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Then they catapult forward.

The Fae and sow collide in a tangle of tusks and antlers, fisted hands and bucking hooves. I yank an arrow from the longbow’s quiver and nock the weapon. They move in a blur, too swiftly for me to track, to aim properly. Meanwhile, the piglet quails in the bushes.

Puck lurches into the air, his limbs scissoring in an intricate pattern as he evades the sow’s tusks. His own hooves act as springs, bounding him high, so that he leaps in and out of the creature’s path.

At one point, the sow’s head swings. Puck throws up his forearm, thwarting the blow of a tusk. He stumbles from the force of it but keeps upright.

In its panic, the piglet careens into a bramble thicket that snags its hoof. The spiky shrub holds fast, leashing the creature in a vice grip. The little one flails, causing the briers to strain and give a few inches of slack.

I glance between the fight and the baby. There’s nothing I loathe more in tales than a female standing idly by while the hero does the work. Whatever negotiation Puck attempted hadn’t worked, but this might: I shift my aim toward the shackle. The arrow soars, its tip slicing through the restraints and vanishing into the foliage.

The piglet hops from the thicket, free of the manacle. The mother halts, catching sight of what I’ve done.

Puck’s chest pumps for oxygen. A gash rents his leather vest, a red line of blood dribbling there, likely from the tusk.

There’s an instant of indecision, of bated breath. My confidence is short-lived as a cavalry of snorts heads our way. I whip toward the sounds, my gaze darting over breaks in the shrubbery. Shame on me for not tracking the signs earlier. A passel of boars and sows appears along the knolls, their withers shaking with rage. Like a wave, they shift from recognizable sizes to otherworldly heights, the tusks protracting into lances.

Puck tears around, snatches my archery off the ground, and runs my way. The satyr pants as he reaches me, “Never mind, luv. Now’s a good time to move.”

I tote his weapons and fall in line, twisting and charging through the woods. Behind us, an army of swine deploy, their grunts and snorts deafening. They trample the brush, walloping vegetation out of their way, the barbed trees convulsing.

The chase knocks me off balance. My side smacks into a boulder, white hot pain seizing my left shoulder. I yelp but hobble upright, my arm dangling at a precarious angle. I can’t wield the bow.

Puck helps me straighten fully, then claims the weapons, arming himself with both sets of archery. His Fae legs are faster than my human ones. Yet he keeps pace with me as we veer through the woodland—and the ground collapses.

The soil gives, caving in beneath us. We drop like stones.

The fall is quick, and we slam into a foundation carpeted in pillow moss. I shriek, dizzy with pain.

Grains of soil cake my teeth. I hack them up, then flop onto my back, my body screaming in agony. I gawk at the hole above, where a tide of hooves stampedes by. The passel lunges into the timberland while driving a thatch of foliage over half of the gap.

Puck goes limp beside me, our weapons scattered on the ground. I struggle past the throbbing in my shoulder and inspect the area, its dirt walls embedded with roots. The depth is considerable enough for the boars and sows to have missed us, but the opening is too high to reach. The pit resembles a den or oubliette. Either way, it’s a cage.

“Huh,” the satyr coughs, gawking upward. “Alone at last.”

No. Not just alone but trapped.

Trapped together.

12

Pain stabs my shoulder, probing bone and cartilage. The womb we’ve landed in tilts, going fuzzy around the edges like the pages of a book when I’m not wearing my spectacles. Another cry struggles to break free from my mouth, but I don’t allow it because if the sound were to reach Puck, who knows what he’d do with it. The satyr might pocket the noise for future use. He might bring up this moment of weakness whenever he sees fit to bait me, to mortify me.

I won’t let it out. I won’t let—

“You might as well let it out, luv,” Puck says, hauling himself to a sitting position next to me. “If your face turns any more purple, you’re going to implode and end this game prematurely. I’d rather not have my fun spoiled.”

“Go. To. Hell,” I grind out.

Puck scoffs. “Hell doesn’t exist in Faerie. Hell is for humans.”

I have no time for his prattle. My arm’s nothing but a limp cord at my side, pleading with me not to move.

The Fae utters something cautionary, the words gauzy in my ears. Ignoring whatever he’s saying, I try inching myself toward the nearest wall. Sweat puddles across my forehead, and rolling waves of nausea assault me, so that I fail to reach my destination. Instead, I flop back down.

Fact: I’m going to faint.

An inconvenienced sigh filters through the space, along with the oppressive scent of pine and cloves. From my position on the ground, I blink and see Puck kneeling over me. His earthen eyes stare down, the irises glossed in melted brown.