Page 121 of Kiss the Fae

“It cannot be,” Cerulean says. “I’ve stood upon the range.”

Up is down. Left is right. Forward is backward.

Nothing is as it seems. Guess I hadn’t expected my hunch to be right.

I grin at him. “Doesn’t mean it’s the highest point.”

He blinks in comprehension. “The Wild Peak, made anew.”

Knowing how this landscape works, his eyes gleam—then he bumbles sideways. I rush to catch him, the pair of us stumbling under his weight.

Protests multiply and draw near. Ravaged Faeries swarm the peak, their wings carrying them to the summit. Others materialize, bloody notches denting their bovine, feline, insectile, and avian faces. They marvel at this new pinnacle, but like Cerulean, they don’t need the wayward mysteries of this labyrinthine range spoon-fed to them. They know what’s happened.

A majority of the crowd glowers. Some who chose to defend Cerulean gawk, unsure whether or not to attack me in spite of him. One thing’s for sure, each of them scorns me because I’ve made it to the mountaintop. I’ve won.

Cerulean and I whirl, our backs aligning in a guarded stance like extensions of one another. A second later, I catch one of the phoenixes creeping from the sidelines, out of Cerulean’s vantage point. The firebird launches my way—and blasts sideways, pummeled by a tawny mass of fur. The wildcat swipes him down with a hoarse growl. It’s a cougar, but not the one from earlier.

This cat bears a limp and a circlet of markings across its forehead. It’s the beauty from The Fauna Tower.

Behind her, a throng of animals from the wild park invade the scene, joined by creatures from diverse parts of the range. The antelope and mountain goat with stumped horns gallop up the craggy zenith alongside a ram, teal hoops piercing through its horns and its hooves spurting gold dust. Their heads lower, about to pummel anybody who gets in their way. The trio launches in front of me and Cerulean, shielding us from an attack. Hawks and bats circle amidst hummingbirds. The cougar bares her sabers and tacks the firebird Fae to the grass.

Dumbstruck, the mob edges backward, unwilling to engage with the sacred residents of their realm. A hooting cry pierces the morning. Tímien dives from the clouds, having shifted to his mammoth form. Along with our fauna protectors, he bolts in front of Cerulean and me, his wings blocking us from harm.

Moth hops from his back and skitters to a standstill, anxiety straining her features. When Cerulean asked her to get help, she must have raced to the tower and recruited the fauna. The trip there and back had taken too long, and Cerulean had propelled after me.

The horned owl looms, the very pissed-off picture of a raptor protecting its nest, his plumes blowing a warning gale into the Fae. I remember Cerulean saying Tímien is no less than a father to him. And once our attackers back off, the owl flies to the sideline, albeit vigilant of their every move.

Moth must have also retrieved Cerulean’s javelin from the bridge because she tosses it his way, and he catches it in one hand. “We couldn’t come back fast enough,” she blubbers. “By the time we returned, you were gone, and I thought…I didn’t know if…” Her frazzled expression morphs into a glare. “Well, I can’t work the wind as mightily you, and magic only takes us so far, and curse you for letting go of that rope.” Then to me, “And curse you for being likable.” Trauma clogs her throat, a harrowed look pressing into her countenance. “We circled The Solitary Forest, worried we’d find your splattered bodies in the valley. Instead, we brought back a souvenir.”

On reflex, I snare whatever she hurls at me. Relief gushes in as I glance at the whip.

“She cannot win!” the phoenix spits to Cerulean from under the cougar’s paws. “Not only did you fuck her behind our backs, but you helped this vile bitch of a mortal! Therefore, her success is forfeit!”

Cerulean hisses in Faeish and stalks toward the Fae as if to rip out his windpipe. Breaking from my stupor, I grab Cerulean by the waist and wrestle him backward.

“She made the final move alone,” he seethes, his tone loaded with elegant vitriol but sluggish from the wings’ injuries.

“Traitor!” a jackrabbit Fae shouts. “This human wouldn’t have made that move without your assistance. You dare to rob this mountain of its sacrifice!”

“You’re overruled, Cerulean,” a female with butterfly wings says.

Maybe the fall to hell and subsequent rise to the sun jostled the marbles in my noggin. Either way, I’m not gonna dwell, because I don’t have that kind of time. I glance from the crowd to the animals, the mystical fauna at the heart of every Fable I’ve read.

Fauna. Fables.

“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark,”I recite to myself.

The words slide across the peak, quieting everyone. Cerulean whirls my way and stares, an epiphany spanning his features.

The horde watches in confusion as I mumble the Fable under my breath.“And the Lark said—”

“What is she doing?” someone demands.

“Stop her,” another says with uncertainty.

But nobody moves. Meanwhile, I think about my people capturing the fauna, and I think about these Faeries worshipping animals, bearing similar traits, and celebrating Middle Moon. I think about Cerulean bowing to Tímien and these creatures reigning over the landscapes. I think about the throne summit, dubbed The Parliament of Owls. I think about the Book of Fables, which conveys truths about magical beings through tales about animals. I think about the mountain and its inhabitants fading, the Folk’s numbers reduced without the fauna.

I sense Cerulean pondering with me. A breath of revelation escapes him. He knows the final line but waits for me to put my finger on it.

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