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As a hand wraps around my ankle, I grip the centaur’s mane. His ears swing backward, and he grunts at the clan. “She will dismount on her own.”

I hop to the ground, tossing Cypress a reluctant but grateful nod.

The hive spirits me away, the same ritual that began the hunt ending it as well. They shepherd me to a steaming pool, where I bathe. This time, I don’t have to negotiate for privacy. They simply leave me there.

Did Cypress tell them to mind their business? Or did someone else?

They’re back within minutes of me emerging from the water and securing myself with a towel. They carry baskets of fabrics—canvases, twills, velvets, furs, leathers, wools, and flora.

“Puck said you’d want to choose what you wear,” a female pouts.

Did he, indeed? But at this point in the game, what makes him think I’d have been polite and let them outfit me in anything to the contrary?

If I’m going to play the centerpiece, and if I’m going to bargain, and if I’m going to deceive a congregation of Faeries, I might as well dress the part. I stride over to the baskets, rifle through the contents, and find my armor.

Swinging around, I hold up my choices. “These.”

Aside from my drawers, I’ve chosen three key pieces.

First, a verdant skirt woven of leaves, the jade foliage overlapping. The leaves are tapered, with finely-serrated tips, and the floor-length hem brushes the grass.

Second, a white cotton camisole with crisscrossing straps along the belly, the buckles made to cinch tightly.

Third, a wooden band with antlers flaring from the sides.

I slip the camisole over my head before any of the group members touch me, the maneuver covertly shielding my tattoo from sight. The nymphs don’t notice. They simply get to work, primping and grooming me with dizzying, otherworldly speed.

Five minutes later, I’m ready.

My feet stay bare. The antler prongs spear the night while my hair hangs loose.

The nymphs admire their handiwork, pleased by an attractive, well-dressed sacrifice. They like their mortals ornamented while screaming for mercy.

As for me, I like my Faeries dumb.

I’m an apt pupil. One new thing I’ve learned is this: It takes a wild one to hunt a wild one. The Fae may think they’re done with me, but I’m not done with them.

I’m not done with him.

***

They call it The Bonfire Glade. The path leading there pulsates with light and heat. On either side of me, small fire pits lick the air like miniature infernos.

I walk straight and proud. Yet my heart clatters like cutlery—cold and sharp.

I’m nervous. I use that to my advantage, the way I’ve used it during hunts as a child, and during rescues as an adult. I mold my fear into a tool, keeping me vigilant, focused.

Only my knees liquefy, shivering under my skirt. I’m human, after all.

The flames writhe, snapping and popping along the lane. Beyond the erratic blazes, a funnel of smoke coils into the fringed canopy. Raucous cackles and elated giggles accompany the lusty skip of fiddles. One could get inebriated from the sensory overload. And that’s before the whiffs of a feast permeate my nostrils, a mishmash of savory, smoky, gamey, and sweet.

I return to the frond archway and pause. Parties are my least favorite things. Combine that with a party hosted by shameless woodland Faeries, in which I’m the doomed main event, and that feeling magnifies a thousandfold.

“You are bold,” a baritone observes from the sidelines.

I twist, the leaf skirt fluttering. Like a majestic ship, Cypress emerges out of nowhere, the firelight bathing his olive coat and dark torso. He evaluates my choice of accessory, the antler headband encompassing my scalp, and mild humor creeps into his voice. “Very bold, indeed.”

“I’m a huntress,” I answer, by way of explanation. “That’s how I came here. That’s how I’ll go out.”