I remind myself of everything he’s done, stride with my head high, and reach the opposite end of the bridge. A signpost points at the offshoots.
The Night Aviary
I expel a breath. The masquerade’s inside an aviary, one that lives and breathes at night. A tiled walkway tapers toward the building, spikes of green stabbing through the cracks. Thistle hedges compound and flank the lane, thorns poking the skirt of my gown, brambles prodding my shoulders as I pass through.
A cautionary touch. A warning.
Sweat leaks into my armpits and neckline, my breasts pumping under the silk. An unidentifiable emotion ripples across my bare shoulders, a treacherous frisson that betrays everything I once believed, amplified by the energy brewing inside that mysterious building.
So much sound. One moment, it had been quiet. The next, music swoops into the pathway.
Beyond the rowans and nettles, flutes and pipes swirl from the edifice and sweep through the bones of this wild. The jagged edges of laughter carry on the wind. The type of ruthless mirth that peals from between fangs and behind costumed visors.
Torch poles whisk metallic light across the passage. My legs bear me to the end of the path, where I peer through the snarling hedges, the building drawing my gaze upward.
There it is. The Night Aviary.
A grid of erect offshoots forms a bird sanctuary, but where glass walls or netting should be, dense greenery fills in the gaps. At ground level, a ring of compressed foliage surrounds the structure. Beyond that, silhouettes twirl within the interior.
They’re dancing. The pulse of stomping feet ricochets across the ground and shakes my soles. The commotion is so thick, I could catch it with my whip and string it up for weeks. Hell, months, even years.
I cross the gravel path into the loop. Either side leads to different paths and niches like another type of labyrinth. Ahead, an archway carves into the aviary, framed by a set of torches. Looks like the curtained closure enables flocks to enter and exit whenever they want.
Above the frame, a pair of vultures hunch. Sacs of rubbery flesh sag from the stems of their necks, and shawls of salt-and-pepper quills nest around their shoulders. Above their downturned beaks, the wells of their eyes stalk my every move.
Despite the raptors’ grisly appearance, I can’t help gawking because who in their right mind wouldn’t? And because fuck, they’re huge. Massive wingspans pleat into the hollows of their bodies, those eerie but lordly expressions seizing me by the jugular.
In my world, they only feed off the dead. I pray that’s the case here.
Cautious, I bow my head to them and take a gingerly step forward, then step again. Once I’m past the archway, hidden inside the throat of the passage, I release my chokehold around the whip in my pocket.
I hotfoot down the corridor while adjusting the feathers concealing my face. This passage is open and ventilated, like everything else on this mountain. No walls but for stalks of greenery and winding twigs looping overhead. I coast through the tunnel and into the bowels of the aviary.
Dim illumination simmers from the gaping mouth of another entry. I paste myself to the nearest partition and glance around the bend, past the creepers. Lit only by torches and midnight, the scene is a hallucination, woozy with dark magic. A mammoth hawthorn tree—larger and higher than the one from the Triad—rises from the center, its branches crowning the rafters. Multiple twig-woven levels string together, some outfitted with broad hammocks and pillows for lounging.
All manner of birds dash about, gradients of color flitting across the heights. Flocks propel through the air on copper plumes. Large raptors flare cyan wings. Some thrash above, while others prance along the overhead walkways, their spindle limbs skirting around the masked Faeries who parade up there.
The Fae wear diadems and elaborate getups, a sumptuous mixture of leathers and satins and velvets. They throw back their heads, squawking with laughter at jokes told in Faeish, while fizzy liquid sloshes from their crystal goblets. Others pucker their lips and slurp a gloppy concoction that resembles cream.
Although vapors billow around them, I recognize some of these varmints from The Parliament of Owls. They’re a deranged medley of humanlike characteristics, animalistic traits, and features belonging only to them.
Pointed ears. Spiraling facial markings.
Pigmented flesh of fern-green or rainy gray-blue.
Beetle torsos. Prong or spiral antelope horns. Conch ram horns.
A bobcat’s muzzle and vertical feline pupils. Jackrabbit ears.
Wings. Butterflies, bats, and birds. Wide gossamer panels that remind me of lily pads. Slender, platinum pinions reminiscent of knives. Feathered wings, scalloped wings, and skeletal wings.
Beautiful. Hideous.
On the ground level, umbrellas of shrubbery and divans nestle into alcoves. Musicians glide through the masses, playing flutes, pipes, and other curvaceous wind instruments I’ve never seen before. One is a wooden horn that curves into a cornucopia shape, while another is a set of bells that hang like grapes. Sweeping melodies and foreign rhythms caress the air, warming the slots behind my ears.
Other Faeries cling to each other. At the heart of this inky aviary, they careen across an opaque dance floor, their clothing radiant pinwheels. Sour whiffs of body heat and the cloying scent of overripe peaches from the tabletop fruit bowls invade my nostrils.
Masks cover their boisterous, gluttonous miens. A beak extends longer than it should. One of the shields has no eyes, which should make it impossible for the wearer to see, even though he doesn’t act like it.
