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Her head swats in the satyr’s direction. “If it isn’t Puck of the Prick Brigade. I thought I smelled something toxic.”

“Actually, that would be my charisma. It emits a sexy but dangerous incense. Didn’t anyone-who’s-anyone warn you of its addictive properties?”

The Fae named Moth holds up a snooty palm, blocking out Puck while she addresses Cerulean. “If I have to join forces with a satyr, I’ll want my dignity back when this is over.”

“Mountain Faeries,” Puck sniggers. “Those soaring elevations really do inflate your heads.”

Moth gives him a phony smile. “Forest Faeries. Playing in the dirt really does turn you into heathens.”

Cerulean rolls his eyes. “Moth, my childhood friend and sibling-at-heart.” He loops his arm between the sprite and me. “Juniper, Lark’s huntress sister.”

The wee one bounces her head toward me. “Oh, yay. Now there’s two of you.”

I match her dour expression with an upright one of my own. “Soon to be three.”

To which the female lifts an impressed eyebrow. “So you’re not as obnoxious, crass, or snarky as your sibling? I just might like you.”

“I just might approve of you,” I reply, somewhat congenially. “Once you acknowledge my sister’s finer points.”

Nevertheless, Lark snorts. “Ignore the whippersnapper. It works for me.”

“Humph. You’re just jealous that I have wings,” Moth answers. “I knew it from the moment your ugly face darkened the doorstep of our world—ouch!” she carps when Lark approaches and playfully snaps the Fae’s ankle, as if she’s a precious pest.

Their bickering camaraderie reminds me of, well, my family. Me, Lark, and Cove. The scene is so familiar that it stings until Lark winks at me with nine years’ worth of love, washing away my envy.

Cerulean watches them with fondness, his blue eyes smoldering when they land on my sister. It’s an unconditional look, armored and indestructible around the edges.

He loves her. The ruler of the sky loves my gutsy human sister—brashness, audaciousness, and all. That wins him a point with me.

Yet I still don’t understand how they ended up here. “But how did you know what was happening?” I ask Moth. “If you called out to Lark and Cerulean, who called out to you?”

“That was me,” a baritone voice announces.

Our band wheels toward Cypress. The moment we do, his olive eyes jolt away from Puck, whom he’d been observing.

At last, I break from the huddle and rush toward the centaur, ignoring his grunt when I throw my arms around his bulk. With our height difference, I barely reach his pectorals, but I don’t care.

Awkwardly, he pats my shoulder. “Cease, moppet. All is well.”

I step back, note the bandage at his waist, and feel that lump grow bigger in my throat. “Damnation. They dragged you away.”

“As I said, I am fine now.”

“You’d better be,” Puck murmurs. He reaches us, his eyes saturated in an affectionate shade of brown. “You scared the shit out of us, luv.”

Cypress’s eyes slide toward Puck. “The feeling was mutual.”

Lark shuffles over to me, and we strap our arms around one another’s waists. According to Cypress, he’d been unconscious for the entire trip as the Faeries dragged him away. After they’d deposited him in an herb patch, the centaur had resurfaced from the haze long enough to clasp a root and contact The Solitary Mountain. Since he hadn’t been able to reach Cerulean, he’d called out to Moth.

Then Cypress had blacked out once more, only to awaken with Moth’s face hovering inches from his. The sprite and centaur exchange respectful nods, indicating they’ve built a long-established fellowship with one another, despite their conflicting personalities.

“Communication takes a while from the roots to the wind,” Moth supplies from her perch. “Otherwise, we would have gotten here sooner.”

“Wait.” Lark takes in my appearance, noticing something for the first time. “Where’s your crossbow?”

Cerulean asks the same of Puck. “And your longbow?”

Puck and I speak in unison. “We were trapped—”