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Prologue

No matter how true your aim, he won’t go down easily.

I should know, because I’ve tried thirteen times to hit the mark, dead center in his chest. Books have instructed me how, Fables have taught me how, and practice has shown me how. I’ve made a study of it.

One, how to hold my weapon.

Two, when to catch him alone.

Three, which body part to target.

But it takes more than tutelage and training to best this Fae. He knows when to expect an ambush, because he’s fluent in my methods. He knows how I operate, from the way my fingers curl around the crossbow, to how my spine flexes, to the split of my legs as I hide behind a tree.

He sniffs me out, the same way he inhales damp soil. He detects my movements, the same way he hears roots unfurling in the earth. He senses me like he senses the woodland, like he senses temptation—deep and carnal.

No matter how sharp your weapon, his words will be sharper.

I should know, because I have the scars to prove it. So if his voice cuts to the quick, it’s my fault for letting my guard down. It’s best to remember such lessons for the next time.

One, he’ll deal a verbal blow.

Two, he’ll watch you bleed.

Three, he’ll smile while it happens.

They call him the ruler of the woodland. He’s a satyr of the dark forest, a vicious creature bred amongst thickets of moss and rings of mushrooms. He dwells amidst the pine needles and the broad, moaning trunks of oak trees.

Tales speak of his sensuous grin and mischievous antics. They claim he feasts on blushes and laps at a lover’s sigh like nectar. And such companions talk of his seductions, every conquest left in disarray, the debris of their hearts splintering along the woodland paths. Those tales are even more wicked if his catch is a mortal—and a virgin.

No matter how quick you move, he’ll catch you first.

I should know, because every time I’ve backed my enemy into a corner, he has trapped me in kind. But of all the creatures in this wilderness, and for all his cleverness, this arrogant Fae should know better. He should know I’m a fast learner. I don’t make the same mistakes twice. I might be a human captive in Faerie, and I might be trapped in his land, but I’m not his toy.

One, stalk him.

Two, do it quietly.

Three, expect a trick.

These are my newest rules. They’re keener, shrewder, and wiser than what they used to be, because I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve learned what I’m up against, because before I started hunting him, he was already hunting me.

As to how it all began—well, that’s a long story.

1

I aim for the heart. From behind the shrub, I nudge my crossbow bolt through the crochet of leaves, the weapon’s iron tip ready to fly. A remote figure is approaching, its weight shuddering the damp earth under my feet. Whatever creature this is, it’s big.

And it knows I’m here. I can tell from its pace. There’s a sensibility to its gait—thoughtful, considerate. My nostrils flare, drawing in the pungency of bark and fungi offset by a candied aroma, the sort that will rot one’s teeth.

Well. I’ve never liked candy. It’s a frivolous delicacy that makes me gag.

But there’s one type of being in this world who dotes on all manner of treats. That fact reminds me this isn’t a normal woodland. There’s nothing human about this forest, except for me.

So much for entering the land of Faeries without incident.

Daggers of grass splay from the soil while exposed roots thread in and out of the surface. Ribbons of blazing white clouds peek through the eventide canopy, bringing to mind pale tresses that flap in the wind.

Lark.