“Cerulean,” Moth corrects with a sigh, as if he’s being mulish about the use of his title. “I was simply—”
“Detouring from your job? Indeed, you were.”
“I never shirk my duties,” the female grumbles, pride digging into her runty face. “You know me better than that.”
His dark blue mouth relaxes and tips sideways. “I should hope so.”
They exchange words in their language. Though while speaking in the mortal tongue, Moth has the same crystalline accent as Cerulean. I gather all the Fae do.
He turns back to me, his visage sharpening. “Away with you, Moth. We’ll talk later.”
Rather than sternness or authority, I detect a trace of camaraderie in his command, soft around the edges—a fellowship based on closeness or a bond of sorts. It’s the same tone my sisters and I use on each other.
Moth glances between us, then vanishes down the shadowed path.
Starlight embosses the helix tip of Cerulean’s javelin. I resist the urge to crawl backward, submerging myself into the depths of the cage, or crate, or nest, or whatever the fuck it’s called.
“The mountain has been here since we existed,” he supplies while heading toward me, his lilting tone airborne. “It was wrought by the ancients and preserved by the ones who came after them. It’s a cliff of imagination, deception, merriment, and fear. This range is its own revel, its own masquerade, if you will.”
He strolls around the enclosure, light on his feet and indifferent to how little space the ledge offers, as if he’s done it a thousand times. Maybe he has, with other victims.
I don’t move, other than to glare at his trajectory.
“This mountain isn’t merely a threat to the body. Oh, no,” he says, the words a veritable tease of wind. “It’s a sacrifice, a threat to the mind, to the heart, to the very soul.”
“A sacrifice?” I echo. “Meaning what?”
“Enticements abound—food, drink, music, seduction. Faeries such as I wait to flout rules that don’t exist and pounce on you, whether or not provoked.” His eyes darken, catching mine for a second. “Though provoke you do, in spades.”
I jump as he runs the tip of his javelin across the bars, and the grille rattles. “Illusions thrive here. Make the correct turn? Not so fast, for those paths may be glamoured to appear correct. A route you trusted might betray you. This land is a double-edged sword. Even if you win, you won’t win.
“You’ll be stripped bare. You might degrade yourself.” He circles in front of me, his fingers fitting around the bars. “All the while, mourning, melting, moaning for the privilege.”
I make a show of crossing my arms. “You done stroking your cock?”
An evil chuckle jumps off his mouth. “Let us make another bargain, pet. Tell me, which is scarier? Fear, desire, or regret? To be hurt, to be fucked, or to be shamed? Give me the right answer, and I’ll free you.”
The cage croaks as I match his pose, snatching the braided twigs. My nose taps against his, and I remind him, “My name is Lark.”
We stare at one another. Our fingers flex around the lattice.
Cerulean stalls, his attention unwillingly stuck on me. The feeling is mutual, a hiccup in which I peek at him through the shredded cloud of my hair.
That’s when it happens again, striking me between the sternum: loss. That bizarre wistfulness returns, a key twisting its teeth into the rusted bolt of my chest and fighting to unlock something that’s been trapped inside for a long time.
Once in my past, in my very own Fable, I did this exact thing with a Fae boy. A cage had separated us, except that barrier had been forged of iron—and he’d been the one locked inside.
That must be the reason for these misplaced feelings. It’s the memory, the recollection of someone else, the only Fae of this misbegotten land who’d become my weakness.
Cerulean flinches, blown by a similar disturbance. It’s as though a screen drops, bringing his angular beauty into stark relief. The steeples of his cheekbones slacken with surprise, exposing his own secret: longing.
Me, loss. Him, longing.
The yearning for something long deprived. That, and the bereavement. The sadness of both.
Confusion leaches the arrogance from his features, years leaking from the crevices until he looks younger. Alone and friendless. Solitary.
We jerk away from each other. Awareness cuts in, scattering that visual and returning us to where we started. Animosity. Suspicion. They wash the uncertainty from his countenance, and mostly, I’m glad. Hating him is easier than empathizing with him.
