Page 26

The nymph parade. The bath and this cursed dress. The corrupt scenes I’d witnessed in each hollow. Puck cornering me, whispering unfathomable things in my ear, daring me to listen.

A pine trunk appears. I slam to a halt, tottering in place before smashing into it. How many times have I lectured myself, and my family, that it’s dangerous to let one’s thoughts wander?

I peer beyond the tree into a grove. I’m back where I had started, where I’d eavesdropped on Puck’s party and where this hunt began. The table and chair are gone, the area vacant, no supply pack in sight.

Certainly not. That would be obvious.

I whip around, return to the lane, and embark on a search. From one segment to the next, I rush through the entrances, combing the areas in the half-light. The hollow where the leprechauns had played a game, the acorn pieces now neglected. The space where a faun had swayed his hips while a dryad strummed her lyre, the stringed instrument presently abandoned on the ground. In each condensed arena, I find the detritus from the Folk’s revelry.

Discarded gowns. Slumped pillows. Empty bottles.

What a mess. Sloppy Faeries.

At one entrance, I hesitate. Then I surrender and glance inside, somehow knowing…knowing…and finding. The tent where that trio had been carrying on with each other stands unoccupied. Amidst the debris of blankets, my pack rests on the outskirts. The handle dangles from a low branch shaped like a bench.

Technically, the sight ought to relieve me. I narrow my eyes, reviewing the bag and its location. The perimeter and its crevices. The pack’s unnatural angle, as if arranged just so, in just the right way.

Do I look gullible to them? I dive behind a bush and sink into a crouch. Several heartbeats later, I part the needles and resume inspecting the booty twenty paces away.

A quick glance around yields a stone. I swipe it off the ground. Squinting through the bush, I raise my arm, take aim, and hurl the rock.

It shoots across the clearing and smacks the pack’s belly. The bag slumps, the faint shift causing a domino effect. A nest of roots vaults from under the soil, overturning clumps of underbrush. The ligaments splay as wide as a dragon’s jowls and then snap shut, forming an onion-shaped cubicle around the pack.

Another trap. Another cage.

A snarl builds in my throat. I leap from my hiding spot and hustle toward the pack while whisking out the dagger. Sliding onto my knees, I drive the weapon back and forth across the grille of roots until my arm fits through. My fingers grasp the bag’s handle and tug it out.

It’s not as heavy as it should be. I jerk open the pack and gawk inside. All seems accounted for, including my confiscated clothes, which the nymphs must have returned.

Actually everything’s here save for my notebook. Anger sizzles from my fingers to my knuckles. He’d returned my pencil but not the tome? Damn him!

Salacious croons reverberate from the outskirts. I sheathe the dagger, heft the pack, and sprint out of the hollow.

My ears chart the wild Fae calls, listening for their direction. As my eyes jump across the paths, I notice the arrangement of this place. The Fables teach us that nothing is as it seems in the world of magic beings. Faeries, elves, and dragons. Their domains can’t be taken at face value.

In my haste, I’d forgotten one of the bedrock rules: Look closer.

I gauge the area in conjunction with The Faerie Triad, from where I’d initially traveled. When I’d first stepped into this weald, the routes to the mountain and river had vanished, giving way to the rest of the woodland. Consequently, I take another gander at the hollows and their ringed layout.

Fables. There’s a reason they’d greeted me here. This isn’t merely where they “welcome” mortals or have their fun.

This is the hub of the woodland. It’s the center.

All right. Based on the sun’s position at The Triad, the barrier between my world and this realm is south. And if The Wicked Pines is the center, that means traveling east had taken me and Cypress to The Redwoods of Exile.

When the hunt began, I had sprinted west. Best not to repeat that trajectory. I swerve northward, the one destination I haven’t yet ventured.

Shouts flood The Wicked Pines, and somebody blows on a strange horn, its brass racket pealing into the night. Sweat coats my palms. I make out the cadence of Cypress’s gallop, along with a multitude of footfalls.

My crossbow. I still haven’t found my crossbow.

By now, Puck must have liberated himself from my snare. Yet I can’t identify which gait belongs to him…because he’s probably not with the mob. Perhaps he knows not to advertise his presence, lest I acclimate myself to the sound of his approach. But soon, I will learn how.

I whirl and dash across the lane, abandoning this landscape and heading for another. The route converges with a new sector of trees. I careen in that direction, warning myself not to look back, never to look back.

A thunder of hoofbeats ruptures the earth. It reminds me of the wondrous herd of deer that had surrounded Puck, the thought sending a pang through my chest.

Unable to help it, I glance back. Shadows pound ahead, some on foot—or hooves—some hopping across the candle branches, and some mounted atop the herd. I recall Puck’s kinship with that doe, Sylvan. Perhaps he has opted to beg a ride from her instead of using his limbs. I imagine him astride the doe, shamrocks growing from her antlers, the pair of them barreling this way.