Page 88 of Kiss the Fae

I surge to my feet. “You want to talk about the truth? Here you are, acting like you’ve got all the answers for a price, like you have all the facts. Isn’t that the same thing? Yet you’ve got the nerve to judge? What gives you the right?”

“We’re spirits of the sky. Nature speaks through us and has done so for centuries. If that isn’t enough to convince you, then bear this in mind: There is a distinction between the truth we tell you and what you decide to do with it. Which matters more?”

“I was a fucking child. I didn’t think to question the story.”

“Not when you grew up?”

“Especially not then.”

Because as I got older, every truth got tougher. Because what if everything I believed about the night I lost him turned out to be false? What if the village had been plain wrong, gotten their facts mixed up? What if he survived and became a monster? What if instead of rescuing a friend, I’d set loose a demon?

The years gave me that perspective, but fear came with it. That’s why I’ve been hoping and dreading this discovery. Hoping that he’d lived and dreading it as well.

My voice comes out brittle, pulverized by another glaring possibility, one that aches so badly. Have I been duped? Have I been that much of an idiot?

Jumping to conclusions will validate what Horizon said about mortals’ regard for the truth. I get what they meant about deciding what to do with it. Deciding what to trust and where to place my faith—well, that’s in my power.

“Does he know?” I grit out. “Does he know who I am?”

The Pegasi fan their wings. “What do you suppose?”

I pause, because in hindsight, the assumption is folly. As a tyke, I helped Cerulean flee, and we were friends. If he’s known all along I’m the girl from his past, he wouldn’t have been eager to put me through this. In spite of his oath to restore the fauna, he’d wouldn’t be terrorizing me with a leer on his face.

Would he? What if he fooled me back then? What if he’d been a trickster from the get-go, cackling at me when I wasn’t with him in the forge? What if he’s been watching me longer than I thought? What if those sneaky jaunts from the wind into my bed hadn’t been random?

And what about this morning? What if I’m nothing but a trinket to him?

What if he never cared at all?

Images of childhood flip through my mind. The glassblower’s forge and that cage. The games we played. The things I shared with him. The way he cupped my cheek, tender and true.

There’s more. In this labyrinth, I witnessed in Cerulean the same loss and longing I’ve been dealing with.

A monster doesn’t bandage his adversary’s wounds.

A monster doesn’t save his victim from falling off a cliff.

A monster doesn’t speak fondly about a human girl from his past.

A monster doesn’t make a haven for animals and play the flute for them.

Tímien waits at the ledge. Behind him, The Fauna Tower’s spire lances through the clouds.

“That’s why I felt a connection from the start,” I say. “He’s the boy that I—”

“Your memory is strong. However, that is not why you felt a bond.”

I squint at the translucent wings fluctuating against the setting sun. “I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“You needn’t bother. There’s a multitude of layers to a single truth.”

“How many you got left?”

“As many as you’ll listen to.”

“That’s real cute, but I’m being serious.”

“You felt a bond because you’re inextricably linked.”

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