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Foxglove looks impressed. “Limber and looking good while doing it, and in a skirt no less. How is she accomplishing that?”

“Watch and learn,” Cerulean gloats.

His mate’s body shrinks the higher she gets. Periodically, she uses her whip to hook onto exposed joints. At last, the vegetation shivers and consumes her form, and her boots slip into the foliage.

We wait. And wait. And wait.

My ears pick up her footfalls and leaves that shake in the breeze but nothing else. The time lapse chews on Cerulean’s certainty, his smirk twisting into a grimace.

Inevitably, my brother starts pacing. His statuesque limbs threaten to dig trenches into the soil as he strides back and forth like a panther, all while scowling at the bluff. He’s so wound up, those wings are going to burst from his back at any minute.

Cypress ushers forward, his eyes trained on something falling. The whip plummets from above and smacks the grass, with a gilded petal secured to the end. The object shimmers like a kaleidoscope. It swirls from copper to bronze, then gold to silver, with the tip undulating as though it’s floating in water.

We gawk at it, then jump in place as Lark’s feet hit the ground. A smarmy look of glee stretches across her features as she wipes her palms together. “Ha!”

Cerulean expels a typhoon’s worth of air, takes Lark’s face in his hands, and husks, “You drove me mad.”

“Won’t be the last time,” she jokes softly.

“What did the flower look like?” Foxglove marvels.

Lark pulls away from Cerulean and thinks about it. “Like a miniature starburst layered over endless other starbursts. The petals are every metallic shade I’ve ever seen, and they’re in constant motion, like they’re swaying to music.” She smiles to herself. “Cove would love it.”

“Gutsy woman,” I say, by way of gratitude.

The whole petal is more than we need, but I like how this mortal thinks. Too much is favorable to too little.

I bend to pluck the petal off the ground, but it disappears before I touch it. A small figure snatches the petal in its mouth like a toy, then scrambles backward to regard us.

The moment my eyes land on the creature, the irony is comical. I recognize the snout, the coarse fuzz streaked in brown and black, and the beady, peridot eyes. The little boar blinks at us, its tail swatting about.

Juniper and I have crossed paths with this meddler before. Everyone tenses, then relaxes with easy chuckles when they register our visitor. Either history has a repetitive sense of humor, the boar passels are migrating south, or this wee thing has an adventurous streak. Either way, the shoat is further from its farrow than it should be.

I’m about to hunker down and ease the petal from the animal when it notices Sylvan. Enthusiasm brightens the shoat’s eyes. It’s the sort of gleam that promises mischief, and I’m not only one realizing this. We all sense it at the same time, each of us pausing to frown.

I go still. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble, then leap forward.

The boar squeals—everyone shouts, “No!”—and scurries into the forest. Our band charges after it, racing through the wild at a breakneck pace because the shoat is fast for its size. It slips in and out of crawlspaces, forcing us to veer and swerve and jump over obstructions.

It goes on, too far and too long. I lose track of the terrain, sweat beading down my spine as the environment changes. It grows broader, smeared in the undercooked colors of an early sunset.

Something about this area jogs my consciousness like an alarm. Cerulean hollers, shouts at me to stop, to turn back.

Sure. That’s what a smart person would do, except I’m running on instinct and can’t stop.

Lark can get us another petal. But it’s more than that, because the second I vault through a line of trunks, something’s not right about this landscape.

The grass is thinner and grows taller. A charred scent scorches the air.

The boar stops, grasping the same thing. It trots this way and that, gauging its new surroundings. That’s when it strikes me dumb. I skitter in place, my eyes wide on the snare inches from the boar’s hooves.

The creature moves to flee, its weight triggering the click of hinges. I lunge, shoving the animal out of the way and rolling across the ground. A set of fangs bites into my shoulder, pinning me to the stalks. My flesh sizzles, the pain searing into me, the pungency of burned skin inflaming my nostrils.

I land on my back, unable to rise, as if the trap’s teeth are leaching the energy from me. Only one substance has this effect. I remember the feeling like it was yesterday, like it hasn’t been nine years

Iron.

Which means this isn’t the snare of a Fae hunter. And I’m not in Faerie.