Page 32 of Curse the Fae

“You’d be wiser to kiss my hot ass.”

Instead of umbrage, Cerulean’s eyes slit with intrigue. Puck’s rich brown ones twinkle with mischief. Both wear identical trickster expressions, albeit one elegant, the other knavish.

They move in unison. Cerulean flicks his wrist, and Puck flicks his fingers. A torrent of wind blows through the chamber and charges toward the satyr. Simultaneously, a thick foliage root breaks from the ground like a rope, spewing clumps of soil as it emerges and slams into the current, blocking its impact.

The ground shudders. I jump in place as a tide of water rolls toward the other two elements and smashes into them like a wave. The collision splinters apart, causing the gust to vanish and thrusting roots back into the ground. As for the water, it retracts into the central vat.

Elixir has stationed himself by one of the tables, his hip leaning against the rim. He lowers the capped digits of his left hand, his face steely compared to the sportive mischief of his brothers. Although the space looks as though nothing just happened, he cautions, “Vandalize my territory again, and it will hurt.Éck abürkist fick.”

“Apologies and so forth.” Cerulean inclines his head, then sips from the chalice with the mannerism of a disheveled prince.

“Sorry, luv,” Puck adds to Elixir while setting down his empty vessel. “Being in proximity to the both of you brings out the brother in me.”

After another pause, the sky and woodland rulers flash their vicious teeth—and Elixir follows suit, muttering something to himself and then surrendering to a subtle and reluctant grin.

“To answer the question, Elixir is helping me remove the iron from those bolts,” Puck says. Except he notices something while indicating the archery. “My, my, my. It appears great minds think alike.”

My eyes stray from the crossbow to another weapon ensconced just above, affixed within a recess embedded into the wall. My hunch had been right about my spear’s whereabouts. Relief and indignation prickle my skin as I behold the weapon mounted there, not like a trophy but a condemned object or bad omen.

“I’m not extracting the spear’s iron,” Elixir says.

Cerulean and Puck glance at him, puzzled. I follow suit, taken aback.

“Relinquishing power doesn’t become you. Are you in the mood to play with fire?” Cerulean wonders.

“Or do you have a thing for masochism?” Puck demands. “Planning to use it as some kind of elaborate sex toy?”

“Keep your perversions to your fucking self,” Elixir advises.

“If you insist. Though in my defense, perversion is for amateurs, whereas sexual exploration is not.” Puck tsks. “How many delicacies you miss. You would know this if you’d ever once been ridden.”

Elixir’s eyes gleam. “In hindsight, I forgot to blind the shit out of you.”

“The iron will weaken your defenses.”

“I’m aware of what the element does to us,” the river Fae snaps, breaking from his position and striding toward the central vat.

“Then why in fuck’s name won’t you blunt the weapon before your human finds a way to steal it back and castrate you instead?”

“We agreed not to disclose our games.”

“We’re not talking about the games,” Cerulean interjects, moving to the vat and stalling beside Elixir. “We’re talking about the weapons these women outfitted themselves with.”

“Bloody true, and we did agree when this entire shit show began to report on any problems, with any of our sacrifices.” Puck rises, congregates with his brethren near the vat, and shrugs. “Soooo…?”

The pool’s surface casts lambent strands across their expressions, which have grown collectively pensive. Elixir listens to a python in motion, angling a single tapered year toward the snake that coils itself around a neighboring branch. “My intentions are my own. The human shall give me no problems.”

I bristle. He sounds far too confident for my liking. I’ll need to remind him that I refuse to be preyed upon by anyone or anything.

Cerulean shakes his head. “If my mutinous mortal had her weapon armed in such a way, I would have brought it to you without reservation. That is, if I could manage to pry it from the female—a debatable feat.”

“Mutinous?” Elixir echoes.

“Debatable?” Puck quotes.

“She hasn’t been very cooperative,” Cerulean admits with dry irritation—and a modicum of fascinated admiration. “She’s quite the mouthy, meddlesome mortal. You’d favor her, Puck.”

“I’ve got my hands full,” the satyr grunts. “My quarry is a scholarly huntress who’s been violating me with her prudish scowls and sterile quotations. Is that why you’re here, Cerulean? To hold court on someone else’s turf and listen to our woes?”

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