THE FIRST DESERT FOLK Tate met when she resurrected on the Offering Altar was an ashen little fiend named Willa. Willa liked campfires. She (she—because Willa thought herself female, so that was her image) ate embers, ash, and charred twigs leftover from cowboys and wagon trains. Braver than most of the Folk, Willa ventured into the surrounding desert when the whim took her. Never too far from the gorge but just far enough to unhitch oxen and steal silver spurs.  Wherever she went, her little hands left soot marks behind.

Tate wouldn't learn any of this until some time after their initial meeting.

The first thing she noticed when the orange world crashed in was intense pressure in her hips. A weight that pushed on her bones from the inside, coaxing more and more room. The second thing was Willa holding her hand. In the moments after dying, between waking up and still dreaming, Willa appeared as a taut, dark thread, and Tate held it tight in pinched fingers, allowing it to tug her out of stone-quiet bliss into painful consciousness.

Willa wasn't the fairy's given name, more a reference point on a page of mindless syllables made up of shrewd faces. Given names cradled the bearer's essence; it wasn't wise to share them freely. Not all strangers had wholesome intent, which is why, when asked about her name, Tate answered: "Tate." Because it wasn't the real thing at all, and in the fractured second it took to prevaricate, she'd successfully shed her mother's lifelong contribution to her existence.

It's also why, when Willa unwrapped the bruise-blue cord from around the baby's ankle and laid the wrinkled, new body on Tate's chest, and said: "What does she go by?" Tate refused even to think of the candidate. Talia wouldn't become Talia for at least seventy-two hours earthside. After the Deal. After Aida's binding. After the gorge's yawning mouth faded behind them and the Little House provided by the Folk had appeared, well-lit, in a hollow at dusk.

But now, Tate didn't care.

Tatiana Rose, the child is gone! Her mother's voice rang in her ears as her knees plowed into the sand. Tate's eyes flitted over the space where her daughter had been sitting minutes earlier. Cherries. Cheese. Pinecone. Roots. Blanket. Her mind listed the familiar before noticing the one thing that wasn't quite right.

Ants.

Ants?

Tate's breath caught in her chest. An army of reddish-brown insects clamored over one another, a line vibrating through her drawn circle—impossible—to maul the abandoned food scattered in the shade. They were tiny—specks on a fingernail. But the swarm made the ground shift and shimmer like rising heat.

"Talia," Tate called. Fear overtook sense, and she let the given name echo down the gorge. It was the only name she'd ever envisioned for the baby, contemplating it many pregnant hours on those sleepless nights when her aching joints couldn't find peace, and rolling over felt like shifting a stubborn horse. There was no safeguard for Talia to hide behind because nothing else suited her.

Tate crawled, following the folds in the dirt she took for tiny footprints. One by one, the unsteady divots led away, deeper into the gorge. Once she found a direction, she staggered to her feet.

Basile shied sideways as she ran past him. His surprised squeal chased her heels, punctuating her voice, "Talia!"

The trail was faint. Tate kept her eyes on it; stumbling here and there on missed rocks, she made her way beyond the Offering Altar, down the crooked path, and under a stone arch that blocked out the sun. The variegated red sediment towered above her, connecting the gorge walls and throwing her into shadow. The sand gradually hardened, and soon Tate struggled to climb quickly, her boots shedding pebbles, her hands dust-dry from grabbing handholds. The trail strung out, and a different taut string tugged at her, tied to her chest, pulling her forward. Panic, maybe. Maternal surety? Or something more nefarious misleading her senses.

Tate tried not to think about the last one.

"Talia, answer mama," her voice tripled ahead of her. With one last scramble, she slid out of the tunnel into a blazing, rust-colored amphitheater. Smooth sand filled the circled canyon. There was no exit here, just walls, walls, and more walls. At the center, five or six jagged anthills varied by height (all taller than an ordinary man) crumbled toward the hard blue sky. They were red castles—gritty mounds shaped like turrets with thumbprint impressions for windows and doors. And around the bases, foul-looking mushrooms grew in a near-perfect circle.

     No, not a circle.

     A fairy ring.

     Seated in the middle, Talia babbled to herself, lifting handfuls of sand, unaware of any danger.

Tate's heart jumped. Adrenaline swept through her, a confused blend of relief and terror. "Baby—"

"Do not go further."

A small yet strong hand landed on Tate's arm, jerking her to an abrupt stop. Tate spun. Her alkaline fingers curled into a fist, but the sight of Willa stopped her from the follow-through.

   "Let me go," Tate said, her hand hovering tensely at her side, fingers still curled.

Willa hesitated. She was naked by human standards. Female but amorphous. A sculpture. Anatomy hinted at, but somehow undefined. Her skin was ash-grey, covered in swaths of red clay. The pattern was chaotic yet strategic, purposed for hiding against rock and sand. The Folk were known as the Hidden People for a reason. Either by shape-changing magic Aida called "glamour," or more earthy, practical means, it was impossible to see a folk-fae unless they wanted it. And even then, not everyone accepted the natural existence of what they could put their eyes on. This unfortunate malady affected more human desert-dwelling, plains, and mountain tribes than the fae.

Willa was hairless except for a pair of eyebrows a shade darker than her skin that slopped down in a concerned frown. Her thin lips, currently drawn tight in agitation, were a match in color.

"We shouldn't be here," she said. "This territory belongs to him."

"Who?" Tate had a sickening inkling already, making her even more desperate. "Let me go. Now."

"It is wiser to leave."

"I'm not leaving my child, Willa."

Willa clicked her sharp teeth. Made of points, ears, cheekbones, and all joints included, her following words bit deep.

"You should've watched her more closely."

Tate yanked her arm free of the fairy's grasp; anger gripped her, "Where were you? We had a deal—safe passage for my daughter and me. How empty your oaths are for such an ancient and wise race." Bitterness soaked her last words like dark whiskey.

Willa wilted, sliding a step back, wringing her bony fingers. "Yes. Yes. That was agreed." She looked around, perplexed. "W-Where is her trick bag?"

Tate's mouth slammed shut. She hesitated, but knowing better than to lie to a fairy (at least regarding their magical gifts), she pulled a doeskin bag free of her dress collar. It was a light caramel color and softer than smooth butter. The bag fit in her palm. It weighed barely the same as a pebble, the top puckered by a sinew drawstring long enough to tie around her—or Talia's—neck. A medley of dry herbs, snake bones, and dirt swelled the inside.

Fairy magic was a wild thing. A feral instinct had warned her against decorating her infant with it. Whether that'd been a mistake was unclear now.

Willa clicked her discolored tongue. "There is no more to be done, then."

Tate shoved the bag back against her chest. It was oddly warm on her skin, an uncomfortable fact she'd learned to ignore. Without replying, she turned and started toward Talia.

Willa kept pace, dodging in front and behind like an eager, five-foot-tall cattle dog.

"This won't end well."

"We will see."

"He led her here," Willa clutched Tate's dress, halting her again, "he chose her."

Tate swatted the fairy aside. "Who is he?"

"Whoever you wish," a deep voice said.

Willa squeaked and vanished. A dirty handprint on the fabric of Tate's dress and the lingering scent of stale fire were the only signs she'd ever been present.

Tate caught an image in her mind before she looked up:

Shadows moved with his slim body as he rocked slowly, side to side, watching how a hawk watched a hard-sought meal. A black duster coat split behind him, flanking his bent legs. His elbows rested on his knees, clay-caked boots planted firmly on the red rock. Hidden partially by a low-seated, wide-brimmed hat, a broad smile stretched from one pointed ear to the other, dividing his thin, grey mouth in two. Teeth, dozens—needles like snake fangs—filled the gash.

At his hips, a belt decayed. The holster tied to his wiry thigh was hollow, divested of true purpose.

A gunslinger without a gun.

"I know you," Tate said. Fear disappeared. A sensation of determination swept in, fortifying her head to toe. There wasn't room to be scared, not with her daughter several inches from harm and several feet out of reach.

But as her gaze swept to the figure perched on an ant mound like a tall, mangy buzzard, his dank shadow brushing Talia's skirt hem, Tate felt her heart stop.

Her body went cold.

"Wayde?"

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please don't forget to vote!