Page 7 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

She gives my forehead a kiss. I watch her disappear down the path and stare after her for a while, the sun beginning to burn my face, a beetle crawling across my foot, my finger tracing the tender scar wrapping around my forearm and across my fingers and palm.

It doesn’t bother me when I cook. It bothers me it exists.

It bothers me that the boy who left me to it is happy in the next village over.

I sit up.

Digging the jar of honey out of the cupboard, I tuck it into a basket with half the fresh loaf of bread and the newly baked pie. I’m not planning on being caught, no faerie eyes pinning me in place, but it never hurts to be prepared.

Besides, something about the creature’s existence doesn’t sit easily in my mind after considering it for more than a few minutes.

I have never seen one, so how should I know, but he didn’t quite appear to move correctly, and if that was indeed a walking stick in his hand, I almost begin to wonder if there is something wrong.

Either way, fae are swayed by sweet things, are they not?

Trying again to feed the kittens and having less success than last time, I tuck them back into their crate in my bedroom, pull on my lighter shoes, and sneak out the back door with the basket.

Una is not above spying on me with the state I was in last night—it is broad daylight, and I do not wish to be caught.

The long way through the woods is warm and shady, leaves fluttering green with spring, happy and normal and of the mortal world. The heat is of springtime: thinner and not so oppressive, nothing like the swampy night air of Faerie. Will it be even hotter before noon?

I find the hawthorn tree sitting still and proud and touch the soft bark.

I did not mark it, of course, but it is quite easy to find.

In the daylight, there is nothing frightening about the little clearing around it in the thinner trees.

I have passed it a dozen times before, and besides the kittens and the blood, it is nothing to fear.

It is not even the place where I gained my scar.

Voices call from the village, but they are the greetings to neighbors I know so well. From here, I can just see the tops of thatched houses. Later, I should help with the newest rethatching. No use in anyone worrying I’ve locked myself away after a little blood was found on some leaves.

Facing the clear of the deep forest, endless and eternal until one becomes lost and enters Faerie—I do not know what exists on the other side of it, nothing perhaps, perhaps eternity—I wring the handle of my basket.

“ It’s an old library,” I tell myself, though that is not the part making my skin cold in the warm morning. “ And he’s probably gone. Why would he stay? It’s an old library.”

I close my eyes and run half a dozen steps.

Honeysuckle drifts over me, and I skid to a stop.

When I open my eyes, it is so benign it almost seems strange.

In the slightly brighter daylight—the trees still obscure much of the sun—it all appears much less threatening, even when I creep through the walkway and peer around the corner at the library itself.

With the leaves falling around it, it is more a painting, a picture from a children’ s tale.

The window where last I saw his flickering shadow is empty.

You can turn around , I remind myself, then crunch across the leaves to the little side door, almost expecting it to be locked.

It is not. The handle is chill beneath my fingers, but inside, the library is warmer than expected after last night’s cold.

Perhaps magic warms and cools it. Little is known of how magic exists or works—many say it is a myth, like the fae themselves, but they do not live in a village on the edge of Faerie.

Picking my way through the maze of tight bookshelves, I come to the same hallway. My heartbeat thumps behind my ears. My fingers grip the basket so tight they ache. My soft footstep feels too loud on the wooden floor.

I step out once. Twice. I hear nothing besides the leaves still coming to rest along the floor. There seems to be an unlimited number of them. If they fall this way constantly, they would be long gone from the broad branches by now.

Leaning forward, I catch sight of the bookshelf at the edge of the upper railing, where the corner of the book rests. All I need to do is creep up the stairs, snatch it, leave the honey and bread and pie, and sneak back out.

Simple.

Perhaps the moonlight blessed me instead of cursed me, for the steps do not groan on the way up. On the tips of my toes, I make my way back to the correct shelf.

The book is gone.

I freeze. Did he take it? Why would he take it? Only because I was interested?

Perhaps he put it on a different shelf; the spot I pulled it from remains empty—

It’s atop the shelf.

I squint at it. Why would he put it up there?

Perhaps he is attempting to trap me. If I must climb to get it, it will take more time.

But I’ve been standing here for minutes.

If he were trying to catch me, he would not need to lure me to the top of the shelf to do it.

I glance around, then into the nearest rows of shelves.

Empty. I don’t feel eyes on me. I think I would know the feeling of them, after everything.

Setting the basket on the floor, I step just under the bookshelf, looking up at the familiar spine.

The shelf itself is not terribly tall. I can nearly reach it if I stand on my toes.

The tall figure last night could certainly set it there with ease.

I test my weight on the bottom step, and it gives a faint squeak but holds me.

I boost myself up and slide the tome to me.

Dust comes scooting off the edge, catching on the waist of my dress.

Past the shelves, something creaks.

I was starting to believe he wasn’t still here.

Chills catch along my skin. Against better judgement, I step one more rung up, nudging a few spines with the toe of my boot, and look over the rows leading back into the room. I don’t see anything, and the moon knows anything in here could be making the noise.

A footstep. A breath. My own catches in my lungs.

I turn my face ever so slightly.

He is not a shadow anymore.

And he is so close. I flinch. Somehow, he stepped around the bookshelf and right up under me with not even a sound—not a sound until he wanted me to turn and find him.

And he is tall . I didn’t realize how much so in the dark.

Now, when he stands just under me with his pale flat face and slightly too-long neck, leaning right up under my shoulder, eyes seeming too close, I realize just how frighteningly large he is.

His limbs are all long ropes of thin muscle.

He’s too thin and tall and ungainly but moved with such grace the night before.

Now he is still.

Incredibly still.

He does not so much as blink, head caught in a permanent slant of curiosity.

I am staring into the face of an owl, or a hawk, or a night monster the thoughts of which make my scarred hand gripping the bookshelf ache.

He is not moving , and I realize how uncannily strange it is to watch something living that doesn’t even appear to shift with breath.

My fingers are shaking, my heart hurting with panic.

I should’ve left Una and Niall a note so they’d at least know why I never returned.

Somewhere in the corner of my panicking thoughts, I recognize that it is indeed a walking stick in his hand, not a long blade as I first feared. Quite heavily, he leans on it, and I think perhaps it is more a cane.

Can fae be wounded?

I must say something, must speak. I am in Faerie, and I should not be, and he has not killed me in the first few seconds of panic. Perhaps I can say something, anything ...

Words flee my thoughts, and I find myself whispering, “ I... brought you honey.”

Finally, finally , a muscle twitches in his face. Amusement? I grasp on to it. Amusement is good. You don’t kill something you think is funny and pathetic—not when you’re human, at least.

I dare to shift my foot a bit, and the ancient wood snaps. My fingers slip off the top shelf, and I drop to the ground. An arm catches me, and the side of my head smacks against a rather distinct cheekbone. He lets off a small grunt, stumbling, leaning more heavily on his cane.

I freeze, one foot on the floor, awkwardly caught against him.

His hand is iron around my elbow, and I feel each and every joint of his fingers.

I don’t know why, but I expected fae to be cold as the moon they’re born under, cold as the claws of the hunt hounds in my arm.

When I glance up, the line of his jaw is closer to my face than expected, and the strange silver eyes gaze down at me in open curiosity.

A branch of the tree shifts, a shaft of sunlight cutting farther in, and his pupils dilate.

Honeysuckle has spread its scent to his clothes.

Gently, he sets me down.

Every muscle in my body tells me to get away from him, put as much space between us as possible, but I’m much more frightened of running and angering him. Right now, he looks curious, and that can’t be worse than angry.

His hand moves, and I flinch despite my best efforts.

He pauses, slim eyebrows quirking together, before moving slower.

Up to the top of the shelf, where he eases down the book and offers it.

I’m more than a little suspicious it’s a trap to take it, but it could be a trap if I don’t .

Slowly, being as submissive as possible, I put my hands around the edges.

His fingers are longer than I realized, and I accidentally brush them with mine under the bottom cover.

“ Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out weaker than intended.

“ You can read it?”

Such a normal question. His voice is gentler than his tall form, quiet—a stream over river stones.

I open and close my mouth a few times, throat tight, and say, “ No, I . . . There are pictures . . . I . . .”

He is a faerie . . . He is a faerie, and he seems friendly enough. Perhaps I don’t need to find the little kittens in the book and try to guess at the words written around them.

They should be on this side of Faerie anyway, should they not?

“ I... found some kittens by the edge of the woods. They are not from our side, and I don’t know what to feed them—they aren’t eating anything I give them—so I thought I’d try to figure out what they’ll eat.

I didn’t know anyone was in here. I didn’t think fae came to the border—” The words all come out in a huff of breath.

His eyebrows go a little higher the more I ramble on.

Definitely amused.

“ Kittens? ”

“ Well, I don’t know what they are, but they’re... a little like kittens.”

He waves a long hand toward the book. “ Point them out for me. I will be able to tell you.”

Still friendly enough. I hold the book awkwardly, worried about opening it and tearing a page again. “ I... didn’t actually find them in here... yet. I was looking when you startled me... last night.”

“ I didn’t mean to.”

I find myself nodding, for he says it so genuinely. I remain expecting a trap, but fae cannot lie, and he seems... uninterested in hurting me, at the very least. If nothing else, I seem a vague curiosity, a strange beetle he’s come across.

He nods to the book, and I realize he expects me to look through the ancient pages.

Right now. Right here. With his sharp inhuman eyes staring at me.

I shift the book a little into one arm. It is rather large, and he watches me hold it in the crook of my elbow before shifting aside and gesturing along the railing.

A table sits farther down. It would be easier, but I don’t want to walk past him, don’t want to turn my back to him.

He gestures again, and I don’t dare refuse despite the pinpricks of chills rolling between my shoulders as I make my way toward the table, very aware of each thump of my boots on the floorboards.

Behind me, his feet make barely a noise save for the gentle click of his cane.

There’s a lilt to his soft gait—he’s certainly injured himself, or it’s an old wound.

But from all the stories, I’m not sure fae retain old wounds.

There’s some relief when I set the tome on the dusty table and he comes to stand within my vision, gaze on the movement of my hands as I turn the pages with care. Hopefully he isn’t irritated by my slowness.

“ Why didn’t you leave them where you found them?”

I start, not having expected him to speak again. Get ahold of yourself, Niamh.

“ They were just there by themselves. And there was... blood on the nearby bush. I thought perhaps something had killed their mother. Someone had to help them.”

He nods, which is a strangely disarming gesture when expecting a violent creature.

I’m more than halfway through the book and beginning to wonder if they are not even here at all when a passing sketch catches my eye. The adult versions of the creatures, I don’t know, but the kittens with their flat little faces and needle teeth—those are unmistakable.

“ Here,” I say, touching the leaf-dry paper and edging the book toward him. He leans closer, and I am very aware of his tall presence over my shoulder.

He turns the book a bit more toward him, and his expression darkens.