Just don’t expect to leave.
I can’t think about that right now, or else I’ll lose my supper. Vaulting ahead, my eyes dart around, searching for a gap in the terrain.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
The road narrows toward a wall of boulders covered in filigrees of murky green and looming yew trees that cluster together. Other than the Triad, the vista appears normal, like any mountain scene. That’s what scares me the most—it shrouds whatever’s inside.
The trade poachers gain speed. Whinny Badass protests, resisting our direction. I speak to her rapidly, stroke her glossy coat, and hope she’ll trust me as much as I trust her.
The instant she lets up, I dig my heels in. We surge forward, my hair and her mane lashing together as the Triad gets nearer, larger. The hawthorn, oak, and ash stand sentinel, blotting out the realm beyond.
We crash through.
Branches crackle. Leaves hiss out of the way. Twilight vanishes like a magic trick.
The dirt path sprouts into tall splinters of grass. We race down a winding lane, the route curving so severely and crookedly that it almost trips the horse and unseats me. I wobble sideways but grapple upright.
The world whisks by, shawls of color passing too quickly to catch. The mare propels herself across soil and exposed roots, rearing back as we hit a cul-de-sac of brambles.
I’m clad in my knickers, doused in sweat and grit. Panting something fierce, my breasts pump against the scanty bandeau.
Too much assaults me at once—the sharp flap of wings, the flash of saffron feathers, and an aerial screech. Wheezing, I scan the area. We’ve barreled into some kind of margin where the mountain, the forest, and the deep converge. The environment inclines on either side of us and forms a gorge, the foothill intersecting with the valley’s woodland and a spring that snakes through the trees.
I fumble with the reins, wrestling to keep the mare steady. Darkness pours through the canopy, the shadows not fully blue, not fully black. Gilded bulbs swim through the bracken…fireflies?
As I whirl to track the sound of another avian caw, my arm collides with one of the bulbs. The searing contact yanks a low cry out of me, my flesh sizzling as if I’d rubbed elbows with a hot poker.
Am I imagining it, or is the firefly tittering at me?
I peer at the floating dots, but they flit around too fast and begin to close in. Whinny Badass bucks, forcing them back. More chortling as they scatter, skipping farther into the crochet of shadows.
I spot a recess in one of the high hedges, a lucky slot between the cul-de-sac and incline. Swinging my legs, I drop to the ground and rush the mare through the hollow, vegetation audibly shivering from our intrusion, the underbrush releasing a sinister tune that vibrates into the air. That jangle will make it tough to stash both of us quietly, especially with the mare’s size.
At least the gap fits us, dense enough to act as a shield. My chasers know I’ve got few choices for hiding the equine beauty. But in this place, they’ll check only so thoroughly, venture only so far.
Creepers slink from crooked, glistening trees. I’d expected wickedly rich hues but not this collision of gloom and radiance. The perimeter is a mesh of syrup browns, yew greens, and peacock blues.
I squat in the half-light, my nostrils inhaling the staleness of horse and something bizarre—overripe and metallic, like plums laced with poison.
Whinny Badass swats her coarse tail in my face. She’s antsy and shifts about, disturbing the offshoots.
“Shh, hon,” I whisper. “If they get through, punt their asses.”
Not the sagest advice. If the trade poachers corner me, there won’t be room in this spot to dodge the horse when she pummels them. She wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but I’d get caught in the middle for sure.
Problem is, there’s no telling if the poachers are the threat anymore, or if I’ve ridden into a deadlier fate. I fold myself into the space, my boots sinking into a clump of muck. When I gulp, it’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
It hits me for real. I’m a mortal lost in Faerie.
And I’m not alone.
The horse grumbles. My ears perk as a melody flutters through the wild, spiking my blood with dread. It’s the deceptive tremble of a flute, followed by the sensual hum of a cello, then the unnerving pinch of a harp.
I recognize each instrument from the Book of Fables, music of the sky, the woodland, and the river entwining. The collision of notes sounds elegant, impish, and venomous.
The Folk use glamour for all it’s worth on us. According to the Fables and horrors that I’ve witnessed over the years, this happens in several ways. One trick is through music. The sounds of their instruments have the power to travel impossible distances carried by the air, the roots, or the water.
The flute notes slide up my calves and inch them apart. Likewise, I feel a tug on my consciousness that doesn’t maintain its grip.
With a growl, I snap my legs closed. The melody stops.
However, the weight of a physical presence grows, accompanied by a menacing chuckle serrated at the edges. My fingers trace the bristles of my whip. I lash my head this way and that, searching the compact recess for an intruder.
Grunts cut through the mysterious laughter. Echoing curses and stomping hooves resound through the wild, coming from outside the border. Peculiar, since I shouldn’t be able to hear the poachers from this distance. Not unless they’ve got the balls to cross the Triad.
The horses clomp back and forth at the outskirts. The poacher I’d humped doesn’t strike me as restrained, seeing as his pecker failed to locate my sweet spot. But he’s got to be smart enough not to follow me inside. He’s got to be!
The git spells it out. “I’m gonna roast that slut.”
“Forget her,” another spits. “I’m not going in there for the likes of a wench.”
“Fables,” the third one rasps. “Did you see that?”
The wind howls, the roots crack, and the brook hisses with steam. The noises converge and weave toward the boundary. My chasers speak low and quick, their voices shaken to the bone. One miserable sod rants about getting caught by them and how none of this is worth getting his cock severed by dark magic and—then he stops yapping.
And he starts shrieking. The men scream like I’ve never heard men scream before, ear-splitting cries that could peel the hide from a cow. My flesh prickles. I crouch lower, my knees quaking in the muck, my eyes wide on the ground as the wails overlap.
The mounts stampede from the perimeter, the thuds of their hooves tapering off. Once they’re gone, a hush descends over the wild.
Whatever happened out there, it gave my chasers a severe case of the willies. They wouldn’t be the first; if not bewitched into trespassing, other wanderers who ventured close to the Triad never recovered. Their only saving grace was not crossing the borderline. Still, some left with ghostly hair, while others went blind or mute.
The poachers’ retreat says it all. They’re skipping this village and not coming back, which means our animals are safe.
I slump—then stiffen up. The diabolical mirth returns, sliding around the trunks and lurking across the thicket.
Careful, little human. Be very careful now.
The words whisper up my spine. One of my palms flattens against the ground for support, in case I keel over. My other hand clamps over my quavering mouth, acid vaulting up my throat.