Page 12 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

D ust motes descend through the sunlight, and I feel suddenly watched.

With the knowledge of monsters on the border, I rub my arms, knowing I’m defenseless.

I could’ve brought a knife or a pitchfork or an axe, but what would be the use?

Perhaps I could score a few small cuts into the impenetrable hide before it shreds me.

“ Are you still here?” I ask to whatever pair of eyes is watching from behind one of the bookshelves. “ I... wanted to ask a question.”

A brush of a footstep, and I am looking up the steps at his silhouette in the gentle sunlight.

Momentarily, I don’t believe he’ll speak, not after his quiet and screaming the other night, but he gestures.

Surprised, I force my feet up the stairs, carefully, as quiet as possible, still considering that perhaps he is tricking me now I’ve had the stupidity to return.

“ A question?” he asks, and his voice has returned to gentle music. “ You returned to this place for a question ? ”

I force my hands to be still. I’m standing far enough I’m not forced to tip my head to look at him, but in the daylight, I am more aware than before that he should make my skin crawl.

Though my fingers tremble, he is quite the most fascinating thing I’ve ever encountered.

Perhaps I should not, but I glance away from his face, down his clothing again—the same as last time, though they seem clean—and to his hands.

One still grips the cane, his thumb digging absently into the wood, a strangely human fussing.

The other rests carefully against the nearest bookshelf, fingers decorated with rings I didn’t see the last time.

When I look up, he is doing the same for me. Though I am considerably less impressive, and need not be, I smooth my hands across my skirts absently, embarrassed. I wonder how many humans he has met, considering how reclusive they are as a species, and if I am as strange to him as he is to me.

Unlikely. He must be hundreds of years old. Plenty of time to see more interesting things than a village girl.

Finally, I remember he asked me a question. My voice comes out as a whisper but doesn’t break. “ It’ s important. ”

“ Oh? ”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but I won’t be giving in before I even broach the topic.

“ There are.. . monsters ... coming out of Faerie and into our village. They’ve come out before, years ago, and all we know is that other fae put a stop to it, and the times before that when it happened.

I wanted to know... if you know anything about it? If you can help?”

“ Monsters,” he repeats.

“ Yes? ”

“ Like me?”

My mouth pops open, and the first words that spring to mind are “ not as beautiful as you,” but that wouldn’t be wise. “ No. Real monsters. Monsters who will rip us apart and shred us to our bones and eat us.”

If I expected another quip, I am sorely disappointed.

He gives a visible twitch, which sets him a little off-balance, and the tip of his cane taps softly against the wooden boards.

His head cocks as he regards me, and I stare back with wide eyes, blinking, feeling better now I’ve asked but concerned by his reaction.

Finally, he asks, “ Not like those... kittens you brought me?”

I shake my head, feeling the sting of my hand. “ Definitely not. Hunt hounds.”

He drops his hand from the bookshelf, thumb rolling the rings around his fingers. “ I know of no such name, nor of monsters who would go into the human realm. Such things do not happen.”

Disappointment floods me. If he knows nothing about it, he cannot be expected to help. Quietly, I say, “ They do.”

“ How can you know?”

I glance at him. It is not accusatory, but neither is he giving me much faith.

I suppose he shouldn’t, not if he believes it not to be true and humans to be fanciful creatures tending to panic over little things they think to be fae playing tricks.

Rubbing my hand, I work on stepping toward him.

It is not as if I am ashamed of the scar, but it is also not as if I appreciate bringing it under people’ s noses.

He does not back away or make any indication I should not approach. His eyes follow down to my feet, then up again, and I ignore the flutter in my chest those silver eyes present.

Stopping more than an arm’s length away, I hold out my hand. “ I remember. I cannot forget it.”

I expect him to merely observe from a distance—certainly, his sharp eyes are quite enough for that—but he steps forward.

Before I can snag my hand back, his ringed fingers catch mine.

I would yank away, for no one has touched my hand besides Mam and Da, Una and Niall, but I am frozen in sudden shock under the unexpected and sudden fear of a faerie touching me.

He leans his shoulder against the bookshelf so he can use his other hand as well, still holding his walking stick.

Cool fingers turn my palm over, brushing along the tender scar, the littlest finger, which took the most damage and didn’t heal well, barely recognizable as what it used to be.

It isn’t too noticeable—when one isn’t expecting it.

“ This did not heal well,” he murmurs. “ Who tended to you?”

“ My parents and the village apothecary. It is not as if we have tools to deal with faerie wounds,” I say more than a little awkwardly. “ They did as much as they could. It healed.”

“ Not well,” he says again, still not releasing my hand.

Finally, I give a gentle tug, aware of the tingle along my skin where his fingers dance against the back of my hand. He releases me, and I press my palm against my leg.

He rubs the rips of his fingers together, still leaning against the bookshelf, and gestures. “ When did that occur?”

“ Years ago. Nearly five, I believe.”

He gives a nod, eyes on the floor, unfocused, as if remembering.

“ Do you . . . remember?”

Blinking, he returns his gaze to me. “ Hmm? No, no. I was not fighting at that time.”

Fighting. My lips part, and I don’t know how to continue. Without meaning to, I glance at his walking cane, at the leg he seems to favor, wondering what is hidden under all the clothing.

Clearing his throat, he inspects the nearest branch of the tree growing into the second story of the library as if realizing what he revealed.

“ I apologize,” he says suddenly, turning back. “ For my treatment the other night. You startled me.”

My cheeks warm. I remember that only mere hours ago I was considering how foolish I was for being taken in by his pretense at human charms. I am not being taken in , I tell myself. I am simply listening.

“ You frightened me,” I tell him, and his lips quirk down in rather genuine unhappiness. “ It’s all right; I know I wasn’t invited at night. How are they?”

“ Hmm? ”

“ The kittens, or whatever they’re really called. How are they?”

“ Oh.” He looks me up and down as if considering, then hesitantly gestures to the back of the library, toward the room I found him in the night before. “ You may come see them.”

I open my mouth to insist that I am only here to ask about the hounds, but he is looking at me gently, he has not harmed me past a few good startles, and I am curious to see them again. I was becoming attached and was sadder than I’d like to admit that I had to give them up.

What would be the harm?

Emma could likely think of a great deal of harm, as could Una and Niall, and Mam and Da for that matter, but I find myself nodding.

When I don’t immediately move, he nods in return and leads me back.

I wonder if he doesn’t want to turn his back to me as well.

Much more dangerous for my back to be to him , and he must realize.

Carefully, I follow with as quiet of steps as possible, twisting the front of my dress in my hands.

His hair is always smoothly brushed, falling between his shoulder blades, and if I weren’t walking so far back, I’d almost be tempted to reach out and touch it.

It must be soft, like running a hand through summer grasses still fuzzy with new sprouts.

Perhaps I should leave. I am too easily drawn in by this creature, and he is a god compared to humans—I could fall prey to anything he says, any movement he makes. It is up to him whether or not I am trapped here forever.

For this reason alone, I pause in the doorway of the room where he’s taken up residence.

Peeking in, I find what must have once been more shelves and bookcases, for there are a few along the opposite wall.

Half of the room is open. A hearth burns low coals, though it’s plenty warm, muggy even.

I cannot know the depths of the illness or injury that afflicts him, so I do not comment.

A window along the opposite wall lets in dim Faerie sunlight, catching dust motes in the air like spinning stars.

He seems to have cleaned up, but there is only so much to be done in an ages-abandoned library, and injured atop it all.

He has found what were once old cushions as well as blankets and furs and has made a rather luxurious bed near the fire, enough space to recline comfortably any way he likes, with room as well to sit propped against an old couch with its wooden legs crumbled off.

Rather comfortable—and rather human. A few baskets are strewn about, though from here, I cannot see what’s in them, and I spot my own basket in the corner, which must still hold the kittens.

What else could I bring him to help? I shake off the thought—returning once was foolish, returning thrice and perhaps Una should have me seeing a doctor.

He bends and plucks at the blanket holding the kittens with careful fingers.

Though I don’t want to offer it in return, I find myself asking, “ What is your name?”

Unexpectedly, he lets out a gentle mock of a laugh, straightening. “ Would you tell me yours?”

An expected answer. Disappointment floods me nonetheless, tightening my chest. “ No, but I cannot do anything to you with yours.”