But Yarrow doesn’t turn around. Nobody does. The festive gathering continues uninterrupted, with dancing lights and laughing fae who sound more sinister by the moment.
“Don’t bother,” Oleander says, unperturbed. “I said they wouldn’t listen. Tell me more about Yarrow.”
Folly inhales, shaking with the urge to answer. “Is this a truth spell?”
Fuck, he’s stupid. Oleander hadn’t lied once, even when she sipped the drink to make him think it was safe. A truth spell wouldn’t have any effect on a fae, who already had to tell the truth.
Oleander’s ears pin back, her cheerful demeanor fraying. “Answer me, human, or I’ll hurt you.”
The threat kicks Folly’s thoughts into motion. He assesses everything around him. The traveling inn. The fox fae. Yarrow, so close yet so distant.
“Hurt me?” Folly asks, with a vicious grin. “Great idea.”
And he sprints away from the inn. Away from the fox fae. Away from Yarrow—until the curse’s agony lashes through him.
Chapter 14
Yarrow
Pain claws into Yarrow. He chokes mid-sentence, eyes blurring. But the agony is nothing compared to the cold slice of worry. The curse’s bite means Folly is trying to leave him. Or worse—someone is trying to take Folly from him.
Yarrow’s axe jumps into his hands in a flurry of gold sparks.
Pennyroyal jumps back with a yelp, and Hummingbird takes to the air. Others cry out, alarmed either by Pennyroyal’s cry or Yarrow’s drawn weapon. But Yarrow barely notices them. All he has eyes for is Folly, huddled on his knees, his starry blue robe spread around him.
And the fae standing over him. She’s hard to focus on. Like a gauzy curtain is blurring the air between them. Her pointed fox ears and Menagerie apron are her only clear features.
Until Yarrow lunges towards her.
His axe sings. His muscles move with effort, then with ease, as he surges into the curse’s boundary. The pain lifts like shackles falling from his limbs. Yarrow’s only thought is removing one of the fox fae’s limbs.
Then he’ll question her.
Then he’ll remove her head.
She jerks back, the blurring spell dropping. Yarrow has one clear look at her—reddish hair, tired yellow eyes, her apron the same color but a different cut than the other Menagerie workers?—
Before she melts into shadow.
Light, feminine laughter turns to a creaking cackle, echoing through the field, as the shards of darkness race away. Yarrow whirls, blood pounding, aching to pursue. But there’s nothing to chase.
The shapestealer is gone.
“Drop your weapon!” someone shouts, irate. Probably a Menagerie worker. Yarrow isnotfollowing guest protocol right now.
Yarrow returns his axe to his back, but not because he’s been told. Weapon out of the way, he drops to his knees next to Folly. Relief rushes through him, the euphoria of proximity countering the pain of separation. Except he can’t be relieved yet.
“What happened?” Yarrow brushes the hair back from Folly’s pale face. “Are you hurt?”
Folly leans into the touch, trembling. “I’m only hurt because of the curse,” he says haltingly. “She tricked me into drinking some sort of truth potion. That was Moriath, right?”
“I think so. Fuck.” Yarrow tries to tamp down his anger. He can’t run after the monster, because he’s stuck with Folly. Even if he wasn’t stuck, he wouldn’t want to leave when his human looks so distressed.
Fury burns beneath his bones. Moriath tried to take Folly from him.
And Yarrow was careless enough to let it happen.
Buzzing with thwarted adrenaline, Yarrow shoves to his feet. “Up we go,” he says, offering a hand. He tries to sound encouraging, not furious, because his anger is directed at Moriath and himself. Not Folly.
