The Faceless Woman

by Emma Hamm

  Soft fur brushed her leg as Lorcan stretched his paws out. “Morning,” he yowled. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Not as well as you. You didn’t even move last night, did you?”

  “There’s nothing more comfortable than dirt.” He rolled over onto his back and wiggled. “It’s just so warm.”

  “You should be checking on your patient.”

  “My who?”

  Aisling gave him a severe look. The cat hissed but got up. His tail lashed through the air, a banner as he waltzed toward the Unseelie who hadn’t moved all night either.

  Lorcan punched his paws up Bran’s body, each thump making Aisling wince. The cat sidhe was an impressive beast and weighed almost as much as a dog. He’d leave bruises if he kept that up.

  “Why isn’t he waking?” she asked.

  “Part of the spell. He needed to sleep for as long as possible. His body had to catch up with the healing energy of his mind.”

  “I don’t understand a word of what you just said.”

  “That’s because you were never interested in healing magic. All you wanted to learn was ways to hurt people and protect yourself.” Lorcan rolled his eyes. “Feral little thing. And they call me the animal.”

  He leaned down and hissed in Bran’s face, glinting teeth bared and yellow eyes glowing with magic.

  It was a slow waking. Aisling watched his fingers twitch first, then his hand curled in the dirt, and finally his eyes drifted open. His brows furrowed in confusion as he stared into Lorcan’s eyes.

  The cat sidhe opened his mouth in a mockery of a smile. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

  Bran flinched back, scrambling into the roots and sitting up so quickly he dislodged Lorcan from his lap. Growling, Aisling’s companion slunk toward the fire and laid on his side.

  “Never do that again, cat,” Bran angrily spat.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “For what?” His shout echoed in the small glen.

  “For saving you, for healing you, for deigning to wake you up when we could have left you lying in those roots asleep for the rest of your life. At least then we’d still be in the Otherworld, Aisling would be immortal, and the story would end perfectly. But instead we woke you up.” Lorcan blinked. “Although I have no idea why.”

  Before the Unseelie decided to tear apart her only friend, Aisling stood up and stretched again. “Boys, enough. We’ve a long journey ahead of us, and arguing isn’t helpful.”

  “It makes me feel better,” Lorcan whined. “He’s so easy to get riled up.”

  “Your job is to heal him, not to make him feel worse.”

  “But what about what I want?”

  She eyed him, wondering just how quick he would jump if she lunged at him. “What you want isn’t important. You didn’t have to come along on this ridiculous journey to break a binding curse I put on the both of us.”

  He heaved a dramatic sigh. “There’s only so many chances to enter the Otherworld. I suppose I can survive.”

  “Better.”

  It was like he was her child, like it always had been even when she was little. The man had no sense of self-preservation or responsibility. Shaking her head, she turned toward Bran and took a deep, calming breath.

  He looked a little better than yesterday. Color had returned to his pale skin, staining his cheeks red and turning his lips dark once more. Her gaze lingered on his full bottom lip until she realized what she was doing. Her cheeks burned even though he wouldn’t know she was staring.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, mortified her voice had turned husky.

  “Like a tree sat on my chest all night.” He glared at Lorcan one last time and then tried to meet her gaze. “But better than before.”

  It shouldn’t warm her to hear that. She shouldn’t care at all that he felt better. Aisling tried desperately to fumble the lock around her heart closed, but she could already feel herself slipping. He wasn’t right for her, wouldn’t ever return her attentions, and yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  And he could never see her. Not with the curse hanging over her head.

  Aisling pulled her hair over her shoulder and knelt at his side. “May I?”

  The raven eye whirled, but he nodded. “I think it’s completely healed.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  He shifted forward, reaching behind his head and pulling off his shirt. The movement was filled with natural grace. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest, not embarrassed by his form or body.

  Aisling hadn’t planned to ogle him like a little girl seeing her first crush in the river, but she swallowed hard and glanced down all the same.

  She’d seen his chest, touched the broad expanse of muscle, but he’d been injured, and she’d felt his pain. Now, her mind was clear from the lingering effects of magic.

  Smooth skin filled her vision. Not a single mark marred him, no scars, no bruises, nothing but hills and valleys between muscles created by the finest artist.

  His shoulders were broad and tapered to a thin waist. His chest was effortlessly flat, and muscles flexed on his stomach as he leaned back against the tree. Twin bands arched over his hips and disappeared underneath the waistband of his pants, an arrow for her eyes to follow.

  She swallowed again. “How is your shoulder?”

  “You aren’t looking at my shoulder.”

  The amusement in his voice stung. She flicked her gaze to him, fuming at his knowing grin. He couldn’t even see her face but, somehow, he knew.

  Her pride refused to allow him to keep that satisfied smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more interested in making sure you aren’t going to hurt me anymore.”

  “Some pain can be fun.”

  “Is that why you’re Unseelie?” She reached out and skimmed her fingers over the wound surface, which was now the only red mark on the warm expanse of skin. “You like pain a little too much?”

  “I’m Unseelie because I think rules are made to be broken.”

  Her nostrils flared as the scent of pomegranate and wine skimmed her face. His breath feathered across her skin like the most delicate of touches, heat fanning across her skin as if she stood in front of a fire. When had he moved so close?

  He touched her shoulder, trailing his fingers over the rough fabric of his shirt up to the line of her neck. “It’s strange,” he murmured, “the spell starts where I can see your pulse racing.”

  “My pulse isn’t racing.”

  “You could have fooled me, witch.” The nickname sounded different now. He shaped the word with his tongue, lovingly stroking the letters until the harsh sound softened into a caress.

  Aisling licked her lips. “Fooled you how?”

  “Does the curse only hide your face?” he asked, the question hauntingly familiar. “Or can I touch you?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me,” she breathed.

  “Then let me be your first.”

  She was frozen, in fear or in anticipation she couldn’t tell. Aisling held her breath as his long fingers slid up her neck. From wherever he touched, heat spread, like tendrils of light splintering throughout her body.

  His thumb traced the line of her jaw. He had calluses on the pads of his fingers, the rough texture catching on her soft skin. It wasn’t a working man’s hand. His palms were as smooth as hers.

  “You play music,” she gasped as his fingers smoothed over her chin.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You have calluses on your fingertips.” She only recognized them because a fiddler had once stopped and asked her for a salve to smooth his own. He played for royalty, he had said, and calluses were a sign of a working man.

  “Sh.” He hushed her and pressed his fingers to her lips. She held her breath as he stroked the soft outline, lingering in the dip of her cupid’s bow.

  Bran smiled, his eyes drifting closed as he concentrated
. “I thought you would have thin lips.”

  “Why?”

  “Shrews usually do.” He traced her frown, chuckling. He lifted his other hand and gently smoothed both hands over her cheeks. “You have a heart-shaped face.”

  She didn’t respond. He would gather too much information if she admitted she didn’t actually know what her face looked like. It had been too many years since the curse hid her reflection.

  His fingertips ghosted over her brow, feathering over her long lashes, and then tracing the thin line of her nose.

  She stared at his expression, watching his own brows draw down. “Witch, I do believe you are a beautiful woman.”

  “What would make you say that?”

  “I know perfection when I touch it.”

  Aisling didn’t know what to say or how to feel about that. She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue touching his thumb where he’d started tracing her bottom lip again. They both froze. His eyes flew open and impossibly locked on hers.

  Lurching back, she stumbled away so quickly she almost ended up in the fire. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “There’s no such thing as perfection, Unseelie.”

  “Bran.”

  “Unseelie.” She needed the distance between them right now. He wasn’t some young man she met on her travels. He was a dark Fae, the kind that could rip her limb from limb and feel no guilt about it.

  She was wasting her time on something that could never be.

  Lorcan flicked his tail away from the fire and glared. “Are you quite done? Give him the blood and get it over with.”

  “The blood?” Aisling shook her head. “Oh, the blood.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ruby-like droplet. It was as beautiful as it was strange, pulsing against her palm with a heartbeat of its own. Her chest clenched.

  The drop of blood didn’t want her to give it away. It wanted to stay tucked against her thigh, safe and sound.

  Bran huffed out an angry breath, his eyes widening. “You still have it on you?”

  “What else was I supposed to do with it? It’s the blood of a god, Bran.”

  He yanked his shirt back on and scrambled to the pack. Fumbling with the leather bag, he finally got it open and held it out to her with shaking hands. “Put it in here, quickly.”

  “Why?” She looked down and realized her fingers had unconsciously closed over the small stone. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Even the blood of a god can compel people to do what he wishes. He’s there for a reason, Aisling. Now, give it here.”

  The shackles of her name twisted around her throat. She narrowed her eyes and waited as long as she could before holding out her hand. Even a chosen name had power over her, but he didn’t know she was a changeling. He couldn’t know that her name was a weapon if he wished to control her.

  Her hand shook, her breath sawed from her lungs, but she still turned her hand over and dropped the bead into the outstretched bag.

  “Good job,” Bran sarcastically said. “Was that hard for you?”

  She didn’t give him the response he wanted. Instead, she said nothing as he tied the bag shut and slid it back into the pack she carried. Whatever magic swirled in that creature’s blood was dangerous, dark, and far too powerful. She was afraid to consider what it might have done if she had held onto it for a few moments longer.

  Rubbing her chest, she turned toward the fire and started kicking dirt onto it. “What’s next?” she asked.

  “Preferably we’ll return to my home, clean up a little, I’ll take you out to a nice balcony somewhere so we can look at the stars. It’s a pretty castle. Did I tell you I live in a castle?”

  A smile spread across her features. “Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not at all, Unseelie. There are still two parts of your spell, and I’m very much interested in breaking this binding curse.”

  A wall of heat pressed against her from shoulder to knee. He had stepped so close she could smell the sweet wine of his breath. “Are you so sure about that?”

  Aisling pinched her arm so hard she drew blood. The Unseelie gasped and flinched, lifting his arm and swatting at it as if a bug had bitten him. She pointed to the small wound and cocked her head to the side. “I’m certain.”

  “Women,” Bran grumbled. “Too dramatic for their own good.”

  “Just get on with it. What else must we endure?”

  He waved a hand, and the fire disappeared. Lorcan rolled to his feet, stretching his paws and flexing his toes.

  “The remaining pieces aren’t as easy as the God’s blood.”

  “That was easy?” she interrupted.

  “We’re close enough to the next, although I’d rather do it last. We need a vessel made of heart, waters from Swan Lake, and then the spell will need to be performed in my home.”

  Aisling placed a hand on her hip and arched a brow he couldn’t see. “The castle you mean?”

  “Yes. The castle.”

  “The vessel made of heart could be anything. What kind of spell is this? There’s rules to magic, particular steps that have to be followed or it’ll all unravel at your feet.”

  “It’s more of a prophecy than a spell.”

  She curled her hands into fists. “So what you’re saying is we’re wandering around the Otherworld chasing the tail of something that might not even work?”

  He swallowed. “That’s about the gist of it.”

  Energy crackled at her fingertips, anger dancing in her clenched fists and begging to be released. “You dragged me here, risked my life, and you’re telling me it’s all for nothing?”

  “Well, not nothing. This might actually work.”

  A bolt snuck out of her hand and struck the ground near him. Bran jumped, leaping away from the magic while his own rippled down his body. Feathers unfurled across his arm then settled back onto his skin.

  “You said this would work,” she growled. “You said this was the only way to break the binding curse.”

  “It’s the only way I know.”

  “It isn’t a spell! It’s a whim, a muse, something that doesn’t exist, and you’re risking both our necks for what? A childhood fantasy?”

  His jaw jutted forward, the stubborn set somehow familiar. “This is a real way to break the binding curse. I know this for a fact. I’ve just never seen it practiced.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one has ever been able to successfully do it.”

  She took a calming breath, which did little more than aggravate her further. “Bran, please tell me we’re not on a wild goose chase.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Please tell me you know what you’re doing and we aren’t going to end this journey still stuck together.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  Lips pressed into a narrow line, she pinched herself again. He yelped and slapped a hand against his hip.

  “Yes, it would be a bad thing. Need I remind you that we’re stuck together until all of this goes away? That what I feel, you feel?” She pointed at him. “If you can’t break this curse and dragged me through the Otherworld for no reason, I’m going to make your life hell.”

  “I was already counting on that, witch. Are you ready to go?”

  “Where are we going?”

  He winked. “There’s only one vessel made of heart in the Otherworld, and that’s locked inside the Duchess of Dusk.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.” He reached into their pack and tossed her an apple. “Last one, witch. Sooner or later you’re going to have to eat our food.”

  “I’d rather starve.”

  The Palace Of Twilight

  “Do you even know where we’re going?”

  “Yes, witch.”

  “Are you sure? Because we’ve been beating through these bushes for hours and I’m certain I’ve seen that tree before.”

  Bran glanced up at the tree an
d ground his teeth. He’d seen it too, a few times now. She was less observant than he’d given her credit for if this was the first time she realized they’d passed by it. But he had a feeling she’d been holding her tongue. Lorcan had slunk into the forest, grumbling under his breath that he would find his own way about an hour ago.

  He did know where they were going; he just didn’t know how to get there. The Duchess of Dusk was one of the most elusive Unseelie faeries. She also hated Bran with a passion.

  It wasn’t his fault he’d been born into royalty. Some things were outside of his control, and if she wanted to hate him for that, so be it. He agreed with her. He wasn’t capable of being a king and never wanted a throne. If it was his choice, he’d give it to her and run.

  Shame, it wasn’t his choice. She’d make a good queen.

  He stopped abruptly, taking time to enjoy the warm weight of her body as she collided with him. “Why don’t we stop for a second, eh, witch?”

  “Would you stop calling me that?”

  “Once you stop calling me Unseelie.”

  When her tiny fists curled, a spike of satisfaction lanced through his chest.

  Bran liked to make people uncomfortable. He enjoyed teasing them, frustrating them, really any reaction to make their head spin. Even royals found him unbearable to be around, but that was part of the game. People acted who they really were when they were frustrated.

  He enjoyed bothering her far more than anyone else. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t see her face. Instead, he got to watch her entire body screw up in anger as she tried to hold herself together.

  And she always tried to be so good about hiding her anger. She’d politely respond while hissing the words through her teeth. It was adorable.

  The only thing that could make it better was the sight of her face. He had a feeling her cheeks flamed bright red when she was angry. Too much fire ran in her veins for it not to show.

  His fingertips burned at the memory of touching her. Her skin was soft as the finest velvet, but her spine was rigid as steel.

  He knew a beauty when he touched one. He’d painted the picture of her in his mind’s eye. The high cheekbones, delicately arched brows, thin nose and full lips. Each piece of her face fit into an image of stunning beauty, but he found himself focusing on details he would never know. The color of her eyes, the spread of her blushes, the shape of her smile.