Page 62 of Kiss the Fae

I muse, this Fae boy comes from one place, me another. And I muse, it’s a place of magic versus a place of mortality. And I muse, it’s a world of trickery against a world of honesty. And I muse, it doesn’t matter that he’s partially covered because this Fae boy’s got one heck of a stare. It may be shielded, but it’s heavy enough to reach across the divide and prickle my arms.

The feather visor shifts, hinting at a change of expression—and not a friendly one. I picture his face creasing with elegant malice. As if to prove me right, he turns away with a dismissive swat of the head, like I’m beneath him.

My hands ball into fists. Shaky fists, but still.

I’m not supposed to care. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to talk to him.

“Hey!” I snap, my voice bouncing off the rafters.

He vaults around again. A gust of air sweeps across the forge, matching his movements. The gale hits me with a wallop, punting me onto the grass.

He doesn’t laugh, but I do catch a quirk of the lips, and that’s what nettles me the most. I scramble to my bare feet and slap my nightgown clean. Then because I’m a right dummy, I step inside and march straight toward him, not waiting for an invitation.

The garish plumes outline his mask, splaying outward around his upper and lower eyelids. It’s the likeness of an owl, the beak stabbing downward. Tucked beneath that, I notice the lines of a mortal-shaped nose.

The Book of Fables says Faeries have animal bits, but I don’t see any real ones on him. If he’s got wings, they’re nowhere in sight. Unless he’s hiding them? If so, do they have feathers? Or are they bright and thin like ladybug wings? But that would make him a ladybug Fae, not an avian Fae. And now I’m confusing myself.

Three paces from the cage, my footfalls slow. I spot his collarbones beneath the shirt’s sagging neckline, his chest pumping with spent energy. As I pause in the starlit beams, he notes my own mask. I’d forgotten about that, but no way am I taking it off, because I feel safer and smarter with it on—two words that I normally don’t pay mind to.

Safe is Cove. Smart is Juniper.

Stupid is me.

He probably can’t tell it’s a lark mask. When I made it, I couldn’t find stray lark plumes, so I used whatever fallen quills I could salvage. It’s a patchwork of bird feathers.

I like to pretend I’m a lark, since I’m fond of that name. Ha.

The Fae boy waits on all fours, his fingernails lightly scraping the cage floor, as if in contemplation. His owl mask is fancier than mine.

Tiptoeing forward gets my feet dirtier than they already were, but I don’t care. Inches from the bars, I study him from behind my visor. He does the same. I like that we’re hidden this way, in this forge, in these masks.

Up close, hints come into view—traces of his pupils. Twin pinpoints of light swim in those wells, potent enough that I feel a hyperawareness of them. Within a shrouded glimpse, somehow they manage to reflect a million emotions.

That’s how I realize heisyoung like me. But I hadn’t known the villagers trapped Faeries my age, as well as animals and grown-up Fae. Why would they do that?

He scans my fake plumes with an air of amused repugnance. Or it could be fascinated disgust. I’m getting both vibes.

A rope of wind slings around me, tying me down so I can’t budge, can’t look away. Neither can he, for whatever reason.

I want to know the color of his irises and hair. I wish the sun were shining, but I’m also glad it’s not, since this moment feels like a secret, and secrets are always born at night.

Air hisses from his mouth, a lot slower than a mortal’s breathing. The oxygen slides from him and flits into the air. Each time it does, I feel a tug on my cloak and the nightgown hem.

Is he doing that? Naughty!

The white dots inside the Fae boy’s pupils gleam. He’s toying with me, playing a game with me. Welp, I know games.

I sidestep him, circling the cage. He swerves like a predator.

I change direction, whipping the other way. So does he, sliding across the compartment like a breeze but careful not to touch the iron. We do this a few times, me shifting quickly, him shifting as well, mirroring the movements.

Then he veers, claiming the upper hand, turning the tables to bait me. And I match him. And I realize, he’s trying to make me slip, fall, and crash, while I’m trying to make him dizzy.

The whole time, we study each other. Then, out of nowhere, I giggle. And maybe, just maybe, he smirks.

***

Each night, I return to the forge. Each night, I’m a little terrified that he’ll still be there. Each night, I’m a little terrified that he’ll be gone.

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