Page 28 of Curse the Fae

My body tingles with irritation, plus another corrupt impulse.

Does this monster not sleep? Must he insist on getting in the way when I’m on a mission to ransack his den? And why does the sight of him cause the throbbing in my temples to travel down my body, to a forbidden and feminine place?

Elixir lifts the chalice to his mouth. My intakes grow shallow. As the goblet grazes his lower lip, I imagine a single drop of liquid teetering off the rim, ready to spill down his throat.

That’s when he pauses. The chalice stills, arrested against his mouth. Slowly, his eyes slant downward in sudden awareness, knowing someone’s there.

From my hiding spot, I hold my breath. But then I frown when Elixir’s eyes slant sideways in annoyance, as if sensing a nuisance. “Go away,” he snaps.

And a roguish voice responds, “My, my, my. Is that any way to greet a brother?”

Another male figure materializes from thin air. The Fae slouches against the opposite wall, his bulky arms crossed and a lazy smirk wreathing across his face. The pose is both swaggering and magnetic, his aura befitting the leather vest and knee breeches enhancing his broad frame.

Where limbs should be, furred calves and cloven hooves extend from the pants. My eyes lurch past his face and land on the sharp antlers sprouting from his very red hair.

This one’s a forest Fae—a satyr.

Elixir growls, which doesn’t faze his guest. If anything, it encourages the male. In the heat of the blazing lanterns, the satyr tips his head sideways and grins like the devil. “Miss me, luv?”

10

“Fuck off,” Elixir spits, tossing the request over his shoulder.

The satyr tsks in mock offense. “That’s not the merry greeting I was hoping for. Most Faeries sink to their knees when I enter a room.”

“I’m not one of your lovers, you overstimulated prick.”

“Bloody true. That would be incest. Still, you could be a little excited by my arrival. Currently, I’m in as shitty a mood as you are on a regular basis, which should please you.”

Elixir slams his free fist into the nearest hanging bottle. Shards of glass fly, sterling flecks blowing into the air and evaporating. “I said: Fuck off, Puck.”

“Such a temper and such a menacing octave,” the satyr gloats. “I do love having that privileged effect on you. By the way, that was a waste of pixie dust.”

His accent is as prominent as Elixir’s, though more provocative around the edges. With that kind of intonation, one would think the first word the satyr ever learned as an infant was a vulgarity.

Elixir scoffs, returning his attention to the water. He tips back the chalice, its contents pumping down his throat.

I duck farther into the corner. From this vantage point, I study the woodland Fae. Whereas Elixir is fatally beautiful, this male specimen is fiendishly handsome. Despite his fair skin, there’s an earthy roughness to the satyr called Puck, with his fitted leather garb and those stag antlers.

Another fact rises to the surface. Did this Fae refer to himself as Elixir’s brother? I recall Elixir mentioning his siblings the last time I was here.

But these males look nothing alike. Nor do I recall any Fables suggesting that Faeries of the same bloodline can possess such different features. By the same token, how is it they hail from disparate regions of the Solitary wild?

Puck pushes himself off the wall and struts across the cavern. Based on his confident swagger, he enjoys being the center of attention, on filthy as well as formidable terms. Truly, his gait exudes both authority and lusty sensuality.

Humming to himself, Puck reaches one of the crescent tables and noses through them. Glass clinks as he rifles the contents, his attention halting on a vessel filled with a liquid as red as his shoulder-length waves. He plucks the container and examines it in the firelight. “It looks like you’ve stoppered an inferno in this one. What the hell is it for?”

“Pour it on your cock and find out,” Elixir answers.

The reply dabs another smile into the crook of Puck’s lips. “Now, now. My cock doesn’t need any help.”

The river ruler angles his head over his shoulder, that mane sloping across his cheekbone. He arches an eyebrow. “I never said it would help.”

Puck swears under his breath and drops the vessel onto the table. The action causes a paradox. Upon hearing Puck’s distress, Elixir’s mouth tips in the faintest, rarest show of amusement.

“Motherfuck,” Puck drawls. “You’re one vicious bastard, brewing something like that.” He stops and reconsiders something. “Then again, mind if I borrow that little concoction? Might come in handy if I need something for bargaining, or in case one of my woodland kin crosses a line with me.” Sobriety creeps into his voice. “It’s more likely these days.”

“Paining your subjects?” Elixir contends, as if that isn’t Puck’s nature.

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