Page 31 of Curse the Fae

The lilting accent swoops through the room like a gust of wind. My eyes skid from Puck, to Elixir, to a third Fae whose blue wings inflate like sails on either side of his body. This new male presence sprawls on a bracket of rock jutting from one of the walls, one leg dangling, the other steepled on the ledge. With an elbow propped on another bracket, he balances his profile between a thumb and forefinger. Somehow, he manages to make this position look graceful and alluring.

If Elixir inspires a pounding heart, and if Puck inspires a wanton flush to the cheeks, this third being inspires a flutter in one’s womb. Looking at the newcomer feels like being pushed off a cliff and then caught midair—breathtaking and surreal.

In addition to the wings, the Fae carries the midnight sky in his bearing, from the dark blue hair and lips, to the glittering irises of the same shade. Elixir is fit and athletic, and Puck is broad and sturdy, but this one is statuesque and toned. His cheekbones alone could whet a dagger. Airy linens billow from his body, an open coat and shirt expose his chest to the navel, and his posture exudes lofty elegance.

Lark would call him pretty. She would add sexy to that list.

Lark…

My attention rakes over the winged Fae. The ruler of the river and woodland are accounted for, so this must be—

“Cerulean,” Elixir says, his gaze tipping in the male’s direction.

“Well look at you, making a spicy entrance,” Puck compliments. “Care to put those feathers away, luv? You’re upstaging my antlers.”

“Fables forbid,” Cerulean teases as he vacates the ledge and strolls into the lantern light.

Cerulean. Ruler of the sky.

He’s the final member of The Three, the one who reigns over the mountain and has Lark under his command. That is, if she’s cooperating, which is anyone’s guess.

Puck pouts. At which point, the wings retract into Cerulean’s back, vanishing someplace beneath the long coat. Wicked amusement dashes across the mountain Fae’s countenance. “Never fear. The wings are gone, and your antlers are free to reign supreme. I’ve learned my lesson there.”

“Why does everyone take my quips so seriously?” Puck laments. “Your plumage can spread whenever they want. I’m not complaining. They’re no match for my hard, high, erect crown anyway.”

“Is that a fact?” Cerulean wonders. “Because I do recall how you reacted the last time my wings stole public attention from your attributes.”

“Whatever you’re about to say, I deny everything.”

Elixir and Cerulean quirk their eyebrows. To which Puck flings his muscular arms in the air. “What? You may have the wings, but I’m a fucking angel.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you threw a tantrum.”

Puck jabs a finger at him. “That never happened.” A pair of dangly leaf earrings jingle from his ears as he swings his attention toward the silent member of this trio. “Jump in anytime.”

“No,” Elixir says flatly.

Cerulean’s mouth twists with mirth. Puck balks, “No? I’m your guest.”

“Cerulean is my guest. You are merely an impish whore—a pest hellbent on scheming, if not on smut.”

“Fables. If you’re going to just stand there making sense, go fuck yourself.”

The water lord banks his head toward the crossbow. “Do you still want my help?”

Puck scoffs at the warning, then chuckles. “Where’s that drink, dammit?”

Satisfied, Elixir turns, his dark robe slicing around his limbs. At one of the tables, he skims his pinky over the stoppers and halts on a tall vessel filled with something that resembles melted honey. He collects two extra chalices, pours the liquid, and distributes it to the Faeries loitering in opposite corners.

Cerulean migrates back to the wall and props his shoulder against the foundation. Casually, he crosses one booted foot over the other and rotates his drink without taking a swig. A slender cord of hair extends longer than the rest of his unkempt layers; the cord dangles down the cliff of his chest, exposed beneath his open shirt and coat. The tail of hair ends in a single blue feather, which shifts as he regards the crossbow propped in the corner. “Care to explain that?”

Puck guzzles the chalice’s contents, then licks his lips. “In the articulate words of Elixir, ‘No.’”

“Oh?” Cerulean inquires. “And when did you become the taciturn one around here?”

“Ah, but you know how I like to dance around my words, especially when they’re none of your business. Are you going to finish that beverage or just smolder at it? If the latter, give it to me. It’s been a long day, and I’m thirsty.”

“You’d be wise to answer the question, Puck.”

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