Swiping my whip from the floor, I race out of the wagon. Ripping down the steps, I halt on the grass and gawk, locks of hair swatting my cheeks. A draft rattles the willow tree and beyond, the branches croaking, the boughs entangling.
I squint at the raptor slashing across the grove, the knives of its wings chopping through the canopy. There’s something eerie about the way it flies.
That isn’t a mortal bird.
It dashes into the thicket behind the caravan. I sprint after it, pumping my legs while envisioning Juniper’s polished spectacles and Cove’s blushing smile. My pulse escalates as I slam through the bushes, trailing the avian’s shearing hoot. I barrel into a small enclosure of hedges—and damn near smash into the owl.
It charges toward my chest, forcing me to duck. Straightening, I yelp as it heads for me again, thrashing its plumes against my face. Averting my skull from the creature, I choke my whip and give the weapon a deft flick. It’s a bluff, the cord whisking toward the owl but not striking it, prompting the animal to back off.
I brace my weapon and face the hovering raptor. It’s a horned owl. My eyes stumble across the fella’s incandescent bronze plumage, its ear tufts rising higher than physically possible for its breed—the length rivaling a broadsword—and the hollow basin where its left eye should be.
The owl heckles, punching out another sinister hoot. My fingers tighten on the whip.
“I wouldn’t provoke him,” a voice says.
My back tenses. My gaze flips toward the source and scans the empty copse.
But there’s someone here. Someone with a masculine timbre that flutters into the space, his tone light and crafty.
The owl jerks. My whip raps toward the bird, keeping it bay.
The breezy voice tuts. “We’ll have to do something about that pluck of yours.”
I hiss in no particular direction. “Who are you?”
“Lower the whip.”
“Show yourself first—”
A finger of wind sweeps beneath my jaw, clapping my lips together and silencing me. “I saaaaid, lower the whip,” the speaker instructs. His voice is a tenor in flight, but as elegant as the command sounds, it also has a diabolical ring to it. Whoever—or whatever—this stranger is, he’s not going to ask twice.
Juniper. Cove.
I lower the whip.
“Marvelous. Now retreat three paces,” the voice bids.
Grinding my teeth, I do as he asks.
“Hold his gaze, nice and long,” the tenor continues, enunciating so that I hear his artful tongue unfurl. The noise slips beneath my nightgown, grazing my knees and licking higher.
My hips twitch, denying further progress. At which point, I detect an arrogant chuckle.
My eyes lock on to the owl. A single aquamarine iris passes judgment, then the deadpan bird flaps away to perch on a tree.
That wispy tenor sneaks up behind me. “Under the vicious stars, in the rural plains of Middle Country, it’s dark and light at the same time.”
I twist, finding nobody there.
The next words swing from a different direction. “Under the vicious stars, mystical tales float through the sky, and root themselves in the woodland, and swim in the river.”
I spin the other way, my eyes darting across the enclosure. Nothing but creepers and shadows. Yet the recitation is everywhere, surrounding me from all vantage points, too mobile and agile to catch.
The narration continues, this time from above. “Under the vicious stars, the crests rise, and the forest sniggers, and the waters rage.”
My head snaps in that direction, meeting tufts of clouds swimming in a black sky. I stumble around. The voice has a talent for whispering, caressing the air with wicked strokes.
“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark.” The voice quizzes me from somewhere ahead, “And what did the Lark say?”
“You’re a dead man, is what it said,” I growl.
Except he’s not a man at all. He can only be one kind of monster.
The wind swoops from the trees, shuddering the boughs. The current circles my body at a languid pace, akin to a rope patiently nabbing its prize.
When it teases my nightgown and fiddles with the low neckline, my hand reacts. My whip belts into the air. Another thrust of wind rams into me, knocking the weapon aside, so that it falls limp in my grasp.
The branches groan. The horned owl leaps into the sky.
A displeased, menacing voice prowls across my skin. “That—was incredibly stupid, pet.”
I swerve toward those patronizing words and snap my weapon—which thwacks into a masculine arm that blocks the strike. The impact causes me to stagger. For a second, that unflinching arm remains crooked at the elbow and fixed in place before finally lowering.
And then I trip over a pair of disturbing, glittering irises.
Fables. I take an involuntary step back.
Out of nowhere, a lithe male form stands before me. He’s got the appearance of a human in his mid-twenties, with a thicket of hair lashing around his face. It’s the most dangerous shade I’ve ever seen, an obsidian-blue that’s richer than dawn, deeper than dusk.
A long, thin cord of braided hair dangles from the tousled layers, with a feather of the same pigment sprouting at the end.
It’s the same shade as…
I jerk the thought from my head, because no. It might be a dazzling hue, but it’s not the same one as the blue feather I’d protected today.
It can’t be the same type of plume. It’s impossible for one indisputable reason.
A reason I don’t want to think about.
This stranger’s the picture of disheveled elegance. Black boots soar up his legs, fitting around loose trousers. A white shirt hangs from his torso, the material as rumpled as an unmade bed. The garment dips into a shameless V, the neckline descending to his navel and exposing the majority of his chest.
Man, this fucker’s got some nerve.
A long coat billows around him, dyed the color of eventide. The hem taps his calves, and the collar flares along his jaw.
I retreat even farther, put distance between us, and take a wild guess. “You’re one of the Three. You’re the one who rules the sky.”
The Fae smirks. “Come now. You make me sound vicious.”
Although Faeries speak their own language, they’re fluent in the mortal tongue. But unlike my rustic drawl, his accent has a lofty, upward slope to it.
My attention jumps to his lips, coated in an ominous dark blue. Did he paint his mouth that shade? Or is it a natural part of his skin?
He’s a tall swig of water. My eyes trace his physique—slender yet toned where it counts—cresting to an exquisitely lethal visage. The hollows and ridges of his face are all points and inclines, his cheekbones slanting toward a pair of pointy ears.
My hands suffocate the whip. “I’m no man’s pet.”
“Indeed? Such a shame, and such a waste.” His irises gleam, their rings encrusted with a spectrum of blues, comparable to the vivid quills of a blue jay. “Though it’s a pleasure to know you haven’t been claimed yet.”
Yeah. I walked into that one. “What did you do to my sisters?”
“Mulish, meddlesome, mutinous little girl. Where are your manners?”
I swear, their hypocrisy is the stuff of legends. Nevertheless, I compress my lips, fighting to remember everything my sisters and I have been over, everything the villagers have been threatened to remember.