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“True,” he acknowledges while leaving the threat open-ended.

Something else rattles my attention, stirring up the residue of my memory. The pace and cadence of his trot. The girth of his body. The echo of his hooves. I assess the broad span of his back, the noises he makes while moving, and the trail he leaves behind us, including distorted offshoots and chinks in the foliage.

The farther we stray from Puck’s harem, the quicker my wits return. “You’re the one who chased after me.”

Cypress stalls, then continues plodding down the lane. I suspect he’s impressed, despite his next words. “You were taking too long to arrive at the grove.”

I balk. “So you were corralling me?”

“Faeries disfavor tardiness.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Especially Puck,” he supplies. “And most especially tardiness to one of his receptions.”

That wasn’t a reception. That was a bacchanal. That was a crass, gluttonous, revolting—

“Puck is not a patient soul. He does not like to be kept waiting. And you, tiny mortal, were dragging your feet.”

“In other words, he sent you to fetch me.”

“You were hardly a pleasurable errand,” Cypress states. “Not until you gave chase. I took liberties. Your aim was off, by the way. Your crossbow bolt would have impaled my hindquarters, not my heart.”

I prepare a counter argument. He bucks his rump, forcing my mouth to clamp shut.

Too many offenses fill my head in succession. Bearing witness to public fornication. Having my weapons confiscated. Hearing my intellect reduced to that of a nitwit. Coming face to face with a nefarious satyr.

What has it been? Less than an hour?

What will happen to my archery? Will the Fae destroy it?

Cypress’s coat radiates in the darkness, its texture abrading my legs. We resume our trek down the path, passing under awnings of pine. The relief of sitting upright is short-lived as I recall the hawthorn berries jiggling in my pocket. Why hadn’t the morsels protected me from glamour?

Mentally, I rifle through everything I’ve learned about the Folk, everything I’ve read in the Book of Fables. Every human in The Dark Fables owns a copy; however there is, and always will be, only one complete version. The original volume had belonged to the scribes who’d penned the tales centuries ago, then eventually faded into history. No one can say what became of the wordsmiths or their source material; the original book’s whereabouts are unknown to this day.

All the same, the Fables’ contents have remained consistent over the ages, apart from amendments and corrections. No, the book isn’t infallible, but it’s the best we mortals have.

It’sallwe have.

It’s allIhave.

From Faeries to elves to dragons, the ethereal beings of this continent condemn mortals because we don’t wield magic. They brand us as the lesser culture, ungifted simpletons to be ridiculed, tormented, and bewitched, either for bondage or entertainment. To them, we have no feelings or value beyond servitude. Among numerous prejudices is this brilliant one: When compared to immortality, what could humans possibly achieve or learn in our limited lifespans?

Well. I may be a captive, but I won’t allow the woodland’s ruler to contradict my aptitude. I’ve taught myself how to distinguish falsehoods from hard facts, the reliable Fables from the dubious ones, so I must have overlooked a vital component about glamour.

Puck has duped me once. It won’t happen again.

Cypress smells of straw and the dry notes of cedar. I’d been too frazzled to pay attention beyond the fundamentals, but now I notice more of him. An elaborate leather belt of multiple layers sits where his waist meets his withers, and a horned helmet crowns his head. Perhaps he’s a warrior or guardian of this land.

The lane narrows and slopes downhill. Pine needles poke my skirt and ankles while the air tickles the slot behind my ears. Even the atmosphere has a foreign texture and current, as if every brush against my flesh is intentional.

At the slope’s base, the evergreens fade, replaced by a new species of trees. My eyes stagger across a circular glade bordered by redwoods that tower three-hundred feet into the sky. A majestic tree towers in the center, this particular redwood exhibiting a large, hollowed-out trunk. The recess burrows into the column, forming an empty cubicle.

The closer we get, the clearer my view gets. Gnarled cords of bark outline the entryway. Inside, similar ropes hang from above. Crimson mottles the suspensions, as though the color had once sprayed everywhere.

I’ve seen fauna blood. I’ve seen Fae blood.

This is neither.