Page 11

Ruler of the sky. Ruler of the woodland. Ruler of the river.

I still haven’t figured out how to translate the second letter and its instructions. Based on my present circumstances, Puck isn’t in a hurry to elaborate.

What about Lark and Cove? What has become of them? What are the rulers of the mountain and river doing to my sisters?

The scents of my family ripen. I tuck myself into them while the manacles stretch me to capacity.

Outside the glade, hedges rustle. I tense at the unmistakable signs of approach—a towering frame, a proud stance, and graceful limbs. My chest flutters, but I can’t tell if it’s from foreboding or anticipation, because I recognize the sound of this particular gait.

I wait on tenterhooks. Then I give up waiting and purse my lips, releasing a tentative whistle into the air. This doesn’t work on all of them, but it does work on one special creature back home, one living in my family’s animal rescue sanctuary.

This being the land of mystical fauna, I could be very wrong. I could be encouraging a predator. But I refuse to be wrong.

I whistle once more, then gasp. “Oh.”

The deer strides up to the trunk in a sprawl of rich, russet fur that defies the darkness. It’s taller than usual, twice as statuesque as its mortal counterpart.

And its antlers! The crown splays wider than any set I’ve ever seen, two panels of solid bone that could scoop up a troll. Shamrocks bloom from the spokes, a garden of sprigs growing naturally.

My lungs empty, releasing a puff of awed breath. Stunning does not do this creature justice.

Realization crops into my head. This is the same messenger who’d delivered the summons into Faerie hours ago, only its antlers hadn’t been adorned back then, and its frame hadn’t been this large.

The deer must have been glamoured, enchanted to resemble a normal one. As it regards me through cautious onyx pupils, I discern the evidence that she’s a female.

In my world, a doe doesn’t grow antlers. As recounted in the Fables, they do here.

Not only that, but this great specimen has the bulk of a stag. She stands, a soldier of her world.

I meet her gaze, unable to move lest she disappear. Whatever she sees, it prompts her to enter the cage, ducking as she crosses the threshold, her antler shamrocks trembling. My shackled hands itch to reach out and touch her.

I whistle again. The doe inches nearer and nudges the bark cords with her nose, surveying them. Tentatively, I bow my head in a gesture of submission, and she bumps her cheek against mine.

I lift my gaze to hers, a smile unfurling across my face.

“My, my, my,” a smarmy voice says from the entrance. “Your face wasn’t stuck that way, after all.”

4

My smile drops. A new set of antlers crowd the threshold, oil black among the exterior candlelight. He slouches into the trunk’s frame, the picture of nonchalance with his shoulder propped against the bark. I don’t require additional light to detect the suave indentations of his lips. I feel it as I do the manacles—sinister, unyielding, and on the brink of cutting off my circulation.

For someone who’d ordered me out of his sight, Puck’s presence is quite expedited. Thus, I add impulsiveness to his list of unpardonable qualities.

The doe twists toward the satyr. She welcomes the affectionate hand that pets her coat, his palm gliding over her back. All the while, his head tilts in my direction, his expression shadowed. It doesn’t matter what I can or can’t see from this vantage point, because the weight of his gaze travels, thickening the air. Like his grin, the satyr’s attention is a tangible thing, a root burrowing deeply.

Puck murmurs something to the deer, and the creature vacates the trunk. My heart sinks as I watch her go, the disappointment so acute that I fail to conceal it from present company.

Once the animal’s gone, I squeeze my fingers around the shackles. I’m trussed up like a hunk of meat. The bonds lengthen my body, and my blouse pulls taut over my bust, enhancing every lurch of breath, every heave of my breasts. The cubicle’s chill brings another fact to my attention—my nipples pebble through the blouse, likely visible to his Fae gaze.

My cheeks bake. Never in my life has my person suffered this kind of exhibition. Certainly not in front of a male. If this knave desires, he can strip me bare, and I’d have no means to stop him.

Would he, though? Satyrs may have a reputation for debauchery, but forcing themselves on others? I haven’t heard or read the likes of it. As masters of seduction, they lack the need, much less the inclination to violate their partners. From what I know, his ilk prefers their appetites be reciprocated.

Puck shifts, lambent strands of red blazing in his hair. I keep my snarl in check and focus on the glade beyond the trunk, refusing to entertain his whims.

I will not speak. I will not let him goad me. I will not set that precedent.

“Comfy, luv?” he drawls. “My apologies for depriving you of horizontal accommodations. We ran out of beds.”