Page 47 of Cursed Shadows 2

Daxeel gives no nod of understanding or anything friendly at all. He simply stares at me. The clench of his jaw tells me how displeased he is about this, and how he very much blames me for his decision to follow.

Probably can’t stand to let me out of his sight, the perceived threats of the human realm. But there is no threat in that land, not to me. I might not be strong, trained or much of a warrior, but I handle myself better than a human would, I should think. I could always rip a throat out with my teeth if I had to. Oh, I hope I never have to. Sounds ghastly, I would certainly sick myself.

I turn for the bridge. It is not a true bridge, like the ones built from stone that reach over waters, but rather what we call those little pockets of warped space and time. This one is closest to my village, parked right on the border between the Queen’s Court and the Light Court. It’s the cavity, the gap tucked in the distorted crevice of this one willow.

I lift a sneaker-clad foot from the foliage.

Daxeel’s ice stare burns into my back as I stick my leg into the darkness of the tree.

Perching myself on its edge, the other leg follows. And I’m only this careful because of the skirt. Have you ever had tree rash on your backside? Avoid it.

My hands grip the edge of the cavity, legs dangling in darkness, and I look over my shoulder at his stony face. “See you on the other side.”

With that, I push myself off the edge—

And I’m submerged in darkness.

The sort of darkness I imagine would exist deep in seawaters. I feel the iciness of it rush over me, I hear it whooshing and thundering all around me.

Ice rains down on me, trails of it moulding to my body. My flesh prickles. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanishes.

I land on muddy grass.

The first dozen or so times I went through the willow bridge, I fell. Hard. One time I tumbled down this ordinary grass hill and smacked my knee off a boulder. That was an easy enough injury to pass off to father as a dancing fault.

Now, I’ve come so often and I’m so practiced that I land on the dewy grass without a quiver in my leg or a falter in my balance.

But this time I’m not alone.

I sidestep the hawthorn tree before, from the fluff of creamy blossoms above, Daxeel appears and he lands in a perfect crouch.

My mouth puckers.

I eye him up and down with a glint of disdain that I’m certain he would read like letters on a page if only he spared me a look.

He doesn’t.

Daxeel straightens his spine, and his shoulders are so broad that I doubt anyone would see the tree behind him if any glances were thrown our way.

There is a slight problem.

His leathers. His ears. His weapons. His obvious inhumanness.

Even with a strong glamour, he’s dark fae. Their natural faeness can’t be hidden from the human eye. Just their senses alone will prickle in his presence.

Run, they would think. Not asking why, run would be theirinstinct. It’s an instinct that would serve them well.

Daxeel sweeps the small park with a swift moving gaze. That’s all this place is, a park just a walk away from town.

Still, he studies and assesses and inspects each shadowy corner of the benches and the trees and the branches, as though searching for any perceivable threat. Then his focus falls on a bench down the grey path that leads to town.

I trace his attention.

A large, round human man is slumped over, holding a glowing dark object in his hands. His focus is snared entirely by that thing, thatfoneas I’ve heard it called.

Beside him, a pretty girl around the same age and size does the exact same thing: She’s tucked up on the bench, her boots pressed against the side of his thigh, but she only knows her fone. It’s all that exists to her and all that exists to him.

They don’t see how their moon dusts gentle light through the smallest gaps between the tree branches. They don’t see the squirrel in the leaves above them, the one that watches them intently, as though waiting for the drop of a crumb.

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