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“The book did not help,” Cypress presumes.

Oh, it helped. It most certainly did.

But because I don’t correct him, the centaur appears more troubled by my imminent demise than I’d expected him to be. Despite his hardboiled exterior, an almost indiscernible pang stretches his features in two directions. He may not want his world to expire, but he doesn’t want it to happen at my expense. Since we haven’t had time to bond, I’m unsure where this is coming from.

“Like you said, there were no guarantees.” I soften my tone. “But like you also said, they won’t interrogate me until midnight.”

Cypress’s ears perk. The ink markings around his navel shimmer tonight, the Middle Moon’s rays enhancing the designs. A spurt of hope bolsters his posture, then he gazes toward the archway, his features cramped, wistful. “He does not want to lose you.”

My spine goes rigid. My heart does something else—something defiant. “He told you that?”

“He did not have to. I have tolerated the brat for years.”

The centaur says this with affection. “Long ago, he confided in me about your past together. With all your devotion to Fables, did you know it is rare for satyrs to have mates?”

The idea of Puck finding a mate produces a hollow inside me. I wish it didn’t, but it does.

“They are lovers and seducers, misfits and mischief makers. That is the makeup of their promiscuous lineage,” Cypress continues. “It is rare for satyrs to form an amorous bond, rarer still for them to fall in love. Be that soul a fated mate or a partner by choice, when a satyr does find that other half, the satyr’s love becomes as fierce as hate.”

My brows stamp together. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

Amusement puffs from the centaur’s nostrils, jostling the leather hoop. “I will amend my explanation.”

“Please do.”

“As the most licentious of Faeries, affection confuses them. And because love is rarer still, if it does flourish, it is exceptional. You might say, profound. The intensity of a satyr’s devotion will be intrinsic, as heightened as their senses. Therefore, they shall be prone to rashness and mishaps. That will render them vulnerable.” Cypress glimpses me from a steep, sideways angle. “Puck is shrewd. He is cunning, but he is not immune. If such a connection were to blossom, he would act with his heart before his head.” The equine lowers his voice and inclines his chin toward the archway. “Be careful, moppet. We Faeries see many things.”

I want to assure him that nothing of the sort will happen between me and Puck. We’re not in danger of being caught in a tryst. But protesting will sound guilty.

“I would like you to live, without us dying. If you can find a way, find a way.” Cypress offers me his bulky arm. “I will escort you inside.”

Since the kiss, I’ve cast aside whatever connection I’d shared with Puck. It’s a relief to know I have one companion left, one other Fae in this realm who wants me alive instead of served on a platter.

It takes maneuvering on our parts, the equine leaning down and me straining upward, but I manage to link my arm with his. Cypress snorts with dignity, his tail flicking. Together, we stroll through the archway into The Bonfire Glade.

And into the Middle Moon Feast.

24

The scene is a vision out of a storybook—a cautionary one, a graphic one.

A throng of Faeries gathers in full force.

Pointed ears and ink markings. Badger tails and boar tusks. Porcupine quills around their wrists and ankles.

Briars wind around one side of a dryad’s skull. A faun’s complexion shifts from maize to champagne down his unclothed torso. Nettings of rosemary intersect over the arms and legs of a blonde nymph.

Oaken chairs and a banquet table weave around the space, meandering and wayward in its direction, like an unraveled spool. Candles snake down the middle, threaded with fern garlands. They weave around platters overflowing with a variety of meats, as well as pastries, confections, and fruits so plump with juice they’re about to burst.

Brownies carry jugs of wine and tankards of ale, chirping to one another in their language.

Leprechauns cackle, dressed in layers of wool and choking pints in their fists. Their bearded or stubbled faces are ruggedly attractive, like roughhewn farmers and timberland loggers who spend hours plowing fields and chopping wood.

Nymphs and satyrs dance through the glade. Groups hold hands and bound through frond bushes and around trunks, their heels kicking out a series of intricate steps.

Another mixed group forms a prancing ring around an inferno. The great bonfire hisses and sputters embers, churning in hues of red and gold. It rises to an impossible elevation, yet the fern trees remain impervious to the flames.

I think of fairy tales and folktales. I think of their grisly beauty. I think of their morals and warnings. I think of how they’re true and untrue.