Page 5

“Yet Moth is neither.”

“Whatever.” Puck shrugs. “I have a fetish for nicknames, I’m a pathological agitator, and I don’t do things half-assed. Besides, why should your buxom mate get to have all the fun?”

My tone comes out part-droll, part-menacing. “Pay tribute to Lark’s curves again, question what she does or doesn’t do, and I’ll rip out your silver tongue.” Then I alter my voice to a nymphlike simper. “Dearest brother.”

“My, my, my,” Puck responds. “And here I was worried you’d go after my dick.”

His impishness never ceases. He’s been like this since we were striplings. “The Fauna Tower’s animals already keep Moth busy, and she can only venture so far,” I say. “Her compact wingspan lacks the stamina.”

“Excuses, excuses. You’re just a protective bastard.”

Oh, fuck him. And so what if I am? This woodland satyr is no different, especially these days. Seducer he may be, but my brother would tear out his heart if it meant protecting the ones who matter.

My smirk wanes. “Either way, I haven’t covered enough ground.”

“Not sure if this helps, but it’s a big fucking mountain,” Puck drawls.

“And I have big fucking wings.”

“Bragger.”

“But even here, I can’t help feeling an ominous presence.”

Puck sweeps his hunter’s gaze along the ground, his eyes shearing through the foundation, then he shakes his head. “No prints or breakage. Any chance you’re overreacting?”

He’s not serious, so I dismiss that with a flick of my fingers and return to assessing the wild. “Something’s off.”

“It’s been off for a while,” Puck answers with grim humor.

True. Our people are divided, which puts us on the minority side of this forsaken conflict. Watchful, vengeful, heedful eyes abound. Oh, that they do.

But this is something else, something more than spies or armed Faeries out for our blood, something that’s only marginally traceable in the wind—a premonition that isn’t what it seems.

How appropriate in Faerie.

A flurry disturbs the rowan branches. The leaves shake, the sound like a serpent’s hiss.

My ears pick up on the noise, as do Puck’s. In my periphery, his mouth twists.

“Oh, joy.” Puck pitches his arrow into the grass, its tip puncturing the soil as he rotates toward the source and folds his arms. “Kept us waiting on tenterhooks, did you, luv?”

Elixir eats up the distance in a handful of steps. Long panels of black hair whisk around the harsh grooves of his face, and his open robe buffets his legging-clad limbs, all evidence that he’d manifested here in a rush.

Because he’s not in his domain, located in the subterranean depths of this wild, Elixir has no familiar tunnel walls, babbling watercourses, or humid airways to guide him. I send out a thread of wind for his fingers to trace and follow. When he reaches us, Elixir’s irises blaze gold, the rings skewering Puck. Amused, I watch the scene unravel.

“I keep no one waiting,” is the extent of Elixir’s reply.

Which isn’t enough for Puck. “So you’re not going to admit you were late for the same priceless reason?”

“No.”

“No, you weren’t late for the same reason? Or no, you won’t answer?”

Elixir just stares at him through eyes that have incinerated far less antagonistic Faeries, and for fewer offenses. They wait to see who’ll cave first. This should be easy for Elixir and impossible for Puck, who never shuts the fuck up.

The outcome would be predictable were it not for the subject matter and Elixir’s newfound devotion.

He grumbles, “Unlike the pair of you, I can fuck my lady—”