Page 79 of Curse the Fae

His tapered ears pick up the sound, and those eyes skewer in my direction. The gilded light hits me square in the face. I release the shrubbery, the bush’s panels thwacking closed.

My pulse rattles. It’s no use. He already saw me.

Cautiously, I rise from my hiding spot and meet his blustering gaze. That almost-grin has vanished like mist, replaced by the meanest glower I’ve ever beheld. With a gulp, I pick my way toward him.

The fish keep swimming around his form. In the eventide shadows, I pause before the glass and brave his glare. His eyes trace me, slithering over my dress and the spear clutched in my fingers, then strike back to my face. At least I didn’t wear the serpent mask this time.

Tentatively, I withdraw the pencil and leaflet, balance the sheet on my palm, and write. I know he understands the mortal tongue, if he was able to threaten me the other night.

I flatten the paper against the glass:Are you hurt?

He scans the question. Those orbs blaze with contempt because, of course, he’s hurt. Not only do iron rungs prevent him from escaping, but upon further inspection, crisscross welts mar his neck and tail, the pattern recognizable. One of the villagers in the market had mentioned iron netting would be used for trapping any water dwellers of Faerie.

I try again:Who did this to you?

Which of my neighbors? Someone I know?

This earns me nothing but a scornful look. I keep scribbling on new leaflets.

What’s your name?

This time, the Fae shakes his head slowly, protectiveness burgeoning in his pupils. Oh right, Faeries safeguard their true names.

Did they come to take care of you?

I jab my finger, pointing at the snakes, eels, and fish. The Fae’s black brows slam together in puzzlement. Yes, I’m asking if these mortal fish were worried about him and came to offer companionship and comfort. I suppose it’s a silly question, but I need to know.

Suspiciously, the young viper nods. Encouragement blossoms in my stomach. My breathing evens out, though my fingers quiver as I pen another question, because he couldn’t have meant what he’d said that first night, could he?

Why do you want to drown me?

Hateful trenches dig into the Fae’s countenance, his eyes flaying me with more wretched gold. His breath fogs the glass, and he writes back, his reply cutting through the vapors.

You hurt them.

The leaflet and pencil slip from my fingers and hit the grass. I see it on his face—grief and fury and vengeance. I can defend myself, tell him I’m only a girl, that I’m not the one who laid siege to the fauna, but it won’t make a difference. Regardless of whether he believes me, I’m a human. From now on, that’s all I need to be for him to hate me. In this Fae’s mind, all mortals of this village are to blame for The Trapping.

It’s true, I haven’t tried to help those animals, much less aided this creature or brought him food. He must be starving. I’ve stayed away, leaving this Fae harnessed and hungry like a monster, because maybe that’s what he is, after that deadly threat he’d tossed at me. If I’d had an ounce of doubt after that, I would have at least considered freeing him.

But I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing wrong, nothing wrong. I wouldn’t hurt a single living being. I’d never do such a thing!

The Fae’s vehement stare lances through me. I swipe the leaflet and pen from the grass and march from the creek, my pace quick but not hasty. The last thing I want is for him to see me run like the last time, just like prey.

Though Faeries don’t harm mortal children, I realize one detail stands apart from that rule: The tales are referring to adult Faeries. Elder Faeries might not attack human children—but young Faeries might.

***

I resign not to pay a third visit to that sinister place, a pledge I keep as time passes. On the thirteenth day, it’s my turn to do the laundry. I’m behind on this chore, and it’s almost dusk, so I’ll have to be quick. While kneeling beside the creek and scrubbing stains from a towel, I notice the fish coasting by, their bodies glistening in a vivid tide of scales and fins.

They’re swarming in one direction.

One very unfortunate and doomed direction.

The towel falls from my hands. A haunting premonition pebbles my skin. Maybe the creatures are simply fond of him. He’s a water Fae, after all.

Or maybe it’s something else.

Intuition is both a wondrous ally and a strenuous foe. I awaken at midnight and think what if, what if, what if. A thousand plots, cautionary Fables, and moral lessons plague my mind until they pry me from bed.

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