Page 50

I peer down to review the mechanism, illuminated by a feeble lunar beam. What I wouldn’t give for flint and tinder.

Oddly, a chain dangles from the trap and links to a fat nail embedded into the ground. That…doesn’t make sense. I don’t know about elsewhere, but this trap is a Middle Country design, and the poachers here use such additional gadgets only when dealing with an animal of considerable girth and power. A bear or elk, perhaps.

But those animals don’t roam in this area. Skilled poachers would know that.

Unless they’re not hunting a creature of this world. Unless they’re hunting unearthly ones.

During The Trapping, some of the elder Folk had tried to save their animals and were captured. The villagers had distributed the prisoners across the outskirts of town, keeping them locked in cages or affixed to snares, letting them decay on their own.

But…children? They’d taken Fae children, too?

Is he young? If immortal, he could be much older than I’d originally thought.

The Fae seethes, his limb trembling something fierce. Globs of blood coat his fur and stain the grass.

My fingers sketch the trap. It’s the blacksmith’s handiwork for certain, with the same construction and vulnerabilities I’m used to.

I find the right gear and settle my digits there. “This is going to hurt.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Would you look at me, luv?”

The plea takes physical form, its weight reaching out to snatch my chin. I glance up and meet his eyes, the pupils simmering with mischief, malice, and a queer kind of melancholy. I’ve never beheld that mixture, a sugar-vinegar-water clashing of emotions.

That, plus arrogance, superiority, and nerve. Also, agony.

How does he tolerate that many emotions at once? Doesn’t it bother him to feel so much in a given moment?

I think about my small form and how little room there is within. I can’t imagine fitting more than one sensation inside my chest at a time.

The satyr does nothing to conceal these emotions. I wonder what it takes to puncture him so badly that he’s unwilling to show his reaction. What would need to happen for him to hurt so much, to be so consumed or defeated by something—or someone—that he’s unable to express himself?

If being snared by his enemy won’t silence him, if having his kin attacked in the dead of night won’t stay his tongue, what type of pain would? Or are Faeries simply that resilient?

I hold his gaze, noting the white freckles sprinkled across his pert nose. “By the way? Don’t call me ‘luv.’”

I punch and twist. A serrated howl grinds from his mouth. “Fucking fuck!”

The lock quakes, the teeth loosen, and the trap’s mouth flips open in shock. A growl abrades from his throat and then, like a wild animal newly liberated, the Fae strives to flee. It’s a terrible sight, him thrashing backward across the dirt and tottering to his feet—his hooves—before he crashes again.

The welp flounders, buckling onto the grass. He blasts another vulgar oath into the forest, the sound both anguished and inconvenienced.

“Shh,” I tell him while casting about. If the villagers had snared him like this, there’s a good chance they’d intended for him to expire out here. On the other hand, they could return to collect him, despite the late hour.

He makes a fuss, cursing his heart out while fumbling to rip a swatch of his leather breeches. His hands shiver, those magic fingers slick with magic blood. Craters pockmark that furry leg, blackened red oozing from the cavities.

Immortal or not, battle wounds can cripple a Fae beyond recovery, possibly kill them. That’s what the Fables say.

I gain my feet and hop out of the copse, where I gather my costume and archery, then return to his side. Using the tip of a bolt, I prick the seams from the ruffled hem of my nightgown. Once the thread loosens, I grab a fistful of material and yank.

The fabric tears, the noise clawing through the silence. That’s when I realize he’s gone mute, watching me.

I wrap and knot the substitute bandage around his calf, ruby puddles seeping through the cloth. Thank Fables, the gouges stop leaking.

The Fae gazes at the dressing, then swings his face to mine. His parched complexion beads with sweat, but the pain seems to ebb a little. The rapid intakes slow, and those irises dull from molten to mild.

A strange expression compromises his features. Bafflement? Distrust?

Finally, he settles on impertinence, his lips tipping to one side. “Thanks, luv.”