Pest never called his father Abri, instead, he took the name for his own.

Dirty fairy. That was what it meant, and as he trudged through the thick forest behind his fairy father’s mortal form, he found that name truly appropriate now.

Tree after tree bent to the man’s will—shifting just enough to give him passage. For Pest? Well, he had to remind himself not to brush things aside.

As this place was a forest of enchantment, he’d learned the hard way, on several occasions, that when injured, it injured back.

In a sense, Pest considered this dense path another one of his father’s tricks. It had been a few years since he’d put in proper effort in trying to do Pest harm. For the last two years, Pest had let his guard down, partly due to Fanli—she was never far off to check if there were any random pits Pest needed rescue from.

When the ocean of leaves receded, Pest clenched his hands into fists. He reminded himself that this was no joke and even if it were, the plentiful animal bite marks along his torso and back, the once punctured this or that of his body, were real enough.

A tree stump, the only broken tree Pest had ever witnessed, indicated where they should stand. At their backs, bare branches jutted out below rich leaves overhead. Pest imagined that was where other fairies would rest as they watched the spectacle. But ahead was the concern. Four trunks, morphed and twisted to resemble four thrones. Two in the middle for the long absent Fairy King and Queen, Pest assumed. He never dared ask for fear of being reminded how human and therefore ignorant to fairy ways he was.

The clearing hadn’t changed, not even once over the years. And like always, his father began to undress. When he stood naked, he motioned for Pest to stand beside him, indicating he should follow suit.

Pest scoffed. “You know, there’s so many things wrong with this situation, the least of which you wanting me dead.”

The dark blue of his father’s eyes stood prominent against his brown skin he’d selected in human form.

Today, they not only brimmed with disappointment, but rather, disgust.

“You cannot feel the magic? Despite this many Fae?”

Pest couldn’t. All he felt was the imminent hand of death creeping up his back.

“Abandon your human hesitation and the magic will follow.” Those words of advice may have held new meaning for Pest if they weren’t said through clenched teeth. “And then I can finally be free.”

And those last words had Pest folding his arms. His father’s scowl deepened.

“Even in this, human child, you cannot pretend to be a Fae.”

He popped out of existence. Though Pest knew with confidence that the man—fairy was still here, only in Fae form and therefore shielded from human eyes, the words never failed to sting.

Pest’s skin tingled. There was a warmth in the base of his spine. He scanned the empty clearing, unsure of what he should do or say.

Something passed under his feet, and he jumped back. He froze next, well aware that the thing he perceived crawling up his back was no damn magic, but something of the forest. It reached his neck and he willed himself to be strong.

Nothing could harm him. He was a fairy’s child, something near impossible to create. And as a fairy’s child, he was safe so long as he harmed nothing and no one from this forest.

He was a fairy’s child.

A shadow fell overhead, and he was in time to witness the last of the sun being swallowed up by leaves.

The earth below his feet turned again—something was loosening the soil.

One whisper, then two, and by the third, a voice reached him.

His father’s.

“But it is useless—he is useless. I do not ask for much! And it is my right. His mother brought him life, as his father, that life is mine to take away.”

Pest’s bone chilled. Never had he witnessed such passion from the man, and considering how easily he’d lost his temper over the years, that was saying a lot.

It was a small hesitation for which Pest took little comfort as his father hurried to add, “It need not be death. Abandonment suits fine. We can bestow him to wanderers, barren folk, a prison ship. Hell, even a pack of wolves. At this point, I do not care. Seventeen more years as a mortal is beyond me!”

The voice to answer bordered on apathetic. “Year after year, you return here with your uninteresting plight of an offspring, Matax, and year after year, the answer is still the same—no. You created him; you raise him.”

Silence came so suddenly that Pest wondered if he wasn’t somehow spirited away. He could hear voices. How, when he’d never heard them before?

“You are a fairy of blue now a fairy of black and let us not remind you how and why you came by that color! Your slight against the night Faes of which you’ve joined to avoid punishment will never be forgotten.”

A sigh sounded the man’s defeat. “It is my right.”

“Then answer that right if you dare. Answer it without permission and see the hell rain down on you in kind.”

The warmth returned at Pest’s spine. He feared enough to touch his back, ready to snatch away some vine. There was nothing there, something that brought him relief.

“With all due respect, Magus. It matters not why I wear the colors of the night Fae, only that I do. And as one of you, the entitlement—”

A boom came with something slamming into a tree at Pest’s back.

“Entitlement?”

Branch after branch extended and coiled around Pest at an alarming rate. He had no reason to ever trust his father’s words, but desperation drove him to heed them now—don’t fight the forest; negotiate. Pest didn’t resist when he was guided back, shielded by the trees.

As soon as he let go of his instinct to counter being pulled, he felt safe rather than vulnerable.

“Entitlement,” the Fae repeated. “You steal your colors. You go against the laws of never mixing magic and it’s brought you the one thing we fairies avoid, an offspring, and you come here expecting help? A reprieve? Do you not come here to test this creature of which you show pretend disdain?”

“There’s no pretense,” Father grumbled in his recovery. “And avoid? A Fae offspring is something to avoid?” He scoffed. “Ha. The jealousy drips from your words. But why shouldn’t it, Magus? I’m the reason you’ve lost your puppet. Surely, you’d revel in taking my actual offspring from me to answer that slight.”

Pest’s back touched one tree, its branches holding him close. Capture or embrace, he could not discern which. Hearing his father’s argument for the first time colored his world. Till now, he’d always trusted that something similar took place whenever he was brought here, but witnessing it, confirming it now, was something else. Pest turned, pressing his face in the rough bark.

The branches patted his shoulder. “Hush, fairy. You are fortunate to be human.”

“Despite the Fae’s beauty,” another voice explained, “they have the coldest hearts.”

Pest found that hard to believe. He even opened his mouth and considered arguing it because his father’s love for his mother was no lie.

“Only the night Fae are allowed to love,” the whisper said, “but they receive no love in return. So they are extra bitter.”

“Begone, you blight! Oh, but if you were human forever.” The Magus snarled. “Toil there, age there, raise your wretched son. May every morning you rise with the knowledge that your immortal form rests at your fingertips and be ever denied. Begone.”

“You—”

Father fell from somewhere, slamming into the ground when he landed.

He remained on the forest floor for some time, bitter and angry as he slammed his fist into the dirt.

When he finally stood to his full height, he took one glance at Pest, looked away, then retrieved his clothes. Pest felt safer where he was, embraced by the tree, rather than standing at his father’s side.

“Even the forest pities you,” Father grumbled. He shoved his foot into the second boot and said, “Begone, troll. There’s nothing for you to eat here.”

Troll? Pest scanned the clearing for any signs of a troll—they were quite massive. They were also visible creatures of magic, and therefore Pest panicked that he could make nothing out.

Something changed in the atmosphere and Pest looked back at the tree which held him. There was a troll. And this tree, perhaps even the other ones, kept him safe from it.

Fear pulsed through Pest’s body, but he calmed in time and patted the bark at his back. “Thank you,” he said.

Little by little, the branches open and Pest employed some patience until he could walk out.

He was taken aback by the surprised expression that greeted him. His father’s eyes held something Pest rarely saw—hope.

“You could command it?” He hurried to ask, “And could you feel your back run hot? Had you felt your wings about to form? In that heat, you could become a fairy. Did you perceive this?”

Become a fairy? Yes, there was that heat. But out of all that had happened today, this was the worst news. Become a fairy? A coldblooded creature with a pretty face? A race so mean they could not bear young because of it? And when they could, they could not love it? A fairy? And why would he want to be that? Pest becoming a fairy would be the worst possible outcome, because then…his father—and even his mother—would be free.

They wouldn’t figuratively abandon him; they would actually do it.

Mother might remain or thrill over seeing him as a fairy, but not Father. He’d only see one thing—freedom.

The leaves above separated, allowing the sunlight to shine down upon them once more. And there his father stood, bathing in it, his blue eyes twinkling as he asked his son, “Did you perceive any magic? Hear anything?”

Hear? His father could say those words without a hint of shame, not even feeling sorry for what he’d just done.

This tree was more of a parent than this man-sized fairy monster.

In this moment, Pest stared his father down. He summoned enough pity to confess. Perhaps Father’s attitude would change. Perhaps he would be gentler in his teachings. Perhaps he would address Pest with pride if he knew his escape was on the horizon.

Pest remained in quiet contemplation and finally did the most fairy thing he could—enact his revenge.

This man wanted freedom, this sorry excuse of a father.

He wouldn’t get it.

Before Pest could open his mouth to utter a lie, Father shook his head with a scoff.

“Of course, you perceive nothing! Useless human child.”

Pest stared after him as he walked away. Everything in him said to follow—he was deep within the forest and needed help escaping—but he couldn’t will his feet to move.

“Oh, the wretched fairies,” a voice admonished, perhaps one of the trees.

It wasn’t the only voice Pest heard.

“Magus, why do you not end Matax’s human? Even if he wants to be rid of it, it is still a loss. It will hurt.”

A shiver ran through Pest as he waited for the answer.

“You misunderstand Matax. He cares nothing for this child. There is no hurt if it’s gone. But there’s delicious suffering with it remaining.”

When Pest blinked, it was to stave off tears, but a shadow of a little black body hovered before his nose.

He knew better than to focus on it.

“I don’t know, Magus. When have you ever heard a fairy to offer to give a problem away to wanderers, prisons, or wolves rather than just kill it? That means he doesn’t want it dead. No?”

A small pang of hope filled Pest’s heart but vanished with Magus’s next words, “As I would relish in Matax’s suffering, make no mistake, he would relish in that of this boy. It is the way of the Fae. Because if the day ever came that he felt love for this child, then I’d gladly cut his human clean through.”

Laughter filled the air and Pest hurried past, more than convinced.

Today, he tried to take a page out of Fanli’s book by looking on the bright side as he walked home. For one, he walked. He didn’t crawl, run screaming, fall from a bird, griffin, or cliff, and he wasn’t rescued from bandits by the hunchback and his Jaffo army.

Doing away with Pest had long been his father’s active hobby.

Worst yet, Pest appreciated the attention, even when it was at his expense.

Like always, though, he was embarrassed, but at least it was embarrassment he could hide. Only the trees had witnessed it. He prayed even the blasted troll would keep its mouth shut about it.