Heart of the Fae

by Emma Hamm

  “It’s a bad idea to make deals with things you don’t understand,” Sorcha said. “Perhaps we should go.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve made it this far, and I refuse to turn back.” Agatha lifted a hand when Sorcha opened her mouth. “I won’t hear any more of it, Sorcha. I’ve made my decision. You can come with me or not, though I will be sorely abused if you do not come with me. I invited you, and here you are. I’ve never known you to be a woman who goes back on her word.”

  So, she was frightened to go on by herself. With a lifted brow, Sorcha reached out and took Agatha’s arm. “All right. Let’s go.”

  The unrecognizable footman stayed with the carriage. As the women crested the stairs, the hair on Sorcha’s arms lifted. She glanced over her shoulder at the footman who had eerily not moved in the slightest.

  “Sorcha?” Agatha asked.

  “Everything is fine.” At the last possible second, Sorcha swung the hag stone around her neck into her hand. She lifted it to her eye and blinked.

  He sat perched upon the carriage with natural grace, his long legs covered by fine, black cloth and a stately jacket pressed into crisp folds. She might have thought him human if he hadn’t been missing his head.

  “Dullahan?” she whispered.

  She dropped the hag stone and rushed after Agatha who was already entering the MacNara estate. The inside of the building was as stunning as its exterior. White walls gleamed with gold filigreed wallpaper. A grand stairwell of white marble and light gray swirls spiraled from the ground floor and higher.

  A butler greeted them and draped Agatha’s pale blue cloak over his arm in a swath of color. His mustache twitched when Sorcha walked through the door, her slippers trailing mud across the pristine floor.

  “Sorcha, isn’t it lovely?” Agatha’s voice echoed in the room. “They are gracious hosts to allow us entrance to such a grand palace.”

  “Hardly a palace,” she responded. Although the home was beautiful, it was lacking a certain human touch. There were no portraits, no artwork, nothing but blank walls and empty space. In fact, it looked as though no one lived there at all.

  The butler grunted his disapproval.

  “Agatha, please don’t go anywhere without me!”

  The Dame’s heels clicked upon the marble floors. Sorcha’s own feet remained silent. Her leather slippers hardly touched the ground as she raced to the other end of the room. Snagging onto Agatha’s sleeve, she steered her back towards the foyer.

  “Dearie, you’re far too concerned about my well-being. I may be in the delicate stages of pregnancy but I assure you, I have carried many a child to term.”

  “I remember, Agatha. I helped you through each one.”

  They passed by the stairs just as a voice slithered through the air. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  The overwhelming scent of oranges filled the air. Sticky and sweet, it coated her lungs with citrus.

  Sorcha glanced up at the head of the stairs. A woman stood there, far too beautiful to be human. Unbound golden curls fell in waves to her waist. A red silk dress caressed her body as she shifted, the deep V between her breasts leaving little to the imagination. Gold chains laced across her body, dipping down her torso, and framing her shoulders.

  “Oh, my,” Agatha murmured.

  Sorcha swallowed hard. “Agatha, perhaps you should tell her why we’re here.”

  “I know why the old woman is here,” the MacNara twin said. “What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

  “I invited her!” Sorcha felt the Dame tremble. “I assumed your hospitality would stretch farther than just my presence.”

  “You were wrong.” Concepta’s hand curled around the railing of the stairwell. “But you have done it, nonetheless. I’ll speak with your friend alone.”

  Agatha spluttered, “Well I never! She is my companion and you will not separate us.”

  “Ivor, please show our guest to the blue room.”

  “I absolutely am not leaving without Sorcha.” The butler walked up and placed his hand against Agatha’s spine. “Take your hand off me, sir! Sorcha? Sorcha!”

  “It’s fine, Agatha,” Sorcha replied. “I don’t mind meeting with the lady MacNara. Please rest your feet in the blue room, I’m certain Ivor won’t mind providing you with tea and biscuits.”

  The unimpressed stare the butler gave her suggested that he had not, in fact, planned on providing tea and biscuits. Sorcha narrowed her eyes.

  He sighed. “It would be my pleasure, Dame Agatha. Please follow me.”

  They filed out of the room. A flash of silk was the last bit of her wayward patient she might ever see.

  Sorcha sighed again. Faeries were proving to be even more difficult than the stories had claimed.

  “Well?” Concepta asked from above. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Are you in a rush, Fae?” she asked as she made her way up the steps. “One might think an immortal would be more patient.”

  The faerie bared her teeth. “And one might think a weak little mortal would know how to watch her tongue.”

  Sorcha reached the top of the stairs and shrugged. “I’ve never been good at that.”

  “You should learn.” Concepta lunged forward, anger turning her eyes from crystal blue to raw amber. Sorcha gasped as the faerie’s hand wrapped around her throat. She gripped the other woman’s wrists, but couldn’t break free. Concepta shoved her backward until Sorcha’s spine hit the wall with a harsh crack, her eyes losing focus as pain bloomed behind her eyes.

  She blinked. There was something off about the faerie’s face. It twisted and warped in anger, shimmering with sparkling light in one moment and lined with rage the next.

  The snarl that tumbled from Concepta’s mouth wasn’t human. Guttural and raw, it vibrated in Sorcha’s ears.

  “You reek of my mother, human.” Concepta’s lips brushed Sorcha’s ear. “Are you another of her pets? What foul poison have you come to spread?”

  Black spots crept at the edge of her vision. Her mouth gaped open, and a wheeze escaped her lips.

  “If you cannot speak, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell my mother you died without ever delivering her venomous message.”

  Sorcha pushed her thumbs into the sensitive tissue of Concepta’s wrists. The pressure points allowed her the barest breath which she used to whisper, “Your favor.”

  The faerie’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  The grip upon Sorcha’s throat lessened enough for her to cough and gasp, “Your mother said you owe her a favor.”

  “And she’s using it for a little human?” Concepta shook her head. “Good guess, but not very believable.”

  “She said you knew how to cure the blood beetle plague.”

  “She said what?”

  “Faeries can’t lie,” Sorcha rasped. “I know this as well as you. Tell me how to cure it!”

  Concepta released her and backed away. Her laughter sounded like hammers striking metal. “Oh, this is a pleasurable thing! You simply must meet my brother. He will like you.”

  There would be bruises on her throat. Delicately, Sorcha probed the muscles of her neck. They throbbed as if a noose had tightened across her airways. Faeries were strong, she noted, far stronger than any human.

  She coughed. “Please.”

  “Yes, yes.” Concepta waved a hand in the air. “Fine, then. Come meet my brother first. He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

  Was this it? Would she finally be able to save her father? Hope raised its head, filling her chest to the brim with happiness as fragile as a dandelion seed. It couldn’t be this easy.

  Could it?

  The image of her Papa, skin moving with beetles, propelled her forward. The hallways were blank sheets of paper. White walls, white floors, gold filigree but nothing that suggested anyone lived here.

  “Is this a new home?” she called out.

  “No.”

  “Do many faeries live here?”

  “Yes.”


  Odd, but Sorcha could see the sense in it. What faerie would decorate a human home with images of their family? A headless portrait would look out of place if not simply morbid.

  She kept a hand around her neck as they twisted through empty room after empty room. A breeze trailed by. The distinct outline of a hand tugged at her gray skirt, pulling her forward.

  Twin doors stood open at the end of the hallway. Beyond that, an oasis grew. Vines tangled from a ceiling which looked like a giant birdcage. Hydrangeas bloomed and filled the air with their sweet scent, although they were not in season. An ornate fountain spewed mist into the air, white lilies twirling at its base. Brightly colored fabric spilled across the ground and was dotted with pillows.

  People stretched out upon the cushions. They held jeweled goblets in their hands, red wine pouring down their cheeks and onto their chests. Harp music gently wafted on the breeze from a musician in the far corner.

  A man stretched out near the fountain. His sculpted chest was bare to the sun, skin slicked with oil and well-tanned. Silk pooled around him, pants or skirt she could not discern. Red rubies wrapped around his throat and dangled on his forehead from a golden headpiece. A chain stretched from his ear to a piercing in his nose.

  The tingling sensation of magic pricked her skin. Sorcha clutched the hag stone at her neck.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Concepta said.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know what kind of Fae live here, little human. If you peer into our world, you will run from this place screaming.”

  “As you are Macha’s children, I assumed you were of the Seelie court.”

  “You know very little of our kind. Seelie or Unseelie is not a breed.” Concepta flicked a glance towards her. “It’s a choice, whether you want to follow the rules or you don’t.”

  She watched as the faerie picked her way through the lounging people. She draped herself across the fountain next to her brother and dangled her fingers in the water. Sorcha thought she looked very much like her mother. It didn’t seem like a safe observation to voice.

  “Brother,” Concepta said. “I brought you a gift.”

  “You know I dearly love gifts,” Cormac murmured. “But human playthings break so easily.”

  His gaze felt like a physical touch upon her skin, lingering on the swells of her breasts and the apex of her thighs. A slow smile spread across his face, teeth stained green by the viscous drink he nursed.

  “I am not here for your entertainment,” Sorcha replied. “I was sent by your mother.”

  “And Concepta didn’t kill you yet? You must be a very impressive warrior.”

  “I am no fighter, lord MacNara. Macha said you owe her a favor and I am here to collect.”

  He tsked. “Oh, sister, this is boring. Take her away.”

  How could he say that when he hadn’t even listened? The glee in Concepta’s unnatural eyes suggested she had known this would happen.

  Her father needed her. Her sisters needed her. Gods above, the entire world needed help and Sorcha had the rare opportunity to do so!

  The faerie woman moved to stand up.

  “Wait!” Sorcha shouted so loud that even the music stopped. “I was told you know how to cure the blood beetle plague. I will do anything for your knowledge.”

  Cormac leaned forward and pointed a jeweled finger at her. “Anything?”

  It was a sharp question, capable of slicing through flesh and bone. Was she willing to do anything?

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Anything.”

  Concepta trailed a finger down her brother’s arm. “I told you she wasn’t boring.”

  “We’re going to help her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even against our better judgment?”

  “We have better judgment?”

  Their hands met and fingers intertwined. “It’s against the rules, sister.”

  “I like to break rules.”

  “It will cause trouble.”

  “For us?”

  “There are always ripples.”

  Concepta lifted their hands and pressed a lingering kiss against his knuckles. “Then we will ride the waves they cause. I think this one will be worth the trouble if she succeeds.”

  “What makes you think she can?” Cormac cast a disbelieving glance at Sorcha. “She’s just a slip of a girl.”

  “I am strong,” Sorcha interjected. “I have brought countless children into this world. I know the cruelty of man first-hand, and I fear very little. There is much for me to lose if you don’t help me.”

  The words seemed to catch Cormac’s interest. He canted his head to the side and asked, “Like what?”

  “My father.”

  He snorted. “My father was a king among mortal men, and he did little for me. Try again.”

  “My sisters. They live with my father, and if he dies of the blood beetle plague, they will become ill as well. I will not watch them die.”

  “You love your sisters?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “In that, we see eye to eye.” He released his hold upon Concepta’s hand to trail his fingers through her golden curls, dragging a thumb across her lips. “Fine, we will help you.”

  “You know how to find the cure?”

  “Our mother does not lie. We know how to cure the blood beetle plague.”

  Her heart stopped. The relief surging through her veins made her knees weak. “How?” she whispered. “Please tell me how, and what I need to do.”

  “Oh, it’s not as simple as just telling you. We don’t have the cure. We only know where it is.”

  “Is it an object?”

  “In a way,” Cormac chuckled and his sister kicked her feet into the air. “The cure comes in the form of a person, at least for you.”

  “A person?”

  “One simple being whom you will return to us.”

  Concepta rolled to her side. “You’ll bring him back to the mainland, and then you’ll have your cure. Eventually.”

  “Why would I bring a person here? What does that have to do with the blood beetle plague?”

  “You don’t need to know the information. All you need to do is travel to Hy-brasil.”

  “The cursed isle?” Sorcha blinked. “It can only be seen every seven years. I don’t have time to wait seven years!”

  “Then it’s lucky for you that the time to see that isle is actually…” Concepta looked up at her brother. “Now?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  “In a few weeks,” she repeated. “And then you can see the isle. You can get our faerie, by whatever means necessary of course. Bring him back, and you’ll have your cure.”

  Sorcha shook her head in confusion. “You’re not making any sense. Do you have the cure or not?”

  “We do.”

  “Then why aren’t you giving it to me now? Your mother said you owe her a favor!”

  Concepta’s eyes sparked yellow again. She lifted herself into a crouch upon the stone lip of the fountain. “Are you saying I’m a liar?”

  “We both know faeries can’t lie.”

  “My mother’s favor saved your life. You owe us another, which means you will bring back that pathetic excuse for a Prince! And if he screams or cries when he sees me I will bite off his tongue with my teeth!”

  A harp string snapped. Sorcha startled at the sound and turned to see all inhabitants of the room had fled. The musician was the last, the fabric of her dress caught on her own instrument.

  Sorcha’s teeth chattered against each other. “What are you going to do to him, if I bring him back?”

  “That is none of your concern,” Cormac said. “Do we have a deal?”

  She was making too many deals with faeries all in one day. Her gut screamed that this was a bad idea. Macha was one thing, the revered Tuatha dé Danann valued female life and strength. These two? Some thread in their mind had unraveled, leaving gaping holes where insanity grew.


  She watched Concepta crawl into her brother’s lap and stroke the flat planes of his chest.

  “She will say yes,” Concepta said.

  “Will she?”

  “She can’t let go of a future where she is the ‘hero.’ So many people have told her ‘Sorcha, you are just a woman. You cannot do what you think you can do.’”

  “Humans are idiots.”

  “Humans are more than idiots. They are good only to feed the earth when they die.”

  Sorcha swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Concepta’s head snapped around, glaring over her shoulder with cat-like eyes. “You’ve hurt people your entire life. A stillborn child you couldn’t save, a screaming pain-filled night of a woman who did not desire a babe, a changeling you left near the woods!”

  “I did what I had to do. I have never killed anyone.”

  “But you will. Someday, everyone does. Whether by choice or not, we’re all killers. It’s far past time for you to accept that.”

  Sorcha straightened her spine. She was no murderer. If this woman wanted to prove something with her cruel words, then all she managed to do was set Sorcha’s resolve. If she had to choose between an unknown man and her family, Sorcha would always choose her family.

  “All right. I’ll bring him back.”

  “Alive,” Cormac added.

  “Alive and well. I will convince him to return and I won’t force him.”

  Concepta giggled. “You can try. I don’t think he’ll come back at all. Still, it will be fun to know someone is bothering him. You’ll leave now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now.”

  Ivor the butler appeared at her side. Sorcha squeaked when he grasped her arm. She stared down at the normal human hand and couldn’t shake the feeling that there were only three fingers touching her bicep.

  “Wait!” she cried out. “I have to say goodbye to my family.”

  “You’re boring me again,” Cormac grumbled. “We said you will leave now.”

  “I need my things.”

  “What things? You won’t need things where you’re going.”