Cove
No. Just, no.
I remember Cove teaching me one of the village litanies against the Fae. The one that people recite when they’re afraid of losing somebody to those creatures, or when they’ve already lost somebody to that world, or when they’re desperate to get that somebody back.
If all three apply, I wonder whether a person has to repeat the chant three times. When that person is threatened in a way she hadn’t expected, suddenly those litanies seems a hell of a lot more necessary. Suddenly, an invocation seems like a fine fucking idea.
This is a nightmare, and I’ve gotta wake up, yet I can’t. I know what those notes mean. This was supposed to be one game, one place, and three sisters. But it’s not.
We’re not playing the same game. We’re not even going in the same direction.
They’re separating us.
A feminine wheeze tears through the silence. Juniper and I swerve toward Cove, who’s hyperventilating. Her chest pumps, her eyes glaze over, and she thrashes her head from side to side. “I-I don’t understand,” she panics, her lisp getting more pronounced. “We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong!”
I snatch her into a hug, and Juniper wraps her arms around us both. Cocooned between us, Cove squeaks over and over, “I don’t understand. We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong!”
“Shh,” I murmur, stroking her hair and trying not to bawl along with her. “Shh, now.”
Weeping is music to their ears. It’ll do her no good.
Juniper whispers something else to Cove, who slumps on a hiccup. My sisters and I untangle ourselves. Cove wipes her face and hikes up her unsteady chin, the sight wringing out my heart like a cloth.
We approach the leaflets and grab them from thin air. The sound of ripping paper shreds through the wild, louder than birdsong, rickety boughs, or hissing streams. Juniper scans her note, her pupils jumping across the sentences while Cove mouths the contents of her missive.
My eyes burn a trail across the scourge of words inked into my note. It’s an invitation, all right.
For your trespass, be our sacrifice—to surrender, to serve, and to satisfy. Under the vicious stars, three sisters must play three games.
Mutinous Lark, your task is painfully simple. Don’t look down. Watch your step. Fear the wind. Follow the wind. Lose your path. Find your way.
Welcome to The Solitary Mountain.
A set of rules follows those cryptic tidings.
Rule one: Each sister will enter one of the Solitary landscapes.
Rule two: My sisters and I can’t reveal our games to each other.
Rule three: All of us win—or none of us win.
“Fables curse them,” I seethe.
My sisters raise their heads, and we trade horrified glances. I can’t tell from Juniper’s crinkled brow what’s in store for her. Nor can I tell a thing from Cove’s flushed complexion.
Something perilous? Something brutal? Something lewd?
I can handle the latter, but I have a feeling Cerulean doesn’t work that way. He’s too much of an elegant trickster to invest in a kinkfest.
If I’m for the mountain, I reckon Juniper’s for the forest, and Cove’s for the water tunnel. I listen to my sisters’ rapid intakes. Most things, we can read on the other’s faces. This time, we can’t.
“All right,” Juniper says folding the note. “All right. So…so, um, remember not to provoke them. And…” In a daze, she counts off her fingers. “And don’t show fear but also don’t be docile. And don’t accept a bargain unless your throat’s about to be slit. And if you bargain, don’t give away anything precious. Give them a useless token. One of the baubles we packed.”
“Okay,” I said, although I know all that.
“And beware of manipulations. And interpret every declaration frontwards and backwards.”
“Okay.”
“And Cove, don’t get theatrical, and never lie to them—you’re awful at both. And Lark, be polite, and watch your saucy mouth, and control your temper, and don’t bother flirting because it won’t sway them, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and just, don’t be you.”
I manage to smirk sadly. “Okay.”
“And—”
I step forward and grab her cheeks. “Okay, Juniper.”
She sags. “All right.”
Cove pulls us to her, and we melt into each other once more. I smell the practical scent of eucalyptus wafting from Juniper’s shirt and the comforting aura of jasmine from Cove’s intricately loose bun.
My sweet sister bends her teal head and utters to Juniper, “Do not let him see your tattoo.”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. The ruler of woodland can’t know about Juniper’s poacher marking, not when the Fae prize their fauna.
Juniper freezes, then nods. I wager she’s already considered that.
The wild lives and breathes around us, though it doesn’t interrupt the hug. Not that we’d let it, because it’s the last one we might share.
Our nails dig into one another, and we murmur private words, and we remember. Then we let go, spread out onto three paths, and step forward.
7
The moment I take that step, my sisters disappear. The woodland and water routes evaporate, trapping Juniper and Cove in their own stories. The world narrows to the sloping hill, the stone stairs crawling up brackets of rock.
It’s just me and The Solitary Mountain.
Me. Without them.
My knees buckle and slam to the ground. I dump my face in my palms, my body shaking, but I don’t cry. I’m too pissed off to cry.
After a while, I get to my feet, crumble the note in my fist, and jam it into my pack beside the first missive delivered by that horned owl. Shouldering the bag, I glare at the looming range. Trees conceal the summit, bits of stone and ribbons of moonlight glinting through. The familiar stink of overripe plums and poison sneaks into my nostrils, but the fireflies have vacated the premises, the atmosphere free of their scorching, stinging light.
On either side of the stairs, torch poles guide the way. The blazes crackle, scarves of fire slapping the atmosphere.
I step onto the first stair, then the next. It’s a slow trek, my eyes scanning the slightest disturbance in the creepers. A flash of feathers. Clawed feet hooked on to a branch.
Must be the Fae fauna. In a friendly universe, this escapade would be a dream come true, and I’d lose myself in exploration. Instead, I don’t trust a single chirp or twitch in the offshoots. For all I know, the Fables are wrong about everything I’m supposed to expect, and I’ll encounter exotic birds that shouldn’t exist in this belt of the continent. What’s more, those birds could be flesh eaters or plagues. I might encounter carnivorous pigeons, rabid parakeets, or enormous fucking flamingos.
I hike the slabs, vigilant of shadows and silhouettes. Soon enough, new shapes emerge in my periphery, humanesque figures with abnormal body parts such as wings or arms lined in plumage. The segments slink through the canopy or squat atop the boughs.
I wheel toward them. Tittering, they slip out of sight.
How many are watching me? How many are waiting to pounce?
Will one of them dive like a kingfisher? Will one of them grasp like an osprey?
I’m mighty certain my eyes are wide and wild. Based on the lurching chuckles, this pleases my audience.