Page 138 of Curse the Fae

From the moment Cove had brandished her spear against me in The Shiver of Sharks, the fragrance wafting off her damp skin had infused my senses. Even then, the potency of it nearly sunk me. From that moment on, the aroma became an intoxicant, of which there existed no antidote.

Now I welcome the intrusion. For it is my addiction and redemption. I take a heady draught and let it fill me to the fucking brim.

Even her sweat carries that scent. The serpents’ attention makes sense. This is hardly a typical aroma in my den, in spite of the lustier, more advantageous concoctions divided amongst my cache.

While I have used a droplet from Cove before, to create a remedy for the wounds she suffered while battling the crocodiles, the ingredients that had percolated with the bead must have staunched the scent. By comparison, this particular blend enhances the floral whiff, the essence of petals mulled with several other components. An extract of lily pads. Rainwater from The Solitary Mountain, provided by Cerulean. Macerated pome fruit from The Solitary Forest, which Puck had collected. Lastly, a distillation of river water from The Solitary Deep. I’d harvested a spoonful from The Grotto That Whispers, the oldest well in this realm.

I graze my hand through the brew. Prickles across my knuckles signal a translucent appearance, at least from the onset. When one upends the contents, that will change.

I feel my eyes warm. The solution is ready.

It must be right. For I have been laboring on this for seven weeks since the flood, since the moment my den was restored and the most vital ingredients supplanted.

There is more to be done. There are tools and containers to replace. There are ingredients to harvest.

But for now, this is enough. I submerge the glass vial into the mixture and test the liquid by dripping a globule onto a leaf I’d plucked from the shrubbery. Hope surges through my veins when my fingers trace a bud that sprouts from the stem. Until tonight, the mixture had been incomplete. No matter how much I’d shredded myself in the past weeks, the answer had eluded me.

Finally, I’d realized what was missing. Finally, it is done.

Satisfied, I stopper the vessel, then stash it in my robe pocket and gain my feet. Twisting my head in the serpents’ direction, I arch an eyebrow. “Wish me luck.”

Turning on my heel, I stride from The Pit of Vipers. I have changed my mind about manifesting, for it takes a surplus of energy. I would rather preserve my strength for when I see Cove. In her presence, I shall need it. Otherwise, her smile alone will slay the eternal shit out of me.

I charge through the tunnels, shoot through the river, and stalk down another set of corridors. As I move, my fingers steal out to trace the walls, though I know the way. I have made this trek countless times, and the route to her is embedded into my mind.

But as the wild continues to fade, there is never a guarantee anything will stay the same. From one night to the next, a mountain might crumble, a forest might quake, or a raging river might swallow these passages.

After the flood, I leave nothing to chance.

The grave thought accelerates my pace. At last, the hushing sway of reeds fills my ears. I push through the fence of stalks and halt.

My heart pounds like a battering ram. Fables be damned, she is a vision.

From across The Lily Pond, Cove stands beneath the bleary margins and echoing splash of the waterfall overhang. Unaware of my arrival, she faces away from me and runs her fingers through a curtain of teal locks. Brilliant tresses fall down her back, where the waterdrop pendant dangles and winks between the strands.

Her glistening skin is a lodestar. Her hair is a wave of bright blue ripples. Her necklace is a golden flame, like the burning wick of a candle.

I may not see anything else in this world, not the way others do. But I see her.

I see my light.

Damnation. She is more stunning than I had fantasized. Visions of Cove had plagued me long before I ever touched her. Like a fever dream, the images had twisted my thoughts into knots whenever and wherever I slept, be it on a riverbank or a suite in The Twisted Canals.

How I’d hated this female for that. How I’d wanted her.

Oftentimes, I had caught myself reaching out when I sensed Cove was not looking. I had yearned to feel her, to grab her in my arms, to take her swiftly and tirelessly.

Under the moss overhang, a smaller flux pours from a crack. It races down her arms, charges across the hourglass of her hips, and showers over the swells of her beautiful ass. My throat dries, a rare occurrence for me. This mortal has no idea what she does to my sanity, for the bewitchment has never ceased.

Fuck, I cannot look away. From the beginning, I have never been able to tear myself away. Not from her scent or the blood coursing through her. Not from her ramblings or her voice. Not from the bittersweet sound of her laugh or the hot intake of her breath. Not from her compassion or kindness.

Against those weapons, I have never stood a chance. They are my undoing and my lifelines.

Cove lathers her tresses, suds frothing from the crown of her head. She’s using the serum I brewed for her. The perfume of it travels across the grass to me, pulling a groan from my chest.

My eyes narrow on the half-moon glimpse of a breast. There and then, I lose all respect for the concept of patience.

I dig into my robe pocket and toss the vial into the pond. Then I strip off my leggings, shrug off the robe, and let it fall as my unshod feet prowl across the lawn. Descending to my calves, I step under the barrage and through a screen of mist. Installing myself behind Cove, I loom inches from her drenched body, a tail of water separating us.

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