Apparently, that alcove beyond the Faerie Triad is called The Colony of Fireflies. Guess that explains why those insects were hanging around, cindering whatever surface they landed on.
And those hidden eyes, watching me. That had been him.
“Hmm.” The Fae pauses, observes my stupor, and grins. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Where are my sisters? Please?” I grit out.
“A question for a question. What’s your name, pet?”
“Who wants to know?” But when he stays quiet, I fume, “Tell me where they are.”
“Not to worry. Your rambunctious siblings are safe, though when next you reunite, be wary of what you tell them. Your name?”
“Why? What are you planning to do with it?”
“On any given dawn or dusk, I plan many things and nothing whatsoever. In this case, it depends on your reply and how much I like the texture of your name on my tongue. Will it be coarse or slick? Will it taste of brine or sugar?” He tips his head. “Does that assessment suffice?”
The hell, it does. “I’m afraid not.”
“You’re hardly afraid.” He leans in and hisses, “Shall we change that?”
“Let ’em go. Please, let ’em go.”
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but: What you speak, you cannot unspeak.”
And the Lark said, “Will somebody snatch these two so I can have a break?”
“The Fable?” I balk. “I wasn’t serious. I was improvising.”
“Be it a joke, a lark, or a farce, it’s all the same.”
Because I’m three inches away from roping his otherworldly prick, I glower, letting the temptation show on my face. From the start, I should have coated the handle and end of my whip in iron, the way Juniper had tipped her crossbow bolts and Cove inlaid her spear with iron scrolls.
The Fae inspects my noose with distaste. “Mortal weapons. It appears your trio takes after one another.”
I fake a saccharine smile. “Nah, we just like props. Wanna touch mine?”
This earns me a leer. “A touch for a touch.”
What he means is, don’t test him. Reluctantly, I loosen the whip.
Humans used to believe that giving Faeries our names meant trouble, but the Fables dispelled that myth long ago. Matter of fact, it’s the opposite. Learning a Fae’s true moniker is the real power.
“My name’s Lark,” I say.
His blue lips crook to one side. “Call me Cerulean.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s your name.”
“You didn’t ask for my name, but there it is. As far as I know, it’s the only one I have. I wasn’t born twice.”
“Fine. I’ve told you mine. Now tell me where my sisters are.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You said if I—”
“I said a question for a question. I never said an answer for an answer,” Cerulean replies, the side of his mouth still caught in that invisible hook.
