This git’s intentionally dragging his feet. If I hadn’t been sure he plotted his way into my bed, I’m damn sure now. Lovers never take this long to scamper away after rolling off me. Plus, if he heard about us in the market square, he’s gotta know what we do for a living.
He tried to steal a priceless feather. That’s not all he planned on taking.
To accentuate that point, the falcon’s cry lurches from out back again.
The poacher’s head ticks toward the sound, then he says, “Now that I recall, a few of the locals did use the word strays. Is it true you were foundling fleabags before your guardian took pity on you? What’d you do to get abandoned by your real kin?”
Juniper scowls, scarlet puddles over Cove’s cheeks, and anger skids across my tongue. “We’re done with each other, so we’re done here. Piss off, handsome.”
I should stop there. Instead, I grab his satchel and fling it at his chest.
It’s a dumb move. I know so, even while it’s happening. The bag hits his pecs and bursts open before he can catch it. Odds and ends clunk across the floor, including a flask and a sack of coins.
The feather he’d taken is gone.
His eyes scavenge the ground, draw the right conclusion, and snake toward me. That’s when I remember the dagger encased in his belt sheath. From the way his pupils blaze, I reckon the weapon’s newly sharpened.
Ah, shit. I don’t want this to get ugly, but with my sisters up here and a host of beautiful animals installed on our land, this scene’s gonna do just that. For one, I’m not in the mood to sweep glass and a dead body off the floor. It’ll take grit to clean up the mess, and it’ll cost money to repair the window.
I hold back a sigh. The man’s fingers twitch.
Then it happens. I spin around to butt Juniper, then Cove, out of harm’s way. I’m pivoting and unraveling my whip as the poacher rips out his dagger. The whip flies and snags his arm, yanking it to the side and forcing him to release the blade. It launches into the air and stabs a wall.
He lunges for it while my sisters scramble to their feet. Juniper and Cove fumble for their weapons, but I kick open the attic door and punt them into the hallway. With another thrust of my heel, the door slams shut in their outraged faces, and I slide the bolt in place.
The poacher jerks his dagger from the wall and roars, “You bitch!”
I yank on the whip again, sending the jackass down. He howls, shouting out the window as if he’s got friends nearby. Muffled male voices holler back from the underbrush.
Time to go. I hitch the whip to the tabs of my robe, vault around, and dive through the triangular window. Hustling toward the balcony’s ledge, I jam my fingers into my mouth and release a piercing whistle, then hop the railing.
Whinny Badass, our family’s pinto mare, pounds across the dirt and stops beneath the overhang. I jump, tossing myself onto her back. The horse flies across the high grass, soaring over the fence, through the trees, and into the open fields.
Shouts boom from the cottage and spit the word whore. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the poacher diving off the platform. Two other men emerge from the thicket, leaping atop a set of horses they’d apparently concealed.
I’d been right and then some. That git came here for the animals.
Evidently, he’d brought company. His minions must have been waiting for him to finish with me so they could prey on our wild residents while I slept off the lukewarm climax. Why else would these scum be stashed in the foliage, unnoticed when my sisters came home?
Juniper and Cove spill onto the front porch and brandish their weapons, but the men are already out of range.
They’re coming, and they’re coming fast. Good. Better me than my family.
I turn back and dig my heels into the horse. The wind rushes through my hair, whisking the cloudy waves into a storm. The gust snatches my robe and splits it wide, the cloth erratic and flapping. Can’t lead these blokes through the village unless I want people getting hurt and myself getting spotted.
Clear out of Reverie Hollow, Whinny Badass skirts alders and elderberry bushes. Twilight splashes the welkin, lightness and darkness coalescing.
Yells punch the air from behind. “Get her!”
I ride hard, sweat pouring from my armpits. The open fields aren’t gonna hide me, and the denser thickets are too far away. By that I mean the human landscapes.
These sods will catch me before then. The only choice I’ve got is the mountain valley ahead where nobody goes, not for any reason. Against the horizon, uneven boulders point their fangs toward the sky, taking a bite out of the vista, with trees filling the gaps and hiding secrets.
Leaning forward, I grip the horse’s mane and urge her faster. The stony range gets larger, the wind swifter. The mare whinnies and reels back, her hooves skittering across the dirt. Fuck, she knows where we’re headed.
Not that she has to worry. Mortal animals have never been harmed by anybody but, well, mortals and other animals.
I twist. The figures gallop nearer, pockets of soil chucking up around them. They catcall and heckle shit I can’t hear. They could have tussled with my sisters and tried to raid our acreage, with a bevy of valuable fauna living out back. To these men, I’m not as important.
Behold, the power of a wounded ego.
Then again, I remember the blue feather stuffed against my chest. That wanker must suspect I’ve got the quill on me. Taking into account the plume’s magical origins, it’s no wonder he’d want it badly enough to charge. If they get their hands on me, my whip isn’t gonna be enough to beat them down. They’ll use it to tie me up and tear open my bandeau, if they don’t plant a blade in me first.
My heart slams in my ribs. I’ll be cornered in minutes. I can race along the border and hope there’s a gap around the valley that’ll accommodate the mare.
Or I can keep pounding ahead, to where the ridges soar from the ground, their craggy steeples flecked with a mural of windswept greenery. The closer I get, the taller and more ominous the range gets.
I spot that mysterious border. Three trees stand beside one another. A hawthorn, an oak, and an ash.
The Triad is forbidden. But it’s either that or die.
Evening smothers the heavens, gobbling the remnant streaks of mauve and cornflower. My thighs burn, and my choppers rattle. I chant into the horse’s ears, listen to her pants, and lose track of the minutes.
I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice.
I holler. The mare accelerates, launching across the wild.
Straight into Faerie.
2
We live on a continent called The Dark Fables. It’s separated into three countries of grim enchantment—The Northern Frosts, The Southern Seas, and Middle Country. Elves, dragons, and an array of mystical wildlife fill these lands to the brim. Being of otherworldly origins, Magic Folk fancy themselves too good for us human peons.
Bullshit. But reality.
Here in Middle Country? Faeries thrive.
Reverie Hollow shares its rural landscape with a vicious batch of the Folk. Our village is a sitting duck, fronted by a whole bunch of cliffs, with a whole bunch of woodlands, with a whole bunch of waterways rushing through it.
The Solitary Mountain.
The Solitary Forest.
The Solitary Deep.
Three domains guarded by the Faerie Triad. Yet the dividing line of hawthorn, oak, and ash isn’t impenetrable. That’s the irony. So enter if you dare to break the rules, if you feel like sacrificing yourself to the Fae’s whims. If that’s your fancy, they’re not gonna discourage you.