Page 27 of Curse the Fae

In fact, stories would claim it’s his greatest weakness. If I’m right, I need to know what that is. I need to unlock it.

Cloistering myself in this hovel won’t yield the answer. Tarrying here will only compromise my ability to win this game. If hints and solutions exist outside this room, I need to learn the terrain, map out this place, and search for clues.

There’s one problem: my weapon. I can’t go anywhere unarmed.

I sit up, the sheets tumbling around my hips. The absence of noisy insects and amphibians means the Folk are still asleep, so I have a few hours left before they rise. If there’s any better hour to do what I must, it’s now.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The last time I saw my weapon, the river had taken it from me at Elixir’s behest. Though I hadn’t noticed the spear in The Pit of Vipers, I’d been distracted and frazzled, and only one knave could be holding it hostage. That domineering, control-obsessed heathen wouldn’t entrust it to anyone else. And if a pickpocket knows anything, it’s that people eventually let their guard down.

I rise to my feet and square my shoulders. It’s time to get my spear back.

***

I close the door behind me. All is still and tranquil—precariously so.

The lake is a polished blue coin. The stepping-stones are nowhere in sight, nor do they rise for me as they have for Elixir and the guard. And according to The Grotto That Whispers, the water will suction mortals down.

I dip my foot under, and a current latches on, tugging me down past the ankle. Gasping, I yank my leg free and take a moment to regroup.

There’s nothing for it. I’m a swimmer, and I can hold my breath longer than most.

Besides, if I can resist Elixir’s blinding magic, what else am I capable of?

While knotting my caftan around my waist, I coax myself to disregard the lack of undergarments. This isn’t a time to fret about exposing myself. After muttering a Fabled prayer and preserving my oxygen, I dive in.

The water catches me. Immediately, it clamps onto my limbs, urging me down.

A brief spell of panic churns in my stomach. I conjure every minute I’ve spent in the water and push, push, push against the pressure. My eyes whisk open and catch sight of the bank. I keep going, keep stroking, keep kicking.

Don’t think, I urge myself. Just press forward, I tell myself.

My arms and legs move in sync. The water wrestles with me, but I maneuver in and out of its hold.

At last, the lake grows shallow. I totter upright and slog out of the water.

Beyond the fence of reeds, Coral stands sentinel by the jetty, the harpoon lance at her side. I hunker beneath the archway as she scans the perimeter. An intricate platinum clip shaped like a quarter moon sinks its teeth into her silver-blue hair, right behind her pointed ear. It’s an object she might easily lose, a bauble that could fall without her noticing, especially while she’s patrolling.

She paces every few minutes, enough for me to count her steps. When she moves to the right, I slip directly behind her, my nimble fingers plucking the comb from her tresses. The action requires no trick, just a seamless progression of movement, like a draft of air. I glide back to the archway and hurl the comb as far around the bend as possible.

At the clink of platinum, Coral’s attention snaps toward the disturbance. She coasts in that direction, opening a path for me. The moment she vanishes, I dart up the incline.

From there, I traipse between the shadows, the hem of my caftan billowing around my legs. I had chosen a garment as dark as these cavern walls, the better to blend in, with a hood to conceal the brightness of my hair.

Little by little, I pass through lush recesses and rocky alcoves, some trickling with water. While the Faeries sleep, the mortal captive prowls their world in search of something that doesn’t belong to them. I travel back to the grotto, through the passages, and up the stairs to The Pit of Vipers.

The spear must be in there. I must have missed it the last time.

I scan the atmosphere for signs of activity, but all is dormant. On the count of three, I hustle into the main entrance, through the water curtain that parts for me. I cross the terrarium lane, pass the glowing snakes that entwine the branches, approach the second threshold leading into the den, and—

I skid in place. I’ve made it inside the building undetected. By the grace of the Fables, I’m here.

But so is Elixir.

My pulse leaps. The Fae is wide awake and standing before the central vat, one bare foot propped on the rim. He’s leaning forward, an arm draped across his bent thigh, his brooding features tipped as he contemplates the water. His onyx mane slides down his shoulders, a thick layer covering half his profile.

In his free hand, the ruler holds a chalice. He crushes the goblet between his fingers, the digits straining, as if thoughts plague him. Whatever the problem is, it’s keeping him awake.

At length, the Fae straightens. He’s wearing umber-dyed leggings this time, and the same open robe hangs off his frame; the material splits down the middle and sweeps the ground. A chiseled plate of olive skin gleams in the lantern flames, and his nipples are dusky, the disks tight.

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