“Under’s enchantments reflect what occurs aboveground but, as you can see, there are some differences.” Zephyrus points to the feeble glowing orb above. “The realm’s sun and moon do not always cycle reliably. Sometimes, the moon gets stuck. A rudimentary design, but it does the job most days.”
“I see.” One last glance upward before my attention returns to the lake.
“Stay close,” he murmurs. A boardwalk extends from the grassy bank to the platform, and it rocks gently beneath our combined weight as we make our way across. When we reach the raft, the crowd parts around us, then sutures into a neat seam at our backs. I press nearer to Zephyrus, trying to avoid touching anyone or anything.
The fair folk do not share any specific traits, no single skin tone, no general shape, really, except for their eyes—black stones, like that woman from the market. Some possess tails. Others, beaks or antlers. Their skin is a collection of browns, ochres, olives, whites, grays.
Bare shoulders.
Bare arms.
Bare stomachs.
Bare legs.
They slink and they fondle. Their hands stroke and slither across torsos, down arms, over backs, up spines.
I look away, but there is always another person of interest amongst the loose-limbed dancers, the undulating hips. They wear waistcoats and elaborate gowns, top hats and long, ragged tunics. When I spot a man’s hand slipping between the thighs of another, I drop my gaze.
“The fair folk enjoy their merrymaking,” Zephyrus drawls beside me, having no qualms about studying their half-naked forms, male and female both.
“It is unholy,” I state stiffly.
“To you, perhaps.”
As we push through the festivities, I notice a woman draped in gauzy silks, one arm bared, and one breast. A pair of antlers protrudes from her skull. We then pass a trio of men whose skin resembles the texture of tree bark. The tallest man brings a glass of pale, sparkling liquid to his mouth. A forked tongue slithers out, curling slightly to capture the fluid, before retracting behind his teeth.
“Dryads,” Zephyrus murmurs, tracking my dumbfounded gaze. “They prefer the taste of flesh.”
I hasten my steps. This place is like nothing I’ve imagined. There appears to be no purpose to the gathering. They drink and laugh and dance as if it’s a compulsion.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, trying to squeeze between two owl-eyed girls while attempting to avoid the downy wings folded across their backs. I dodge a woman lying spread-eagled across the listing platform, a scaly tail wrapped around one leg. As I shrink from the sight, Zephyrus catches my eye and smirks.
“You have lived a sheltered life,” he says. “It is nothing to be ashamed of.” And yet, he cannot quite conceal the condescension.
“Maybe I have seen less of the world than you,” I snip, “but I have the Father. I need nothing else.”
A shrill, raptor cry soars over the gathering, followed by raucous laughter. “Is that so?” Intrigue colors his voice. “You are comforted by your god. I understand that. Indeed, there was a time when I myself was a symbol of good tidings.”
The last bit of information snags my attention, but Zephyrus continues before I have a chance to question him.
“Your world is not the same as mine. You sleep and you read and you eat and you pray. Every hour of every day is spent safely within the boundaries of your faith. My world?” He bares his teeth, and fora moment, I could have sworn they had developed points. “It is a treacherous place, unfit for the pure.” The warm, heavy weight of his palm braces my lower back, and I startle, my eyes flying to his face. “But we are attracted to things that lie outside of our lived experience,” he says lowly. “We crave something deeper.”
I do not agree. Why would I be attracted tothis? What is the purpose of exploring something so depraved? Under lacks morals, it lacks faith. It is walls with no foundation, nothing to build upon. His claims are ridiculous. The abbey is my home and my heart. I want for nothing there.
The deeper we tread into the frenzy, the greater my awareness of the unwanted attention I am attracting becomes. For this reason alone, I remain close to Zephyrus.
“They stare,” I whisper.
He smiles, a small, contemplative thing. “They smell the innocence on you.”
A few paces later, someone slips a chalice into his hand, which he lifts to his mouth. I catch his arm. “Don’t drink the wine, remember?”
His eyes dance over the rim of his goblet. “Youcannot drink the wine, my darling novitiate. You are mortal. I am not.” And he downs the red liquid, a bright sheen staining his laughing mouth.
At last, we step onto the boardwalk leading to the opposite shore. I thought the crowd would have cleared out, but if anything, it has multiplied. Something pinches my rear, and I whirl, my breath shortening. Look at these fair folk with their dark, oil-slick eyes, wildness clinging to all their wretched points. What has possessed me to accompany a man I know nothing about to a place that will readily eat me alive if given the chance? A moment of weakness, apparently.
“I want to go back,” I tell Zephyrus. But the crowd is so dense I cannot see the cavern walls.
