Plenty of high fae beds, yes. Sex is cheap for most of the fae. A haven is another level of trust, like entering a hollow inside someone’s spirit.
Folly seems fascinated, if still nervous. That makes sense. Folly probably has as little experience with fae as Yarrow has with humans.
“As for realm-sickness,” Yarrow continues. “That’s what happens when someone stays too long in the wrong realm. It might take half a year or longer, but eventually, your spirit starts to reject the essence of the realm. You’re fine as long as we’re cursed, though, because the curse ties you to me.”
“Fine except for the curse part,” Folly points out.
“Except for that,” Yarrow agrees. “Any other questions?”
“What’s the difference between all the fae?” Folly bites his lip, but doesn’t apologize this time. He glances at Yarrow’s horns. “High fae, regular fae, and you’re a wild fae?”
“Your turn to answer a question, first.” Yarrow tilts his head, pretending to think. “Let’s start easy. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” Folly says.
Yarrow stretches his legs out, trying not to show his relief. Twenty-four is good. Young, but twice as old as twelve, and unlikely to die of old age before they reach Elladar.
Not that Yarrow has designs on Folly. He may be attractive and interesting and eligible, with soft limbs that beg to be bound in silk, but he’s still human and fragile. And morning afters are awkward enough when Yarrow isn’t curse-bound to his partners.
“Regular fae are just fae,” Yarrow continues, pleased with his findings. “There’s forest fae living in the forest and river fae living by the river and village fae living in the village. But they’re all fae. High fae are royalty, or close to royalty. They have more magic, and they aren’t afraid to let you know about it.” Yarrow strokes his left horn, grinning. “And I’m wild fae, which means I’m part fae, partother.”
Folly is flatteringly attentive, and even opens his mouth for what must be a follow-up question. Then he freezes, brown and gold eyes staring over Yarrow’s shoulder.
“Um, are the trees supposed to move?” Folly asks quietly.
The rustling leaves suddenly sound sinister. This could either be a fun educational opportunity or a disaster.
“Plenty of trees move.” Yarrow shifts, readying himself for movement. “This is an important question. What color are its leaves?”
“Red and orange.”
Yarrow spins as he surges upward. Magic swirls with him, and he raises his arms to parry. His axe thuds into his empty hands just in time to slice into the whipping branches.
His opponent is ten feet away. The arberos is a squat, gnarled tree, short enough to travel beneath the larger lords of the forest. Autumn-red leaves rustle along its twisting branches, which are annoying enough.
The real problems are the flexible, leafless vines hiding behind them. Easier to chop off, but faster. Harder to avoid.
There’s a scrambling sound behind him. Folly.
“Too slow,” Yarrow taunts, though the arberos can’t understand him. It’s a mindless, instinctive entity. Yarrow leaps over the slope of the bank, assessing his surroundings. He can’t let the arberos have the high ground, but he can’t leave the curse-bond’s periphery either. “Folly, this is an arberos. Not the nice kind of walking tree. Stay about fifteen feet behind me, so I have room to?—”
The arberos’s trunk gapes open in a silent, vine-choked roar. Laughing with the delight of battle, Yarrow dodges one branch and slices off another. If he can just get to the trunk without getting trapped?—
A yelp echoes above the rustling and the river. Yarrow skids around just in time to see vines twisting around Folly’s limbs.
Folly’s mismatched eyes are wide with terror. Another vine slaps over mouth before the second arberos swallows him whole.
Chapter 9
Folly
Driven by the strength of fear, Folly wrenches his arms free. His fingers catch the edge of the tree-monster’s mouth. But digging in does nothing. Vines still twist around his legs, wrapping around his stomach.
Bark crumbles beneath his fingers. The arberos yanks Folly backwards, and darkness closes around him.
This is Folly’s second time being inside a tree in less than a day, and it’s horribly different from last time. Constant movement shoves and pulls him. Claustrophobic darkness presses against his eyes. He sucks in air through his nostrils, his mouth still blocked.
Struggling is useless. Worse than useless. The vines seem to anger, tightening with every fruitless movement. Folly struggles anyway, panic needling through his lungs. A vine pries beneath the cuff of his sleeve and climbs his wrist, his forearm. Cool wetness crawls in its wake.
