Page 95

I think of this world, living and breathing the elements. Wind atop the mountain peaks. Water in the river. Earth and fire across the woodland.

Here, mortal victims suffer amidst the soil. Then they burn.

Cypress and I make our entrance. According to him, the scribe was banned from recording this sacred night while living with the centaurs. Upon my entry, I expect the revelers to swerve in unison and lick their gums. I expect them to tackle and place me on a pedestal for exhibition. However, the woodland Faeries’ version of ceremony involves a lot of rambunctious shouting. They register us and clamor, clapping their hands or raising their goblets and toasting to our arrival. They chant in Faeish, their complexions flush with libations and vibrant with gaiety.

It’s mayhem. Until they notice the antler crown.

Levity, alcohol, and a surplus of cake must have muddied their senses. But now they see it, and the mood alters. Some sneer, others seethe. Some gaze at the crown with fretful creases, others with slitted eyes.

Tails whip about. Claws jut from fingers.

Yes, the nymphs had offered me the headband, among other accessories. And perhaps the gesture had been a spoof, a jeopardous temptation meant to incite this very reaction.

What scrawny mortal dares to wear the traits of the fauna, as if I possess Fae origins instead of human ones? Who am I, to do such a thing?

Does this mean I’ve arrived victorious? Are the antlers the sign of a winner? An act of defiance?

Am I being ironic, tactical, or just stupid?

Conversely, several of the Faeries smirk. My cheek intrigues them, but it doesn’t concern them. Either way, I don’t regret my decision to wear the crown.

Their interest shifts. As if someone has endorsed them to carry on, they whirl back into the frenzy.

“Don’t worry about them, luv,” a tenor whispers. “They’re just jealous because you wear it better. As am I.”

Masculine heat swelters across my shoulders. I turn on my bare heels, dirt grinding into my sole.

He’s wearing an ankle-length vest of buttery leather dyed black. A ladder of buckled tabs descends from the collar to the waist, at which point the vest flares open like a gaping door around his breeches.

To be sure, Puck’s sporting fewer clasps than usual. Though, this isn’t saying much for him. His fashion choice still exhibits an abnormal amount of closures, particularly the ones running down the outer seams of the pants.

That aside, he’s more polished than I’ve seen him before. Less uncouth, less rustic. With a twisted patch of caramel-dyed velvet at his throat, peeking from the valley in his collar, he’s the picture of a vicious gentleman. That is, if he were human.

We have an audience. The Faeries observe our greeting, and though I’m aware of their attention, I don’t feel it. What I feel is Puck’s gaze as it skims my jade leaf skirt and white camisole, the upheaval on his face when he notices the buckles strapped across my own waist. Those orbs expand, great black reservoirs holding my reflection inside them.

He strays to my antler crown, a grin ricocheting across his face. Recollections of the kiss surface as I watch that damned mouth slide upward. His lips had partaken of my sighs. His tongue had wrung other noises from me, too. Thinking about it causes tremulous sensations beneath my garments.

Be careful, moppet. We Faeries see many things.

I fold my hands in front of me, my digits fusing together. At the same time, Puck fastens his hands behind his back.

“My, my, my,” he murmurs. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I haven’t started yet,” I reply.

The satyr can’t know what I mean by that, but those scrupulous eyes alight, flecks of amber dancing in reams of sable brown.

“By all means,” Puck invites in that husky Fae accent, then turns to the congregation. “Behold, our merry guest has arrived!”

The Faeries cheer. Evidently, I’m supposed to pretend this is normal—thatanyof this is normal. I’m supposed to obey like a good little prisoner, like happy prey. I’m supposed to be complacent and indulge them, so they don’t have to waste their energy on glamour.

If Lark were here, she would tell these Faeries to go fuck themselves. Of course, I’d have to slap my palm over her mouth.

A gambit is imperative. I have my plan. Until then, if they want me to be their sacrificial lamb, so be it.

Puck moves aside and gestures toward the bonfire. He falls in line with me, and we step into the candlelight. We keep our distance from each other, avoiding the slightest contact. Yet the air feels magnetized, roused with energy.

And it hurts. It hurts that he’s willing to go through with this, that he sought no other choice. It hurts so much.