The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,98

be safe, but because I can come clean about everything.

“Anyway,” Maisel continues, “males enjoy glamor and luxury just as much as the females. We all share duties in a community. Children are raised by multiple mothers and fathers. Even the childless pitch in to help in that area.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“No, thank the stars,” she scoffs. “Sprite children are impulsive and stubborn. I never wanted any of my own. Besides, I’m too young, anyway.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

That is young. “And how long do sprites usually live?”

“If their life isn’t interrupted, about three hundred years.”

I stand corrected—she’s practically a baby herself. My guilt worsens. How awful, to be mutilated for the rest of her life. “I wish you still had your wings. I’m sorry.”

“An apology isn’t going to fix me.” She isn’t being snarky. Just stating a fact.

I realize she’s not a pet, but I wonder if she’d like to come back to the palace with Damon and me. Would she be a burden to her people? Obviously, her days as a messenger are over, and she’d be confined to her community. They might even throw her on kid duty just because they can.

I make a mental note to bring up the subject when the time is right.

We get to a fork in the road, and I come to a stop. “Which way?”

“Left. And this is where you have to leave me. I can already smell the stench of the vapors.”

I can’t tell a difference in the air. I hate the idea of going on alone, but I don’t want any more harm to come to Maisel. “Should I hide you under some leaves?”

“See that hollowed area in the tree trunk?”

I spot the place about ten feet away, and when I get there, I have to get on my tiptoes to peer inside. Other than some of the white petals and dried sticks, it’s vacant.

Lifting Maisel out of the scarf, I gently place her inside. “You’ll be okay until I get back?”

“You shouldn’t be gone long. It’s less than a quarter mile from here. Get in, get out.”

“Got it.”

She giggles. “Do you know how weird it is to see your face floating?”

“Oh.” I quickly pull my hood down. “Better?”

“Yes. Onward, my friend. Keep going until you see the crescent rock. Be safe.”

“I will.”

Keeping my footsteps light and fast, I run. It’s not a sprint because I don’t want to be too winded, but imagining I’m simply participating in a marathon helps to take my mind off the end goal.

Soon, the foliage becomes sparce and I see a light at the opening of the trail. When I emerge, I scan the landscape for the rock Maisel described. The only problem? There are tons of them. Stones of all shapes and sizes are embedded in the hill.

If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d appreciate the beauty of this area. Nature is undisturbed here. The grass is a deep green, and since it’s unkempt, weeds and wildflowers grow everywhere. There are thick patches of moss on all the rocks.

Except for one.

The whiteness of the stone draws my attention, and as I get closer, I notice the moon shape. It’s placed with the curved back on the ground, the two points sticking up. Obviously manmade. The edges are too smooth. It’s been chiseled.

This is the marker.

Finding the entrance to the distillery isn’t difficult. In fact, it’s too easy. Although there’s no path to the door, the greenery is flattened, and some hot-pink flowers are crushed from being walked on.

A woven grass net hangs loosely over the entry, and the variation in the texture is unmistakable. Lifting it, I find a rotted wooden door that’s been embedded into the side of the hill. It’s slanted with the slope, and I look for a tripwire outside of it.

There’s one at ankle height just a foot away.

Slowly and gently, I turn the rusted knob and push the door inward. A creak echoes down a dark tunnel, and I wait a few seconds to see if anyone comes barreling out. If a trap doesn’t alert whoever’s inside to my presence, squeaking metal might.

When nothing happens, I move forward. Right before I step over the wire, I see a second at eye level.

I pause just a few inches away from it.

Ducking, I pick up my cloak, avoiding both wires and stepping down five stairs. The wooden planks beneath my feet have been haphazardly shoved onto crooked steps carved out in the dirt, and as I get farther into the hallway,