Page 1 of The Pixies' Chosen

PROLOGUE

TRYST

Pixies have simple, carefree lives. Arranged in vast colonies hosting numerous hives of males averaging four to six in number mated to a single queen, we may seem uniform as a species, but that’s only an illusion. In truth, each colony possesses its own distinct characteristics. While some colonies have pixies with pale coloring and vibrant wings, others are distinctive for their own hues and variations by which a lone pixie can quickly distinguish itself from outsiders and blend into the territory of their colony. The downside is that the distinctiveness for which the colony is known also is detrimental to those males and females born with recessive traits.

A dull female will not attract the swarms of hives to dance for her, bringing her little in the way of options, though in the end some of the less popular males will finally court and be claimed by her. But the dull and plainly colored males are seldom chosen, even by unfortunate females who fear breedingmore of those undesired genes into the next generation, causing their offspring to suffer the same fate.

And within the colony of the mid-northern region of the Dark Forest, the only favored males are the greens and yellows whose light complements the gloom of our home.

I sigh wistfully as I lean back in my hammock, my long dark hair spreading across the arms I tuck behind my head as my gaze follows the dance of lights across the evening sky. My four scalloped wings droop casually from the sides in sweeping curtains of the deepest shade of midnight blue. They move subtly so as to casually swing the hammock in a gentle glide.

The males are quite determined, it seems. Their lights flit through the air as they chase after the queen, attempting to lure her in. Although the chase leaves more males disappointed than not, I admit that I miss the excitement of it, but there is nothing I can do about it when Havoc refuses to participate. It takes an entire hive to court a female, and our sad hive of two can only watch enviously as males compete for the love of a mate.

Not that I would compete in this particular chase—not when it is my younger sister Zyri who leads it. She emerged late from her chrysalis chamber, reaching full sexual maturity and adulthood at the end of the summer season. A shiver runs over me as a cool breeze rattles the crimson leaves in my tree. At least she did not emerge at the end of this season. Any later and she would have been forced to wait until next spring to enjoy the mating dances. My parents were quite anxious, but now that it has come, I am left with a bittersweet realization that Zyri’s mating will be the last one of the season. Although Amehina, the crowning festival, has long since passed, and three other minor mating festivities have also now concluded, everything will once again settle into a resting state, all except the newly mated who will eagerly breed—rousing the misery of any unfortunate male or female unlucky in mating.

“Another season passes and once again our hive remains quiet and forgotten,” I murmur.

“It is better than the alternative,” Havoc replies as he steps out on the large branch outside of the upper balcony of our home. “What else would we have to look forward to except a season wasted?”

Another sigh escapes me, but I do not disagree. How many decades did we dance before we finally gave up? I had lost count nearly a century ago. We would have been cajoled into being castri to serve the unmated queens if not for Havoc’s sour temperament that makes our hive entirely undesirable.

“Remind me—how many years it has been since we last made the attempt?”

Havoc shrugs, lifting his deep violet wings in a faint flutter. “Eight years, perhaps.”

I nod silently. That sounds correct. How pitiful. Pulling out a small flute from my pocket I begin to morosely play it, allowing the notes to flow through the evening air in a song of melancholy. It is well suited, I think, for the end of the harvest season as life drops into death and slumber, but Havoc sighs heavily as he lowers himself into a chair set up beside a small table and gives me an impatient look.

“Must you?” he grumbles.

My lips quirk faintly but I keep playing, unwilling to let him spoil the moment. If I am to suffer without a mate for the rest of my long life, he can surely endure some light music to give voice to my feelings caught in the moment of the season and the movement of the world all around me.

I hear his sigh of capitulation moments before his voice rises in an eerie accompaniment. Havoc never sings for others as most pixies find his melodies unsettling, but at that moment there is a perfect synchronicity between us as the music reachesbeyond our nest to the forest beyond, lamenting the season’s end and a queen we do not have.

CHAPTER 1

HAVOC

My wings flutter rapidly as they carry me through the air, twitching with the thrill of the hunt as I dive deeper in the depths of the forest after my prey. The sparrow’s wings beat frantically as it tries to make its escape, but it has not yet realized that it is futile. I lick my lips in anticipation of the meal the bird will make. My wings hum as my flight carries me spinning swiftly amongst the branches. I drop suddenly, speeding through the air just above the swallow. I draw back my spear, preparing to strike the tender spot between the sparrow’s wings when a shadow falls over me and dives. Instinctively, I roll through the air to avoid the strike but fail to escape completely when I am swatted out of the air by a giant feathered wing as a dark bird bursts through the air over head, scattering feathers everywhere in its wake.

I do not get a good look at it, but the large wing strikes with a particularly brutal force, knocking the air out of my lungs even as it drops me like a stone. My spear slips from my grip tospin to the ground below me, but it is the least of my worries. I fight back the numbness stunning my body and flitter my wings uselessly several times in an attempt to slow my fall. It might have worked too—except that I’m rolling in the air and every movement of my wings does little except send me spinning even faster. The only thing slowing my fall at all are the leaves that my body slams into on my way down.

I buzz my wings clumsily in desperation among the falling feathers, my muscles tensing as I prepare for the collision. It is guaranteed to be fatal at this height. Even if it does not kill me outright, I will be significantly injured and easy prey for any of the predators of the Dark Forest. My stomach lurches as the forest floor races toward me. Nothing will correct my free tumble. The rocks and brush spin as I hurtle toward them. I close my eyes as I fight against the air and the numb feeling that is still making my wings stiff and difficult to move. If this is the end, then I do not wish to see it greeting me.

The air moves sharply around me, and something soft and cool plucks me from the air. My head spins from the sudden change in movement, and I fold my wings back while I attempt to control my heaving.

“How curious. It is merely a pixie,” a voice speaks loudly overhead.

I wince at the volume and cautiously squint up at the source. Like all the larger races, the features of the face peering down at me seem grotesquely overlarge but less offensive than usual as it appears to be a smaller species.

From the shape of the features… I am guessing a female. And a fairy at that, given the wings that move faintly in response to her curiosity. Heavily veined and similar to the wings of a pixie, though on a much larger scale, they fan the air lazily as a small smile curls the corner of the female’s pale pink lips. Curious, I allow my eyes to move over her, noting her gray complexionexcept for what appears to be a white pigment stain of a half-skull with sharp teeth and fangs marked descending around her mouth. Several black feathers cling to her hair, and I hope that means that she killed whatever dove at me.

She slowly cocks her head, sending the small bones tied into her hair and adorning her neck clattering. I shiver in spite of myself, drawing my wings tight against my back. A cunning fairy is not to be underestimated—even worse when it is a bone fairy. There are many bone fairies who catch pixies to peel the flesh from their bones to grind them into ingredients for their magical powders.

I stare up at her warily as I wait for the blood to refill my wings. I am not proud to play the submissive part at this moment, but it serves my purpose. The instant my wings are strong once more, I will burst from her hand before she even has the opportunity to close her fingers over me.

Her lips quirk as if in response to my private thoughts, and she lifts her cupped hands closer to her face.

“Indeed, a pixie,” she murmurs to the companion I had not noticed standing behind her until now—a male with a distinctly bored expression on his face as he leans against a tree.

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