Kiss the Fae (Vicious Faeries #1) - Natalia Jaster
Prologue
I’d tell you how to kill them—if I’d figured that out yet.
Sometimes you’ll feel their presence lurking outside your door. Maybe they’re really there, maybe they’re not. If you peek out your window, you might find a wicked silhouette, a blade of shadow within a shaft of moonlight, its presence sending a ferocious shiver down your spine. And if you’re lucky—or cursed to hell—you might catch a glimpse of feathers, antlers, or scales.
Don’t stare too long. Instead, close the curtains.
I’d tell you how to defy them—if not for glamour.
Sometimes you’ll sense them on the woodland paths between the village and the water well. These brutal, beautiful shits will hide in plain sight, enchanted to look like you and me, eager to make you do things.
Peel off your clothes at the market? Bite off someone’s earlobe? Steal somebody’s dagger and drag its tip across your navel? Wander into a glade and never return? You bet your human ass, that’s them.
What I’m saying is, don’t go outside alone. Or if you do, bring a weapon.
I’d tell you how to avoid them—if I’d ever done it myself.
Sometimes they’ll slink into the private corners of your bedroom. You’ll take a second look at the mirror, having sworn the pointed flap of a wing had been there moments ago. You’ll feel their magic sweep by on a breeze, sneaking between your naked thighs while you’re in bed. And you’ll gasp, but is it out of shock, outrage, or a deeper impulse?
No matter your reaction, you might hear a chuckle whisking through the night air, as if its source knows your body better than you do.
Don’t listen. Just mash your face into a pillow. It works, trust me.
I can tell you more, or I can skip to the worst part.
They’ve always existed, tricking and tormenting us. But one time, one very pissed off time, we tricked and tormented them back. One short, magical time, mortals captured their kind.
But three of them escaped.
Since then, they’ve become more powerful, or so the Fables say.
Since then, they’ve become more vicious, or so the whispers say.
One who rules the sky. A Fae with obsidian-blue hair and darkly hued lips. A monster who wields a javelin and plays a devious flute.
One who rules the woodland. A Fae who sprouts antlers from a thicket of red waves, his limbs tapering to a pair of cloven hooves. A monster who wields a longbow and strums a lusty cello.
One who rules the river. A Fae with an onyx mane and gold serpentine eyes so harsh they’ll blind you at close range. A monster who wields forked daggers and plucks a vengeful harp.
Actually, I should tell you one last thing. We live by rules in these parts. For a start, if you’re mortal, watch your back.
Keep the lanterns brimming. Keep the candles burning.
Stay out of their territory. Stay away from the mountain, the forest, and the deep.
Don’t answer the wind, the trees, or the water. Or they’ll hear you.
1
I’m naked and on my back again, only this time I’m alone. My bare ass rests on a pile of cushions as I blow cool air from between my lips. I’ve gone and made a selfish nest of pillows on the balcony jutting from the attic. There’s a big, sexy sky yawning above me, the lazy clouds sliding through a twilit canvas of mauve and cornflower.
My family’s cottage burrows into a glade, the chirps from out back tugging on my heartstrings. The front overlooks our yard, where fence posts sink their teeth into the property line, a woodland lane spilling from the gate and ambling toward the village. There, the path converges with the main road and coils into a snail shell, scrolling through the center of Reverie Hollow.
Sure is a funny name for a village, akin to a place of sunken, empty dreams.
A mile away, our neighbors will be closing up business. The brewer and cobbler will pull down their shutters, and merchants will roll pickle barrels through the market square. I picture the usual suspects: the blacksmith flipping over her sign from “Gimme Money” to “Go Away,” the dressmaker sprinkling his stoop with salt, and the beefy cloth-dyer spilling from his shop to leave a jug of cream by the door.
Most of them will be in a hurry. Nobody roams after dark.
Well, almost no one. Rest assured, some idiot’s thinking about looting the flour mill. And I swear, the stocks are a right mess, crammed with crooks but no guards.