Page 29 of Defy the Fae

“Aww, is that all?” Lark endeavors to tease. “You’d better work on your quota. Need some help? I’ll be really quiet in that fancy library of yours. I promise.” Then she turns to Puck. “You’re spoiling her good, by the way.”

“Is there any other way?” he asks with a roguish grin.

My brother had added a new level to his cabin and built a library for Juniper, which contains mortal and Fae books, illuminated manuscripts, scrolls, and lexicons. It’s another reason he doesn’t want to pry her from their home, even though he will.

Juniper harrumphs and shoves the Book of Fables into her pack, along with her spectacles. “Leave it to me to read the correct texts. Unlike you, I’ve studied all of them.”

“Gee, I’d forgotten that fact,” Lark singsongs. “Thanks for the thousandth reminder.”

That bumps a smile out of Juniper, and we all chuckle. Though, I stop when the air shifts. I spin as the draft rushes against my coat, drapes itself across my shoulders, and funnels a message to me. I heed its contents and flick my fingers, done with listening.

My gaze sweeps over Lark’s face, then every member of our band. “We’ve received our answer.” And my lips curl. “He’s coming.”

He’d left his signature on the wind—an echo of his voice, a thrash of sound reminiscent of simmering liquid about to reach its boiling point. The noise is less akin to the brush of wind and more like a surge of water.

Subtle hints exist within a Fae’s inflection—rhythms, patterns, depth—which indicate their origins. Now I have an inkling of which sort of Fae we’re dealing with. But for confirmation, I glance toward my brothers and describe the voice.

“He isn’t of the mountain,” I say.

As I’d suspected, Puck shows no sign of recognition. “Don’t look at me. From what you describe, it’s not the burr of a leprechaun or the tenor of a faun, to say nothing of a forest nymph’s lilt or a brownie’s incessant squeaking. I don’t know that voice.”

But Elixir’s pupils ferment with hatred. A lashing growl rips from his mouth. “I do.”

8

The following eventide, we’re ready for him. Across the range, I fly beside my father, and Lark sits astride the nightingale with whom she’s developed an affinity. The bird has shifted its size to accommodate her, and the air lifts Lark’s hair, tossing it around like a white sail.

She’s wearing a silver dress. The succulent design was fabricated by Moth, with delicate chain links for straps and a skirt that flashes like lightning when Lark moves. Additional intricate chains thread through her hair, gathering it into various layers while letting the ends tumble down her back.

She’s breathtaking. She’s dazzling. She’s enticing and—

I slam into an air pocket. The downdraft yanks me under so fast my wings invert.

“Shit,” I grunt, beating my plumes until I’m level again.

Lark’s knowing chuckle skips across the sky. It’s my fault I can’t stop staring at her long enough to concentrate. Regardless, I toss her a fiendish look. The more she laughs, the longer I’ll fuck her tonight.

When we land at The Night Aviary, Tímien and the nightingale shrink and dart inside. Torches light the gravel walkway, molten orange shadows licking the curves of my mate, and her dress remains an obstacle I’d very much like to tear from her body.

It’s the neckline. I blame the forsaken neckline. The infernal thing plunges between her breasts, revealing crescents and an intolerable strip of skin.

Actually, no. I blame every stitch of the garment, every place it touches her, every thread that’s driving my cock up against my pants.

“You’re a cruel being,” I warn her. “I see you mean to torture me for eternity.”

“Payback.” Lark drapes her arm through mine and drizzles her gaze down my gem encrusted black coat, which falls open to reveal my torso. “Hot damn. Guess I could accuse you of the same thing. I miss the sexy wings, though.”

“Consider it a tease for a tease.”

“Impeccably disheveled prick.” She sidles closer and flirts, “Remember the last time we were here?”

I lean into Lark’s precious ear and let my whisper glide over her like silk, “I remember every taste, pet.”

I recall the vision of Lark sneaking into the masquerade, pretending like she owned the place, ours faces covered in masks, the sly game of hide-and-seek as she tried to find me, and the frequent glimpses I stole through the crush of rutting figures, the dance in which her body grated against mine, and the retreat into a dark room, where my mouth feasted on hers. I remember the savory taste of Lark’s moan on my tongue and the realization that she was the mortal who had stolen my heart nine years ago.

The mammoth vultures guarding the entrance from an overhead mantel regard us placidly as we pass through. Inside, the corridor broadens into a domed structure capped in thousands of panes of glass. Foliage crochets through multiple levels where broad hammocks hang. Raptors either walk on gangly limbs across the walkways or flit through the vegetation, the avians’ flights rustling the greenery.

At the nexus, a towering hawthorn tree rises into the heights, its branches canopying the rafters. Starlight dapples the levels, and flocks of cyan and copper wings flutter in and out of view, the whooshing flap of their plumage audible.

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