Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  Sick houses were never short of work. She stowed the book away for later viewing and tired herself out. The sun had set by the time she completed her rounds.

  She was weary down to her bones.

  Sorcha stumbled into her room and washed herself thoroughly. Although the blood beetles no longer threatened her life, she had to worry about every other sickness.

  Eamonn’s voice whispered in her ear, “Humans are so fragile.”

  The memory made her smile. He did not understand how fragile humans really were. She had watched children die because they fell into a lake at the wrong time of year. Women fell ill because their corsets were too tight, and men died from a simple cut on their leg.

  Death followed humans like a well-known lover. Sorcha could almost feel him breathing down the back of her neck, waiting for the moment when she made a mistake.

  She eased her dress over her shoulders. Bruises covered her spine and back from the savage slaps and kicks some of the patients gave her. She was prepared for them to be violent. She would have been, too, if there were only a single window for her to stare out of while she waited for weeks and months to heal.

  They designed sick houses for death. Sorcha swore that people died faster here than if they were outside. Although she left the windows open, the private rooms had none. The air grew stagnant and cold.

  Her dress fell to the ground with a soft sound, and she finished washing. Each drag of the washcloth made her bite her lip. What she wouldn’t give to slide into a warm bath and have Oona wash her back for her.

  Sorcha stumbled to the bed and fell asleep almost instantly, praying no dreams would wake her. She was far too tired.

  But the dreams came. Dreams of the most unusual origin.

  She blinked her eyes open. Fog swirled in coiling billows and staircases led into a never-ending mist and disappeared. This wasn’t a normal dream, nor did she feel the strange lightheaded quality of sleep.

  Sorcha was awake, or at least aware, in the dream she wandered through. Frowning, she spun around.

  A fine dress covered her legs. It wasn’t something she ever would have chosen for herself, her first indication that a faerie meddled with her dreams.

  Red velvet poured over her shoulders like blood. Bell sleeves touched the tips of her fingers and the wide skirt flared over her hips, so heavy and large that she felt the entire dress move as she shifted.

  Her hair swirled as it piled on top of her head.

  “Ah,” a smooth voice said. “Look how pretty you are.”

  “Fionn,” she growled.

  “You remember me? How flattering.”

  Sorcha spun in a circle, trying to find him in the billowing mists. “How could I forget the King of the Seelie Fae?”

  “You’ve grown bold.”

  “I’ve grown desperate.”

  A hand touched her waist. Strong and achingly familiar, she spun around in his arms to stare up at the beloved face. Eamonn looked back at her, vibrant blue eyes blazing. But it wasn’t him, not really.

  She flinched back from the mask Fionn had placed over his face. It was a macabre imitation of his brother.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she growled. “Why would you wear that?”

  “Do you not like it? I thought it would be rather agreeable, considering how you favor my twin.”

  “You are a sick and twisted man.”

  “You and my twin are of the same mind when it comes to that.” He pulled her into his arms. “It is good to see you again, midwife.”

  “Healer now.”

  “Of course. How could I forget? The little midwife who saved everyone from the blood beetles.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I am. I always thought you would do more important things than save humans. There was an edge of greatness to you when we first met.” He shrugged. “Either way. Won’t you dance with me?”

  “Dance?”

  Sorcha felt the brush of fabric against the back of her dress. Gasping, she craned her neck to see hundreds of other faeries had joined them. Each more beautiful than the last, the Seelie Fae had joined their king in the dream world.

  Music burst into the air. Violins and harps twining together to create a jig that no one could have sat still through.

  She hated it. She hated it even more when he pulled her closer, placed her hand on his shoulder, and propelled her into the crowd.

  “What do you want?” she growled.

  “Can I not wish to spend time with my favorite human?”

  “You hate humans.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  She glowered at him as they spun wildly among the other Fae. “You want something from me.”

  “Can you not enjoy the night before finding your way to politics?”

  “I will not be stuck in this dream forever.”

  His expression changed, twisted into something awful. Something she recognized far too well. “You are too intelligent for your own good, midwife.”

  “You have told me this before.”

  He spun her in a wide arc around a tree that grew in the center of the room. Its roots groaned as they passed. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play coy. You know of whom I speak.”

  “I couldn’t even fathom a guess.”

  Fionn pulled her towards him. She struck his chest hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. He squeezed her, painfully tight, in warning. “You know where he is.”

  “If I knew where he was, don’t you think I would be with him?”

  “He sent you away. He pushed you out of the castle and back into your life where you live in grime and ruin. Why else would you want to go back to the Otherworld? The human world is far too plain for you.”

  The cajoling expression was back on his face. If she were any other woman, he might have convinced her to stay here with him. He was painfully handsome, all high arched cheekbones and a dazzling smile.

  Fionn had a dangerous edge to his looks. It was behind his eyes, she thought. Something behind those vivid blue eyes had twisted to hatred.

  Her thoughts turned to the first night she had met Eamonn. To a throne room cast in shadows, and a slash of light across glittering eyes. He had the same eyes as his brother back then, filled with darkness and anger.

  She reached up and feathered her fingers over the crest of Fionn’s cheekbones, just underneath the azure rage. “You’re so much like him.”

  The emotion in his eyes boiled, but he smiled down at her. “I can be anyone you want me to be, little midwife. Just ask.”

  “You can’t be him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eamonn has learned something you have not.”

  “Which is?” he growled.

  “He has learned how to let go of his anger.”

  Fionn tossed his head back and laughed. She shook in his arms, each rumbling chuckle pulsing through her body. The faeries dancing around them paused and joined in his laughter.

  “Oh, little midwife. You are thoroughly entertaining. You think my brother has let go of his anger?” His smile warped into a menacing grimace. “Let’s see how wrong you are.”

  He spun her around in his arms, yanking her back against his chest and twisting his hand in her hair. He used the rope of her braid to secure her. Pulling her head back, he petted the long column of her throat.

  “Look.”

  She jerked, not caring that her hair pulled at her scalp. He had no right to contain her in such a way. She squeezed her eyes shut as a flicker of light burst through the fog, revealing images.

  “Look, midwife. See the choices your lover makes.”

  Sorcha didn’t want to open her eyes, but temptation clawed at her stomach. Fionn lied. Whatever he showed her would be a lie, so there was no harm in looking.

  She peered into the fog. Swirling light and colors accosted her senses, and then sound filtered through.

  Clanging strikes of steel against steel. The harsh
crack of a whip, and the song of the wind as it whistled through crystals and stone.

  A sword sliced through the thick layer of mist. Eamonn stepped from the whirling colors of fire and brimstone like a warrior victorious. Blood splattered across his armor and dripped through the valleys of his wounds.

  But he was alive. And he was well.

  Sorcha breathed a sigh of relief that was short lived as he advanced towards her. Fionn held her still as Eamonn brandished his sword and snarled.

  He charged towards them with an unfamiliar blade glinting in sunlight she could not feel. Sorcha gasped and screwed her eyes shut as he lifted his blade, flinching against Fionn’s shoulder.

  “Oh no,” he murmured in her ear. “You don’t get to close your eyes for this. Watch.”

  His fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her to turn for the last moment when Eamonn plunged his blade into her chest. The ghost sword sank through her torso and she gaped up at the man she loved. His face twisted into a grimace of cold, calculated hatred. There was no pain, for dreams did not have pain, but he stared down as if she were nothing more than an animal.

  “He sweeps through my armies, killing hundreds of good men with families waiting for their return,” Fionn growled.

  She stared up into the glittering eyes and wondered what had happened. He had been so against death, at least when she left him. Crystals were digging into one of his eyes, freezing it in place until all it could do was stare with cold rage.

  “He doesn’t care about our people. He only cares about the throne and his personal vendetta.”

  “That isn’t him.” She shook head head. “He cares about the Lesser Fae. He cares about them all.”

  “You are so sweet. So naïve. Do you see that sword in his hand, little midwife?”

  Eamonn pulled the blade from her chest. A wolf’s mouth swallowed the steel, glittering red eyes staring at her as he pivoted away from the faerie he had just killed.

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “That is my sword. My rightful sword from our grandfather.”

  She knew who their grandfather was. Had seen Eamonn kneeling at an altar, asking the ancient Tuatha dé Danann for guidance. “That is the Sword of Nuada?”

  “It is. And only the true King of the Seelie Fae can wield it.” His grip tightened on her waist, squeezing until she whimpered. “And I am the true king.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “You dare threaten me so?”

  “I am so tired of faeries saying that to me,” she growled and wrenched herself out of his grasp. “I am no weak maiden who fears you. You would be wise to fear me, would be King of the Seelie Fae.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed again. “And why should I?”

  “I know your true name, Fionn the Wise.”

  He froze, glaring at her as if she had done the unthinkable. “Using that name brings you down a dangerous path.”

  “I have used faerie names before, and I will again. Now release me from this dream.”

  “Tell me where he is.”

  “I will not. Fionn, let me go.”

  She could feel him fighting against her words. The weight of his will fell over her shoulders as if he were pressing down upon her.

  He grinned. “You have to mean it, midwife. You have to really mean to strip my own thoughts from my mind and force yours in their place.”

  “Let me out of this dream, Fionn.”

  “Again!” All the faeries surrounding them echoed his laughter. “Again, little girl. Maybe with more practice you will control the King of the Seelie Fae!”

  “Now, Fionn. I bend you to my will. Let me go!”

  “No!”

  He spun on his heel and advanced. His hand fisted in her hair, twisting the strands until she yelped and her knees gave out. She landed on her knees at his feet.

  His handsome face twisted with cruelty. His lips touched her cheek as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You will never control me. Now tell me where my brother is.”

  Sorcha winced as he pulled hard on the long tail of her braid. “I will never tell you.”

  “That’s fine,” he chuckled in her ear. Magic swelled around them, pressing upon her shoulders and into her mind. “Then tell me where you are, sweet midwife.”

  Sorcha fought against the desire to tell him everything he wanted to know. She struggled in his grip to no avail. Panic welled in her belly until all she could do was tilt her head back and scream.

  “Fionn, let me go!”

  She lurched up in bed, her hair a tangled mess around her and the scent of stale sweat filling the tiny room she slept in. The fire had died down. Shadows danced in her visions as the faerie magic dissipated.

  Sorcha pressed a hand against her chest and tried to catch her breath.

  “I did it,” she gasped. “I controlled him.”

  But had she? She wouldn’t ever really know, although she suspected he wasn't finished with her yet.

  Her pillow suddenly seemed less inviting. Nightmares waited down that path, and she wasn’t certain she had it in her to battle Fionn again. The King of the Seelie Fae was much stronger than she’d given him credit for.

  Shivering, she pulled the blankets around her shoulders, left her bed, and stoked the fire back to life. Light would banish the nightmares from her mind. Sorcha threw open the window for good measure, hoping the sickly sweet scent of fear would leave on the wind.

  What battle had she won? And what was Eamonn doing?

  “He needs me,” she said as her heart clenched.

  He needed someone to remind him that there was good in the world. That he needed to be that good for others, or he would find himself walking the same path as his twin. But she couldn’t do that from Ui Neill.

  Her gaze caught on the leather-bound book the witch had given her.

  “No,” she told herself. “You will not stoop to dealing with the Unseelie. There are other ways to get back to the Otherworld.”

  None that were so quick, however. Sorcha chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the easiest solution to her problem. Eamonn didn’t have much time, and neither did she. The Seelie king was coming for her. She needed protection and Eamonn needed a conscience.

  Grumbling, she tossed the blankets from her shoulders and picked up the book. Magic hummed against her fingers as if the book knew she wanted to use it.

  She flipped it open and ran her fingers down the center seam. Words appeared on the blank parchment, words she shouldn’t understand but somehow did.

  This was dark magic, not just faerie favors or spells that might heal. Witch words appeared, calling upon powers that Sorcha could never understand. Nor did she want to. Runes, chicken blood, sacrificial lambs, and more danced before her eyes until her stomach rolled.

  As if the book knew she had seen enough, the pages fluttered and settled upon what she wanted.

  The portal.

  “I’m just reading your pages,” she muttered. “I’m not using you.”

  A voice whispered in her mind, “Not yet.”

  Shivering, Sorcha ran her fingers over the words and tried to decide whether it was worth it. Shadows danced just out of her reach as Unseelie Fae slipped into her room.

  She could see them out of the corner of her eyes. Twisted and warped, the goblins hunched over each other and held their breath. Would she do it? Would she take the deal offered in the form of stretched skin and ink?

  The spell was rather simple, but it required more than one person. Sorcha couldn’t drag one of her patients into this mess. She didn’t even want to make the deal herself.

  Another spell appeared on the edge of the page. A spell to find someone. A spell with a name already written in blood.

  “Aisling,” she muttered.

  It was cruel, perhaps, to involve the witch in even more deals. But who better to assist opening a portal to the Otherworld than someone already up to their neck in debt?

  Sorcha snapped the book shut and ignored the triumphant sc
reams of the Unseelie Fae.

  She had a witch to catch.

  The Hangman And The Portal

  Eamonn swung his blade over his head, the metal singing as he brought it down onto the nearest elf. The unnaturally beautiful creature danced backwards and the sharpened edge traced a scraping line down his breastplate.

  The elf grinned. His helmet covered only the sides of his face, leaving his eyes and mouth free.

  “You won't win, beast,” the elf crowed. “You can only fight for so long!”

  “Haven’t you heard the legends? I will fight until the last of you is dead.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Unable to bear the creature’s prattle for a second longer, Eamonn rushed forward. His opponents never expected him to come within range of their swords. Some were forward thinking enough to lift their blades, hoping they would cut through Eamonn’s impenetrable skin.

  They were always wrong. His crystals sliced through metal until it was nothing more than dust.

  This elf was not intelligent enough to even try. He cried out, held up his hands, and froze when Eamonn caught him by the throat.

  “Wait,” the pretty creature gurgled. “Mercy.”

  “I have none for your kind.”

  Eamonn squeezed his fist until gore and meat covered it. Only then did he let the body drop to the ground.

  The battlefield was a horrendous place to be. In the many years since he had been a general, Eamonn had forgotten what it was like. The true fear and crazed stares as men fought. The screams of the victorious mixed with those who clung to life, refusing to die quickly.

  The Sword of Light hung heavy in his hand. It drew him down in a way Ocras never had. The runes written upon every inch of metal vibrated with power, stinging his palms and heating the crystal of his hand. He didn't like it, but it was effective.

  A dwarf ran past him. Young, perhaps too young to be fighting, and screaming as an elf cut him down. Blood splattered into the air, filling it with iron and red mist.

  Anger simmered just beneath Eamonn’s skin. What right did they have? The High Seelie Fae were no better than the Lesser Fae. And yet, he saw the glee in the elves’ eyes. They wanted to kill the dwarves. They wanted to see their blood on the ground but refused to lower themselves to allow even a speck to touch their armor.