Page 19 of Fae Mates

He broke into a trot and then slowed to our side. “I recognize you now.”

“No, you don’t,” I snapped.

“The hair’s different.” He tilted his head as though that would help him see better. “So are the wings, but I never forget a pretty face.”

My pulse quickened, and paranoia made sweat break out across my skin. That time Coltrane had rescued me from the wood sprites, I had told him that I was one of the princes’ fated mates. If word got out that I was roaming the streets and not dead, Queen Titania would have me quartered by nightfall.

“You’re mistaken,” McVittie said in a voice of ice. “Dahlia is visiting from the Calf of Fae.”

Coltrane folded his arms across his chest. “Then why were you both sneaking about the forest, then? Most tourists go to the Mound or if they’re posh enough, Prudence Plaza.”

“Why are you following us?” I hissed.

“It’s a free country, isn’t it?” he said.

My teeth ground together. Actually, it wasn’t. Not for us downtrodden humans, who were trapped here while the rest of our species outside the Isle of Fae lived in huge mansions, feasted on banquets, and enjoyed extreme makeovers. There was even a person called RuPaul who helped transform boys into fabulous-looking queens. What did we have? Endless drudgery sweetened by handouts from the United Nations.

“Ignore him,” said McVittie. “He’s probably desperate to mate with a pretty faerie.”

The centaur reared back. “I’ll have you know that this stallion is in demand.”

“Right.” I picked up my pace down the cobbled road and paused to let a troop of foot-high hobgoblins pass.

Green waistcoats and breeches covered their walnut-colored skin, and their mahogany hair glinted in the sunlight. The last of the creatures, who had hair like spun silver, bowed as he passed.

I walked along a row of small cottages with McVittie on my shoulder, each with thin front gardens, and stopped at a familiar-looking one that was overgrown with weeds.

“We’ve reached our destination, so bugger off,” said the cat.

Coltrane stood on the roadside, watching us walk down a path of cracked pave stones.

The wooden door was ajar, and stale air wafted out. I turned to McVittie. “Does she usually leave her door open?”

“Mistress Catha is too paranoid to give neighbors a chance to steal her valuables,” he replied.

“Hello?” I shouted in the gap between the door and its frame.

There was no answer.

“Why don’t you just walk in and see?” asked Coltrane from the roadside.

“That’s not a bad idea.” McVittie tapped me on the collarbone.

The pulse in my neck fluttered, and I inhaled a breath that caught at the tops of my lungs. “Maybe she left the door open while picking herbs.”

“Do you see her anywhere in the garden?” asked McVittie.

The lack of a hunched figure rifling through the overgrown plants was my answer. “Alright, then,” I whispered. “On a count of three.”

“One,” said the cat. “Two… Three.”

I pushed the door open with my foot and stepped aside to avoid a potential thrown curse. It was what the detectives did in the movies, and I’d always thought it a very smart precaution. Since no one rushed out at us, I took a tentative step inside.

Faint light from the fat, earwax candle provided illumination over a smashed table, an upturned armchair with its stuffing spilling out like snakes, and planks of wood strewn over the floor. A palpitation reverberated across my ribcage, and all the moisture left my mouth.

“She must have left in a hurry,” I said, hoping McVittie would add something helpful.

“Close the door,” said the cat.