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Fables curse them. I glower at the ambiguous, riddling missive that had greeted me just inside this realm. What does it mean to miss my target yet hit my mark? Frustrated, I return the sheet to its envelope and stuff both into my pocket.

The sinuous music hums through the landscape. The strings curl their fingers, crooking, beckoning. Since the trail winds toward the lyrical tones, this must be where the lane had intended to lead me.

I harness my weapon and supplies and pursue the trail. It leads into an oak arcade where branches arch over the path like a ribcage, the boughs scrolling into the murk. Eventide leaks through the mesh, a patina of blue-green blending with the candlelight and enhancing the route.

Branches croak as if speaking in an arcane tongue, from the veins of their roots to the lungs at their bases, and up through the cracked throats of their trunks.

My eyebrows slash downward. The ominous arcade narrows. Once I’m through, the oaks suddenly dissipate. In their place, evergreens pump with more candlelight, embossing the needle leaves. The trees of this domain must be impervious to the heat.

I slow my pace, picking around batches of mushrooms. The fungi appear harmless, clustered in bouquets rather than circles. Nevertheless, I can’t be too careful. I’ve studied the Fables’ appendices about Fae rings and read what happens when a person steps inside.

The overlapping sounds of revelry grow denser, louder. But not just any kind.

The lusty echoes of rapture invade my ears. Moans tangle and overlap, rhythmic and excessive. My arm hairs prickle. I’m no expert, but I’ve shared a home with a rather promiscuous sister. Moreover, I’ve researched the clean Fables as well the obscene narratives. Woodland Faeries are notorious for making this sort of racket.

Communal grunts and whimpers drift from a grove at the path’s end. I sidestep the entrance, paste myself against the nearest trunk, and process the signals gravitating from around the corner.

The air reeks of intoxicants: myrrh, sweat, and some type of charred herb. Heady, gaudy, overindulgent fragrances. The kinds of cloying scents bred for spoiled, capricious beings.

How exceedingly primitive. Contending with a four-legged predator had been easier than what I suspect awaits.

The echoes of those licentious cries thread around my knees, tugging me closer. My captors could sniff me out, but a huntress knows how to stay quiet, undetected. I creep my head around the pine tree and peek into the grove.

My mouth unhinges. My fingernails dig into the crevices of bark.

It’s a den of debauchery, straight from the halls of an Unseelie court. Candle tapers writhe from the boughs. And sprawled beneath that blazing display is another type of spectacle.

Figures lounge on pillows while others lean against the trunks, loll across the offshoots, or perch on the boughs with their limbs swinging. They possess hybrids of humanlike features, animal traits, and a facet synonymous with their kind: pointed ears that stab the air.

Solitary Faeries.

Brownies, no taller than cattails, their flesh woven of peat. Sap drizzles from a female’s bottom lashes as if she’s weeping.

Leprechauns—some merely scruffy and unshaven as lumberjacks, the rest leering through the copper hedges of their beards. All of them are handsome in a rural way.

Statuesque dryads, flora enmeshed in their hair. One of them boasts a mane of birch leaves. Another, a set of braids entwined with daisies.

Satyrs and fauns with horns and antlers of varying shapes. Thickets of fur cover their lower halves, sometimes to the waist, enabling them to wear nothing at all. For others, the fur ends at the knees, at which point the Faeries don trousers or sashes of ivy.

Many of these figures are breathtaking, their angular faces rivaling the beauty of their animal features. Badger tails swish from their backsides. Porcupine quills spear from around their wrists and ankles like spiky bangles. Elk antlers splay from their skulls. The markings of a chipmunk adorn the upper half of a male face.

Musicians take up residence in the branches. They strum fiddles, violas, lutes, lyres, and other stringed, paddlelike instruments I’ve never seen.

Before my eyes, images wrought from storybooks come to life. My lids peel back, my eyes dilating with astonishment. Most of all, heat scorches my cheeks.

From their respective positions, the Folk watch the exhibition taking place in the venue’s center. Two male fauns flank a female—a wood nymph, based on her curvaceous form, the laurel circlet askew on her pistachio head, and the vines arcing from her eyebrows. One of the fauns stands behind her and sucks the flesh of her throat. She gasps, throwing back her head while reaching up and raking her hands through his tawny hair.

The other male hunkers on bended knee. With the nymph’s thigh hitched over his shoulder, his face vanishes into the slot between her legs. And when this happens, the female cries out.

Numerous Folk enjoy the scene. The rest tend to their own partners. They embrace and fondle one another, their tongues flicking and their bodies jutting, bouncing, and thrusting.

Their states of undress vary, from partially clothed to fully disrobed. Gown straps and untied shirts hang limply off their shoulders, the wools, leathers, velvets, and other unrecognizable textiles wrinkled. Breasts glisten, handfuls of females doing nothing to shield their busts, nor the sprigs of hair at the apexes of their thighs. Several males remain exposed, their pectorals rippling, their private flesh erect and on display.

I avert my gaze, my face roasting to cinders. It’s not the same as examining fauna genitalia, in order to identify the animal’s sex—not that I had expected it to be the same.

Only one figure appears unruffled. He reclines in the shadows, observing the entertainment from a high-backed chair constructed of bark and stinging nettles. His head flops to the side, the half-light blotting out the nuances of his face.

From this vantage point, I can only make out a few hints about him, including his red hair. Molten waves sweep his shoulders, the coiled ends licking what’s visible of his jaw. Indeed, a smooth and rakish square jaw and a pair of naughty, quirked lips.