Page 33 of Curse the Fae

“As you said, we agreed when the sacrifices began to relate any setbacks. I traveled to the forest to collect you for a conference, but you were gone, already here I’d presumed.”

“And like I said, I had crossbow business to attend to. But as for problems, I’ve got no complaints.” Puck slants his antlered head, a bonfire of red hair falling across his brow line. “The huntress is under control. You?”

“The woman has a feisty tongue,” his brother grants, immoral blue lips slanting. “However, that vice can be tamed. Elixir?”

I brace myself. My captor’s attention jolts from the resident serpent to the ground, the lantern flames sharpening his features. “The lady is no threat to me.”

“Marvelous,” Cerulean says.

“Excellent,” Puck agrees.

Silence follows. It’s the sort of unstable quiet that contradicts everything they’ve just declared. The Faeries tarry around the vat, each male figure growing distant, their expressions wrinkling with malcontent.

My abhorrence over the way they’ve been speaking about Lark and Juniper dissolves. Pride swells in the wake of those feelings.

The steep inclines of Cerulean profile flex, his lips thinning in displeasure. Puck’s square jaw hardens, determination eradicating his wily demeanor. Elixir’s pupils fixate on a distant point.

There’s a look people have when they’re denying or hiding something. At the moment, I’m privy to such a scene. Here I am, spying on The Three. Here I am, watching these imposing, magical beings brood over my sisters, burdened by things they refuse to name.

A victorious smile wreathes across my face.

My sisters are being difficult. My sisters are challenging them.

My sisters are winning their games.

Or if not yet, they’re proving these bastards wrong, and the result is this: the most wonderful sight I’ve witnessed yet. Amidst the vegetation teeming with serpents, and ensconced in a mystical cavern, the rulers of this Solitary wild are having internal fits.

At least, two of them are. Elixir doesn’t bother turning inward. He festers openly, his fingers curling, eager for something to grab and crush.

Puck circles his shoulders, visibly loosening a crick. His brawny muscles contort down his arms, and the numerous buckles and clasps of his leather vest strain across his chest. “There’s one other thing,” he broaches. “The soil’s becoming less fertile in the woodland, particularly in The Gang of Elks.”

Elixir’s head snaps, jolting across the ground toward Puck’s feet.

Cerulean’s brows cinch tight. “Has it progressed to The Seeds That Give?”

“Not yet,” Puck tells them. “Birth in the forest is still possible.”

Cerulean’s shoulders unwind, though I can’t say the same for his countenance. “I’ve noticed increasing signs on the mountain range. Several cliffsides have grown unstable. I’ve ordered them barred from passage. It’s a route some of the cougars take, which will force them to change their patterns and seek territory elsewhere, which could lead to carnage with the other fauna.”

Puck spouts what I presume is an obscenity in Faeish. “Not happening. We have four more years to fix this. A pittance of time, but still.”

“On this trajectory, it might not be enough. If our realm continues to wither at this fucking rate, the animals will eradicate themselves quicker, and we’ll have less of our lands to thrive off. Our kin won’t last.” Cerulean’s gaze jumps between his brothers. “We’ll fade before then.”

“Unless we change the plot.” Puck swings his glower toward Elixir. “Anything ruthless to contribute, from the one who sees what others can’t?”

The water lord’s nostrils flare. “The river is draining.”

After a moment of silence, the satyr mutters, “Shit.”

“You’re certain?” Cerulean asks.

“Yes,” Elixir grates out, rage stalking across his visage.

If he means what I think, the water level in The Deep is sinking. At some point in the future, it might not supply its residents or provide sufficient depths for its aquatic creatures.

I recall the grotto’s recitation about what will happen if the Faeries fail in these sacrificial games before the thirteenth year. I think about the animals and Fae children of this realm languishing, their population annihilated because mortals and Faeries have failed to come to a truce.

Sympathy worms into my gut. But I also need to survive, for my family and the animals back home who still have a chance of being saved, rescued from their own human threats. Fables forgive me, I can’t allow myself to feel mercy for these villains. I can’t allow it to cloud my judgement.

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