16. Danica

Danica

16

T he anticipation is like electricity under my skin, a current of exhilaration that has me practically vibrating on the spot. Here we are, trailblazing through the enigmatic woods led by Faderyn toward some clandestine spring, and I can't hold still. The canopy above is alive with a chorus of birds, their melodies weaving a tapestry of cheerfulness that feels strangely discordant against the backdrop of my disheveled mix of anxiety and hope.

The secluded oasis appears almost otherworldly, a pocket of steamy calm bordered by lush ferns and venerable stones veiled in thick green moss. The air carries the herbal scent of the warm springs to me, an intangible lure promising to melt away the day's strain. Why Faderyn chose to reveal this hidden paradise only now is a mystery. Perhaps those of his kind aren't bound to the daily cleansing rituals we mortals adhere to.

FaderynandErik, with the discretion of seasoned gentlemen, avert their gazes, granting me a sliver of solitude. Stripping, I waste no time slipping into the welcoming waters with a contented groan, feeling the tension melt from my muscles, dissolving in the heat like sugar in tea.

The air is laced with the comforting aroma of lavender, a touch of cedar, and something richly organic—a bouquet of serenity.

Curiosity piqued, I wander to the edge and uncover jars ensconced in the mossy embankment, their contents a mystery begging to be unveiled. Tentative sniffs uncover a symphony of fragrances—floral entwined with understated hints of fruit and herbs—a veritable cornucopia of faerie cosmetics at my disposal.

Delving deeper into this treasure trove of fae-kind hygiene, I finally fish out what looks to be a tiny, unassuming blade. A pinch of skepticism tags along as I test it against my leg, only to find myself gasping in sheer amazement; it whisks away the stubble in a flawless crescendo of smoothness.

Holy smokes— a magical razor? Victory! Oh, blessed be the inventors of this magical defoliator— it's time to say goodbye to Wookie legs, for I have been anointed with the sorcery of hassle-free hair removal!

After tackling the wilderness that was colonizing my legs and other parts, I worked some pearly liquid through knotted strands of my mess of hair, cursing when combing fingers met intractable snags. Frustrated, I can't properly wash my grimy, tangled hair with the mysteriously adhered diadem.

Honestly, at this point, I'd trade my left butt cheek just for the damn thing to come off!

Muttering to the void as I wrestle with the stubborn diadem, I grumble, "If this ornery tiara doesn't start working hair miracles stat, I'm doomed to look like I've wrestled with a pack of gremlins..."

My griping has barely bounced off the surrounding flora when a strange buzzing sensation tingles against my head. I let out a yelp, fingers fumbling through my tresses as the obstinate crown pulls a vanishing act!

"What in the actual fairy-tale hell?" I hiss, my heartbeat doing a drum solo in my chest. My pulse races. Faerie Hijinks better not be making off with my one shot at Unity Magic. "Get back here! Did you just...?"

As if on cue, the crown decides to play peek-a-boo. A faint hum teases at my hairline, and then—voilà! That cool metal band reappears, settling around my head like it's gravitating toward some unseen leash.

"Right, vanishing act accessories," I say, a little unsteady as I address the silent trees around me. "That's one for the books on creeping me out."

But when you've been knee-deep in otherworldly shenanigans, today's brand of weirdness is just another drop in the bucket. I shrug it off, as there's no use getting hung up on every quirk in this fae-filled funhouse.

Steeling myself, I channel my willpower, treating it like a hidden appendage I'm learning to wiggle for the first time. With a deep breath, I envision the command like a mental nudge, urging the unseen to respond. "Okay, you've got my attention, mystical crown. How about an encore?" I say, my voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Bibbity Bobbity—be gone."

As if eager to oblige, that odd hum buzzes again, the sensation dancing right down to the roots of my hair—and poof, the crown is gone, its weight lifting in an instant. It seems my headpiece is keen to follow orders, vanishing on command!

Letting out a chuckle that borders on nervous collapse—because hey, at this point, what's one more jaunt down the rabbit hole?—I quickly slap some herbal goop into my hair, scrubbing fiercely. After all, there's no telling when the Turbo Crown 3000 will decide it's time to make a comeback.

Stepping out from the spring's embrace, I enfold myself in a linen towel that seems to hold the very warmth of the sun. Every fiber is infused with an herbal scent that evokes memories of lazy breezes dancing through fields of wildflowers—a remnant of summertime captured in cloth.

My hands stumble upon a stash of supplies nearby, and among them, my fingers encounter the smooth curve of an antler comb. I can't help but give it a test run through my damp hair, and to my amazement, it moves as though charmed, parting tangles like a whispered secret.

These tools of fae design redefine the notion of hair care from a mere routine to something of enchantment — this comb achieves in moments what my mundane brushes back home could only accomplish through arduous, painful efforts.

As I approach where my clothes lie in a precise fold, my anticipation abruptly gives way to a mix of shock and indignation.

There, as if taunting me, is the ensemble of black leather that clasps and confines in a manner better suited for an underground fantasy than any practical combat attire.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter, the words falling right out of my slack-jawed mouth. Seriously, I'm starting to think a scratchy, ill-fitting burlap sack might be a preferable option!

As if on cue, the sound of Erik and Faderyn's laughter seeps through the leaves, their mirth starkly contrasting with my vexation. I can't help but roll my eyes."Oh, yeah, knee-slapper, guys! Yuck it up!" I lob back at them, my tone dripping with sarcasm as I throw what is probably the most undignified hand gesture I can muster in the direction of those unseen snickerers.

Figures their amusement only grows, their chuckles morphing into full-throated laughs as I stand here, debating the lesser of two evils: forge ahead in pseudo-bondage couture or go makeshift hermit.

"Lady Axilya insisted those leathers flatter your coloring and status most dashingly," Faderyn supplies diplomatically once choking subsides.

Cursing under my breath, I wriggle awkwardly into the clingy battle suit again , hopping inelegantly to peel wet skin from constricting pants.

Yanking the sculpted leather bustier into place, I holler over one shoulder. "I swear Axilya receives a personalized burning bag of dog shit for these outfits..."

A mid my irritation over the incrediblyridiculous getups I keep being shoehorned into, the sumptuous spread laid out for breakfast momentarily sidelines me.

Without reservation, I heap my plate with delectable offerings, paying no mind as the juice from a piece of exotic purple fruit leaves a vibrant mark on my skin. My stomach growls with approval as I take in the bounty—crusty, warm bread that clouds the air with its comforting aroma straight from the camp ovens; bowls filled with fruits of colors so vivid they seem plucked from dreams; pots of rich, pearly butter; and savory roasted meat that promises satisfaction with every bite. The taste is a festival of sensations; sweetness duels with tartness, all laced with subtle spices that could very well be a fae secret.

My eagerness to indulge betrays any sense of dining decorum, as I'm already reaching for seconds—or thirds?—before properly savoring what's already in my mouth. Erik and Faderyn try to disguise their amusement with discreetly placed hands as they witness my voracious onslaught of the meal.

I have never been the type to play coy with a plate of food, hence the curves. I guess I'm not your poster girl for the waif look—and that's perfectly fine.

I spear another chunk of the enigmatic roasted meat a little more forcefully than necessary, my fork screeching against the tin tray in a way that soulfully harmonizes with my mood. The utensil might be another casualty of my morning's frustration.

I glance up to see Erik and Faderyn politely training their eyes on their breakfasts across the table. But twitching lips give away barely contained glee.

I softly kick Erik's shin beneath the table without looking up from aggressively sawing stringy meat portions. "Laugh it up, boys. We'll see if anyone grins when I accidentally set their eyebrows on fire later."

Erik's response is to wipe his expression clean, sculpting it into a mask of great gravity—still, those betraying silver eyes of his twinkle with untamed hilarity betraying his feigned sobriety.

They say eyes are windows to the soul, and right now, his are open curtains to a comedy.

"You seem vexed still over garb befitting your station. Was the bath not soothing then?" He keeps admirable composure even as I bare teeth next bite.

"Oh, I got sparkly clean, alright. But it's hard to feel Zen-like peace when you constantly worry your rack's gonna spill out for the world anytime you breathe too deep," I retort, gulping my coffee.

Shoving away my plate, I fix Faderyn with my most intimidating scowl. "Please inform Her Sparkly Maj that if she tries outfitting me in stripper boots next, I'll shove them right up her—"

"I shall inform Lady Axilya that you most appreciate her curated battle attire," Faderyn interrupts smoothly.

Erik suddenly develops a violent coughing fit. I don't buy for one instant.

I snort disbelievingly into my drink. "What time's my glittering appointment to discuss diplomatic fashion torture and maybe rescuing my man again?"

It's time to give Axilya a piece of my mind!

As I'm voicing my umpteenth complaint about impractical questing wear, I'm startled when the bench suddenly dips beside me. I glance over to see a tiny fae boy, no more than six years old, staring unabashedly with those jewel-bright eyes so common here.

"Hello," I greet curiously when the silent awe stretches longer. His cute, round little face smiles up at me with a mop of oak-leaf hair.

"You—you is her!" The child bursts out in hushed excitement, bouncing eagerly closer. "The destiny lady from Mama's stories!"

The unexpected intensity in his words causes my eyes to widen in an instant of surprise, only to be quickly softened by the warmth of an affectionate smile. That gap-toothed earnestness is endearing; it has the charm of something raw and unguarded.

I lean forward a bit, adopting a tone of light-hearted curiosity. "Looks like I've moved up in the world—making it into stories, now am I?" I say, a playful edge in my voice. "I'm curious—did these tales happen to mention who I am? My name, perhaps?" The teasing note carries a genuine interest as I wonder how my narrative might be weaving into the local lore.

The boy nods feverishly, nearly tumbling off the bench in enthusiasm. "Mama says a mortal girl-hero—angel comes to fight the Black Fear, what eats all the happiness! She says…you … very p-pretty and b-brave!"

The moment "Angel" slips into the conversation, Rhyland flashes across my mind—his special nickname for me that's become music to my ears.

The kid's got this serious look, like he's carrying the world on his shoulders, making me choose my words with a softer touch. "Yep, I'm as mortal as it gets. But I'll be as brave as they come," I say, winking to ease the weightiness. "Keeping everyone safe here is on my to-do list. Pinky promise."

I extend my pinky, offering it to him as a silent pact. He eyes the tiny gesture, a moment of hesitation before understanding dawns. His pinky meets mine, and I loop it with a playful wink. A toothless grin spreads across his face in response, a simple moment of connection sealed with a promise in intertwined fingers.

As if drawn by a string to the magnetism of the crown atop my head, he shuffles nearer, eyes fixed upon the shimmering emblem of my uncanny fate.

Up close, I take in the finer points of his appearance: the childlike perfection of a tiny, rounded nose and those ears, uncommonly pointed yet soft around the edges, poking through a tousle of oak-colored hair. His gaze, full of open honesty and belief, pinches at my heart.

"Yeah, Mama said a mortal lady blessed by old m-magicks would come to make the monsters f-flee," he confides proudly. "She said you have stars in your skin, that you…f-fall from heaven and b-battle a dark god!"

I blink hard at his mom's fanciful exaggerations but nod encouragingly. "Well, the bad guys better watch their backs now that I'm around. No more scaring cute kids!" I ruffle his hair playfully, making him giggle and duck away.

As he waves goodbye, I feel Erik and Faderyn observing the exchange thoughtfully as he scampers off.

Erik claps my shoulder. "It seems tales of your quest already gather devoted followers." His teasing holds deep affection.

A playful laugh escapes me as I acknowledge his endearing sincerity with a tolerant roll of my eyes. "Oh yes, I can't save the world without starting my Fan Club first. Maybe matching T-shirts next—I Believe in Dani with cute unicorns!"

Erik chuckles, moving off to check camp defenses out of long habit.

I glance again at the little boy, and warm longing squeezes my heart as I watch him cling happily to his mother nearby. Could I ever have that someday—a child to cherish? Unease pricks me, making me realize how much an immortal bond-mate changes everyday assumptions.

Do vampires even conceive normally? And with Rhyland's brooding alpha male nature...would he want more children after the agony of losing his first family?

Between supernatural wars and his traumatic past, parenthood likely ranks low on his priorities now...

I mean, it's not as if I could get knocked up even if I wanted to. With my trusty IUD playing gatekeeper, this womb is basically Fort Knox. Trying to get pregnant would be like winning the lottery without buying a ticket—technically possible, but about as likely asLuciangiving up his flirty ways and joining a monastery.

I've got the copper IUD, the one without all those extra hormones mucking up the works. It's like having a tiny bodyguard in my business, ensuring no unwanted swimmers get past the velvet rope.

This reminds me of Aunt Flow, who will be coming around for her monthly visit in the next few weeks, and I pray to the menstrual gods that this realm has some decent womanly hygiene gear. Because let me tell you, there's nothing worse than being caught off guard by the crimson tide without the proper supplies.

I let out a long breath, shaking off the rabbit hole of 'what-ifs'—staring down the barrel of an apocalypse isn't the moment for musing about storks or picket fences. Let's pencil in saving the world first, then maybe RSVP to la-la land with a plus one later.