With those cryptic words, the creature disappeared into the tree.
“How?” She let out the soft question. It floated in the air like a dust mote and then disappeared.
On hands and knees, she crawled to the tree where the creature had once been. She reached out and pressed a hand against the bark, certain it must still be there and her eyes just couldn’t see it anymore.
But all she felt was bark. No twigs, no stones, no magic. Just the ancient song of trees as she’d always felt when she touched the trunk of a well aged oak.
“How is that possible?” she muttered, staring up at the branches twisting overhead.
The tree whispered in the wind. Its leaves told a hushed story of creatures made of magic. Warning signs for changes to come and that she should listen to the creature’s words.
“I’m not an oracle,” she replied. “The mere idea of the future frightens me. I don’t want to listen to a creature built of his magic. How can I trust its words to be true?”
The trees claimed she must be brave. That she should listen.
“I don’t even know if I can trust you.” Morgan’s heart squeezed at the mere thought. Trees had always been her ancient friends. Their roots reached deep into the ground and their stories filled her soul with so much hope. They were the one constant in her life, even after her mother had burned at the stake.
But these weren’t just trees. They were trees he’d saved long ago and given a life where they were fed by magic.
Trust us, they sang with dancing leaves and a rain shower of green atop her head. All will be well if you would just learn how to trust again.
Morgan wasn’t a trusting woman. She’d been threatened, beaten, raped, destroyed beyond measure. And that was just in the first fifty years of her life.
Five hundred years more had seen torment at the hands of every single creature that inhabited earth.
“How do I trust anyone?” she asked the trees. “When all I have known is pain?”
9
Dappled sunlight through the leaves woke Morgan. She shifted on the moss, tucking her hand underneath her head and blowing out a lengthy breath. For a second, she had convinced herself she was back at her home.
Maybe not in her own bed. The moss didn’t feel like her comfortable hammock. But she could convince herself that she’d fallen asleep outside under the stars.
Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the bright sun. The creature from last night... It must have been a figment of her imagination.
Something like that didn’t happen. It wasn’t some creation of magic who had crawled out of the earth to warn her about the king. No magic was that self aware, even if it was ancient magic jumping from faerie to faerie for generations.
She should listen to the strangers from the garden. They seemed to know what they were doing. And they were blackmailing her. They could ruin her life.
But an innocent man was much more difficult to kill. Especially when he was an innocent man who looked like the Mountain King. An innocent man with a heart of damn gold because he helped plants and brought them to a place where they would always be safe. For the rest of their long lives.
He even fed them pieces of himself. She couldn’t kill a man who was so connected to the earth. And one who’d spared her life.
Morgan grumbled, then rolled to her feet. The sun was high in the sky; its beams burned her eyes.
Her stomach squeezed. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and even then it had only been breakfast before the visitors had arrived at her cottage. She needed food and water.
The king had invited her to some kind of banquet with his people. Wasn’t that what he said? If it wasn’t a banquet, then she would force him to give her something to eat.
It made little sense why he was even inviting her anywhere. She’d tried to kill him and showed zero remorse for even trying.
Morgan ducked out of her borrowed nest and backtracked through the forest. This time, the grass didn’t help guide her. But she was certain she knew the path. The trees seemed to lean out of her way as she passed.
She placed a hand against the trunk of one and said, “Your king is a rather confusing man.”
Leaves showered down upon her head as the tree laughed and agreed. Morgan didn’t know many people who would invite a murderer to breakfast. But that’s what this faerie king had done.
Shaking her head, she plodded through the forest until she reached the lip leading down into the valley. She stared down in shock, then reached up and rubbed her eyes. Surely her vision was conjuring what she wanted to see.
A giant table had been stretched across the entire glen. A myriad of chairs surrounded it. Each chair was a distinct color, cushion, or made from a unique wood. Even the table had patchworks of different planks across its top.
Nearly every chair was full with varying faeries. Some she’d never seen or heard of before. Flower people, creatures made of trees, a sapling with cherry blossom hair. Her mind couldn’t absorb all the faeries seated at the table.
The food atop it was fit for a faerie feast. Breads, honey, and mounds of fruit spilled from the sides onto the ground. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into the king, but apparently he thought their guest deserved a royal feast.
Morgan was painfully aware of her day old clothing, the sweat staining her back, and the leather leggings squeaking with every step.
She supposed it didn’t matter. The creatures were waiting for someone, probably her, and she needed to eat.
Her mother’s voice screamed in her ears as she descended into the valley toward the table. Eat no faerie food and drink no faerie wine!
The legends claimed if a human ate faerie food, they would be stuck in the realms forever. Morgan had always thought that was rather dramatic. Why would she be forced to stay in a place just because she partook in food?
Still, it made her stomach heave a bit. She didn’t want to stay here with none of her own people nearby. There was something to be said about being surrounded by the familiar, and not beings made of mud, sticks, and stones.
She reached the table and searched for the Mountain King. He was nowhere in eyesight, but the faeries at the table all wiggled in their seats.
The nearest creature reached out its... arm? She thought? The creature was little more than folded over leaves, like origami, long tendrils of green it waved in the air like wings. Its face was made of delicate folds creating lips, eyes, and brows. “Madame! It’s good to meet you.”
Not wanting to be rude, she reached out and shook the offered arm. Visions of tearing off its limbs made her palm sweaty as she tried to be gentle. “The pleasure is mine.”
The faerie squeaked in pleasure. “Pumpernickel! Did you hear that? A pleasure!”
Another faerie leaned around the first. This one had a head full of petals and blooms splattered down its chest like paint. “It’s a pleasure to meet me, Cleome. She’s probably seen nothing like you before.”
Cleome. It was the Latin name for a spider plant. Now that she looked closer, it appeared to be a familiar species.
The creature’s face creased in disappointment. “Have you never seen a faerie like me?”
She didn’t want to hurt the tiny thing’s feelings. “There aren’t many of you in the human realm, if any I’ve ever seen. But it’s a pleasure to meet you now. I’m certain the memory will stay with me for the rest of my life.”
Cleome straightened with pride. “See?”
The flower faerie snorted. “Sure. We’ll see how she does once the king gets here.”
Morgan tried to find a seat to take, but there were none. On the rise, she’d thought there were empty spots. Now, she saw those were full of the tiniest faeries she’d ever seen.
Some were little more than dots of pollen. Others were floating waterlilies in bowls of water rested on the seat. So many plant faeries all in the same space. Morgan’s palms grew sweaty and her eyes darted from side to side, trying to take in everything she could.
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What witch ever got this opportunity? She needed to remember every detail.
The door to the king’s cottage slammed open. All the faeries stopped talking and turned as one to greet their king, who strode toward them like a man going to war.
Morgan’s tongue thickened and froze in her dry mouth. He was... What the hell?
The king had taken time to clean up. He wore a loose white shirt, open to his belly and revealing the sun tanned planes of his chest. His pants were more modern today. The jeans hugged his thick thighs, and she knew they were molded to the back of him.
His face was chiseled from an artist’s dream with brows flicking up at the end, thick and prominent. His nose was long and straight. Vibrant green eyes threatened to burn her to the ground, staring at her with mischief and pleasure.
His hair was brushed into smooth, mahogany locks with a golden sheen from the sun. He’d pulled the mass back into a simple bun at the top of his head, but a few strands fell around his face.
He’d even trimmed his beard. Now he looked less like a wild man and more like a business man who knew an inch of beard could destroy a woman. It was the perfect length to scrape against her face when he kissed her.
Kissed her?
Morgan mentally slapped herself. She was only here until the portals opened, and then she was gone. Never to return.
The king sauntered to her side with a loose hipped walk that made her mouth even more dry. A desert. She had the Sahara desert in her mouth and desperately needed a sip of water.
He stopped less than a foot from her, too close, too big, and far too handsome. He grinned when she didn’t say a word. “Cat got your tongue, witch?”
“I don’t own a cat.”
“Funny, I thought all witches were crazy cat people. Care to explain yourself?”
Morgan knew he was trying to make a joke, but how was she supposed to be a normal person when he looked like this? Damned fae. They were always so pretty.
Clearing her throat, she looked back at the table instead of him. Perhaps then his beauty wouldn’t blind her. “Are the rumors true? Can I not eat or drink anything without being stuck here for the rest of my life?”
A warm chuckle rumbled in his throat. “If we were in the faerie realms, then yes. Faeries used to catch humans all the time for slaves.”
Morgan waited for him to explain, but he didn’t elaborate. “Then where are we, Mountain King?”
He didn’t respond. The damned man was trying to get her to look at him again, wasn’t he?
A frustrated huff escaped from between her lips. Morgan gritted her teeth and turned to look at him. “What realm are we in, Mountain King?”
That beautiful face was too much to look at. His gaze was warm, and his smile said he thought she was cute.
She wasn’t cute.
She was a five hundred-year-old witch with four dead men in her garden. No one had thought she was cute since the Salem witch trials, and that was just sheer luck.
The Mountain King finally gave in and answered her question. “We’re in a realm I made. You can eat and drink whatever you would like here, and nothing will force you to stay.”
“Good,” she muttered. “Now where am I supposed to sit?”
He turned and gestured behind them. “Beside me, of course. I have given you the place of honor at my table.”
That sounded like a trick. Everything here did, however. Morgan hesitated to follow him. If he wanted to make a scene or some kind of ritualistic sacrifice, this would be the perfect time to do it.
“Come, come!” the Mountain King tossed over his shoulder. “You must be starving after trying to kill me. I know I’m famished after our battle yesterday.”
The faeries at the table erupted into chatter. She couldn’t catch much of what they were saying, they all talked so fast, but she knew they were distrustful of her.
If only the king had kept his mouth shut, she might have been able to make a few allies. They could have gotten her out of this cursed place without a portal.
Morgan would grind her teeth into nubs if she stayed here much longer. Forcing her jaw to relax was a feat worthy of a champion, but she managed on the lengthy walk to the head of the table.
Two chairs waited for them at the head. One looked like a throne made of an ancient stump. The other was made of saplings, twisted together and covered in pink flowers.
She refused to consider the second chair, the one clearly meant for her, was modeled as a throne. As if he were taunting her.
Morgan sat down, holding onto the arms as though the chair might toss her out of it at any minute.
The Mountain King, on the other hand, sat down with zero qualms. He watched her settle with an amused expression on his face. “No tricks, witch. If that’s what is making you sit so gingerly.”
“I don’t trust a faerie not to have tricks up his sleeve.”
He shrugged. “Think what you want. I have no issues with you.”
“How is that even possible?” Morgan twisted in her chair to glare at him. “I tried to kill you yesterday. And today you throw a banquet?”
The Mountain King mimicked her movements. Now, they were both turned toward each other like the rest of the table didn’t exist.
His closeness was too much. His breath fanned across her face, smelling of mint and parsley. Earthy and far too tempting for her senses.
She would have moved if his hand didn’t snap out like a whip and grab her wrist. “Faeries try to kill each other all the time. You were sent here by a group of people who believe my magic is dangerous. Don’t deny it, Morgan, I know where you came from and who sent you.”
Her name on his lips hung between them like a drop of water on a leaf. Suspended in beauty and so wonderful, just waiting to fall like a drop of water from a leaf.
Morgan released a small, breathy sound she’d never heard herself make before. “How did you know who they are?”
“I’m a faerie king. I know more than you realize.” He squeezed her wrist, then released her. “They’re right, you know. You should kill me before the power consumes everything I am.”
What?
Before Morgan could force him to explain, the other faeries burst into movement. Dragonfly creatures fluttered into the air and served everyone at the table. Single grapes were tossed onto her plate and she had to catch them before they bounced onto the ground.
A larger faerie, who looked like a tree had pulled itself up by the root, cut a wheel of cheese in the center. A troop of acorns with legs and giant eyes carried a single slice to her plate.
So many faeries bursting into movement and she couldn’t speak around the sudden commotion. They were all so loud. So ridiculous.
Their antics reminded her of a circus she’d seen in the early beginnings of America. Contortionists had captivated crowds while dancers had whirled through the throngs and little children had pickpocketed everything they could get their greasy hands on.
But the faeries couldn’t take anything from her. She’d brought nothing with her but her magic, and that was all hers.
Except, even this morning she could feel the well in her mind was different. The waters were green now, tinged with algae which had never been in her head before. Her magic had changed now that the Mountain King’s power had touched it.
“Eat,” the Mountain King said.
The faeries all fluttered back to their seats and tucked into the food with surprising gusto. For creatures who were so small, they could consume a considerable amount of food.
Morgan looked around for utensils. There were none. Faeries apparently didn’t use cutlery created by humans.
Sighing, she glanced over at the Mountain King. He ate with his hands, although he made it look graceful. He used the bread as a kind of spoon and barrier between his fingers and the gooey cheese melting on the plate.
“When in Rome, I suppose,” she muttered and picked up the bread.
“Rome?” he asked. “I’ve never been. Is it nice
this time of year?”
She popped the bread and cheese into her mouth, talking around the food just to see if such animalistic behavior would annoy him. “Are you trying to make small talk?”
He narrowed his eyes, but didn’t comment. “I thought it might make you feel more comfortable to talk about where you came from.”
“I’m not Roman.”
Her words appeared to surprise him. He blinked a few times, looked down at his food, and then back at her with a sheepish expression. “There are different types of humans?”
Shouldn’t he know that? Faeries had helped build Rome. She’d heard stories of their antics in Iceland and seen their meddling in American politics. They were everywhere in the human realm.
She popped a grape into her mouth and asked, “When was the last time you were in the human realm?”
He thought about her question for a long time. “I suppose it would have been 1100?”
“What?” Morgan choked on the grape, coughing hard before she dislodged it. “It’s 2020.”
“In the human realm?”
“Yes!” Had he not come back to the human realm since then? He’d missed so much. Not just cars and cellphones, but everything. The entire growth of humanity.
No wonder he thought so little of her. He’d only seen humans at their most basic form.
She took a deep breath and another bite of bread. How could she describe her world to him? It would be impossible for someone who had seen none of their developments. “How did you get the clothing you’re wearing then?”
“Hm?” He watched a flower faerie who had gotten atop the table and was dancing a jig.
“You’re wearing modern clothing.”
“Ah, Arcane handles that. Some faeries bring the most marvelous of finds from your world.”
The faeries stole things? On the few days the portal was open, she suspected they went hunting. But then why hadn’t he been wearing the clothing when she’d first seen him?
Morgan’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t lying to her about the portals. Faeries couldn’t lie. The words would have stuck in his throat and he couldn’t have said them at all.
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