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I cringe. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He scans the dislocated shoulder. “I’ve been asking myself that question since you barged into this land.”

“I didn’t barge in. You and the other two demon rulers of this wild forced me and my sisters here.”

“Those demons are my brothers.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ugh,” he complains. “Now that your body’s out of alignment and I’m feeling magnanimous, you resort to begging? You couldn’t have waited until I was back to my usual devious self? All you had to do was last another few minutes, and I could have taken advantage.”

“I didn’t barge into your land.”

“I heard you the first time. Too bad for you, it’s nothing but semantics.”

“Nooooo,” I draw out, because clearly he’s an imbecile on top of being a goblin. “The definition of semantics is—”

A sturdy palm braces my upper body, and I hear a pop. A coarse sound rips from my lungs. It multiplies into a thousand cries and fragments through the ceiling hole.

The instant my shriek fades, the pain abates, evaporating from my body like mist. I shuffle upright and flex my arm tentatively, twisting it this way and that.

Puck sits back on his haunches and wipes his hands. “Watching you flail around like a stubborn fish was becoming tedious. Besides, I’m not about to win this hunt by accident.” The Fae snaps his fingers with sudden insight. “Or just be uncharacteristically lazy and consider it a favor. That works for me.”

To think I’d been tempted to break from tradition and thank him. “I’ll do no such thing. You did yourself a favor, not me.”

“Bloody true. What good are you if you’re not a challenge?”

We split apart, taking refuge in our respective sides of the recess. Roots weave through the dirt walls and dangle overhead like snipped arteries. Unfortunately, the fibers aren’t long enough to grab, and despite the partially shrouded ceiling hole, whatever tree they belong to isn’t visible from above. I fail to discern even a single projecting branch we could use as a brace to extricate ourselves from the pit.

When I suggest Puck use his leaping skills to exit the hole and find a way to lug me up, he sneers. “I can jump high, but not that high or that vertically. Also, there’s this concept called momentum, which requires a running start. Do you see how wide this place is?”

Oh, fine.

The Fae retires to the opposite wall, one leg extended, the other steepling as he drapes a toned arm across his knee.

A lull descends over the cramped space. I may as well make use of our detour, until I figure out how to ascend from this trap. I check my arm once more while mulling over each unresolved question stacked in my head. Logic and tact suggest I begin with the simplest query.

“You could have used magic to do this,” I say, indicating my shoulder.

“What? You mean this magic?” He wiggles his fingers as animated sparks of gold crackle from the tips. “Magic is boring. I fancy working with my hands, the way humans do. They’re fetching hands, good for fetching things.”

“I would very much like a straight answer.”

“If I speak any straighter for you, my words will have an erection.” I just stare at him until he concedes. “Fables almighty. Don’t tell me you’re objecting to the merits of manual labor. You don’t strike me as shallow.”

“Magic would have been practical.”

“Ah. Practical,” he reprises, his tongue sculpting the word until it changes shape and sounds like a vulgarity. “I bet that’s one of your favorite words.”

He says that as though it’s a bad thing. And yes, the adjective is among my top five favorites.

I fan out my dress so that it covers my ankles. “What about materializing wherever you want? You have that ability, don’t you? Why not transport yourself aboveground and toss me down a makeshift rope?”

“Because it takes a shitload of energy for Faeries to manifest all over the forsaken place. That’s stamina I currently don’t have, thanks to the boars and sows. As it is, declawing your crossbow bolts of their iron tips demanded not only a special Fae brew but also proximity to the weapon, which stole a chunk of my endurance.”

“About that,” I seethe. “I should lop off your fingers.”

“Please,” he drawls. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing to my longbow. Tell me you wouldn’t have castrated its magic if you’d found a way.”