My mechanical friend and I followed her through our secret underground passageways and watched her descend into the marble palace they call the subway.
Then I saw drunken men taunting her, and my first instinct was to draw my blade and finish them off. A gentle nuzzle from Cerberus brought me back to my senses, reminding me that we had to remain hidden. “Fae keep out of human affairs,” the Elders had retorted during my mission preparations. We had been the most powerful race, yet the Siphons devoured our magic and left us vulnerable. The humans, on the other hand, invested in science and weapons, able to turn kingdoms to dust in the blink of an eye. They have become respectable opponents we do not wish to see on our doorstep.
So, I lingered in the shadows, prepared to jump on Cerberus’s back and follow the train as soon as she boarded it.
A moment later, I saw her plunging to her death, and saving her had been instinctive. Not only because of the raging magical power in her delicate body but because she was a female in trouble. In other circumstances, I would have introduced myself and even courted her. Yet I am but an exile in a foreign realm, a hunter on a mission, and before I could do anything, her world claimed her back, the sirens and shouts numbing my senses. I hid in the darkness, aroused by the memory of her softness in my arms.
Now, I wait patiently for the officers to complete their job and the paramedics to examine her. Then she leaves, and my loyal Cerberus helps me track her. I watch the tiny human female paying for her transport from the thick gloom of a deserted side alley. Darkness is an ally in this strange world, as human eyes cannot pierce it. I take a step to memorize every detail of the building she lives in, a multistory abode she shares with many. These living conditions are so similar to ours in the Lower Lands that nostalgia squeezes my heart again.
Now, I know where the Anchor lives, and my lips draw into a smile. The best part of the Hunt begins.
Diaphonus – the priest
I know the ways of magic. Nobody in the four Fae realms is more skilled in reading its ebbs and tides.
I follow its gentle stream, which leads me to a busy street with many glass and steel buildings piercing the clouds.
I take out my utensils, arrange my easel, and line up my charcoal pencils and paints, sitting in a tiny green oasis between two busy roads packed with cars and poisonous fumes. The trees around me provide air and shelter for the few birds that stubbornly refuse to leave this contaminated land.
I whip my blond braid back and smile at a few girls who have stopped to stare at me. They giggle, blush, and walk away, the bravest one taking her phone out and snapping a picture of me. I’ve spent enough time among humans to know that it will probably go viral days later, circling the social networks with hashtags of #hotartist, #hotart, and some indecent comments. So much for remaining discreet.
I roll up the sleeves of my linen shirt and start painting, keeping an eye on the building that harbors my hope.
Autumn leaves spiral to the pavement, birds gathered in the branches above, and I finish my first sketch just as the massive glass door draws my attention.
Light, brighter than a flash of lightning, pierces the dull landscape. Magic. More brilliant than the beacons of the Bone Coast. So mouthwatering powerful that it pulls me, an invisible thread stretching between me and the Anchor.
The most alluring woman I have seen in all my long life steps out of the building as the glass doors close behind her. She stands in the last rays of the late autumn sun, head cocked, as if listening. Then her gaze takes in her surroundings… and meets mine. A finely shaped eyebrow flies up as she studies me, then she is gone before I can react, and I wince as if shaken awake from a beautiful dream.
Did she feel what I felt? The scorching connection between us, the soundless roar of magic colliding, the clash of two powers that, if not controlled, could destroy her and me both?
It takes me days to learn more about her habits and routine. A week later, I wait for her in the park, where she exercises.
I have learned that the Anchor values her solitude; she prefers to be alone and runs among the city’s scarce area of nature, a rare spot of green in a world of steel and concrete. This makes me uneasy. What if another Hunter spots her and gets her before me? Tarcyll knows that I am one step ahead of him but doesn’t seem troubled by it. He enjoys the human realm too much, sometimes making me wonder if he has forgotten how vital our objective is.
As expected, she shows up for her run. The park is empty so early on Saturday, which serves my plan. I stand next to a bench, wearing these ridiculous human exercise clothes, and pretend to stretch. Then I feel the pull, the radiance streaming from her, like the sun coming from behind the clouds in all its glory. She approaches, petite and fragile, her tight clothing seductively displaying the generous curves of her breasts and her snatched waist, her hair up in a bouncy ponytail. Today she looks different. Dark circles surround her eyes, and her face has a haunted strain to it. Have some of the other Fae Hunters already reached her? No, it isn’t likely. My sensitivity to magic gives me leverage over the multitude of other males after her.
She spots me immediately. Most likely due to my height and frame. Humans are quite small compared to us high elves. People ogle me with curiosity, especially the females. Tarcyll has similar experiences, but he shamelessly takes advantage of our superior looks. I have always chastised him for bedding humans, yet right now this prospect seems incredibly tempting.
The deafening rumble and the screams of terror when the Floating islands of Taer Vallhen crashed to the ground still ring in my ears, reminding me why I’m here. We lost many lives the night the Siphons attacked and almost depleted the magic of the four domains. I was one of the few still able to cast spells, yet not strong enough to prevent the downfall of our floating islands.
I push the painful memories away and focus on the task at hand. To save my people, I need to get to the Anchor first, and I must find a way to harness the magic singing in her veins. Of all the Hunters, I have the best chance to solve her riddle. With active magic at my disposal, I would use the arcane force to unlock the treasure chest she is, even if I have to crush her mortal body in the process.
Clenching my jaw, I promise myself not to become distracted by the fleeting beauty she possesses. She would be nothing but a whisper of a memory in a hundred years, while the hanging gardens of the cloud cities would rise forever.
There she is, within my reach, fragile as all mortals are, and I need to get close enough to throw the enthralling spell and take her to my hideout, where I can study her undisturbed. Shameless visions heat my loins and flush my face. The bright, intoxicating presence of the human female stirs a longing inside me, snuffed long ago by ages of celibacy.
Does she remember me? She measures me with a look I’m used to receiving from the females of this realm, and I know it is time to act. We are alone on the narrow gravel path, meandering among the trees in the heart of the tiny forest, hidden in the city, with only the clear blue sky and the chirping birds bearing witness to what I am about to do.
I have concealed the slope, making the alley appear smooth and even, and tense up when the woman stumbles and rolls in the dust. I am at her with one leap.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, concerned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and helping her to a strange sitting position, where she leans against my chest. I note that this is a little bit too close, yet it is too late, as her scent—a sweet elixir of heat, salt, fear, and blooming hyacinth hits me, and I fear that she might hear the loud thumping of my heart.
What is wrong with me?
All Fae know that humans are infectiously promiscuous due to their short lifespans, yet how is the High Priest of the First Light Order fooled so easily? Reining myself in, I lower my gaze to her.
The human rubs her ankle, pain distorting her serene features. It is the first time I have looked into the eyes of a mortal so up close. Hers are warm amber sprinkled with gold and green, full of concealed melancholia. It’s the burden of living only a few decades, I conclude while preparing to enthrall her and take her to my car parked nearby. In this realm, I avoid using magic, as it may draw the attention of the other Hunters. And I want this Anchor only for myself. I want the Floating cities of Taer Vallhen to rise again, their waterfalls casting rainbows into the lavender skies of Faëheim.
