Page 38 of Defy the Fae

While my brothers and I excel at riddles, mischief, and mind games, we hadn’t needed to flaunt those skills tonight. To be certain, Scorpio’s fuse had been as short as his cock and required little effort to penetrate. But when it came to uprooting his secret weapon, not to mention his vulnerability, my brothers and I can’t be credited.

Fae trickery hadn’t made the enemy’s tongue rattle. Human empathy had.

9

My javelin arches and collides with Moth’s forearm, which surges upward to thwart the blow. The impact would have splintered a human’s bones, but with her, it’s a mere snippet of sound. Standing in the wildlife park lawn, we face each other over the rim of my weapon.

Vines swing in the breeze, conical trees surround us, and a hawk loops by. This upper level offers a vast prospect of the labyrinth’s southeastern range, which leads to The Night Aviary.

I push back to threaten one of Moth’s greatest assets—balance—then quirk an eyebrow. “Your concentration is wavering.”

“Rubbish,” she argues, pressing her twig-sized arm into the javelin’s handle. And because the female can’t let a criticism go unpunished, she turns it around. “Your aim is shitty.”

My smile broadens. “Shall we see about that?”

Defiant glee brightens her topaz irises. “Try me.”

She shoves me backward, and we charge it into. I spiral my weapons and execute several rounds of strikes, which Moth counters with her fists and limbs. She pops into the air and zips around me, and I swerve to match her speed, though I keep my plumes retracted. Although we’re nearly the same age, our appearances hardly suggest as much. The span and force of my wings would blast her runty frame into the ether.

She compensates with agility, velocity, and pure grit. Her papery wings vibrate faster than a hummingbird’s, and her punches block my attacks. I spin my weapon overhead and windmill around her, and she vaults over the shaft as it sweeps beneath her bare toes. Mid-jump, I seize the advantage and thrust my palm toward her, tossing a pocket of wind her way.

The flurry knocks Moth toward the ground. Her growl shaves through the park, but she recovers and dodges the next squall, then elbows the javelin from my grasp.

The weapon pitches upward, then shoots downward like a beak. Smoothly, the helix blade lands, the tip puncturing the grass.

Heaving, Moth and I wheel toward one another. She pants but grins, her complexion flushed. “Ha!” she boasts, pride and nostalgia consuming her voice.

The sight digs a trench into my chest. It’s a rare thing to see her joyous, a departure from her surly glowers and disgruntled huffs. With members of our band swapping opponents during practice, she and I haven’t trained with one another often enough.

This feels like old times, back when we were younger, in our early hundreds, and hadn’t known the realities of war. During those fledgling years, I’d often held back, as had she. It had been innocent child’s play, of course, sometimes with my wild family joining in.

Tonight, neither of us had disrespected one another by restraining ourselves. It had been a fair fight.

We share a look of remembrance. Sadness and fondness flows through the silence.

“How are you?” I ask. “Truly?”

Inevitably, Moth’s wings bristle. She crosses her arms. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. I asked how you were.”

She shrugs and glances toward the feral roars scrolling in the distance. The bridge of her nose scrunches.

I know that look. After losing her parents in The Trapping, these animals became her kindred. She adores the park’s dwellers, despite how many times she pouts about mucking up cougar shit. In a heartbeat, Moth would take a knife to the stomach for any of these creatures.

“They’ll survive,” I vow, stepping closer. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Moth’s wings lower, the filmy panels curling inward. “What about you?”

That trench burrows deeper. I’ve never known either of us to be vulnerable with each other, the candidness of it foreign. Admiration and devotion aren’t unusual, but it’s not in a Fae’s nature to be sentimental.

She hedges before peeking at me with incandescent orbs. Those eyes have seen her parents die. Over the years, they have kept me aloft when I thought I might plummet, and they’ve clung to me for the same reasons.

“I’ve missed this,” she admits.

“Me, too,” I intone.

“I miss when it was just for fun, when it was safe.”

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