The Pixies’ Chosen (Mated to the Monster: Season 2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

TRYST

P ixies have simple, carefree lives. Arranged in vast colonies hosting numerous hives of males averaging four to six in number mated to a single queen, we may seem uniform as a species, but that’s only an illusion. In truth, each colony possesses its own distinct characteristics. While some colonies have pixies with pale coloring and vibrant wings, others are distinctive for their own hues and variations by which a lone pixie can quickly distinguish itself from outsiders and blend into the territory of their colony. The downside is that the distinctiveness for which the colony is known also is detrimental to those males and females born with recessive traits.

A dull female will not attract the swarms of hives to dance for her, bringing her little in the way of options, though in the end some of the less popular males will finally court and be claimed by her. But the dull and plainly colored males are seldom chosen, even by unfortunate females who fear breeding more of those undesired genes into the next generation, causing their offspring to suffer the same fate.

And within the colony of the mid-northern region of the Dark Forest, the only favored males are the greens and yellows whose light complements the gloom of our home.

I sigh wistfully as I lean back in my hammock, my long dark hair spreading across the arms I tuck behind my head as my gaze follows the dance of lights across the evening sky. My four scalloped wings droop casually from the sides in sweeping curtains of the deepest shade of midnight blue. They move subtly so as to casually swing the hammock in a gentle glide.

The males are quite determined, it seems. Their lights flit through the air as they chase after the queen, attempting to lure her in. Although the chase leaves more males disappointed than not, I admit that I miss the excitement of it, but there is nothing I can do about it when Havoc refuses to participate. It takes an entire hive to court a female, and our sad hive of two can only watch enviously as males compete for the love of a mate.

Not that I would compete in this particular chase—not when it is my younger sister Zyri who leads it. She emerged late from her chrysalis chamber, reaching full sexual maturity and adulthood at the end of the summer season. A shiver runs over me as a cool breeze rattles the crimson leaves in my tree. At least she did not emerge at the end of this season. Any later and she would have been forced to wait until next spring to enjoy the mating dances. My parents were quite anxious, but now that it has come, I am left with a bittersweet realization that Zyri’s mating will be the last one of the season. Although Amehina, the crowning festival, has long since passed, and three other minor mating festivities have also now concluded, everything will once again settle into a resting state, all except the newly mated who will eagerly breed—rousing the misery of any unfortunate male or female unlucky in mating.

“Another season passes and once again our hive remains quiet and forgotten,” I murmur.

“It is better than the alternative,” Havoc replies as he steps out on the large branch outside of the upper balcony of our home. “What else would we have to look forward to except a season wasted?”

Another sigh escapes me, but I do not disagree. How many decades did we dance before we finally gave up? I had lost count nearly a century ago. We would have been cajoled into being castri to serve the unmated queens if not for Havoc’s sour temperament that makes our hive entirely undesirable.

“Remind me—how many years it has been since we last made the attempt?”

Havoc shrugs, lifting his deep violet wings in a faint flutter. “Eight years, perhaps.”

I nod silently. That sounds correct. How pitiful. Pulling out a small flute from my pocket I begin to morosely play it, allowing the notes to flow through the evening air in a song of melancholy. It is well suited, I think, for the end of the harvest season as life drops into death and slumber, but Havoc sighs heavily as he lowers himself into a chair set up beside a small table and gives me an impatient look.

“Must you?” he grumbles.

My lips quirk faintly but I keep playing, unwilling to let him spoil the moment. If I am to suffer without a mate for the rest of my long life, he can surely endure some light music to give voice to my feelings caught in the moment of the season and the movement of the world all around me.

I hear his sigh of capitulation moments before his voice rises in an eerie accompaniment. Havoc never sings for others as most pixies find his melodies unsettling, but at that moment there is a perfect synchronicity between us as the music reaches beyond our nest to the forest beyond, lamenting the season’s end and a queen we do not have.