by E. D. Walker
Beatrice’s skin seemed stretch too tight, and her blood kicked violently through her veins, making her feel unsteady as her skittish horse. Wrong. This was wrong. What a foolish idea to meet the Fair Folk here on the edge of their own realm.
But how else were they to solve this? The salt and the wards were sure to fail sometime. Constant vigilance was impossible. Wasn’t it better to attempt some sort of deal now? Before the fairies had successfully captured a child?
Stephen huffed at Beatrice’s side. His mount must have sensed his impatience because it sidled sideways, bumping into hers, making her jump. Stephen raised an eyebrow at her, impatient. “Your fairies are late.” If they exist at all, was left unsaid. “Where are they?” He grunted, craning his head around as if he might have somehow missed them. “They set the time and the place, so where are they?”
Beatrice pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Our Good Neighbors are not known for their punctuality, Lord Stephen.” A warm ripple of amusement threaded Llewellyn’s voice. He could be amused; he couldn’t be locked up as a “poor madwoman” like Beatrice if the fairies failed to show.
“And yet we are on time for all that.” The voice came from the shadows of the trees.
Beatrice held her breath and stood upright in her stirrups, trying to see the fairies.
“Behold, the sun has just set.” A dozen or more of the Fair Folk stood shadowed under the tree line, half hidden from sight. A few were in fancy finery, but the rest looked like guards—much like Beatrice’s own party. She searched in vain for the fairy from last night, but he was not among them. Beatrice let out a small breath of relief.
Her party’s horses seemed to panic as one. As her own horse whinnied and kicked, it was all Beatrice could do to stay in the saddle.
“Be still,” a calm voice echoed around them, bouncing off the trees. The horses all quieted at once, and stood as still as carved horses might. Beatrice stared around frantically, trying to find the source of the voice.
“Fate save us.”
Beatrice glanced over at her husband’s hoarse whisper. His face had gone ghastly pale, his mouth open. When she looked over at the fairies emerging from the woods into the lantern light, she understood his shock. The kelpie the other night had been beautiful and terrifying. As this new fairy stepped forward, surely the queen herself, Beatrice realized the fairy last night had been as a candle flame, and now she was staring straight at the sun.
The fairy queen was tall and delicately boned, with a ripple of rose-gold hair like a silky train down her back. A faint green tinted her complexion, and her skin shimmered in the torchlight in places like the scales on a fish. Her eyes were uncannily large and entirely black with no pupil at all. When the queen’s stare settled on her, Beatrice shivered and dropped her gaze. But just as quickly, she looked back up again, captivated and terrified all at once.
“Ah, the gracious lady of the castle. I’ve heard about you.” The queen’s voice was a husky purr, low, a bit like if one of the castle cats opened its mouth to talk with human words. Her teeth flashed in the light, too long and wickedly sharp. The queen made a small nod toward Beatrice, and the fairy’s full, plump mouth crimped at the corner.
Beatrice didn’t like that smile. She recognized that smile. Beatrice had been the most beautiful woman at the king’s court, perhaps in all the kingdom. She had given a smile just like that once upon a time. That I am the most beautiful woman here and you are nothing look. Seeing it now made her feel too plump and grimy and short. And a thousand years old. “Yes, I am the lady of the castle at Réméré. So pleased to meet you.” She swung herself out of her saddle. As she moved toward the fairy, the men scrambled behind her to dismount.
The fairy’s grin widened, and she reached to tug a lock of Beatrice’s red hair free from her braid. “My kelpie spoke true. You would be a lovely addition to our revels.”
“Do not touch my wife, creature,” Lord Stephen bellowed.
Beatrice whirled toward him, her heart hammering. Oh, why did he have to come?
Llewellyn stepped between them and caught Stephen’s wrist before her husband could draw his sword, before her husband could get them all killed. She’d never thought she could be grateful to Llewellyn for anything.
The fairy queen clucked her tongue. “Such a tiresome man. So fat and old. Keep your tongue still in my presence.”
Stephen took one step forward, then faltered, his hand flying to his throat. He rasped and choked, clawing at his skin as he crashed to his knees.
“No.” Beatrice was at his side in three bounds and crouched beside him. Without thinking, she whipped the iron off her own neck and dropped it around his. Stephen gulped in a deep breath and fell forward against her shoulder, breathing hard and shaking.
She squeezed his arm once quickly before she pushed to her feet to face the queen. Llewellyn made a grab for her, but she shook his hand off. All the men-at-arms had drawn their steel, but Llewellyn had his hand raised, signaling them to hold off their attack. The magician’s face was white, his brows furrowed with concentration.
The queen surveyed them all with an amused smile. Beatrice supposed they were hopelessly outmatched, and she didn’t understand how the others besides Llewellyn had missed this. “We wish to negotiate, Highness.”
The queen voiced a small hum of pleasure. “About what?”
“You—you are trying to steal the children in our village. Perhaps there is something else we could trade you for instead? Crops? Livestock? Gold?”
The queen snorted. “Trade goods? Is that the extent of your imagination?”
***
The reins of the bridle were tight around Mary’s wrists, cutting off blood flow and trapping her on the kelpie’s back as it raced to drown her in the river. The fairy-horse’s hooves clattered over the river rocks and then, like a child on a summer day, he jumped into the river with a giddy crow of delight.
“Bastard.” The cold water knocked the breath out of her, stinging her body all over. The knife slipped in her quickly numbing fingers, but she held onto it, her fingers pinching it desperately to keep it. She managed to gasp one small breath in before the water slid over her head.
Blind in the black water, she thrashed and kicked as they went under. Feeling her way up the horse’s neck, she gripped the knife tight in her other hand. Her lungs burned, squeezing, gasping for air, but she fought the urge to open her mouth, to give in. Her fingers were too cold, fumbling and useless. The fairy’s muscles jumped under her hand as she continued pawing at his neck, fighting her way toward his face. He tried to whip his head away, but it was too late. She’d found the strap of his bridle and yanked on it hard.
Her heart pounded, making her dizzy, shaky. But she still gripped the crownpiece of the bridle, sawing at the leather with her knife. Should have tied my hands behind me, fool of a fairy. The kelpie tossed his head, trying to pull away from her. A mistake that. The force of his move pulled the leather tight against her blade and snapped the last thread of it. Mary tore at the leather strips and yanked the bridle off and over his head. Immediately she floated free of the saddle and used the kelpie’s back as leverage to kick toward the surface.
The water was calm, and she made it to the surface with a few quick strokes. She broke the surface and gasped a breath in but didn’t wait, swimming hard for the shore. Mary hit the river’s edge and clawed her way out of the water. She clasped the bridle remnants tight to her chest as she lay there.
The kelpie rose slowly from the water. Still in his horse form, he trotted over, standing above her and dripping on her face. Words exploded in her mind as he nudged her gently with his horse nose. “Give me that bridle, crone. If you do, I will carry you back to the village and trouble you no more.”
She let out a croaking travesty of a laugh and spit river water back in his face. “You will carry me back, horse. But it will be because I say so. For I’ll not return your bridle anytime soon.”
“Please. Please
.” The horse’s ears flicked back, and the whites of his eyes showed the panic in his heart.
She curled her lip and bundled the bridle in her cloak. “Take me to the castle, beast.”
His muscles twitched beneath his glossy black coat as he fought the compulsion a moment. Then the horse clopped over and let her climb onto his back. She kicked his sides, not bothering to soften the blows as she would have with a real horse. Her skin crawled to be on the kelpie’s back again, but she was too weak to walk back to the castle. And there was no time for squeamishness.
Mary grimly held on to the saddle, the cool wind whipping over her, chilling her already frozen body further as the kelpie took off at a full gallop toward the castle. I just hope I’m in time.
***
“Really? Nothing else to offer but the usual boring trinkets?” The fairy queen’s gaze roamed over Beatrice in a warmly assessing manner. Beatrice was used to such looks from men, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen such a predatory gleam in another woman’s eyes before. The queen tilted her head, still studying her face. “For a harlot and a traitor your offer seems marvelously stingy.”
Beatrice rocked back on her heels like she’d been slapped, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She swallowed and turned to Llewellyn. “We should go. There’s no point to this.”
“Oh,” the queen trilled, “are you a coward as well as a strumpet?”
“Do not…speak so to my wife,” Stephen croaked, staggering toward the queen before Llewellyn caught him back.
The queen let out a raspy growl of laughter. “Your wife? Yes, and why is she your wife? Why would a man with land and a title marry a known slut, a penniless orphan from a dishonored family?” Her gaze flicked to Beatrice and she smiled still, but there was nothing of kindness in it. “It’s because he can control you, dear. He chose you because you could never leave him.”
Is that supposed to hurt me? As if it mattered in the least why Stephen had married her. He’d saved her. The why didn’t matter. Beatrice bit her lip, unsuccessfully holding a smile back. “I think you’re discounting my beauty and my wide child-bearing hips, Highness.”
The queen blinked and twitched a bit, like a charger on the lists who’s taken a misstep. But the moment passed and her large black eyes only narrowed again. “But isn’t it boring, my dear? Shackled to a petulant, foolish old man? Wouldn’t you rather be dancing each night and living in the bustle of the court? Don’t you miss the kisses of kings?”
Beatrice started to laugh again, but then she saw the ashen look on Stephen’s face. And his shame. His fear. And I thought the queen’s latest attacks had missed their mark. Not so, apparently.
Cool fingers caressed her cheek. Beatrice jumped. The queen stood in front of her, almost kissing close. The queen’s hands were soft, and the faint smell of wildflowers drifted on the air, but the sweetness was undercut by a more rank smell, like the pelt of a feral animal. “You have wildness in you, my dear,” the queen whispered. “I would take you away now with me if I could. But worry not. I have removed your burden. You need not stay with your dullard husband any longer.”
A hollow sickness settled in Beatrice’s gut, a terrible fear, and her heart hammered. She plucked the queen’s hand away, then staggered back, blindly reaching for her horse’s reins. No, no, no… She bit her lip to keep the scream inside as she swung onto her horse’s back. “Mount up. We have to get back to the castle.”
“My lady—”
“Go. Now.” Beatrice spurred her horse into motion, bending low over her neck as she raced away from the fairy clearing.
Behind her, the queen burst into laughter, and the warm, husky sound seemed to chase Beatrice through the darkness. “You’re too late,” the queen called after her, her voice unnaturally loud. “I’ve already gotten what I wanted.”
***
By the time Beatrice reached the gates of her castle, her heart was thundering as hard as her poor laboring horse’s. The beast’s sides were foamed with sweat as it outpaced all the men except Llewellyn.
Once she cleared the gates, she reined in and swung down, landing heavily enough on the cobbles of the court to jar her knees and ankles. And all the time her heart felt transplanted to her throat, choking her with fear as it pounded away like a war drum.
My son is fine. He’s here. He’s safe. She’d mounted a horseshoe over the door, drawn a salt circle around his crib— But they lured me away. And Mary too. And Llewellyn. And they can change shapes… She tossed her head, trying to shake the horrible thoughts out through sheer force.
“My lady,” Llewellyn called behind her.
She ignored him, charging up the stairs with her skirts gathered immodestly high so as not to trip her.
“Lady Beatrice, please wait.”
No. She had to know now. Had to see. He’s all right. My boy’s fine. He’s fine. He’s—
Her foot missed a step and her gut swooped in alarm as she teetered in the air, about to tumble backward down the high stone steps. Llewellyn caught her with a small oomph and threw a hand out to balance himself as he took her weight.
She let out a shaky breath and fussed against his hands. “Please.”
Llewellyn released her with a small forward push. “Yes, go.” His voice sounded ragged, his face pale when she glanced back. Her own heart quailed at the sight. Surely the magician wouldn’t look so alarmed if he believed all was well.
She fumbled the rest of the way up the stairs, one hand tracing the wall to keep her balanced. The sound of a woman weeping reached her. Long, high-pitched, hysterical sobs filled the hallway. Beatrice ran across the floor to her own rooms, her shoes shushing against the stone. The wooden door banged against the wall as she threw it open and rushed inside.
Mary lay on the floor, curled around herself, a deep scratch on her cheek, her eyes red. “My lady, I’m so sorry.”
“No.” Beatrice staggered the last two steps to her son’s bed.
But when she looked inside the crib all was well. Her son was awake, wriggling and kicking his blankets away. The baby looked at her as she loomed over him, and he smiled. A dimple pierced each chubby cheek, and his large blue eyes shone with happiness to see her. Beatrice let out a low groan of relief and swept him into her arms. He laughed, and she pressed a kiss to the soft down of his dark hair.
Llewellyn clattered into the room, huffing and puffing.
She beamed at him and bounced the baby in her arms. “All’s well. See.”
The magician’s mouth tightened, going white around the edges. Slowly, hands shaking, he lifted the seeing stone on its chain around his neck and peered at her baby through the small hole in the rock.
She shook her head violently, her stomach clenching, and squeezed the warm, soft baby in her arms. “He’s here. He’s fine. Don’t you see?”
Llewellyn studied the baby for a long moment through his damned stone, and his shoulders drooped, like a soldier preparing to surrender.
A white-hot brand stabbed through Beatrice’s heart.
Llewellyn’s gaze caught with hers, and his eyes sparkled with moisture. “My lady, I—I am so sorry. But that’s not your son. The fairies have taken him.”
Chapter Five
Feeling hollow, Beatrice glanced at the child in her arms. Black hair, blue eyes. He looked like her son. She held him close, smelled his soft baby skin. Nothing felt wrong. She was his mother. Shouldn’t she know her own baby?
Mary had stopped weeping and pulled herself to her feet, using the crib post to lever herself up. “You’re seeing what you want to see, lass. Look through the magician’s seeing stone.”
Beatrice closed her eyes and puffed out a ragged breath. The baby squirmed in her arms and voiced a small sigh. Trusting as a sleepy kitten, the baby tucked his head against her shoulder.
Not mine. Hard to believe when he laughed like her baby, smiled like him, smelled like him. Beatrice stirred herself, feeling thick-witted, heavy. As if she were drowning but lacked the will to kick
to the surface and breathe. Gone. Taken.
Perhaps that was the trouble. If she moved, if she looked closely, then she had to admit that her baby was lost. While she lingered here, in this moment, now, now before really knowing, she could pretend all was well.
“Help me, Magician.” This was Mary, her voice practically throbbing with fear and frustration.
Beatrice kept her eyes closed, humming, rocking the baby in her arms. My son. My own. He’s here. He’s fine—
Llewellyn knocked into her from behind, pinning her arms as Mary rushed in and ripped the baby backward. The child had grabbed hold of Beatrice’s pearl necklace, and the strand snapped as he was yanked away. Pearls scattered with little clunks and rolled over the floor.
Mary might as well have clawed Beatrice’s heart out. Beatrice howled, furious, and thrashed in Llewellyn’s arms. The magician wrestled with her and pressed the seeing stone against her eye, hard enough to bruise. Mary held the baby aloft in front of Beatrice’s face.
The baby wailed, a high-pitched scream of hysteria. His skin was a faint green color, his ears pointed, and his eyes were entirely black, like the queen’s. A fairy baby. A changeling child. Beatrice sagged in Llewellyn’s arms, feeling like someone had slid a cold, cold knife between her ribs yet somehow her body continued to move, to breathe.
The changeling screamed still, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and he reached for Beatrice with chubby fists as Mary held him away from her like something rank and foul. Beatrice flinched, fighting an instinctual urge to reach for the child. The milk in her breasts ached, rushing into her at the sound of the screaming baby. He might have been a fairy, a monster, but he sounded enough like a human baby to deceive even her body. So maybe her heart hadn’t been so foolish to believe, even for a moment, that he was real?
“Are you all right?” Llewellyn’s breath was still ragged with alarm and exertion.
“Let me go.” She twitched in his grip.