Page 26 of These Vile Hearts

“Will it not be a bit suspicious for a random mortal to crash their tree party?”

“Oh, you will not be the only mortal at that party…Though most of them are there as accessories or pets.”

“Pets?”

“A fun trend started by the Redwood King. He has been known to enjoy certain games with humans.”

“What sorts of games?”

“All kinds. Mostly of the sexual variety.”

I’ve played my fair share of sexual games. But something about her tone tells me those are not the sorts the Redwood King likes to play.

“Good luck, axeling,” Drosera says. “Go do what you mortals do best.”

“Fuck shit up?” I say. Drosera’s eyebrows lift slightly. This may be the first time I’ve surprised her. “I plan to.”

Without another word I step through the egress.

~

I pitch forward into a forest I know to be at least sixty miles away from where I just stood. The air returns to my lungs, and I gulp it down, ignoring the bemused glances shot my way by fae decked in their best party attire. In some cases that means wearing nothingbuta mask.

I must looksomortal right now.

Dryads and a plethora of other fae creatures walk by me, moving in a single direction. A lithe feminine dryad passes by wearing a gown made entirely from pink rose petals. Another is draped in nothing but glistening spiderweb. All the dryads have horns or antlers of some kind, large and animallike or thin as tree branches. Masks of all sorts hide their faces, from clusters of delicate gemstones to animal skulls with fur and blood still clinging on. I follow the throng, shoulders back, chin up, as though I know exactly what I’m doing. As though I belong. I wonder if any of them can sense my pounding heart.

A human man wearing a collar—an actual bedazzled collar—isbeing guided like a pet on a leash. The dryad on the other end wears a gown woven from shiny green leaves. Rather than horror or fear or any other reasonable emotion, the man smiles, as if he’s merely on a pleasant stroll through the woods with his dryad friends.

Several arborfae nearly collide with me, eyeing my neck like they are wondering wheremycollar is. I walk faster.

Redwood trees tower around us like nature’s skyscrapers. I’ve been here a few times with my dad. Notherehere, but the redwood forest. He liked to climb them, even though I’m fairly sure it’s illegal unless you go to a certain place in California, which we didn’t. I wonder if he ever thought about telling me his six-foot-deep secrets. Most of his stories sounded like fairy tales, though I guess I was too young to understand all the complicated kingdom wars and power dynamics. If he had lived long enough to see me grow up, would he have told me about his pact? Would he have stopped holding a finger to his lips when I asked one too many questions?

The horde before me slows and compacts. I rise onto tiptoes to see over the horns and antlers of the dryads crowding my line of sight.

Dozens of spherical carriages made of golden vines rise into the air carrying groups of masked guests. They disappear just past the highest visible branches. My first peek at dryads from the Redwood Court is of muscled males with pointed ears, scarlet masks, and capes to match. Thick horns protrude from their craniums, making them seem even less human. More like beasts masquerading as people.

Like a carefully choreographed dance, the red-masked dryads hold out poised hands, helping guests onto the golden-vined carriages. I sidle into one of the waiting lines, behind a green-skinned woman with pointed teeth. “Lovely mask,” she notes in a voice that sounds as though she’s speaking underwater.

I start to thank her, but she walks forward before I can, and then it’s my turn to take the extended hand of the Redwood dryad.

“Invitation,” he requests.

On the outside, I’m poised and natural as I slip the rolled parchment from my gown’s pocket and hand it over. Inside, I’m vibrating with anxiety. As the invitation touches the dryad’s fingers, it vanishes into the air in a puff of golden smoke. The black outline of some sort of leaf appears on the back of my hand.

Within the globe of vines, I settle into a seat beside an older male dryad wearing a periwinkle gown even more extravagant than mine. Javen would love all of this. A sharp pang hits me in the chest. He’ll be in San Francisco by now. I wonder if he’s tried texting me or if he’s worried. I should have told him what I was doing. But even Javen would have thought I was losing my mind. I haven’t decided yet if he would have been right.

The carriage rises through the trees, narrowly avoiding entangled branches. Darkness grows thicker, and the others in the carriage stop their excited chatter. Echoing in the distance is a haunted howling sound almost like whale song. The lyricless melody coats my nerves like a weighted blanket, quieting my anxiety. A few of the carriage’s passengers slam palms over their ears.

The man in the gown lifts my hands, indicating I should do the same, shouting, “Don’t listen to the tree siren’s song, lovely!”

“Why?” I shout back as my previous anxiety returns.

“Untrustworthy creatures, sirens.” He winks.

A humorless laugh leaves my painted lips. “I’ve been told the same thing about dryads.”

Cackling, the man says, “ ’Tis true!”