Page 85 of Defy the Fae

This litter of shitheads are the ones who chased Lark into Faerie, dead set on raping and slicing her to pieces. They’re the ones my brothers and I had fun with right after that episode. They’re also the same breed of fuckers who kidnapped and forced my woman to do their dirty work when she was a foundling. They might not be the very ones, but close enough for me.

All hell breaks loose in my soul. I’m seething and launching off the ground before reality catches up with me.

The trap still has its jowls sabered into my flesh. Heat leaks down my arm, which burns like a pyre. Spots burst, making me dizzy. A guttural bellow launches up my throat, though I fight to keep it in as I sink back down, my knees cracking into the grass.

The chaos intensifies, with my kin and the mortals wielding their weapons. Red sprays the earth. Howls fill the air. One of the mortals shoots a flaming bolt heavenward. Several minutes later, a bell tolls from the village like a bad omen, and voices multiply, accompanied by a stampede of hooves.

The bolt was a signal. The town knows we’re here.

The land of Faerie and the mortal realm seem to close in like walls. Enemies exist on both sides, fencing in on our small band, which teeters in the middle.

On the fringes, Sylvan rears in hysteria, her pupils trained on me.

The dark-haired human notices her and yells, “Get the deer!”

No!

My fingers reach for a yew-wood longbow that isn’t there because it had tumbled when I’d fallen into the trap. Not that I can wield it with one arm. Tendrils of smoke curl from my shoulder. I grip the trap, keyed up to tear the fucking thing from my body, but the contact scorches my palm.

Cypress hits his mark at least, skewering one of the injured poachers through his chest before the man can target Sylvan. But if there’s one thing the mortals know about Faeries, it’s that the fauna are sacred to us. They know she’s precious to my race.

She’s precious to me. And more humans are coming, about to outnumber us.

The caustic stink of iron roils my senses. I growl as the dark-haired poacher snatches the back of my leather vest and hoists me upright. He grunts in shock and stumbles forward while struggling to maintain a hold.

“Heavy fucker,” he mutters while dragging me off the ground.

As he does, something nips at my temple—something that feels like the tip of a crossbow bolt.

Lark stalls, her whip slumping as her eyes hook onto the sight. The poacher has a bolt aimed at my head. The rest are brawling, so it takes them a moment to register this, in addition to the scent of iron, the pounding of horse hooves, and dozens of shouts. A mob of humans gallop our way, armed with iron daggers, maces, swords, arrows, and—for shit’s sake—pitchforks.

A single object is potent, but countless ones? My head swims from the noxious stink saturating the air. I wrestle against the mortal, who would normally be ripped in half by now, but my joints are too leaden.

My gaze strays to Sylvan. There, hiding behind the deer is the boar with the Evermore Blossom petal tucked in its teeth.

Once in the mortal realm, a Stag protected a Boar…

It’s not an existing Fable, but Juniper would appreciate that line. She could write something about it in her journal.

A bolt spears into the air and hacks through Cerulean’s left wing. He hisses, buckles from the sky, and crashes to the ground, some of the quills charred as he rolls. In seconds, the other surviving poacher lodges another bolt in my brother’s right wing, pinning him to the grass like a butterfly.

A howl breaks from my brother’s lips, while another one tears from Lark’s mouth. “Cerulean!” she screams, vaulting toward him, only to be yanked backward by Foxglove, who slings an arm around Lark’s middle.

My brother’s mate screeches and kicks the air. “Get the fuck off me, you bitch! Cerulean!”

But my brother just puffs through the pain and gives them both a vehement look, one the nymph had seen but his mate hadn’t. It’s a silent demand to stay back. And it’s the same warning I’m already giving Cypress, my head whipping from side to side, because if he tries to save me, I’ll murder his equine ass.

Terror seizes Cypress’s face as his head clicks between the incoming throng and the mortal trapping me. But I nudge my head, indicating the shoat, and my mouth forms one word.

Juniper.

My woman and our kid need that flower to survive. But if the rest of our band get caught, that won’t happen.

At least two of them have to retreat, to provide backup along the way. But neither does it make sense for one figure to stay behind, to try rescuing me and Cerulean on their own. None of them can handle these many humans at once, and this amount of iron will suck Foxglove and Cypress dry before either Fae lifts their weapons for another round.

Cypress’s features tighten with barely contained restraint. Time lags, and I see them in slow motion, moving as if through sludge. The centaur whirls and speeds toward the boar, whom he scoops off the ground.

Lark is next. Foxglove shoves her toward Cypress, who plucks the thrashing human and dumps her onto his back while she wails my brother’s name.

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