“And that is up to Elixir.”
Puck. Elixir.
The other two rulers of this realm. One of the woodland, in the depths of the forest valley. One of the underground river, where channels rush into natural tunnels.
“Don’t you know ’em well enough to guess?” I argue.
“I could. I might. I may,” Cerulean volunteers.
I read his mind. These tricksters and their deals. “What do you want?”
“That depends on what you want.”
“I justtoldyou.”
“So many questions for the same answer.”
I threaten to push him off the mountain’s edge. To that, he throws back his head and belts out a laugh, only partially vexed that we’ve stumbled from the unbeaten, friendly path.
Cerulean spins the flute between his digits. “Call me the elegant trickster. Call Puck the mischievous trickster. Call Elixir the vengeful trickster. The question is, which is more vicious? Think carefully. Very, very carefully.”
Not knowing about my sisters is torture. But if Cerulean takes his best guess, I’ll have to carry the visuals up this mountain, and worrying will distract me. If that happens, my sisters and I will be at risk.
“I don’t want to know, do I?” I mutter.
Cerulean’s about to reply when a set of bars squeals through the park. I tense, but the Fae beside me drops the instrument and whips toward the disturbance, his muscles locked. Glancing over his shoulder, he peers at the wild with frantic eyes.
I follow his trajectory. In one of the trees, the cardinal perches on a rusty bird swing, which must have bumped into a neighboring rung. If I didn’t know any better, I’d reckon it sounded like a cage door shutting.
I turn back to the Fae, who stares at the swing through slackened features, those orbs ballooning. Tonight, he’s weaponless. I gauge his fattening pupils and his fingers instinctively hovering over his waistband, where he normally tethers the collapsible javelin.
He’s scared.
Cerulean’s eyes dart over to me. A flush races up his cheekbones, but he covers it up right quick, repugnance eclipsing fear and humiliation. He locates his flute on the grass and deposits it into the quiver at his back. “I would hardly wish to know the suffering of people who matter to me. Not unless it helps me to save them.”
An ominous inkling squats in my stomach. “And did it help?”
“Yes and no. No and yes. Both and neither, and all at once.”
“Bullshit me again, and I’ll throw your flute over the edge.”
“Throw it over the edge, and I’ll make you catch it.”
“Make me catch it, and it’s mine.”
Cerulean peers at me. “Where in The Dark Fables did you come from?”
“We’re not talking about me anymore.”
“Such a pity. I like talking about you far more than I should.”
Shit. He just goes and admits that, and my body just goes and reacts. Tingles rush from my scalp to my toes, charging me with more energy than I had seconds ago.
All the same, I brush his words from my shoulders like dust. Lots of people in the village call me a hussy, but with this Fae, I can’t afford to think like one.
Around us, crickets scrape through the silence. The lawn emits the herbal fragrance of thyme.
Cerulean twists toward the valley, a great big gash that punctures the landscape. “I was raised by animals—a wandering ram, a wolverine, a mountain lion, and a raptor who’d been rejected by their kin. My mother and father departed to one of the Unseelie Courts, leaving me behind when I was a fledgling, so the fauna reared me amongst the rowans and boulders. They taught me how to defend myself and live off the flora. They taught me patience and vigilance. I trained with my javelin against them, honing my speed and reflexes. And every night, I’d entertain them by playing the flute my parents had left me—the only thing they’d left me besides a weapon. I’d rest with the animals, wrestle with them, hunt with them. They were mine, and I was theirs. Nobody could sever that, and even so young, I knew I’d slay anyone who tried.
