“Shit, shit, shiiiit!” I squawk, yelping as the bats pelt my ass.
There’s zero I can do—except one stupid thing.
These bats want to test me? They’ve got their wish.
I quit flogging them and spread my arms, the whip clasped in my fist. Unlocking my muscles and surrendering to the fall, I hope this isn’t an idiotic move. The creatures seem to realize what I’m doing, their wings springing into action and forming a tent to cushion my descent.
One final scream tears from my throat as I slam into a basin of twigs. The switches crack and rattle, skewering the places where I’m not already scuffed. I lie sprawled, gawking at the overhead chute, which seals like an eyelid.
In its place, a lattice of twigs fence around me and form bars. The offshoots extend downward, encasing me inside. I groan, every muscle shrieking. I’m terrified to move and discover something’s broken beyond repair.
I wiggle my fingers and toes, then gingerly sit upright. The world spins. Also, I must have bit my lower lip on impact. It throbs, but at least I don’t taste the metallic brine of blood.
And thank Fables, the whip’s akimbo beside me. The pack rests by my feet, not as full as it was before, a couple of the trinkets and supplies having fallen out. Alarm squeezes my throat. I rifle through the bag and find the blue feather tucked in its compartment.
The relief is short-lived. My waterskin has toppled from the pack, clear liquid spilling onto the twigs. “No!” I snatch the empty vessel and tip it into my mouth, a mere droplet hitting my tongue.
With a curse, I fling the container at the bars, and it bounces off the grid. The gnarled twigs and branches are as black as Cerulean’s soul. I’m trapped in a crate, the creepers strung so tight I’d need a saw to chisel through them.
Outside my cubicle, several trees rise from the ground, woven hives bloating from the offshoots. Beyond that, a lane of glistening hedges stretches into the mist.
I think back to The Wayward Steps. The final slab had been a correct choice, yet it changed after that, collapsing when I tried to retrace my path and retrieve the whip. The route had marked the right trail, but only temporarily.
If this environment alters once I’ve made my choice, I won’t be able to change my mind. Whatever direction I go, that’s the one I’ll have to stick with…so long as I escape this cubicle of branches.
A cell? A cage?
The braided bars don’t allow much wiggle room. Locating a cavity in the grille, I slip my arms through and pat the coarse exterior. My fingers trace a knot with a hole in its heart. It might be a lock that requires a key.
I collect my scattered cache, pile the stuff into my bag, and hitch the whip. Although I took a massive drop, it doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten closer to ground level.
White and teal starlight pools onto my lap. It takes me this long to register the elevation, the looming bluff encrusted with climbing ivy, the cobbled mountain peaks topped with lanky spear trees and rowans. Nearby, several of the slanted trunks croak audibly and teeter forward, undulating as if pushed by a draft. I spot that cylindrical tower rising from a thicket and that bizarre circular edifice erected upon another peak. Entwined offshoots frame the latter building, foliage bursting from its crown.
When a breeze tickles my nape, I get the feeling I’m floating. My eyes dip, then swing carefully to the side—over the side, to the valley below. Dread squats in my belly. I goggle at the narrow ledge where my cage perches precariously. The barest movement will cause the thing to tip over.
My fingers wrap around the bars as I stare. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe deeply.
“Well, well, well,” a perky voice warbles. “That didn’t take too long.”
I scramble around. The female sits atop one of the hedges and smirks with relish, her silken wings on display. Since it hasn’t been that long, she’s wearing the same cocoon gown, its hem scratching the leaves.
Faeries might live an eternity, but they mature slowly, so the munchkin could be thirty times my age. Yet if she were a human, I’d reckon she’s about ten years old. The possibility smites me with guilt for whupping her at The Parliament of Owls.
In any event, guess how thrilled I am to see her. “Shit,” I mutter.
“That’s no way to address a superior,” the moth grouses, giving herself airs. “You humans have such a lacking vocabulary, a shortcoming as pitiful as your mating rituals, which rarely last in spite of your flimsy lifespan.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Why not fuck off? That’ll spare you from having to judge us.”
Someday, if I know what’s good for me, I’ll muzzle myself.
The highfalutin’ Fae stiffens. With a jerk of her wrist, the crate tips toward the ledge and knocks me into the frame.
Fables! I reach overhead and snatch the bars for dear life. My pack loses additional supplies, the hawthorn berries, salt pouch, and bread rations tumbling into the abyss.
The compartment rights itself with a decisive shudder. “That was for the whip,” the runt states. “And for the cheek.”
Perspiration rolls down my armpits. My pulse drums as I stutter, “Guess y-you don’t mind having a human’s death on your conscience.”
