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At which point, peevishness hangs off his face like a curtain. He wants a stronger response from me. I suspect that’s what he’s used to.

Inevitably, the Fae’s countenance shifts, his features lifting at the prospect of a challenge. “My, my, my. Speechlessness doesn’t go with your mouth, luv.”

On the contrary, I’ll never let him render me speechless. “What are you hoping to accomplish by substituting my name with a false endearment?”

“I call everyoneluv, luv. It doesn’t mean you’re special. But if it makes you feel any better, call me whatever you’d like. My name rhymes with some rather colorful options.”

“No, thank you. I would rather be called Juniper.”

“Gimme a reason, and if I hate it, I’ll consider your request.”

I squint at his logic. But thus far, when have I said something that he hasn’t flipped inside out?

Yes, there are more practical concerns at this juncture. No, I’m not there yet. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with asking him to address me properly. It’s an important request. It’s my name, for Fable’s sake. I don’t like the sound of it whittled down, its syllables reduced to something less significant, less worthy of being taken seriously—all with a single, callous swat of his tongue.

But Puck shrugs. “Down to merry business, then. Only don’t interrupt. I get cranky when someone interrupts.”

It’s unfortunate that we have this, or anything, in common. “What do you want from me?”

“Three tasks.” Puck retrieves his chalice and swirls the contents. “Three to be completed before the Middle Moon Feast. What’s Middle Moon, you ask? You’ll find out later.” He slides his index finger across the vessel’s rim but doesn’t drink the contents. “The point is, we’ll be hosting that celebration with you as the centerpiece.”

“In other words, the toy.”

“Whatever. To win, you must attend the feast and show you’ve completed the tasks.” He continues rotating the liquid, teasing flavors to the surface. “Though fair warning: If you win, we won’t like you very much.”

I study his digits flexing around the goblet’s neck. “What tasks?”

“Number one: Hunt an animal that can’t be hunted. Number two: Tell a Fable about that animal—one we Faeries have never heard before. Number threeeee,” he enunciates when I try to speak, “prove the tale’s moral is true. Simple.”

Like hell does this sound simple. “I thought you said you’d be hunting me.”

“I did say that, didn’t I,” he muses. “We’ll be hunting you. In turn, you’ll be hunting the animal. The goal is to see who succeeds in catching their quarry first. As you can imagine, stopping you from succeeding will give us quite the motivation.”

Bile rushes up my throat. “I don’t hunt out of cruelty or sport.”

“Really? Then I must have you confused with another type of mortal.”

The dress’s clasps pinch into my flesh. “I wasn’t involved in The Trapping, nor am I a trade poacher.”

Not anymore. As such, the statement has a rancid aftertaste, like it’s been sitting on my tongue for too long.

Puck stares, dissecting my words. “Good answer,” he says. “By the way, Faeries hunt for food and furs, not sport or play. Since I’m in a merry mood, I won’t take offense to your assumption.”

“This makes no sense! You even call it a game. Hunting an animal this way sounds very much like sport to me.”

“That’s because you’re clueless.”

“I’mwhat?”

“You’re the game for us, not the animal,” he corrects. “We’re not about to let you catch it. Though if you do, we’ll feast on the creature and return the remainders to the earth, from whence it came. That’s respect for you; it honors the lifecycle and prevents the animal from dying in vain.

“And the game itself? What it is, how it’s played, and who decides varies from the mountain, to the forest, to the deep. All Faeries target humans for trespassing in our realm—among other historical grievances—but in The Solitary Forest? We don’t choose the punishment, nor the game. The woodland does.”

I scoff. “Regardless, why would the forest create this hunt to begin with?”

“I’m afraid that’s your fault. The games are unique for each person,” Puck says. “The forest knows your fears and customizes itself to that. That way, you’re less likely to defeat us. We did talk about fear, didn’t we, luv?”

“Stop calling me that.”