Page 29 of Curse the Fae

The satyr shrugs. “What can I say? I make trickery my bitch. Either that, or I want to grow up and be like you someday, silently striking by the balls—and not for kinks. Sure, that’s what I have a longbow and a pair of knuckles for, but sometimes those weapons aren’t enough to thwart our enemies.”

“Since when are kin the enemy?”

Puck’s brown eyes narrow. “Look at you, chattier than usual.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Do I sound like I give a fuck?”

In a flash, the river ruler turns. His orbs flame with gold, hurling the metallic color in Puck’s direction. The satyr curses, his head twists, and he squints to shield his eyes. “You cunt,” he gripes. “I hate it when you pull that shit.”

The gilded light dulls from Elixir’s irises. “You try my patience.”

“Rubbish. You’re about as patient as a faun in heat.”

“What. Do. You. Want. Puck?”

The satyr wheels back to Elixir. “Hmm. A favor would be nice. I fancy favors.”

“I’m out of aphrodisiacs.”

“Let me know when you restock. Though, believe it or not, I have something else in mind.” Puck resumes his inspection of the containers, his finger dancing from one stopper to the next, and selects a vial of white grains. “What about—”

“Not that one.” Elixir stalks to Puck’s side and seizes the vial, though how did Elixir know which one the satyr had chosen?

“I was jesting,” Puck says, nonplussed. “You weren’t engrossed in my request, so I needed to get your attention. I’m no expert, but in my humble woodland abode, I dabble in my share of cooking. I know salt when I see it.”

With delicate precision, Elixir places the vial on the table, returning it to the same spot where it had been. “It is not salt.”

“Care to enlighten me, then?” the satyr inquires, then sighs when Elixir doesn’t reply. “Whatever. I need something potent.”

“For?” Elixir prompts.

Finally, the satyr’s glib facade evaporates. In its place is the same nefarious aspect as my captor, notwithstanding more artful. He rotates his wrist, and a weapon materializes in his hand. “For this?”

My heart stops at the sight of a crossbow and quiver trapped in Puck’s grip. The bolts are tipped in iron. I know that archery.

“Juniper,” I whisper, the name slipping from my lips.

Blessedly, the Faeries don’t catch the sound, despite their impeccable senses. My head swerves from the crossbow to Puck’s loathsome face. If they’re so-called brothers, and if he has the crossbow, and if Elixir had been in earnest when referring to Puck’s “subjects,” that means…

That means he isn’t a common satyr. Puck is one of The Three.

He’s ruler of the woodland. And he has my sister.

My molars grind. Fables forgive me, I will slash that scoundrel to bits. What I wouldn’t forsake to pierce him through the heart this instant.

So, the rulers of the Solitary wild are really brothers? Tales from The Trapping don’t recount this.

I dig my nails into the stone wall. What in Fable’s name is Puck doing to Juniper? What game is he making her play? If he has obtained her crossbow, does that mean she’s hurt? How did he get it from her?

Elixir sets aside his chalice and gazes into space, concentrating as his fingers sketch the crossbow, the quiver, and the bolts. Puck tries to warn him, but the satyr doesn’t need to. On a hiss, Elixir jerks his fingers back an inch before touching the tips. “Iron,” he rasps, his gaze seeking Puck’s face. “This is hers?”

Puck nods. “Smart girl.”

I glare at him. It’s precisely the sort of compliment my sister would love to hear from a person. She values intelligence above all traits.

Does Puck know this? But why would he? And why does he sound proud? Am I being as gullible as my family says I am, or is he being sarcastic?

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