Page 86 of Kiss the Fae

I come against the mist of his lips, spasming at a breakneck pace. My moans fly out the window, ecstasy rushing through me as I squeeze the sheets, my legs parted as far as they’ll go.

I crash right quick. My body smashes into the mattress, my limbs sprawled akimbo.

Carefully, the wind gathers the sheets around me. By the time, my glazed eyes search for a glimpse of air, it’s gone.

Sneaky Fae. He must have expected me to pass out after that. But nestled under the bedding, all I can do is grab one of the pillows and hug it to my chest. I squeeze it like a body, as if he stayed behind.

He’d wanted to. I’d felt his impulse like I’d felt his resistance.

I know, because it’s the same thing I wanted. But we don’t know how to do that with each other—stay behind.

I know something else, too. None of the blokes who’ve tasted my body ever wrenched a spellbinding, soul-shattering climax from me. And while the aftermaths were lonely, they were never heartbreaking. They weren’t painful or terrifying.

None of them had touched me with the wind. None of them had caressed the side of my face with affection.

Only one creature has ever done that.

Releasing the pillow, I lurch upright and swing my legs out of bed. Hopeful, petrified tears sting my eyes as I rush to my pack on the floor. Even if I already know what this means, even with everything Cerulean told me last night, I can’t hedge my bets. Not for this.

To reveal the truth, The Horizon That Never Lies needs an offering. I’ve bartered or lost my trinkets, but that’s fine.

I’ve got one thing left.

23

I wait until I’m certain he’s gone to bed and won’t return. Three hours remain before dusk. Hijacking that gap of time, I get dressed, then sneak out of the tower and into the gawk of sunlight. Tímien’s perched on his throne atop the spire, an emperor contemplating the scenery through the lens of a single, aquamarine eye. Still as a statue, the raptor reigns over the mountain, impervious to the wind disturbing his feathers.

I bow, my forehead sinking to the ground. A moment later, a horned shadow flaps past me, and I peek as a set of clawed feet hook around a branch. The owl grants me an audience, bearing down on me from the prow of his beak, the left socket making a dent in his face, a scarred cradle of tissue. In spite of that, I get the feeling he can see a whole universe through that surviving orb.

This creature owes me nothing, so I keep my head lowered and wait. I’ve spent years watching over birds and communicating with them in our own private way. So when I hear the owl descend to a shallower bough, I take that as an invitation and lift my head.

“I’m hoping for answers. Can you take me there?” I entreat. “Please?”

I’m not fixing to cheat on this game or disrespect the fauna’s history by traveling during Middle Moon. But a question’s been gnawing at me, and this is my one chance to get an answer. Besides, I already milked this loophole earlier with Cerulean.

Tímien observes me, deliberating and then launching off the branch. He slingshots into a gargantuan figure, patterns of sleek, incandescent quills rippling outward. Tier sheets of feathers flap, the whooshing sound powerful, hypnotizing.

During The Trapping, the villagers of Reverie Hollow had tackled the size-shifting problem by weakening the creatures with all those iron weapons and traps. My eyes water to picture this magnificent specimen reduced to bars and a lock, one half of its vision stolen. I can’t begin to imagine what happened to the Fae children during the uprising, much less to Cerulean when he stumbled upon the gruesome spectacle and found his winged father mutilated.

The ground shakes as Tímien lands, his silhouette dwarfing my frame. I mount his back, and we take off, shooting into the late afternoon.

The Solitary Mountain is quiet, its residents entombed in slumber. Below, a handful of rowans bob at steep angles, seesawing against the wind, while others stay put. Lanky trees impale the mist, and climbing plants embroider the rocky landscape, everything connected by a labyrinth of steps, bridges, and aerial facades.

Exhilarated, I spread my arms and close my eyes. I hear the bird’s massive wings swat through the air, because he’s safe and healed and free now. As for me, I’m a drifting cloud, always in motion, always changing shape. Even the sky can’t hold me down.

Except when Cerulean used the wind to touch me last night. Of all the ways to rope around my heart, he’d exploited the one thing I’ve always wanted to feel enveloping me. More than once, he brought me to those heights.

I’ve fucked loads of mangy blokes, desperate to replace the boy I wanted and lost. But last night, I hadn’t cared about replacing anyone. I hadn’t needed to.

Tímien plunges. My stomach swoops. I flex my limbs astride his plumes, the fringes shuddering as we land. The impact jolts my eyes open to a panorama of summits and boundless sky slathered in pastel hues.

The Horizon That Never Lies.

I stumble off the owl and approach the center, unsure what to do next. Do I need to perform a ritual? Say the right words?

My shuffling feet dislodge pebbles. I glance at Tímien for guidance. The creature’s bejeweled eye darts toward the sun, indicating where I should look. Still, I fail to utter a syllable, my tongue flopping around in a feeble attempt to shape words.

Once I do this, I can’t undo it.

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