by Emma Hamm
Was him.
Her world began and ended with this strange, impossible man. It didn’t matter that when he leaned forward, pressing himself inside her, a flare of pain startled her.
Feathers pressed hard against her cheek, surely leaving marks behind. As he drew back, rocking onto his heels and dragging her up into his lap, she wondered if he had given her wings.
She inhaled his exhale, drugging herself on his scent and taste. He delicately brushed his fingers across her back, playing the raised bones like a harp. He strung magic through her until she was certainly as divine as he thought her to be.
She threw her head back, and he pressed his lips against her throat.
“With me now,” he whispered, his voice rasp. “Together, as we should have been from the start.”
Every fiber of her being gathered up into one great bunch and then splintered apart. She shattered into stardust. He pulled her against his chest as if he were gathering up each individual piece. He shuddered, silent and satiated as she.
Aisling was lost in the nebula he had created. She slumped against him, curled against his heartbeat as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird. She was suddenly not herself, but a piece of him as well. He existed somewhere in the bottom of her ribs, a warm and tender reminder that, for at least one night of her life, she was a treasure.
“Stay,” she whispered to his chest, “just for one night.”
He dragged her down to the pillows and cushioned her head against his heart. “Sleep, little witch. I’ll keep the nightmares at bay.”
And so she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Death Of The Duchess
Aisling stretched, feeling sore in muscles she’d never known existed. She had no idea what time it was since the sun never reached this forgotten place, but she knew she was comfortable and warm. She hugged a pillow to her chest with a sigh.
When was the last time she had slept on anything resembling a bed? And certainly never something as cloudlike as this.
Muffling a sleepy snort, she rolled onto her side and opened her eyes.
They widened in shock. He was still here. Bran, the raven-haired warrior who had dismantled her person last night was still spread across her bed like some kind of Fae god.
Aisling blinked. Even in sleep, he somehow was dangerous to look at. Dark lashes fanned across his cheeks, leaving bruised smudges against his pale skin. One hand lay open next to his jaw, the other flung across his smooth chest.
She’d never seen a man with a smooth chest. Human men were beast-like in their build, dark, swarthy, tanned by the sun and dusted with hair to protect them from the elements. But this Unseelie had no need to be protected. He would beat back anything that tried to harm him with little more than a look.
Aisling made a face. She couldn’t afford to lose herself like this. He was a man, and they were all the same.
Weren’t they?
The pressure in her chest grew unbearable. She was always a loner. She didn’t need anyone in her life, and no one had ever wanted to be involved in her witchcraft. This man had forced himself through her walls, shattered the cage around her heart, and now she was… falling.
Falling so hard and so fast that it stole her breath. She pressed a hand against her chest, but that didn’t help.
Gulping in air, she carefully swung her legs over the edge of the mound of pillows and crawled toward her clothing. Not the dress, that would be too obvious. Instead, she found the clothing she’d arrived in.
Dirt stained the fabric and grime covered the hem, but it was familiar. She pressed the fabric to her face and inhaled the scent of hard work, long hours, and endless days. She hadn’t washed it, and the scent of the journey, of her journey, was still on it. To some, it would have been a vulgar smell. But to her, it was home.
She slid the ragged clothing on, quietly moving about the room so she wouldn’t disturb the sleeping faerie in her bed.
“Things I never thought would exist,” she muttered. And top of that list was an Unseelie prince, splayed out across silken pillows, without a stitch of clothing.
Goodness, that would be seared into her brain for the rest of her life.
She didn’t mind the strangely thin leg which ended in a bird foot. She didn’t mind the feathers decorating his face and head. He was just Bran, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Aisling allowed herself one more pleased sigh before she slipped out the door.
The hallways were empty. Her footsteps echoed and bounced off the cold stone. It suddenly felt like a tomb, and gooseflesh popped up over her arms. Strange, she hadn’t felt uncomfortable in the Palace of Twilight until now.
Rubbing her hands up and down her grimy sleeves, she darted through the halls and peeked through doors until she found the way out of the palace.
Even the guards were sleeping, she noticed with amusement. They leaned against the walls with their helmets drawn low over their faces. Perhaps the “hunt” was more exhausting than Aisling had imagined.
She liked to think the duchess wasn’t quite so indiscriminate in her killings. Surely her court knew who was going to be the sacrifice for the night. But considering the exhaustion lining the faces of the Fae, she might be wrong.
A small wooden door gave under her hand, the rotting wood sticking to her fingers and moss curling toward the heat of her palm. She gave it a friendly pat and slipped out the side of the palace to step into an immaculate garden.
Thus far, the Palace of Twilight had offered very little beauty. There was a stunning quality to the age and grace of the rotting castle, but not beauty.
Perhaps all the beauty was funneled to this garden. Bright flowers burst into bloom all around her. Their glimmering petals held tiny drops of dew perfectly suspended. Hundreds of blossoms carpeted the ground and filled air with pollen. In the distance where two swans treaded water in a large pond, trees hung heavy with pink petals.
It was serenity captured in a single moment.
Aisling let out a breath and stepped onto the thin gravel path. It meandered through the plants, trailing like a long snake through the foliage. She followed it without question, noting the poisonous plants that decorated the edges.
Wolfsbane, monkshood, belladonna, all beautiful plants but dangerously poisonous. What else had she expected in the duchess’s garden? The faerie was as deadly as a viper. It stood to reason that her garden would reflect the same.
Feet crunching on the stone, she rounded a corner and stopped dead in her tracks. In the center of the garden, a small gazebo had been built out of twisted black metal. Jagged edges clawed at the sky and pointed out as if it were protecting the inhabitants from all else.
Within the strange cage sat the duchess and her duke. Her long black gown trickled onto the emerald grass, undulating at the ends like a strange beast she’d wrapped around herself. A dramatic plunging neckline revealed the glowing green heart that pulsed inside the cavity of her chest.
In contrast, her husband was dressed in simple clothes. He wore a simple shirt, laces untied at his neck, breeches, and unlaced boots. The duke did not seem to be interested in appearances, other than the ever-present mask covering his face.
A small table was set up in front of them, a chess board on the table and ready to play. None of the pieces had been moved, and Aisling thought it unlikely they were playing together. They sat on the same side of the table.
The duchess glanced up and grinned. “Ah, our little witchling! I thought we might see you this morning.”
She was trapped. Aisling wanted to bolt from the garden and race back into Bran’s comforting arms, but she knew better. Refusing a faerie their toy was the same as a death wish.
She sighed and walked toward them. “Did you now, Duchess? I’m afraid I didn’t even know I would find this place.”
“They always do.” The duchess gestured at a chair opposite them. “Do you play?”
“Not if I can help it.”
A spark glittered behind the duke’s mask. “Then you have played before?”
“Yes, but rarely.” She sat on the plush chair and plucked at the strings of her sleeves.
Was this an intelligent decision? Likely not. Faeries were too secretive in their ways, and she didn’t want a simple chess game to turn into a game of wits. Narrowing her gaze, Aisling pinned the duke with a stare. “We play for nothing more than amusement. There are no bets on this game.”
“That’s entirely boring, little witch,” he replied.
“I have nothing to give, and I suspect you have nothing you would like to lose. This game is for entertainment and educational purposes, that is all.”
He leaned back and stretched an arm behind his wife. His fingers played in the strands of the duchess’s hair before he nodded. “This one is brighter than we gave her credit for, love.”
“She is unusual, isn’t she?” The duchess patted his hand. “Play her for fun, darling. Perhaps then you shall be able to defeat the huntsman.”
“He doesn’t know how to play at all. Every win he claims is by luck.”
She leaned forward and moved a pawn two spaces ahead. The game was on, and she didn’t know what else to do other than to sit quietly in her dirty clothes.
The duchess’s eyes were a physical touch. She was weighing Aisling, the way she looked, the way she acted, the movements she made. Aisling felt like a bug under a microscope.
“I thought my maids had destroyed those rags,” the duchess finally said. “A shame that they still exist.”
“They’re my clothes, ma’am.”
“And why is that you put them back on? You’ve been gifted the finest gown the faerie court can make, and you choose”—she waved up and down—“that.”
“They are comfortable.”
“You mean you are more comfortable hiding behind rags. Is that it?”
Aisling bit her lip. The duke moved a pawn forward on the other side of the board. Not a particularly good choice, but enough that Aisling could form a plan. “You see right through me, Duchess.”
“It’s foolish for you to hide. You are a powerful creature in your own right. Your outward appearance should match that power.”
“I disagree,” Aisling murmured, shifting a chess piece forward. “I think the most powerful creatures are those who don’t appear to be. The smallest spider is the most poisonous. Such is the way of the wild.”
The duke snorted. “The drab spider is no less deadly than the flashing bejeweled fish. Poison is poison, ladies, no matter the form.”
He plucked one of her knights off the board and leaned onto the table. She recognized the look in his eyes. He thought he had her, but Aisling was never one so easily trapped.
She nudged a piece to cover her queen and arched a brow. “Would you not agree that poison is most effective when it is a surprise?”
“No.” The duke shook his head. “What you’re describing is personal satisfaction. There is a certain enjoyment in knowing the person has no idea you are the one killing them, or that they were going to be killed that day, but poison is effective no matter what form it is dispensed.”
She carelessly moved a pawn forward, frowning down at the board.
The duchess smoothed a hand down her skirts. “Little witch, have you given more thought to our conversation?”
“Which conversation is that? We’ve had plenty.” The surliness in her voice was perhaps a little daring, but Aisling refused to show weakness with these faeries.
“You removed your curse.”
The blunt words made Aisling flinch back. She curled in on herself, feeling suddenly weak and vulnerable. Her curse had always been her sanctuary, and it was still uncomfortable to remember people could see her face.
“You already knew that.”
“I did, but there was another thing I said long ago. You are a thrice-cursed woman, and I wonder if you have discovered the third.”
“I have only been cursed twice.”
The duchess lashed out a hand, quick as a snake, and wrapped her thin hand around Aisling’s forearm. She saw vividly the gnarled skin underneath the duchess’s glamour. She was a creature made of roots and bark, earthen and coarse. Then the glamour slid back into place, and a beautiful woman stared back at her.
With surprising strength, the duchess flipped Aisling’s hands over to reveal the eye tattoos still in the center of her palms. “You relieved yourself of one curse and freed the next, little witch. Now, the question is what this mysterious curse is.”
Aisling hissed out a breath. “What twisted magic do you speak of? I was only cursed twice.”
The heart thudded, the low sound echoing in the garden. Each thump drew Aisling closer and closer to the Duchess. Her lungs seized, but she couldn’t struggle against the duchess’s magic.
“Show me your secrets,” the duchess murmured. “All that was promised to me, little witch. Show me the stories written in blood magic upon your skin.”
Power crackled in the air, surrounding them, building and lashing out at their skin until it finally burst with a blinding green light. Aisling closed her eyes and threw her free arm over her face, but it was too late.
She experienced the memory all over again. The blistering pain of magic searing into her hands, the ache, the agony, the raw edges of flesh that could never be cut from her skin. Over and over again, she saw the memories until it suddenly was all clear.
Badb turned her tiny hands over, stroking her fingers over the eyes, but she wasn’t creating the tattoos. No.
She was tracing them.
The eyes had been on her hands long before the addition of the black tips. Aisling’s eyes snapped open, and the green light burned into her eyes, but it didn’t matter. The foundation of her world had shifted.
Badb hadn’t been cursing her; she had put the tips on her fingers to lock away a curse which had already existed in the palm of her hands.
She yanked her arm away from the duchess, chest rising and falling with panicked breaths. Why hadn’t she remembered it that way? The memory had always been in her head with Badb placing all the tattoos on her. Who had meddled with her mind?
“Ah,” the duchess mused, “so that’s who you are.”
“You know nothing of who I am.”
“Tell yourself whatever lies you need to feel better, little witch. But I see you as none have seen you before.” She leaned against her husband’s shoulder and sighed happily. “Do you remember him, my love? Before he was sent to Underhill, locked away with a key sunken at the bottom of an impossibly deep lake?”
“Who?” Aisling asked, her stomach twisting in knots.
The duke leaned back and tucked his wife against his side. “Ah, of course it would be him. He was magnificent in his day. And now? Ruling an empire of rot. A shame, really. He might have been something great if they had given him the chance.”
“Such a shame,” the duchess replied. “He was highly entertaining but also so incredibly powerful. I suppose it makes sense why they chose him, and even more why he chose her. Odd they would send her away to be a changeling, though. Can you imagine? The audacity of her family.”
Aisling slapped her hand down on the table, chess pieces rocking with the force of her anger. “Tell me!”
An odd spark glinted in the duchess’s eye. “Why the Raven King, of course. Or did you not know you were chosen to be his consort?”
She felt all the blood drain from her face. “Consort?”
“Every king must have his queen,” the duke replied. He leaned forward and knocked down her queen with a single move. “When the queen falls, so does the king. Checkmate.”
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t see straight. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t possibly have been chosen to be the consort of the Raven King. She’d never even seen him…
But that was a lie. She’d seen him her entire life, from childhood stories, to saving h
er friends, to the ravens above her hut, even guiding her here. The Raven King was the hero of every story she told.
And now, she knew she was meant to be his bride.
Aisling choked on a gasp. “It cannot be.”
“Why? Because you are in love with the Unseelie Prince?” The duchess laughed. “Stories don’t always end up the way we want them to, do they?”
“I won’t be a consort to anyone I haven’t met.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. After all, you removed the curse keeping you hidden from him. All he has to do is find you now, and I’m certain he wants you by his side. He’s infinitely more powerful with you in his kingdom.”
“Kingdom?” Aisling stared at them. “What kingdom?”
“Underhill! Goodness girl, do you not know any of the legends? He rules the Wild Hunt when it’s not released upon the earth. The creatures who steal human souls.” The duchess leaned forward dramatically. “The Sluagh.”
Aisling swore a wind had risen at the word, sliding across her arms and raising goosebumps in its wake. Though she knew they wouldn’t steal her soul, she had lived her entire life in fear of them. Evoking their name was as good as screaming into the shadows for them to come and take her.
“I am no one’s consort,” she whispered. “I make my own path.”
“Not with those marks you don’t.” The duchess clapped her hands, grinning. “Oh, this is so much fun! I had no idea we had two royals in our midst. Now it’s going to be so much easier. Don’t you think, darling?”
“Easier?” Aisling gulped and flicked her gaze between the two. “What do you mean easier?”
“I’m sorry for this, my dear. I really am. You have been a pleasure, and if you were anyone else, I’d like to keep you as a pet.”
Aisling wasn’t going to stay and listen to whatever else the Duchess had to say. She stood quickly, upended the table into their laps, and whirled into a run. Thank the gods she’d had the intelligence to change into pants or she wouldn’t have been able to race back toward the palace.
She needed to collect Bran and Lorcan. Then they all needed to flee this dastardly place. There wasn’t enough hidden magic in the world to convince her to stay here.