Page 77 of Kiss the Fae

It takes a shitload of effort to wrestle past his touch and focus on what he’d confessed. “What does that mean? That I’m a priority,” I mumble. “And don’t twist the truth, or you’re a coward.”

That does it. Cerulean drags his face to mine, the fog clearing from his eyes. Delirium subsides, and sanity returns as we untangle ourselves, our lungs drawing in oxygen. I’m panting and confused, and I’m sure my expression is as accusatory as his own, each of us blaming the other for this havoc.

“The sky doesn’t hide,” he says resentfully. “Neither do I.”

“You really want to go there with me? Because you hop around the truth more than a jackrabbit.”

“Or sometimes you miss the truth. It comes in many forms if you listen thoroughly.”

“And sometimes the truth is mightier when you say what you mean. Call it a dare or a deal. Call it a surprise, since you fancy surprises. Call it whatever the fuck you want. Just tell me something real!”

This isn’t entirely objective, seeing as we’ve just spent most of the night yakking about plenty of authentic things. He confided more than I expected. He shocked me more than I anticipated. And we’ve revealed more than I could have predicted, including an urge to make each other moan.

But this isn’t about the fauna or the wildlife park, and it’s not about mutual cravings. My frustration’s coming from a different place—a place that was broken long before I entered this mountain. An unfulfilled longing that he might be responsible for.

Cerulean makes no reply. Behind him, clouds froth within a dawning canvas.

Then his gleam returns. Without a twisted word, he straightens and offers me his hand.

***

I should have known this Fae would take advantage of a loophole during Middle Moon. Being a ruler has its perks. We may not be allowed to wander on our own during this intermission, but the fauna can. So why not beg a ride?

Cerulean detours to the tower, to drop off the flute quiver. He returns wearing a long coat, which he must have thrown on, the flaps splaying to expose his bare abdomen underneath. He glances at the tower’s spire, then bows and makes a plea to the owl. Feeling the same reverence, I follow his lead, lowering myself humbly.

The avian launches off the building, shifts into its larger form, lands before us, and nudges Cerulean softly with its beak.“Tímien.”Cerulean rises and frames the raptor’s head.“Vvjúkan ojjur fankade?”

“Tí…Tímien?” I echo. “Is that his name?”

“It’s a moniker from Old Faeish,” Cerulean says while stroking the bird’s feathers. “It means timeless.”

“That’s beautiful.” I gesture to the wildlife park. “Do they all have names?”

“Indeed.” He tosses me a sidelong glance. “But they haven’t told me yet, the cheeky ones.”

I laugh. According his brief explanation, nature gives the Fae fauna their names.

We mount Tímien’s feathers. Behind me, Cerulean straddles the creature, his chest aligning with my back. In the shell of his body, my thighs mold to his hard limbs.

He whispers artfully, “Don’t fall.”

And the advice tickles my nape. “Me or you?”

The owl vaults from the peak and sails into the elements. I relish the sting of wind against my limbs, the air howling past us, and the rose gold and periwinkle hues of early morning. The ladders, bridges, and ramps. The labyrinthine stairways. The Fae homes and buildings of stone and woven offshoots with colonnades and pavilions. The high windows and open archways. The curtains that replace doors and sashes.

This is a breathable world.

We slingshot through chinks in the mountain and coast sideways over the valley. Too soon, the owl descends upon a plain of wildflowers covering another zenith. The pinnacle is round and small, no wider than a lake.

After we dismount, I watch Tímien dive over the edge and crimp into his original form. His body grows tinier, shrinking to a ribbon of wings and dissolving into the vista.

“There’s only one place to receive the full truth in our domain,” a voice intones over my shoulder. “However, it’s tricky.”

I study his lithe form shadowed across the ground. “I’ve heard that anything real is always the trickiest.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Have a look.” He steps closer, his trousers tapping my nightgown, whereas I hadn’t thought to get dressed before we left.

Hovering his chin above my shoulder, Cerulean points. “There.”

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