Page 50 of The Maleficent Faerie
I square my shoulders and arch my wings. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. What do you say, Princess? A midnight flight? I promise not to drop you.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What’s your game? Your goal? Why are you offering this?”
“Call it repentance.”
Aura shakes her head. “Repentance would be leaving me alone until my twenty-fifth birthday passes and your curse expires.”
“I can’t do that. So perhaps this isn’t repentance, but reparation in some form. If you’ll come fly with me, Aura, I will tell you why I can’t simply let you go. You only know the vague shape of my plan—I will explain precisely what I intend to do. I will answer every question you have.”
After a long, appraising look at me, she lays the pillow aside. “I need to use the washroom first.”
I nod. “I’ll find something warmer for both of us to wear.”
19
I stand on the steps of the Chapel, warmly clad in the leggings and tunic Malec found for me. It’s strange, not having clothes designed for my wings, not needing to work them through the slits in the back. My spine twinges occasionally, a phantom flexion of the nerves and muscles I once used to move the wings.
They were never mine. They were grafted onto me, fused and animated by magic.
The night wind rushes over my body, snatching at my hair, running invisible fingers through the blond strands. I relish the brisk cold, turning my face up to the sky.
The flow of the Void is thicker tonight, veiling the Triune suns until they resemble pale, distant moons. But with the concealment of the suns, other stars appear brighter, especially along the horizon, where the mounded forest meets the bluish-black of the sky.
Malec looms beside me, clad in black leather, with a high collar that flares up from his shoulders. The faint light of the night-veiled suns and the distant stars illuminates his elegant features. His is a crisp, pale beauty—cheekbones so sharp they could slice his skin, a jaw like a pane of cut glass.
In my nightmares of him, he was never this lovely. Sometimes he had veins of black cracking his skin, leaking shadows. He would drag Dawn into a cave or a tunnel while I screamed, or he would snatch me and fly away with me, into the dreadful Void. But in the worst nightmares he’d walk with me, a terrible, ominous presence. And I couldn’t run, and he never said a word.
Maybe I’m still dreaming. Even now, his presence thrums in the air, a vibration so strong it’s nearly tangible, a pulse synchronized to my pounding heart.
He turns to me in a rush of glossy feathers, catches me up in his arms, and leaps into the sky.
Wind whips the breath from my lungs as we streak up, up, into the dark, faster and higher than I’ve ever flown. The Chapel, its outbuildings, the courtyard—everything drops away, shrinking smaller and smaller. The forest of towering trees looks like tiny bushes.
We’re shooting straight out of the realm. Right into the Void itself. Not possible, but that’s what it feels like.
And then Malec drops me.
I scream—a keening panic ripped from my lungs—and then he dips under me and I drop into his arms, and we’re off again, wheeling through the sky. He plunges terrifyingly fast, arrow-straight toward the ground—then pulls up with a mighty wingbeat and a pulse of green magic. Another whirl and a drop, and I scream again, while my belly thrills—but this time there’s a laugh mixed into the scream, and when he twirls in midair and feigns dropping me, I shriek with terrified glee.
This is fun. It’s like the dancing, the drinking, and the sex—it pushes all my fear and anger into the back of my mind. When I’m up here, flying with him, I don’t have to think about anything serious—only about the shearing ecstasy of the wind and the thrilling anticipation of the next drop.
Malec is using magic as we fly, to enable faster speeds and smoother turns. He rolls onto his back in the air, with me lying on him, chest to chest, while his wings curve upward, feathers rippling on either side of me. We’re falling, but it’s a controlled flight, and it feels so wonderful I laugh again.
His eyes widen with pleasure at the sound, and a chuckle rumbles through his chest.
This time, I’m not walking with him in a nightmare. I’m flying with him in a dream, and there’s music in my head, and a new, pleasant emotion quivering in my wounded heart—a sweet softness, a tender urgency.
He’s still on his back, slowly falling with me draped on his chest. His lips are pale and full and smooth.
Don’t think about anything. Nothing at all... do what feels good... give in to what you want right now... after all, in a few days you’re going to sleep for a century... you deserve to have a little fun...
My hair tumbles against his cheek as I lean in and touch my mouth to those smooth lips.
A sound of impassioned relief rushes from him, and he pulls us both upright in the air, his wings beating heavily, keeping us aloft. His strong arms are banded around me, one warm hand cupping my rear, pinning my hips against his.
His mouth is heated breath, slick tongue, and a savory, addictive, midnight bitterness. My entire being soars at the contact, and I whimper with delighted surprise. I had no idea kissing him would be this good, or I would have done it sooner. He’s like wine and sex and music, threaded through the rush of the night wind, and I’m carried away with him. I never want to separate my lips from his.
This man could be a very delicious and dangerous habit.
