Page 52 of Kiss the Fae

“That’s a big gamble.”

“What is not?”

In a perfect world, this should mean everything. I could tell him to release me or order him to transport me to the mountaintop. But it’s not a perfect world, because the nitty-gritty terms had been explicit. One, if I don’t reach the peak, whatever my sisters are struggling with becomes forfeit. Two, I’ve gotta make it by myself, with my own two feet.

I’m no fraud. If I’ve got one thing to prove, it’s that a mortal doesn’t need magic.

Cerulean’s not as furious as he should be that I unearthed his secret; maybe he knows I’m fixing to negotiate. He looms over me with a guarded countenance and muses, “I do believe I’m about to be rendered speechless.”

“How do you know?”

“You haven’t failed to leave me thus yet.”

“Oh, boy. Flattery.”

His blue lips quirk with bitterness. “Do not get accustomed to it.”

“Fine by me. I’d rather flatter myself than rely on someone else to do it. Regardless, I vow to relinquish control over you—on one condition. You said lots of things are hidden in plain sight, so do us both a favor and point out the other route I don’t see.”

Slowly, Cerulean shakes his head. “A most provocative, perplexing, profound human.” His magnetic pupils gleam, then dart toward the wall where I’m plastered. “Why, you’re swooning against it.”

Well, that figures. But we don’t budge.

One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.

I slip beneath his arm and rush to the cottage, where I stutter to a halt, gulping mouthfuls of air. I’ve gotta pull myself together, because whatever’s fizzing between us means nothing. The thought alone is rotten and unforgivable, and I won’t let it get the better of me.

I mash my feet into my socks and boots. Then I don my cloak, strap on my pack, and refill the waterskin from the pitcher. I salvage the leftover scraps at the dining table, wrapping them in cloth, then snatch my whip. Migrating outside, I see that Cerulean hasn’t moved. He faces the boulder with his head bent and forearm cranked against the hard surface.

Thing is, I can’t tell if it’s more dangerous here than wherever I’m headed.

I start to move past him, but the tether of his voice slides around my limbs. “Why didn’t you ask for more?”

I halt and glance at his profile, hewn from a blade, from his calves to his ears. I had his real name in my pocket but didn’t abuse it like I could have. Mercurial as Cerulean is, he’d anticipated as much from me, which is why he hadn’t thrown an immediate, Fae-worthy fit.

What he hadn’t banked on was my request, and his culture resents being humbled. Why hadn’t I asked for more?

“Because I’m not you,” I tell him.

There’s a long pause. Finally, Cerulean regroups and slants his head my way, an impish twinkle brightening his features. “There are three ways from here. One, you shall desire. One, you shall regret. One, well, I would not take if I were you.”

I peek at the environment, then swing around as the wind filters through the wild. By the time I’ve rounded completely, he’s nowhere in sight. I shake off the disappointment. Demented as it seems, I’m getting a perverse satisfaction out of our verbal jousts. Figures that fucker gets the last word.

I whirl toward the cliff, scanning its broad girth until a camouflaged lane appears carved into the foundation. I follow the cavity, which slides around the bluff’s hip. A pair of torches flare to life, igniting the mountain’s scalloped edge. Steep stairs, chipped into the boundary, rise and dip in quick succession, each one separated by a jump. My fingernails dig into the bluff, and sweat beads across my hairline.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Up here, I can be a bird or a cloud.

It takes a few tries before my legs move, and then I’m mounting the steps, the increasing elevation hitting the backs of my knees. I step and pause, step and pause, step and pause, step and pause, step and pause. I think back to my chimney days, when I clung my imagination, the only means to escape tight, suffocating spaces.

Me, covered in soot. Me, pretending to flap my wings.

Ignoring the fog-laced abyss and garlands of stars, I conjure each bloody scab and clump of ash I’d survived before this—and I jump to the next set of steps, hitting the stone without breaking skin, grasping the bulbous rock handles.

I keep stepping, pausing, stepping, pausing. By the time I reach the landing, sweat drips down my thighs. I made it, but it doesn’t feel good.

Because there’s more. I’m in a courtyard where the route splits into three torchlit gorges seething with mist. A new signpost stands in the center, its markers designating locations.

The Fauna Tower

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