Page 49

He’s a Fae.

We gawk at each other, separated by less than a foot. The Fae gives me a once-over, his features contorting with curiosity of the malevolent sort, mockery of the disgusted sort. I remember the deer mask perched on my face, the antler band nesting on my head. Compared with his real antlers, I feel so very mortal. And churlish. And silly. I whip off the accessories and store them on the ground.

Now we see one another fully in the moonlight. The Fae is even less impressed by me without the costume. He regards my crossbow and very round ears, amusement and ridicule clashing with another sensation, one that pulls an unwilling hiss from him.

Pain. He’s in pain.

Any semblance of color blanches from his face, leaving behind a cold sheet of white. His angular cheekbones and square jaw squeeze together, hurt tacking those features in place. In my world, one would need a mason to chisel such a countenance, but the tick-tick-tick in his temple reminds me that he’s not a figment.

My head darts from his grimace down the length of his body, which rests upon an oval bed of grass. A vest strains across the small plate of his chest, and breeches hug his waist, the leather ending at the knees where…

Fables eternal. Instead of human limbs, trimmed fur trails down his calves and tapers into two hard shells of bone. Each has a wedge and a slit in the middle, much like a cracked heart. Cloven hooves.

Stories flip through my mind. Specifically, tales about an impish breed of Faeries, the rowdiest ones who dwell in The Solitary Forest.

Satyrs. This creature is a satyr.

I stiffen but keep my face neutral. He could be a faun instead, but his face doesn’t suit that breed. Fauns are depicted as conventionally lovely, like archetypes you’d see painted on teacups. To the contrary, his features exceed that uninspiring description and resemble one of those figurines carved from wood—rugged and unrefined.

The jaws of an iron trap feast on one of his calves and puncture flesh, rivulets of blood leaking down his fur. It’s a sight from nightmares, from the past, from days and months and years that curdle in my head whenever I’m asleep. I know the shape and sounds of this trap. I’ve set up plenty of them and then held back sobs while whatever got caught inside suffered.

Two rows that spring into action on contact, its maw clamping shut. Twelve spikes that plunge deeply into its quarry. The snap of ligaments. Feral caws, growls, squeaks, and roars.

Bile washes up my throat. I scramble through the bushes and into the little hollow. With my fingers outstretched, I lurch toward the contraption, aiming for the right latches. “I’m going to help—”

The Fae seizes my wrists and jerks me into him. “Help?” he drawls. “You can help by staying the fuck away from me.”

He thrusts me backward. My rump hits the ground, my nightgown and cloak tangling around my legs.

Pride stings my cheeks. I give the cloak’s tail a hearty tug and rise on my kneecaps, “Foolish imp. Keep still.”

“Tedious mortal. Go away.”

“The jowls are made of iron.”

“You don’t say,” he sneers.

Indeed. This hadn’t warranted saying. Faeries have magic, in addition to the benefits of speed, strength, and augmented senses. That is, until iron gets in the way. The trap has fatigued him.

Apparently, it has impaired his brain as well. We glare at one another, hovering inches apart. Me, hunched over the Fae. Him, spread out like pancake batter, crimson drizzling from the gashes in his limbs.

“With that attitude, you’ll bleed out,” I lecture.

“Ha,” he replies without humor. “No, I won’t. They won’t let me.”

What does that mean? Who won’t let him?

“I wasn’t going to harm you,” I say. “I know how to open them.”

Suspicion cuts through his face. “You?”

For pity’s sake. I don’t have time for ignorance. I walk on my knees, approach the iron teeth, and fiddle with the closure.

An obstinate hand swings toward me. Without looking up, I slap his fingers away. “Give me three minutes,” I state. “If I’ve not succeeded by then, I’ll leave you to rot.”

Galled mirth springs from his mouth. “Three minutes,” he repeats, his tenor rusty at the edges. “Now there’s a merry number.”

If Faeries can’t lie, does that mean they’re incapable of detecting untruths? I haven’t researched this yet. But whether or not he believes my fib, I let the proposal squat between us.