Page 24

The edge of an axe flashes. A staff hacks through vegetation.

Like a novice, I had forgotten to cover my tracks. Not that it would have made a difference against the Faes’ honed senses, their eyes cleaving through the darkness. A mortal would not last a day against that—not unless that mortal were a skilled huntress. One who’d grown up perfecting the art of soundless movement, detecting every shift in nature while keeping out of sight, unnoticed by roaming creatures.

A petite human who knows how to avoid a predator’s notice. A person who knows how to strike first.

I fill my lungs with oxygen and scuttle backward, folding myself into the evergreen’s skeleton. Of all the members of my family, I’m the only one with patience. And no, this isn’t me bragging. It’s a fact.

I scan the movements below, identifying two nymphs, one youth, and a leprechaun. The petal nymph is among them. Also, the youth with his marten tail. The clan mutters to one another in Faeish, then slinks away.

Five minutes later, they haven’t double-backed. I sag—and regret it.

A lone body struts into the area. It pauses, glances around, and draws the same conclusion as the others, comprehending that I’m not down there.

Yet the figment stays put, then tilts his head toward the pine. I duck further into the mesh while my visitor makes himself comfortable and leans against the trunk. From this vantage point, a rail of antlers loops from his head, catching in a shaft of muted light.

My heart thrashes about. Old and recent memories collide.

Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?

He’d known. From the moment he caught me spying on his orgy, he’d known who I was.

“Youuuu-whoooo,” that impish voice sings. “It’s no use, luv.”

I disagree.

Silence permeates the vicinity, the cacophony of other Faeries swallowed by the quiet, as though a wall has sealed us inside. Puck circles the tree, examining it. He doesn’t utter another word, and the longer this goes on, the shallower my exhalations get.

Why isn’t he saying anything? This satyr always says something, or too many things. I want him to bait, to cajole, to mock, to threaten. Anything but this precarious quiet, held together by a string that might snap, might unleash a flood of harsher sounds.

The stamp of his hooves syncs with my pulse. Puck retraces his steps and resumes slouching against the tree, a cascade of hot red waves burning across his shoulders.

In nine years, his hair hasn’t changed. Evidently, nothing about him has changed.

Resentment and hurt clash with an odd sensation behind my sternum. He never forgot me. Even though we’d been so young, I’d stayed in his mind enough for him to make the connection. I’m not the only one who hadn’t let go of that ephemeral moment in time.

To my right, the critter scurries off. While retreating, its pupils radiate, the sheen embossing a smaller branch stretching like an arm toward me. One might compare it to a handle, with gnarled prongs splaying from the end.

During a spring storm when I was eleven, I fell into a nest of errant branches that diced my shins and forearms. My complexion had drained to bone white, and my body had spasmed with pain. Cove had massaged a balm into the gashes while Papa Thorne recited a Fable to me, and Lark performed the tale. I’d bitten my lower lip so hard that blood had gushed from the incision, which had been more dignified than me wailing.

The point is, branches are functional. And if underestimated, they hurt badly.

This forked limb resembles a tool or a snare. Thereupon, I count two ways out of this. One, follow the maybe-raccoon across the boughs and hope to find an outlet, a place to descend without the animal feeling threatened—and thus, attacking—and without Puck noticing. That’s assuming his kin won’t cut me off at the pass, either up here or down there.

Still, it’s the lesser of the two evils. It’s the logical option, the sane choice.

Or two, take the stupid route. The hasty and reckless sort of action Lark would take.

The one that I, Juniper, would never take. The one Puck doesn’t expect.

I dip my fingers to my boot, thumbing the blade I’d taken from the nymph leader. The weapon sits wedged between the laces, toothy as a miniature saw.

I withdraw the dagger, its platinum fangs biting into the darkness, and grind its edge against the bark, the friction as silent as a knife sinking through butter. The bough gives, severed from the trunk in five clean thrusts.

I sheathe the weapon, grasp the branch, and clench my eyes shut. What am I thinking? This is folly. Puck’s a Fae with immeasurable strength and speed. I’m but a mortal and a fraction of his height. At best, I could break my leg. Worst-case scenario, I’ll split my cranium open like a husk.

I sense my enemy pausing to think, to plot his next tactic. Then a bullying grin worms into his voice.“Once in the dark forest, a Stag hunted a Doe…”

The narrative stirs up a distant, fragile memory. It tugs between us, resentful, taunting, as if it had never meant anything to begin with.