Page 53 of Kiss the Fae

The Mistral Ropes

Back the Way You Came

The way I came? Does that mean back to a place I’ve already been or back to the beginning? It’s supposed to be an enticement, in case I have second thoughts about where I’m headed. Since once a path is chosen, it can’t be unchosen, this has got to be an exception or a hoax.

What about the other two? I mouth what Cerulean had said. One path, I’ll desire. One, I’ll regret. One, he wouldn’t take if he were me.

A route he wouldn’t take as a human—but he would take as a Fae? I mull that over, then unravel my whip to see what the breeze yields.

Fear the wind. Follow the wind.

I make for the second path. The vapor envelopes me, tendrils lapping at my clothing, the gorge so narrow I can’t spread my arms. It’s a tunnel. The stars disappear, but glowing tufts of wood sorrel germinate from the ceiling. I hear myself panting, a set of plumes skating past my cheek. All other noises dilute to nothing.

At last, the tunnel yawns open to the range, where ivy climbs segments of rock, and fog crowns the peaks. A walkway curves ahead, one side installed into the precipice, the other framed by an ornate railing. The passage winds through pockets of the mountainside, but I relax as the trail maintains an even plane.

Several hours pass. A soft blue bleeds into the dome of sky, dandelion puffs of white and teal pulsing. That signpost had offered me a choices, but it hadn’t said how long each one would take.

As I stop and realize this, churlish laughter peals from a recess. I twist, catching sight of three figures lounging in the trees, each one resembling a phoenix.

Molten red tresses. Yellow skin that crackles like kindling.

Firebird profiles. Blistering eyes. Flaming wings that smoke at the quills’ tips.

“Lost, human?” one taunts.

“Want to be found?” another tempts.

“We promise to bite,” a third carols.

Tingling warmth seeps into my bloodstream. A hazy sensation slides around my waist, tugging me in their direction. My eyelashes flutter, my heels skid, and I slow my pace.

Maybe they’re nice. Maybe I’d like them.

A smile tips the corners of my mouth, then drops like pebbles when a draft swoops in and hits the branches. The Faeries pout. Clarity pinches the nape of my neck, anchoring me right before I fling myself into the trees, where the monsters wait.

Stumped, I check myself, making sure nothing happened. They’d almost glamoured me.

I’m a bigmouth, but not tonight. I bolt down the walkway, only looking back to throw the knaves a grimy look. Cruel amusement scrunches their faces as they recline lazily across the boughs. One of them touts that human-thumb charm, the bones jingling between his brows.

I whip around, ignoring the echoes of “What a pity,” and “Watch your step,” and “You’ll never beat him,” and “Until we meet again,” and “Soon.”

It’s not a bluff. Even if they could lie, I’ve witnessed phony displays of bravado from village bullies. I’ve been on the receiving end of those shams, too. Those firebirds are betting on another meeting, probably with more of their kind in tow.

Hell, I’m good at bluffing, too. When the heckles don’t seem to faze me, they sing a ditty of parting words in Faeish.

The trip is a delirium of stairs, ramps, and ladders. It’s an oddity of gradients and slopes, of alluring and horrific shadows. For days, I plod up the mountain, camping in thickets and rationing the meager leftovers of partridge, bread, cheese, and water I’d packed. No idea what Cerulean smeared on my wounds, but they heal right quick, enabling me to shuck the bandages.

I can’t sleep at night and leave myself vulnerable to the Fae. But I can’t rest during the day, either, because ideally that’s the most undisturbed time to travel.

In the end, I’d rather not dream at their mercy. The lesser of the two evils is to camp when the sun is up. The instant that gilded coin rises, I fall into a restless slumber while tucked in the shrubs, hidden from slicing wings and hungry predators.

Not all the animals are safe to be near. One particular day, the resonant groan of a feline on the hunt—much larger than a bobcat—keeps me awake. While passing through the wildcat’s territory later, I stumble upon a human skull and retch into the underbrush.

The Herd of Rams is a craggy terrain, where a queue of rams trails a ledge embedded into the ragged rocks. Their spindly limbs crank, their hooves sprinkling gold dust behind them, their coiled horns pierced with teal hoops, akin to earrings.

At a babbling brook, geese wade among the ripples. The frigid water revives my scabbed feet as I watch them, savoring the respite and rapt by the verdant glow lacing through their feathers. The gaggle is friendly, their webbed feet splashing around me. Grinning, I pet their frothy heads and chuckle at their brassy honks, which seem to echo and travel for miles.

At that point, I don’t give a flying fuck who sees me, so I use the opportunity to bathe and refill my waterskin.

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