Page 30 of Curse the Fae

Elixir must hear the same appraising tone. The water lord’s features crease as he dissects those two words. In spite of Elixir’s blindness, the satyr holds his brother’s gaze. I grant, the woodland Fae is skilled at manipulating his features into nonchalance, yet there’s no mistaking the underlining attachment Puck has to the weapon.

Nonetheless, the impetus for it escapes me.

Elixir’s visage darkens in awareness and no shortage of repugnance. Like me, the ruler doesn’t understand the meaning behind Puck’s flattery.

The satyr rolls his shoulders. “What say you, Elixir? Can you remove the iron?”

“My mixtures serve only two purposes,” Elixir says. “Either they poison or cure.”

I give a start. He has remedies? Not all the bottles contain toxins and depraved brews?

“Soooo,” Puck draws out, “cure the bolts. They’re contaminated, aren’t they?”

“You will use the archery against her, then.”

“Meh. Something like that. Her game has begun, and I need leverage. Let’s say it’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” Elixir is quick to respond.

A challenge contorts Puck’s expression, and the moment stews between them. Eventually, the satyr smirks. “You have doubts about my evil nature? I’m wounded as fuck. Let no one call me disloyal to my kin.”

The jaunty tone fails to sway Elixir, who grates out, “I said nothing of the kind.”

Puck’s gaze tapers, slashes of black and white lining his eyelids. “Whereas I say many things, and some of those things lead to other things, but all of those things always lead to the same end. I’m cunning for a reason, and I like to play with my food, and she’s a tasty mortal. You fuck with your human in your way. Let me fuck with my human in mine. Or perhaps I’ll just bend the huntress over and fuck her body, plain and simple.”

Reprobate! Devil incarnate!

His crudeness provokes murderous thoughts to enter my soul. When this is over, I’ll find and slay Puck, along with his brothers.

The river ruler’s chest rises and falls in deliberation. He slants his head toward the weaponry and resumes mapping out the bolts, taking care not to get near the tips. “Leave them with me.”

“I’ll wait,” Puck insists.

“No, you will not. It shall take a day.”

The satyr hesitates before depositing the archery against the nearest wall. He maintains his hold on the crossbow for a moment, another strange expression cinching his profile.

What right does he have to gaze upon Juniper’s weapon as though it’s of immeasurable valuable? As though he cares a fig about its owner?

All the same, his index finger strokes the crossbow’s handle once—a covert gesture Elixir can’t see. But I can. It’s the faintest of touches, hardly discernible even if an amphitheater of spectators was watching. Given my history, I know what it means to reach out when one thinks others aren’t looking.

This is one incident in which Elixir is wholly blind. The water lord might sense every heinous emotion in existence, and he might be somewhat acquainted with the manifestations of respect, charity, or vulnerability. But can he discern amorous feelings? Likely not, unless he’s ever felt those sentiments in his misbegotten life. For that, I should pity him.

If Puck believes his gesture undetected, does that make it genuine? The action tugs on a small, susceptible part of me that yearns to believe he’s in earnest. The part of me that can’t resist believing heroes can be found in the unlikeliest of souls.

Abruptly, I shake myself out of the fantasy. There’s no fathomable way Puck cares about Juniper. Although promiscuous satyrs are the rare breed who deign to indulge carnal acts with humans, bedding mortals and developing feelings for them are different scenarios. Besides, if my sister mattered to him, Puck wouldn’t have the archery in his possession, nor would the rogue be here, talking about Juniper like she’s a common trollop.

And beyond that, the feeling would never be mutual. Juniper is the most unflappable member of our family. It would take a century for her to stomach such a libertine, much less warm to him.

“Is there anything else?” Elixir inquires, his timbre snipping the quiet in half.

Puck’s fingers snap open from around the crossbow. “Let’s hope not,” he mutters, then swings his full, cavalier attention to Elixir, the archery forgotten. “Well? Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, luv? In my neck of the woods, we forest dwellers are generous hosts. You should follow our example.”

“Call me ‘luv’ again, and I shall fill a jug with your blood and make you swallow it.”

“Much as I fancy a fetish, blood is where I draw the line.” Puck breaks from his stance and saunters to a dense bush. He sprawls on the ground, reclining against the foliage and crossing his cloven hooves, and flits his finger toward the tables. “You got anything with enough substance to get shit-faced?”

“Be very careful,” another voice intones. “You’re obnoxious enough as it is.”

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