Page 75 of Kiss the Fae

This is no coincidence.

Standing beneath a blaze of white clouds, Cerulean watches my reaction. His features cinch in confusion, then tighten into skepticism as an invisible cord tugs between us, straining from my chest to his.

My intakes. His outtakes.

A connection. A memory.

I’ve kept it cloistered away, stashed in the compact shell of my heart. Now that pod’s got a crack—and it’s widening.

But this can’t be. It’s impossible.

He can’t be the boy from my past. That was less than a decade ago, and the Fae don’t mature as quickly as mortals do. Immortality means it takes longer to develop, so although I don’t know Cerulean’s age, he’s fully grown and physically too old to be that boy.

More importantly, that boy was skewered through with iron by my people. Faeries don’t come back from that. Immortality aside, they don’t rise from the dead if slain in battle.

Disjointed noises rush through the peak, the Fae fauna as nocturnal as the rest of their kin. A raptor’s call scratches the welkin. A smaller bird pipes from a tree. Leaves swish around the shaggy limbs of a wandering mountain goat.

Cerulean’s bare chest lifts, the ridges contorting. “Don’t fall off the edge, precious Lark.”

That snaps me out of it. “Don’t push me there, evil Cerulean.”

He tosses me a mild smirk that makes no promises, then prowls around the tower’s hip while plucking his flute from the quiver and playing his music. The animals trail him, trotting and fluttering in his wake as he travels into the park. The music coils around the bend and bleeds into the shrubbery.

My ears strain toward the melody whispering from the haven. Silvery notes glide over the current, which caresses the trees and billows the hem of my nightgown. I break from my paralysis and flop backward onto the grass. My palms cover my mouth, and my eyes clench shut. A vision assaults me: a girl inventing a bunch of professions that should exist in this world but don’t, and a boy listening, convincing her that she has the power to become any of those experts.

But that boy had died. He can’t still be alive.

My fingers shake so badly that I scrub them against my thighs, failing to quell the tremors. The flute trails off, then begins anew, stroking from his end of this crest to mine. The tune changes, spiraling into a lullaby that softens the bulb in my throat. Though it’s a long time before I stop trembling, even longer before I muster the strength to open my eyes.

A gust of wind tickles the flowers and tousles the grass. Stars dust the landscape in serene white and fanciful teal.

I listen for traces of his flute, pondering if that lullaby isn’t solely for the fauna. Cerulean hadn’t been making a grand exit. He’d been offering an invitation.

End this night? Or start it?

I get to my feet, stalk along the tower’s base, cross the lawn, and track the slender trickle of water. In the park, lanky spear trees penetrate the sky, the trunks tall and slim as lances. Hedges sprout from the ground, and moonflowers droop from trellises.

A brook flops over stones like liquid glass. The path curves around a burbling fountain, its centerpiece a winged horse in flight, suspended above a wide cauldron of steam.

The flute melody beckons me with its crooked finger. Circling the rim, I navigate through another lane pressed into the grass and halt in my tracks. My chest splits in two, blood surging from the rift and flooding my body.

Cerulean’s lounging against a rock laced in pillow moss, one foot propped against the surface. He’s a vision from the pages of a Fable, his folksy fingers dancing across the instrument’s neck, the fine knuckles hopping in succession.

The fauna spread out, going about their evening. They graze and forage, their shadows dotting the paths and outcroppings. Cerulean plays for the creatures, but his eyes fix on me. His lips pucker against the instrument, his mouth swollen and dark as ink. With each suck and blow, the long stem releases sighs of music.

Somehow, the animals’ presence reverses the torrent within me, my bloodstream settling. In this land, anything’s possible. So until I know more, I need to stay calm and pace myself.

I lean against an opposite boulder. The music ebbs into a faint cry, then seeps into the night. Cerulean lifts his lips from the flute and hitches an eyebrow. “As I suspected. Couldn’t stay away?”

“Couldn’t resist calling?” I volley.

His closed mouth slants into a grin. He flips the instrument into his quiver, then crosses his arms. I’ve got him pegged by now—it’s not a standoffish pose but full of lazy intention and even lazier intimidation. This Fae’s used to dabbling in propositions. He’s used to making enticements and manipulating desires. He’s used to getting his way.

I match his pose and expression, exaggerating it to the point where Cerulean bares whetted teeth, a magical chuckle bumping from his throat. Most times, I’ve wanted to box that laughing mouth, but tonight? It unhinges a chortle from me.

It happens steadily and out of nowhere. We fall into step, Cerulean leading me down the paths, the subject of fauna and wildlife bridging the gap, a temporary link that coaxes us to behave. Once the Solitaries appointed him ruler, they erected this tower, and he knew instantly what to do with it, creating this park for survivors of The Trapping. They weren’t the ones who raised him, but they’ve become his new family all the same. He tells me anecdotes, describing the habits and personalities of each dweller. That includes the one-eyed owl, who’s a picky eater.

I compare those details to the animals’ quirks and routines back home, and we talk about mourning the ones we’ve failed to save. We contemplate the lightness and darkness of it all. We muse about the hierarchies of wildlife, their territorialities, their ability to bond with different species, and their violent impulses, like when they reject their own or attack other creatures. Sometimes it’s unprovoked, for no reason other than instinct.

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