Prologue
I’d tell you how to kill them—if I’d figured that out yet.
Sometimes you’ll feel their presence lurking outside your door. Maybe they’re really there, maybe they’re not. If you peek out your window, you might find a wicked silhouette, a blade of shadow within a shaft of moonlight, its presence sending a ferocious shiver down your spine. And if you’re lucky—or cursed to hell—you might catch a glimpse of feathers, antlers, or scales.
Don’t stare too long. Instead, close the curtains.
I’d tell you how to defy them—if not for glamour.
Sometimes you’ll sense them on the woodland paths between the village and the water well. These brutal, beautiful shits will hide in plain sight, enchanted to look like you and me, eager to make you do things.
Peel off your clothes at the market? Bite off someone’s earlobe? Steal somebody’s dagger and drag its tip across your navel? Wander into a glade and never return? You bet your human ass, that’s them.
What I’m saying is, don’t go outside alone. Or if you do, bring a weapon.
I’d tell you how to avoid them—if I’d ever done it myself.
Sometimes they’ll slink into the private corners of your bedroom. You’ll take a second look at the mirror, having sworn the pointed flap of a wing had been there moments ago. You’ll feel their magic sweep by on a breeze, sneaking between your naked thighs while you’re in bed. And you’ll gasp, but is it out of shock, outrage, or a deeper impulse?
No matter your reaction, you might hear a chuckle whisking through the night air, as if its source knows your body better than you do.
Don’t listen. Just mash your face into a pillow. It works, trust me.
I can tell you more, or I can skip to the worst part.
They’ve always existed, tricking and tormenting us. But one time, one very pissed off time, we tricked and tormented them back. One short, magical time, mortals captured their kind.
But three of them escaped.
Since then, they’ve become more powerful, or so the Fables say.
Since then, they’ve become more vicious, or so the whispers say.
One who rules the sky. A Fae with obsidian-blue hair and darkly hued lips. A monster who wields a javelin and plays a devious flute.
One who rules the woodland. A Fae who sprouts antlers from a thicket of red waves, his limbs tapering to a pair of cloven hooves. A monster who wields a longbow and strums a lusty cello.
One who rules the river. A Fae with an onyx mane and gold serpentine eyes so harsh they’ll blind you at close range. A monster who wields forked daggers and plucks a vengeful harp.
Actually, I should tell you one last thing. We live by rules in these parts. For a start, if you’re mortal, watch your back.
Keep the lanterns brimming. Keep the candles burning.
Stay out of their territory. Stay away from the mountain, the forest, and the deep.
Don’t answer the wind, the trees, or the water. Or they’ll hear you.
1
I’m naked and on my back again, only this time I’m alone. My bare ass rests on a pile of cushions as I blow cool air from between my lips. I’ve gone and made a selfish nest of pillows on the balcony jutting from the attic. There’s a big, sexy sky yawning above me, the lazy clouds sliding through a twilit canvas of mauve and cornflower.
My family’s cottage burrows into a glade, the chirps from out back tugging on my heartstrings. The front overlooks our yard, where fence posts sink their teeth into the property line, a woodland lane spilling from the gate and ambling toward the village. There, the path converges with the main road and coils into a snail shell, scrolling through the center of Reverie Hollow.
Sure is a funny name for a village, akin to a place of sunken, empty dreams.
A mile away, our neighbors will be closing up business. The brewer and cobbler will pull down their shutters, and merchants will roll pickle barrels through the market square. I picture the usual suspects: the blacksmith flipping over her sign from “Gimme Money” to “Go Away,” the dressmaker sprinkling his stoop with salt, and the beefy cloth-dyer spilling from his shop to leave a jug of cream by the door.
Most of them will be in a hurry. Nobody roams after dark.
Well, almost no one. Rest assured, some idiot’s thinking about looting the flour mill. And I swear, the stocks are a right mess, crammed with crooks but no guards.
I’ll bet several pip-squeaks are planning on sneaking out of their cottages to squat at the livery, where they’ll pass around a bottle of elderberry wine. I know, because I used to be one of those rascals. Each time on my way back home, I’d cavort with the nightingales.
A chill pebbles my skin. While distant villagers finish doing distant village things, I’ve just finished doing my latest admirer. The wanderer had been passing through the Hollow and hankering for an hour’s company. He was older than me, maybe twenty-five to my nineteen years. With my family gone, I’d craved an orgasm and brought him up to my room.
At one point, the wanderer bit my neck, so I had to elbow his funny bone. I’d spelled out the rules before we started. No roughhousing or nipping.
It was over quick. He’s snoring in my bed now. Gotta wake him up soon.
I curl up on the pillows I’d brought outside, relaxing to the sounds of birdsong. Then the air shifts, brushing the scars on my kneecaps. I tense and lurch upright. The current could be what it seems, just a current, just a lash of wind. Or it could be something else.
The early evening breeze slips by, rustling the leaves. Once the sensation’s gone, my shoulders unwind, and my eyes close. Words from the Book of Fables surface in my head and fall from my lips, “Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark. And the Lark said—”
The market square bell tolls, the brass gong vibrating through the trees. Better hurry. I’d brought my knickers outside with me, so I stand and wiggle into a pair of skimpy drawers, then wrap a ribbon of cloth into a bandeau around my breasts. Once I’ve harnessed the goods, I shrug into my robe and strap my feet in ankle boots.
A triangular window leads from the balcony to the attic bedroom. I climb through and drop into the space, where three wardrobe cupboards and slender beds claim each of the wood-slat walls. A perfectly made quilt covers one mattress, the lip folded neatly beneath a matching pillow. A soft sheet drapes fluidly across the other. And on the third bed, a bolt of cotton slumps across a bulk of muscles.
I admire the man sprawled facedown atop my mattress, his arms flopped over the edge. He’s got buzzard-brown hair, the longest damn eyelashes in history, and a sword scar puckering from his shoulder. Hot damn. He’s a looker, if there ever was one. Shame his loving hadn’t been as blessed as his face.
When I glimpse his lower back, I realize I’ve got a problem. Inked crossbow bolts form an X at the base of his spine. Bile washes up my throat, my fancy for him taking a nosedive.
Shit. A trade poacher.
From the backyard, our resident falcon belts out a rasping “kak.” The avian can’t know what’s happening, but the alarm call causes a surge of protectiveness to climb up my fists. Of all the wanderers I could have rolled with, I’d gone and picked this git.
Some people poach because they’re starving. Not this one. His tattoo marks the difference, a symbol of the louts who stalk animals as a trade, profiting from valuable fauna parts.