Page 34

twenty-four

Crimson Mushrooms

C rimson offered his linen sleeved arm. “How is Miss Ashwoode these days?”

They strolled deeper into the cluster of shrooms. The shielding magick from the square melted away, the rain descending in droves, the large caps of the mushrooms the only barrier from the chaotic falling drops.

Heather noticed a shifting of the light.

This portion of faerie appeared darker, the shadows longer.

Homes were carved into the enormous fungi.

Windows lined the multitude of red bonnets.

Other clusters grew practically on top of one another, resulting in cramped living spaces.

Her foot sunk into soft mud and her skirt’s hem became a quick mess.

“We’re new acquaintances, but I adore Aster.

I suspect her family might be crowding her,” said Heather.

"Have you ever given her a tour?" She peered up at Crimson through her lashes, attempting to read his reaction to the information she imparted.

To her disappointment, his face remained placidly serene.

He simply replied, "Nay, I have not."

Faeries males congregated in open door frames showing particular interest in the female walking arm and arm with The Crimson of the Mad Cappers.

Not just a female, a wingless one. Human.

Mayhap she made a mistake in taking him up on his offer.

She knew from experience that when women were outnumbered in a group of men, bad things happened.

But that was with men, not faerie. She hoped that there would be a marked difference.

But to her dismay, as they went past a darkened doorway, she locked stares with a male.

She could still feel his prickling stare on her person as they passed by.

Her breath grew rapid, the feeling of unease sending her spiraling into memories she’d rather forget.

Heather wasn’t the only one who noticed the male’s attention.

Crimson met the stranger’s gaze head on and snarled, issuing a warning.

The male dropped his eyes in deference and backed into the dark recesses of his mushroom home.

“My apologies. They should know better. You’re a guest. And you’re with me.” His voice steel as he continued to glare in the direction of the shadows.

They passed through a cramped alleyway, coming upon a slight peak of earth overlooking an extensive ring of red capped mushrooms. Directly below, dozens and dozens of brown mushrooms with inverted caps dotted the landscape, reminding Heather of bird nests.

Their concave tops held drops of rain, collecting the moisture in individual wading pools.

Sparkling laughter echoed, the weightless, happy sound like tinkling bells.

Heather could not believe her eyes. Faerie was an endless delight, a feast for her senses and imagination.

She and Crimson stood at a rainbow’s end.

Above, the afternoon sun hit its apex in the shadowed sky, a few vibrant shafts of warm sunlight breaking through the clouds and falling rain, casting magnificent rainbows.

The mushroom pools lay in the arc's direct path, drenching the water in hazy rainbow shades.

Reds, yellows, greens, and blues converged into the mushroom plain.

Faeries fluttered and splashed in the shallow colorful basins, the contact with the hued waters transferring the pigments to their skin.

Giving the appearance that they were playing in vats of paint.

With his pointer finger, Crimson lifted Heather’s chin so that her mouth was no longer agape. She longed to join in the merrymaking. Mayhap she and Skye could make a return visit.

Her words escaped her in a gaspy breath, “It’s simply heavenly.”

Crimson led the way down a series of cascading steps formed from coarse pebbles.

The walkway littered with undisturbed wildflower petals.

Primroses, red champions, and ferns loomed overhead.

It was a path less tread, which was understandable, why walk when one could fly?

She found herself once again envious of the pixie’s wings.

They emerged from the tangles, into a clearing covered in leaves in various states of decay.

“Since I’m here, pardon me as I use the opportunity to check the trap ring,” said Crimson.

“Traps?” questioned Heather.

Crimson approached a strange mushroom she had never seen before. Its pale flesh topper grew all the way down to the ground, holes riddled the surface, resembling a moth-eaten veil. Or a cage. Or, as Crimson put it, a trap. Ensnared within, mewled a rusty red miniature fox.

“There are foxes pixie sized?” asked Heather, in puzzlement.

“This fellow wandered in my faerie ring, shrinking him to our size. No worries, everything will be right as rain in but a moment.”

His palm met the surface of the mushroom, its thin top split and raised like a curtain as if by his request. The fox yapped and nipped for his hand at his approach but quickly made a break for escape as the path opened.

Crimson struck the animal's hide with dark magick matching his namesake. Heather watched the animals’ retreat in wonderment as the creature slowly magnified as it fled.

“He should be back to his usual size by now,” explained Crimson.

Heather had to wonder at what the male was intent on ensnaring.

Crimson led the way to a wide mushroom at the end of the lane.

Open double doors allowed raucous laughter and boisterous music to flow into the street.

A weathered sign above read, ‘CAPPYS’ in large scarlet lettering.

The dim tavern interior was lit with lanterns at each mushroom table.

Upon a second glance, Heather realized it wasn’t lantern light after all.

Lightning bugs fluttered within, aglow instead of wicks.

To the left stood a long bar top, formed from some shelf type of mushroom, the kind that sprouted off the sides of trees. Heather’s mind wandered to Jessa yet again. Her friend would know its name and whether it was edible.

Arm in arm with Crimson, they strode to the only available table in the establishment way in the back, far from the others, giving her the impression the table was reserved for the leader of the Mad Cappers- Crimson himself.

Lively games of what appeared to be dice, but with bones and pebbles, were played at tables full of males.

To their right, red ribbons sectioned off a square of the room.

Heather situated herself on a mushroom stool. A young barmaid approached, who’s narrowed eyes pricked her like thorns.

Her gaze softened upon Crimson and she asked, “The usual, Crim?” Translucent wings fluttered at her back. Heather supposed her wings were shaped like a bee's. She was wearing a garnet kirtle and oatmeal chemise that hung loose over her shoulder. Crimson jerked his sharp chin at her in acquiescence.

Heather surveyed the crowded room. Many of the pixies wore a dark crimson red sash tied at their right hip, and mushroom caps on their heads.

The bar keep worked through the harsh crowd, occasionally halted by a patron.

She flitted from toadstool table to table, refreshing their drinks and sharing a jest. Laughter followed her all the way back to Crimson’s table, where she poured a dark mead into their awaiting goblets.

Leaving a full serving pitcher formed from an orange trumpet flower on the tabletop.

Crimson slouched lazily in a chair molded from a couple of mushroom caps and twigs.

It was the only seating in the room that possessed a chair back, all the others were stools.

A makeshift throne. Crimson clasped his goblet in his ring clad hand, carelessly holding it by its brim, all the while taking deep swigs.

His onyx hair melded with long shadows. His preternatural pale skin glowed opalescent against the dark.

Heather sniffed her drink, wondering at its potency. She turned her head and caught Crimson smirking her way.

“Are ye a lightweight, human?” He teased languidly. Heather sheepishly smiled in the truth of it.

“What sort of mead is this?” The preferred beverage back home was made from honey, and whatever was in her cup presently was not a sweet concoction.

“It’s our own brew, toadstool.” The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Heather took a small sip, just enough for a taste.

Her eye caught on the faint green shimmer on the inside of her wrist. A slight, secret smile graced her lips as she stared down at Skye’s kiss imprint there.

There was no escaping the male who held her heart.

She swore it grew increasingly reflective as her eyes beheld it.

Then the most curious sensation began, the mark pulsated.

Mayhap it was the mead. She needed to steer clear of the potent beverage.

On the other side of the alehouse, the nameless bar keep leaned her back against the bar, flicked her long golden braid over a shoulder and smiled slyly.

Above the chaos, she shouted, “Ladies, what’s your favorite wood?

Particularly in the morning?” The patrons hooted and hollered deafeningly.

Three serving wenches paused their work.

“I prefer a blond wood!” cried one wench.

“I’ve got all the wood ya need, Esmere!” a young male called out and gyrated his hips in her direction. Heather’s gaze pinged back and forth over the commotion.