Page 56

The poacher tattoo burns into my back. I’m on my feet and out of the copse before I indeed put a bolt in him, before I fully regret my actions—the do’s and don’ts colliding. I leave before he recovers. I leave before I’m tempted to fix this moment, to find a middle ground. I leave before he’s tempted to do the same thing.

What did we expect? He’s a Fae. I’m a mortal.

I’m a traitor to my people and a liar to myself. This night was forbidden and a betrayal. It wasn’t special.

Yet something else congests in my throat. Something contrary to remorse. Something that feels cheated, with a gaping hole in its center.

My arms flap wide, smacking bushes out of the way. I’d had the foresight to gather my things, hitching the weapon, stuffing the deer mask into my cloak pocket, and jamming the antler band on my head, its ends biting into my scalp.

Indeed, I’ve been toting the costume with me for each visit. I don’t know why, since I haven’t been wearing the items on a regular basis. Nor can I justify why I’d kept coming here barefoot like a wild thing, except that Puck had continually marveled at the sight of my toes.

I stomp through the area—then stumble in place, oxygen draining from my lungs. A silhouette appears from around a bend, the spindles of its crown rising high. The russet deer is massive, the biggest I’ve ever beheld. And I’ve beheld many.

The creature steps toward me, then halts in the murky shadows. Two points of light reflect in its pupils as the animal towers over me, taller than a common stag. Steam puffs from its snout, all other sounds fading around us.

That’s when I realize it’s a doe, which can’t be possible—not in this reality.

I know the animals of my world. She’s not one of them. A mortal doe doesn’t grow antlers.

The ethereal creature studies me. I stare, hypnotized. The sight of her seals the rift in my body, the place where Puck’s questions had cleaved through.

Then the deer’s head tips up as though listening. The shrubs quaver, creepers dancing.

The doe springs forth. She passes me on slender limbs, galloping toward the place I’d just abandoned. As she pitches into the woods, the breeze stirs my hair, loosening errant strands from the ponytail.

My pulse catapults into my throat. I whip around to chase after her.

A twig pierces my bare heel, stinging my flesh. My nightgown billows, the torn hem slapping my calves. When I reach the spot where Puck had been, he’s gone. So is the doe.

In the haphazard gleam of twilight, I do my best to scan for tracks but find none. However, I locate breaks in the foliage and detect the faint whiffs of cloves and pine. I follow those clues through the woods.

“You, there!” From the sidelines, two meaty figures barrel into view. They’ve bustled here in haste and appear weaponless other than a single pitchfork. In the dappled light, I deduce the hooked nose of the local glassblower and a resident farmer who speaks through an overbite. “What’er you doing out here at this hour, child? Are you hurt?”

My pulse leaps, but I have the sense to play dumb. “Hurt from what?”

“Where’d they go?”

“Who, sirs?”

“There.” The glassblower ignores my blathering and points at a string of deer tracks, which have appeared too late for me to conceal. Catching sight of the trail, the man snatches my archery.

“Hey!” I trill.

“First, one runt escapes from the forge, and now this,” the glassblower rails to his companion.

My crossbow. That man took my crossbow to shoot the deer!

Or he might go after Puck. Or both.

The villagers bleed into the shadows. I hasten in the men’s direction and pursue the hoof prints, scuffing the marks as I go, should anyone else turn up. I pass from the forest, through the open fields, and into another boundary of trees.

There, my feet stall. I huddle behind a tree, a strangled sound rushing up my throat. I brace a palm against the trunk, to keep myself from buckling from the scene.

Cages. Traps. Hundreds of them, with their doors flung open, the latches broken. Flayed bodies lay scattered among the crates, some of skin and bone, some of feathers and pelts.

Nausea roils in my gut. My eyes sting as they veer from one fallen figure to the next. Faeries splayed across the ground, young and old, with pale skin or teal skin, with tails and talons. And fauna, broken and battered. All of them, disfigured and lifeless.

This is but one of the locations. And if this is just one, what is the true death toll?