Page 7

I refrain from replying. Evidently, Puck doesn’t need me to. “Then by all means, show off some more.”

I glance at the boy. The iron bolt pricks his slender neck, the pulse point visibly thumping.

Visions flash in my psyche. A little girl stalking animal prints through the bushes, then aiming her crossbow while crying. A little girl who’d been unable to shoot, who’d spluttered, “I can’t.”

A little girl being told by men ten times her size that she’s worthless. A little girl deciding not to believe them. A little girl proving them wrong.

A little girl, years later, working diligently to sound out letters on a page. A little girl learning to read and write. A little girl growing into a woman.

A woman who has never scripted an original story in her life.

My temple throbs.“Once, there lived…”I trail off, sweat coating my upper lip.“There lived a girl who…who couldn’t…”

But my head turns into a blank slate, words slipping across the surface, unsteady, unreliable. Everything that comes to mind has been written already or doesn’t sound good enough, smart enough, sensical enough.

My chin hardens. A blade chips away at my skull, as well as my confidence.

Puck watches it happen, perhaps senses it happen. “Such a shame.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, then clucks his tongue. “You’ve come to the wrong place, luv.”

A hot pool of mortification floods my cheeks. Did he just call me inadequate?

The Faeries sputter with mirth. The woodland Folk are the craftiest of Solitaries. They know how to woo and beguile. They know how to conceive stories, myths, fables, folktales, and fairy tales.

And they know how to fool humans. The boy isn’t on his knees any longer. He’s leaning against the centaur, slapping his thigh and cackling. Orange irises replace the blue ones. His clammy, pale skin shudders into its true nature—a vibrant, peachy complexion. A marten tail sprouts from his bottom, and he no longer appears runty but rather the equivalent of a thirteen-year-old lad. Black curls dangle around his face, and intricate orange vine markings spiral wide across his forehead.

My posture buckles. Glamour.

They’d glamoured me.

But that can’t be! Not with my clothes inside-out and the hawthorn berries in my skirt pocket. Such talismans ought to have protected me from enchantment.

I stand there, my possessions discarded on the ground, and my archery confiscated. I stand there, the butt of a jest. I stand there, humiliated.

Puck mock-laments, “I hate to tell you this, but you have a bit to learn about us. For a start, our standards for diversions are high.”

Outrage singes my tongue. “Oh, I can see why someone of your exemplary caliber would rely on ahuman’srecitation for suitable entertainment. How flattering. However, I’d be wary of clinging to those…what did you call them? High expectations?” Then I quoteThe Fox and the Fae. “Choose diversions wisely, lest they lead to downfall.”

It’s an empty threat. But it feels good to say.

The laughter dies. My audience stirs, wrath darkening their faces.

The satyr tilts his antlered head. “My, my, my. It must be nice to rely on other people’s words for every thought you have.”

I snap, “It must be validating to assume no thought has value simply because it didn’t come from you.”

He blinks, taking a while to process the rebuttal. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it? Then tell me the last time something else—rather than your ego—inspired you? Tell methatstory.”

Hisses and growls erupt from the circle, some of the Fae skulking toward me. Puck holds up his hand, stopping them. Without warning, he rises and saunters my way, his cloven hooves imprinting the grass. Despite those stag limbs, his swagger rivals the cockiness of males back home. Mortals used to think satyrs didn’t have animal limbs, but the Fables had proven that tidbit false.

In terms of height, he’s not a tower. However, neither is he scanty. Because of my small frame, I have to crane my head to meet his gaze.

Toned muscles bunch across his arms and flex under the leather vest. Up close, white and black streaks line his eyelashes, and candlelight burnishes the red waves around his countenance.

“What a smart fucking girl you are,” Puck compliments.

Then he transforms. His artful facade vanishes, his irises darkening. That posturing grin drops like a veil, replaced by a flash of predatory teeth.