Page 34 of A Bargain with the Fae King

Iboltintothewoods heading in the direction Riven and his guard gestured toward when we stopped. The opposite of whatever caught the guard’s attention—thank goodness. Fae would be faster than me, quieter, more apt to these conditions, but just sitting around and waiting to see whether or not Riven could indeed keep his bargain and rescue May is out of the question.

My feet slip out from under me. They fly up into the air as my upper body slams into the ground. Pain flares in my back. I roll down a shallow embankment and something sharp scrapes my arm. My head’s still spinning when I finally stop.

I groan, pushing myself up on the ground. Leaves cling to me. My faery outfit is smeared with dirt. I grit my teeth against the aches and shove myself to my feet.

Shit. The forest looks almost the same in every direction. Dark, skeletal limbs baring pointed leaves reach for me from all sides. Dubious dark heaps that could be shrubs, boulders, or something far worse, rise from the ground. The dense foliage overhead only lets a few strands of moonlight through, making it hard to see anything too clearly.

A sudden squawk, quieter than the ones near camp but nonetheless jarring, sends me leaping backward against the trunk of a large tree. The bark bites into my back as I glance around.

The squawk comes again, accompanied by a dark flutter in the tree limbs in front of me. I gasp, my hands clawing at the trunk, willing myself to fade from view. A bird steps into a stream of moonlight, which illuminates its gray head, dark wings, and lighter stomach. This fae bird dwarfs the size of the hawks in the woods back home. An eagle, maybe, but the coloring is wrong.

It tilts its head. Dark, glassy eyes assess me. The branch bows and creaks as its wings stretch wide before it flutters off to a bulbous tree on the right. Another squawk echoes into the too quiet night.

“I don’t have time for this,” I mumble before shoving off the tree and heading in the opposite direction.

A gasp rips from my throat as the bird lands right in front of me, flaring its wings.

My heart thunders. What the heck?

It flies off to the right and waits.

“Do you want me to follow you?” I whisper.

It squawks.

Is that a yes? “I’m looking for a human, like me. Can you help?”

And now you’re talking to birds. Good job, Lia.

The bird flutters two trees to the right and ruffles its wings. Definitely a sign.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, butI shake my head.“When in Faery.”

I hurry after the bird. Branches and shrubs fight back against my clothing as I run through the forest, following this ridiculous bird. More moonlight spills through where the forest thins ahead. The bird halts near the edge of the clearing, waiting at head height until I catch up.

Breath catches in my throat. Human-like forms huddle together. A few stand a little further out—guarding those on the ground? Fae?

My brows wrinkle. Even from here, they don’t look like Riven or his people. One has unnaturally long arms. Claws, like long knives, glint in the moonlight on the hand of another. Antlers adorn the head of a third.

An icy stillness settles into my bones.

These are the Unseelie. The Wild Tribes. Animalistic—I never thought he meant the way they looked.

The bird, some kind of fae eagle I’ve decided, shuffles down the branch until its wings almost caress my face and the branch creaks under its weight. It, too, stares at the strange company in front of us.

Something moves in the grass to the right of the cluster of fae.

I stiffen, a gasp lodged in my throat. Long, thick, and dark, it resembles a giant anaconda slithering through the tall grasses.

The Unseelie fae see it too. Raised voices and shouts clamor in the night as the sentries flock toward it, spears and swords at the ready. On the ground, more figures rise in a hurry, grabbing up arms and forming a new perimeter.

More slithering creatures snake through the brush.

No. I lean a little closer, despite the little voice shouting in the back of my head to run away and never look back. They’re not creatures. Vines. Pointed thorns poke out haphazardly as they ripple across the ground like waves on the sea. My stomach roils at the horrifying sight.

Blades stab and hack toward the invading greenery. An animalistic cry splits the night as one form topples over.

It does not rise again.

---