Page 155 of Defy the Fae

The little girl waddles on shaky legs through the forest, determined to stay upright although she has just begun learning to walk. She gets that from her overachieving mama.

As for the reckless thrill she takes in risking a fall, all in the pursuit of mischief, that’s from her papa.

She squeals and reaches up to catch the flecks of light dripping from the constellations, teal, gold, and white spangling the oaks. Her bare feet crunch acorns into the earth, and her leather dress flaps as she moves.

When a low-hanging branch snags on her wee antlers, she halts and purses her lips to contemplate this dilemma. However, she doesn’t need long to free herself from this trap. The girl twists her fingers around the bough and loosens the knot, which springs free and releases her.

Then she’s off again, unruffled by the episode. Layers of green hair flap behind her as she runs on unsteady feet. She’s a confident little thing, with a boastful gleam in her brown eyes, the irises as rich as the soil. And because she’s half-human, half-Fae, her acute senses perceive this world to a degree beyond her age, but they’re not so exceptional that she dwells on it for long.

No, she’s more interested in figuring out how her limbs work, what they can do for her.

Indeed, she’s smart enough to realize the stars can’t be caught, but other things in the wild can. A rustle in the bushes alerts her to a prowler. With brazen glee and steadfast determination, she staggers toward the sound and tracks the rhythm of cloven hooves.

It could be the deer she loves to play with, the one with shamrocks growing from its antlers.

Or it could be the snake her aunt and uncle always bring when they’re here from the river. The serpent often tickles her whenever it twines around her leg.

Or it could be the owl she has flown on before, while tucked in between her second aunt and uncle, much to the dismay of her mama and the amusement of her papa.

Maybe it’s the centaur who has engaged in this game with her before, or the filly and village boy who sometimes join in.

Maybe it’s the moth, marten, nymph, or water Fae who let her play tricks on them.

Maybe it’s her grandpapa coming for another visit.

But of course, the child knows better. Brows furrowing, she creeps toward the shrubs, stalks her prey—and shouts with laughter as she tackles the giant stag who leaps from the thicket.

“Ah, shit,” her target snarls mirthfully. “Fables help me!”

He flops into the grass as she scrambles on top of his broad chest. She cannot speak yet, cannot say the wordshit, but she shouts in triumph and milks this moment for all its worth. The little girl has inherited this habit from both parents.

She pins him down with her small palms and presses her head to his. Captured like this, their antlers hook together.

Her papa smirks. “You’ve trapped me, luv.”

“She always does,” a smoky voice declares from the sideline.

The girl and her father swing their gazes toward the woman leaning against an oak trunk. Her arms are crossed, with a bracelet of leaves vining around one arm. A green ponytail rests over her shoulder, and her perceptive expression is soft at the edges.

Only at the edges. Only for them.

Her mother has been watching the whole time, as she usually does. The little girl has never been allowed out of her parents’ sights.

But someday, she will be allowed. Someday, she will become a sapling. After that, she will rise like a great oak and write her own story.

She might wield a bow of her own or some other powerful tool. Perhaps she’ll hold a quill more than a weapon.

It will be her fate, as her winged uncle likes to say.

It will be her choice, as her serpentine uncle likes to add.

Until then, she’s delighted to be here, between the mountain and the river, in the heart of the wild.

Her papa hefts himself off the grass, snatches the girl’s waist, and launches her into the sky. She cheers as he spins her around, then scowls when he stops. For some reason, this prizes a chuckle from her parents.

Her father slings one arm around the child, able to bear her weight this way. He catches her mother staring at the pair of them, the woman’s eyes glinting like a misted spruce tree.

But then her mama’s attention travels down her papa’s bare chest. Aside from a set of dangly earrings, he’s wearing only leather breeches, which makes her mama’s pulse race. The little girl hears it, though she doesn’t know why this happens, why her mama’s pupils swell or why the girl can detect the rapid beating of her mother’s heart.

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