Page 129 of Kiss the Fae

“I’ll come back,” I swear. “I’ll bring ’em back, too.”

Papa crushes me to him. “I’ll be here. The sanctuary will be here, and the wagon, and your rooms. It’ll be here whenever you want to return, as often as you want, for as long as you want. Home will be here.”

34

Papa and I stay up all night reminiscing, savoring these final hours on the porch, and in the cottage, and out by the sanctuary. After sleeping through the day, I wake refreshed at dusk and get ready for whatever comes next. My cotton dress flows off my frame, the material a blank canvas that matches my hair. It’s got a deep V, sleeves that taper to spires at the wrists, and a skirt slit. No frills or fuss, but it’s sturdy and has plenty of sharp points.

Once I’ve donned my cloak and boots, I commit the attic bedroom to memory and shut the door. I say farewell—not good-bye—to my avian friends, one by one, promise by promise. And at the porch, Papa crushes me to him and kisses my forehead, breathing endearments into my skin.

I inhale his scent and soak up his baritone. For now, the neighbors will think I’ve gone batty and returned to Faerie, on a quest to get my sisters back. It’s partly true.

What else they learn afterward? Can’t think that far ahead.

I buckle up my whip and leave on foot, sparing Whinny Badass the trek. Besides, I want this to take a while, to feel the journey, the change.

For this trip, I don’t need to follow the wind. I know how to get there.

The mountain glimmers beneath a puddle of moonlight. I quicken my pace toward the Triad, passing the trio of hawthorn, oak, and ash trees. The air ripples with magic and that strange reek of poisonous plums, but I stride through without a hitch. If I’m gonna choose this, I’m gonna choose the light and dark of it.

Syrup browns, yew greens, and peacock blues enamel the landscape. The Colony of Fireflies glints, the sizzling orbs illuminating the crooked trail.

At the cul-de-sac, the veil shudders, and the mountain steps appear. In this spot, I hugged my sisters, then we traveled down unknown paths. The memory scorches my throat, but I gulp it down. I’m here now. I’m close to them, and that’s how it’s gonna stay until they’ve won.

Although the other two portals hide within plain sight, I sense them stretching across the ground, carving through the underbrush toward the forest and the deep. I scowl at the invisible routes. “You picked the wrong sisters.”

“Oh, I should hope so,” says a masculine timbre. “It’s more fun picking something that’s bad for me.”

His words strum through the wild. I whirl and follow the voice, stumbling across a pair of naughty eyes. Loops of sable surround gleaming pupils, the irises a rich, molten brown. The pigment oozes from his face like the contents of a chalice, potent enough to get a person drunk.

Rakish eyes. Devilish eyes.

And the smirk of a troublemaker. I recognize the type, since I’ve earned a similar reputation in Reverie Hollow.

The Fae lounges atop a knoll, sprawled amidst the exposed roots of an oak tree that wasn’t there a moment ago. His arms sling wide along the chunky ribbons of bark, one leg stretched out, the other bent at an angle. The wily pose brings pranks and seductions to mind.

The reddest hair I’ve ever seen tumbles in waves from his head and sweeps his shoulders. I can’t describe the vivid, inflammatory color, except that it’s warmer than rust, livelier than titian, and more provocative than scarlet. It’s the erotic shade of carmine or, if you’re feeling morbid, the shit that pours from a fresh wound.

That wanton hair coils at the ends, flicking the sides of his pointy ears. Bronze earrings dangle like ropes from the lobes, the slender chains ornamented with leaf charms. You’d think that would get my attention most of all, but it’s not.

It’s the antlers. Stag prongs crank from his head, forming a barbed crown that slings to the back of his skull.

Like Cerulean, the Fae’s smooth mien has been sculpted from ivory, though this dandy lacks the excessive slants. If anything, he resembles a male wood nymph, particularly with that smattering of white freckles across his nose.

Pages surface from the Book of Fables.

Brown eyes. Red hair. Stag antlers.

Only one chap fits that description. My eyes jump from the leather vest molded to his chest, to the buckskin breeches hugging his waist, to the tan fur covering his calves, to the cloven hooves where his feet should be.

This fucker’s no nymph.

My choppers grind together. “Puck.”

The satyr bows his head with an exaggerated flourish. “At your service. You must be the infamous Lark. Why so far away, luv?” He pats the ground and coos, “Join me. I don’t bite.”

Ha. And they say Faeries don’t lie.

His tone’s got a flirty swagger to it. Whereas Cerulean whispers like an elegant breeze, Puck flicks his tongue like he’s sampling the flesh of your neck, right before his devious canines break skin. Yeah, trouble.

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