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My teeth grind. I know who he is, because I know that horrible grin. I know it from a hundred perverted legends whispered between mortals. What’s more, I’ve seen it in the flesh, in my distant past. I’ve seen it up close, so much closer, far too close.

I inch nearer, focus harder. Leather hugs his athletic frame, neither bulky, nor slender. A vest of buckles and straps cinch across his chest. Buckskin breeches accentuate his thighs and end at the knees where—

A nymph sidles over to him. Decorative yellow petals clutter her dark hair, and a matching dress woven of the same flora clings to her frame. A gradient of pigments dusts her upper eyelids—from the yellow of her ensemble, to celery, to caterpillar.

She rests a palm on his shoulder. He slants his head a fraction, giving her half his attention, the other half still angled toward the vulgar display.

He listens to whatever the nymph whispers in his ear. The more she says, the more he pays attention. Eventually, his shadowed face slides fully toward his informant, heeding her words. An enticement, perhaps?

Whatever the female tells him, he consumes the information like a glutton tipping back wine—greedy and enthusiastic.

Those masculine lips tilt into an impish smirk. With a flourish, he raises his arm and snaps his fingers. The single sound jumps off the trees, silencing the moans and musical strings. Everyone stops to glance at him.

The petal nymph backs away while pressing a fist to her tittering mouth. My blood chills, dread crawling up my spine. I huddle deeper into the evergreen.

The male’s attention slides across every Solitary in attendance.

At length, he leans forward. The candlelight brings him into stark relief.

My breath stalls. I see eyes like melted sable, the lashes lined in white and black streaks. I see stag antlers rising from his head, the barbed prongs looping to the back of his scalp. I see those inflammatory locks framing a wily, wanton countenance.

It’s the face of a troublemaker, one that has haunted my dreams.

His tenor rings out. The lilting accent has swagger to it, along with a touch of mockery. “It appears we have a guest, luvs,” the Fae announces. “A rather tardy guest.”

Then the ruler of the woodland swings his head. And he looks straight at me.

2

A pair of calloused hands seizes me from behind. The owner’s platter-sized palms dwarf my biceps, clamping around them like manacles. I grunt in protest as my captor yanks my wrists behind my back and shoves me ahead.

Candlelight floods my vision, the metallic flames twitching erratically. My boots scrape the ground. I fight to stall the inevitable, my heels grinding into the dirt and mowing through grass.

The assailant marches while pushing me forward. I wriggle and twist my head over my shoulder, then promptly swallow my objection.

Big. Very big.

Two bulky arms made of steel. Four other limbs, including massive hindquarters. An olive-green coat, plus a long mane and tail of the same color.

An equine body. A dark male torso and face.

The centaur takes offense to my awe. He slits his eyes and jerks me back around. I stumble, much to the amusement of my audience. Pitiless chuckles pinch my ears, and I compress my lips until my molars ache.

The centaur gives one last shove. I careen forward and hit the ground with a thwack. My knees and hands smack the forest floor, breaking my fall. If not for the shock absorption, the landing would have fractured my nose.

My crossbow, quiver, and pack clatter. I crane my head, my eyes stumbling into a pair of hooves. But to the contrary, they don’t belong to another centaur. Unlike the hooves of a horse, these ones are narrower and cloven.

Smooth, tan fur covers a pair of calves, a line of scars peeking from the right one, the kinds of scars made by the teeth of an iron trap. Those calves disappear into the buckskin breeches I’d noticed earlier. From the knees up, the leather molds over a set of toned, humanlike thighs and a tapered waist.

My gaze charts a path from that vest ornamented with buckles, to a fair complexion, to the gleaming, brown eyes looming over me. The spokes of his antlers pierce the air, the tips sharper than his ears.

If the red hair and antlers hadn’t confirmed his identity earlier, the hooves certainly do. Of all the Fables I’ve studied, my least favorites have always been about satyrs. In the whole of Faerie, their infamous depravities are legendary, as is their addiction to lust.

Whereas fauns are rumored to be the attractive ones, satyrs are the libertines. Pretty is too dainty a term for their racy looks; provocative is a more accurate definition.

The ruler of the woodland bends forward in his chair and inspects me with a slanted head. “So our guest of honor has arrived at last,” the satyr murmurs. “A merry welcome to you, luv.” His accent is as jaunty as the music, as rustic as roots, and as roguish as his grin. “Do forgive my comrade’s roughhousing. Cypress isn’t accustomed to humans your size, much less apprehending them from behind.” He quirks a sadistic brow. “I, however, am acquainted with many sizes and shapes, especially from behind.”

I gather that’s supposed to impress me. “Unaccustomed.”