likeness conceal their faces but not their leers, the blisters of their eyes singeing me on the spot.

  Two males and one female. They caper in a circle, their forms flashing before my eyes. A hand takes mine and waltzes me about. Another set of fingers dabbles with my hair.

  No one said anything about touching. My fist balls, but thankfully, I’m too dizzy to let my knuckles fly. As it is, I’m supposed to be drugged on glamour.

  “Sweet guest,” the first male jeers, the human-thumb charm twitching from his forehead band. “You’re right on time.”

  The second male taps my lips. “Naughty guest, surprising us.”


  “Human guest, listen well,” the female slurs, her breath reeking of clotted cream. “The aviary is vast.”

  “The raptors have awakened.”

  They trade turns, speaking while ushering me through the mob, cupping my bicep, steering my hips in a twirl.

  “We have two floors, the lower for entertaining, the upper for entertaining.”

  “What’s your pleasure? We won’t judge.”

  “But no dancing without a dalliance.”

  “If you don’t wish to dally, we’ll make a deal.”

  “If you don’t like deals, get out.”

  Lush ferns unfurl and flounce around me. I stumble into one of Solitaries, and the trio chortles.

  “Be careful where you stray.”

  “Take care whom you seek.”

  “For he’s not easily found.”

  On that note, they pivot me one final time and melt into the quagmire. I stumble in place, the breeze stirring my feather skirt. That heady awareness returns, the intuition that someone’s watching, their phantom gaze sketching my bare shoulders.

  For he’s not easily found.

  I twist and hunt amongst the masked faces. My legs guide me through the aviary, where birds whirl and mate in the rafters.

  Moth glowers at everyone who tries to get near her. To illustrate the point, she snaps open her fan like it’s a weapon. Over the crimped folds, she gives me a quick glance.

  After a while, I lose track of her. Faeries kiss sensually, their tongues plaiting. A swan-necked female tugs on another’s neckline, revealing a crimson nipple peeking from the material. A male wearing the visor of a crow—which matches the talons spearing from his fingers—fondles another male concealed behind a stork mask, which compliments his stilt limbs. Another male slouches on a divan with a feminine figure bouncing on his lap, quail plumes springing from her back.

  The sight pumps me with adrenaline. Frustration tightens my joints, spurs my limbs to move faster. I wedge myself through the mesh of rutting, churning figures, my slipper heels slamming into the blackened floor.

  Another invisible wave sweeps across my flesh. Another breeze hustles under my skirt.

  He’s here. I know he is.

  Can’t say if I’m pissed, beguiled, or heartsick. Can’t say what I’ll do when I find him—punch his face or smooch it. I search everywhere, pushing through the compression of chuckles, chatter, and groans.

  Where are you? Show yourself, you insolent prick.

  Then the crowd parts. And I stop.

  Snowy feathers nestle around his mask, a pair of volatile eyes igniting from behind an owl visor. There he is, watching me. He reclines against a wall, the very picture of casual elegance. Yet his eyes tell another Fable. They tear across my gown, blowing through its fringe and sketching the gold cuff hugging my thigh.

  In the firelight, my eyes trail up his coat, its high collars encrusted with crystals. The lapels split open to reveal a billowy shirt that gaps down to his waist, as if he threw it on and forgot to lace the strings.

  His hair dashes around his elegant face. The single braid hangs over the front of his shoulder, the feather swinging.

  His eyes sparkle with gaiety. Yeah, he’d known I was here from the moment I walked in. And he knows I’m not glamoured.

  The mask hadn’t worked its charm on this Fae. Neither had my act.

  Flora trembles from the upper level of tangled branches. The music writhes around us, then fades altogether. There’s a lot of good and bad happening at once. And I don’t think you need the dead in order to feel haunted. The living can do the job just fine.

  Cerulean.

  I remember everything from those nights in the glassblower’s forge. I remember the scanty tips of his ears peeking through his hair. I remember those pupils teeming with fury. I remember the beak of his mask pointing down with superiority.

  I remember friendship. I remember heartache.

  I remember that first kiss.

  Cerulean’s brows furrow, as if I’ve balled up my emotions and flung them at him. Bemusement loosens his lips, then mischief reinforces them. He disappears, sidestepping out of range as another pair loops in front of me.

  If not dancing or debauching, the Fae toss back goblets. They schmooze and slur, shitfaced on dollops of cream.

  I wedge myself through the masses, avoiding their catcalls and enticements. Melody after melody, I stalk flashes of blue hair and a pompous grin. He’s playing along, taunting me like the rest of these Fae who think I’m a goner.

  Except our game feels intimate, secretive. He wants me to find him.

  Throughout the masquerade, I grow bolder, more reckless. It could be the delirious music. It could be the wild pirouettes of avians putting on a flight show for the Faeries who bow and curtsy in return. Or it could be frustration, since I’ve never been one to restrain myself for long. Or it could be the occasional skepticism the Fae still direct toward me.

  I’ve gotta make sure they stay convinced, which means I’ve gotta get drastic. I swish my skirt and tousle my hair, making sure the white stays nice and full. Then I steal a random crystal vessel from a random hand. I tip the drink back, chug a fruity nectar laced with some type of cherry blossom effervescence, and drop it onto a table.

  Instantly, the bubbly effect swims to the crown of my head, tickling my scalp and flooding my noggin. My tongue tastes the essence of euphoria and a pinch of sensuality. I sigh aloud, amusing the spectators.

  Another flash of snowy feathers. A hushed chuckle strokes the side of my ear.

  A female Fae in a stringy ostrich gown clasps me in her arms, waltzing me within the flock of bodies. Tiers of plumage wind up one side of the dress, curve across the stomach to the other side, and ascend to the shoulder.

  Without breaking her stride, she passes me to a male with sparrow feathers rooted along his arms. He’s got a serious type of beauty, with tanned skin, dark brows, and muscles so buff, you’d think he was sword-proof. He whirls me through torchlight and abruptly lets me go.

  And someone else catches me. I wheel into the next Fae’s arms, his hands catching my hips and scooping me against him. He stands there as though he’s been waiting for me all along, a smile crooking his blue mouth.

  I once loved that face. Loved it with my whole, ten-year-old beating and bleeding heart.

  Years later, he’s taller, haughtier, loftier. And he’s no longer a boy. Not anywhere near a boy. Those eyes aren’t as shrouded and mysterious as I remember. They’re open wide, as though enraptured by the bright hue of my gown.

  What does Cerulean see in me? A masked face and a pair of gray eyes that aged and lost their shine, polished down because they’ve been staring at too many rough things? Too many vicious things?

  We stare at each other. Whatever my expression reveals, it wipes the wicked mirth from his face. Cerulean slides his arm around my waist, his gaze intent, transfixed, determined. And then we’re dancing.

  The scenery disintegrates, the masked Fae shrinking, the instruments hushing. I curl against him, my arms slinging around his neck. His body presses flush into mine, the ridges solid and rocking against me, hot and bothered. So very bothered.

  We circle and toss one another across the floor. His legs step between mine, and our hips gyrate together, the friction spiking my blood, plunging from my head to the flesh between my legs. And when he dips me so far back my hair mops the floor, a disorientating rush sears up my thighs, which spread to accommodate him. And when he drags me upright, our pelvises grind, and our clothes become too stifling, too constraining. If something or someone doesn’t interrupt this right now, I’m going to rabbit-hop on his fucking torso, strap my limbs around him, and drives us both mad.

  I’m not the only one who’s sweltering. Cerulean’s eyes blaze and destroy everything in their path, raking from my breasts, to my clavicles, to my lips. He’s clasping me so hard, and I’m crushing him so tightly, one of us is going to split in half.

  Damn him. How is it possible to fe
el pain, poignance, and arousal all at once?

  This is how. This moment.

  But then bafflement distorts Cerulean’s ravenous features, cleaving through our desire. He doesn’t know who I really am, but I know who he is. Actually, I know more than that, and I don’t want to know it all alone.

  I want to tell him. I want him to realize it by himself.

  Behind our masks, we gaze without flinching. I’m about to rip off these visors and scream at him, scream at everyone to get out and leave us be. Cerulean frowns. He senses the uprising in my chest and spins me faster, rotating us into the floor. We dance quicker, pivoting with confusion, wringing ourselves out.

  Trying to get closer. So much closer.

  I’ve missed this. I want this. I hate this.

  I love this.

  Please, love this back. Please, don’t let me go.

  Please, remember me. Please, forget me.

  My eyes flutter. Blurred figures begin to crystallize again, and a flute whispers through the haze. Somewhere, glass shatters.

  Cerulean’s feet halt. His face spasms, thoughts scrunching up his features and crimping around his eyes, which travel across the feathers of my mask and land on a particular spot.

  One of the quills hangs limp over my temple and brushes my skin. Dancing must have unhinged the stem, which now sags off the visor like a mistake, like a misplaced thing. Like the piece of an old, crudely assembled mask.

  His eyes flash with a memory, then with sudden horror, then with recognition.

  Right here, I get my wish. Right here, I get everything.

  But it’s wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I crashed this masquerade for a different reason, to spy on these Faeries, to watch him from afar. I’ve botched that up.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

  I tear myself from Cerulean’s arms. I catch his astonishment seconds before I race from the dance floor. Slamming past gorgeous wings and ghastly visors, I plow through the ballroom and fly into the nearest passage.

  The lane condenses into a bushy path. A fountain spits water. One of the warblers trills, burnished quills flap, and a set of claws fastens on to a bough.