by Emma Hamm
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I cannot thank you enough.”
They helped her fly. Her feet skimmed the ground as they carried her towards the castle. The front door used to be red. The paint peeled from the top, golden rivets tarnished with age, a bronze lion held the knocker in its mouth.
Light filtered through the cracked door. She stooped and peered through the broken wood. An empty room stood beyond. White sheets covered the furniture and cobwebs stretched from ceiling to floor.
Sorcha stuck a foot out and nudged the door open. Its groan echoed through the room and bounced up the grand staircase leading to the second story. A cobweb drifted on the air where she had torn it from its place on the door.
“This is the castle of Hy-brasil,” she whispered. Sorcha reached up and caught the cobweb, transferring it and the spider to the wall. “Sorry.”
Twitching her skirts to the side, Sorcha stepped into the castle with wide eyes. Dim light caught upon dust motes, turning the room to starlight.
“She made it,” a familiar voice grumbled.
“I did,” Sorcha replied. “You’re Cian, are you not?”
“Humans aren’t meant to know our names. I didn’t give you that, ungrateful wretch.”
“But I have it now and I made it to the castle.”
“With help.”
She shrugged. “Does it matter? I’m here all the same, and now I would like to speak to the Tuatha dé Danann.”
“The master isn’t taking visitors.”
There was a faint outline of a short figure in the shadows of the stairwell. Dust had settled upon his shoulders, far too round to be human and shuddering in anger. Sorcha narrowed her eyes on him and committed the little details to memory.
“I’m afraid I cannot give him that choice. Bring me to him.”
“I’m not your errand boy.”
“Then tell me the way.” Sorcha put steel into her voice. She willed sharp edges into the words so he would have no choice but to obey.
The Fae man grumbled. “If you think that will scare me—”
“It should,” she interrupted. “You don’t know me, gnome. You take a great risk in underestimating me.”
She threw the words out in hopes her memory served true. Gnomes were short, squat creatures with round bodies and rolls of fat. The dust settling revealed a body type very similar to that.
Cian shivered and tossed the dust back into the air. “Good guess.”
“Tell me the way to your master.”
“What will you give me in return?”
“I will make no more deals with the Fae!” Her shout hurt her ears. “Now!”
“Up the staircase then, girl. Keep going straight to the throne room. You can’t miss it.”
“Throne room?” She coughed in surprise.
“What, did you think the master would be in his receiving room? The throne room, girl. You want to see the master so bad? Perhaps you should prepare for what you will meet.”
She refused to look towards him. Clothing stiff, body aching, face burning from sun and salt, she ascended the stairs with her head held high. She would not break nor would she yield.
Sorcha resolved to be stronger than she had ever been before. Stronger than when she helped her first patient’s child into the world. More capable than when her father fell ill and her sisters needed her to be the stable one. More brave than the first time she cut into a stranger’s body and pulled out beetles hoping they wouldn’t turn and attack her.
The Fae would not look at her with pity. The master was even less likely to give her any kind of clemency. She would need her wits about her. Sorcha knew convincing a Fae to leave this isle would be nigh impossible.
But she had to try.
The staircase led to more ancient stones. One wall had crumbled to dust revealing a room filled to the brim with tattered paintings. She didn’t pause, although her curiosity piqued.
At the end of the castle, another stairwell descended. Chandeliers covered in cobwebs dripped spiders instead of gems. The white marble floor had once been a remarkable sight. Now, cracks ran like rivers through a canyon, marring the once opulent surface.
Stairs led up to a dais covered by moth-eaten gray fabric. The throne loomed in the darkness, outlined by antlers and horns jutting out in all directions. Sorcha could only see heavy boots leading up to thick, muscular legs. Shadows blanketed the rest of him.
The Tuatha dé Danann was a man.
“I have journeyed across the sea, through hardships and storm, to make a deal with you, m’lord.” She hesitated before the throne, unsure whether she should continue.
His boots shifted. A heel nudged enough to reveal a perfect footprint in the dust. How long had he sat there? Had he been waiting for her?
“I no longer make deals with humans.”
There was something wrong with his voice. It was the grating edge of rock against the bones of the earth. It scratched down her spine and made her palms tingle. She gasped.
“The MacNara twins sent me, and they said you would—”
“The MacNara twins?”
“Yes, m’lord. They said you would help.”
“Did they? Perhaps they mistook me for someone else.”
“I—” she stuttered over her words. “A-are you connected to the human world at all? Do you know what’s going on out there?”
“I have no concern for human strife.”
She gathered bunches of her stiff skirt into her fists. “We’re suffering from a blood beetle plague. We cannot survive if we do not have the cure, and the MacNara twins said they would help if I brought you back to them. I beg—”
“I see little begging,” he growled.
Sorcha’s mind whirled. He wasn't letting her finish! How could she beg if he wouldn't give her the chance to speak?
“The blood beetles eat humans from the inside out. We cannot stop them on our own, and I need you to—”
“Need?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Need. There is no other way to find a cure! The twins promised me that all I have to do is bring you back—”
“They lied.” The shadows bunched and coiled.
“Fae cannot lie.”
“Then they twisted the truth. I can tell you now, girl, the MacNara twins do not have the cure for the blood beetles. Now go.”
Her chest clenched in horror. They had the cure! She hadn’t traveled all this way only to discover that the faeries had tricked her.
“Go?” she repeated. “Where will I go? This is an island!”
“I don’t care where you go. Hy-brasil is no place for one such as you.”
Had she failed? He remained in the shadows, barely moving except his damned foot that created more mysteries than it solved. Sorcha only knew his voice grated on her nerves, his imperious nature made her palms itch to smack him, and his refusal to help suggested he was a heartless creature with no care for others.
How dare he?
“My family will die if I do not find this cure.”
“You are so concerned over death, I wonder if you have any other thoughts in your head.”
Sorcha’s mouth gaped open before her cheeks flushed bright red with anger. “Do you have any concern over the welfare of others?”
“Little for those who threaten my staff.”
“The gnome at the door?” She swung an arm wildly in the direction from whence she came. “He is one of the rudest, most foul creatures I have ever met! I will not apologize for my tone nor my words.”
“Humans rarely have any sympathy for the Fae. Yet, you seem to think I owe you a boon for…what? Existing?”
“Are you so cruel you cannot feel even the smallest amount of sympathy for my people?”
The damned boot she had been staring at shifted again. A surge of triumph straightened her spine.
“I am known for my cruelty. And, it seems, so are you," he growled.
“Your judgment is cast quickly for a man who will not even show his f
ace!”
“The sight of my face is not one for the faint of heart.”
“Then you willingly admit to being a coward and a boor?”
“A coward?” His voice deepened, slicing through the darkness and cracking against the stone. It shook her ribs and vibrated through her body. “You dare accuse me so?”
“I dare much for the well-being of my family!” Sorcha’s voice shook with righteous indignation but she shivered in fear.
The shadows quaked and the drapes around the throne billowed as he stood up…and up…and up.
Her brow wrinkled in worry as she stared at his great height. Good lord, how big was he?
A cloak concealed much of his figure. Like great leathery wings, the dark fabric billowed as he stepped down the stairs towards her. Each measured step clunked hard and the cracked marble creaked.
He didn’t have to rush towards her to intimidate. The sheer size of him made her shiver in apprehension. Broad shoulders, trim waist, and a hood covering his head were all she could make out, even at this close distance. Sorcha held her breath and stood her ground.
She would not show fear.
He stopped only when his toes were a hair’s breadth from hers. Sorcha stared into the darkness of his hood, her head barely reaching his biceps. She set her jaw and squared her shoulders. Whatever he would say could not be worse than their previous words.
“You know very little of me, human.” His breath brushed her hair, carrying the scent of mint and citrus.
“I can confidently say I find your morals, and thusly your character, to be abhorrent!”
“On what are you basing these accusations?”
“You have forced your servants to call you master. You hide your face and intimidate a visitor seeking help. And then, you go so far as to refuse to provide aid to those who need it. Those, sir, are the facts upon which I judge you.”
“Have you no care nor discretion for your own survival? You berate a creature of superior strength!”
“Superior? Sir, I find you lacking in every sense of the term.”
His aggressive way of arguing made her think she had gotten through his thick hide, but she had been wrong.
His spine straightened and his shoulders squared. The cloak drew tight across his chest and he stepped away from her. He took the air with him, stealing it from her lungs, as a blast of cold air pushed her back, such was his anger.
“Go,” he said.
“I have nowhere to go,” Sorcha repeated. “If you would stop being so stubborn—”
She didn’t think. She reached out, grasped ahold of the cloak he wore, and yanked.
The fabric slid from his shoulders and revealed his horrific face.
Light speared across the misshapen form. Multiple marks gouged the flesh from his cheeks, forehead, and chin. She might have forgiven a scar, for they suggested heroic deeds. Even a birthmark or disfigurement from childhood could have been easily overlooked. But this?
Open wounds had turned to fissures in the stone of his face. Crystals grew from them, some violet, some precious gems, and a hint of color-changing opal, all crawling from his flesh and tainting whatever humanity he may have once held. They stretched far up the sides of his head, shaved other than a crop of hair at the top.
He might have been a handsome man once. His jaw was square, his lips full, his eyes a piercing blue that stared straight into her soul.
Sorcha gasped as she met his gaze. Ice froze her veins and fear made her teeth chatter. And yet, warmth bloomed deep in her belly. His eyes were beautiful, expressive, and filled with so much pain.
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
He lunged towards her. With a gasp, she threw her hands up to cover her face. She knew that look. Sorcha had grown up in a brothel. The desire to strike a woman was easy to recognize in a man’s expression.
He didn’t hit her. Instead, his hand wrapped around her wrist with a punishing grip. Stone bit into the sensitive flesh, and she whimpered.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” he growled, so close to her face that their noses touched.
“I meant no disrespect!”
He didn’t give her even a moment of respite. He dragged her from the throne room so quickly she slid across the floor until she got her bearings. Only then did she jog to keep up with him.
Sorcha yanked on her arm. “Let me go!”
“No.”
“Let me go, I said!”
“I heard you.” His voice rumbled down the hallway and sent footsteps skittering.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You argue that you cannot leave this cursed isle, then insult me in the next breath. So, princess, I am taking you to your room.”
“Room?” She dug in her heels, forcing him to drag her. “Is there a decent available room in this spider-ridden ruin?”
His fingers squeezed the delicate bones of her wrist, making her gasp in pain. “Are you afraid of spiders?”
“I’m afraid of very little.”
“Good.”
Sorcha winced as his shoulder struck the broken door. No wonder it had cracked nearly in half. The man treated himself like a battering ram rather than a person.
Stones dug into her heels as he yanked her outside, but she refused to yelp. He did not get the satisfaction of knowing the journey was just as painful as his stony grip.
“I can walk without you dragging me!” she shouted.
“I can hear without you screaming.”
He picked up speed and she couldn’t speak anymore. Her breath tasted like blood as her lungs worked overdrive to keep up with him. The straps of her pack dug into her shoulders and arms. Her feet grew numb as the skin scraped off, and still he dragged her towards the opposite end of the isle.
By the time they reached his destination, she was ready to fall over. Dehydration and hunger weakened her mind and body.
He pointed to a small hut in what appeared to be a moor hanging on the edge of the ocean. Mist swirled across the swamp and moss.
“Your new abode,” he growled.
Sorcha forced her eyes to narrow, to take in the details that her mind wanted to ignore. The hut hovered over the water on stilts and stretched out into the bay. Heather grew up to the salty water, crumbling and dying at the edges.
The hut’s image wavered, as though she were looking through hot air. Runes appeared etched into the wooden walls and along the ramp leading to it. She suddenly understood the blinking lights hovering in the air near it.
“That’s a hag’s hut,” she said.
“Astute.”
“Those are incredibly dangerous for anyone who does not practice magic. I cannot stay there.”
“You can, and you will.”
He grabbed her arm again, swinging her around onto the ramp and shoving her shoulders for good measure. He waved a hand in the air. Glimmering light rose from the ground into the sky.
Sorcha lurched forward and hit an invisible wall.
“What did you do?” she croaked as she slammed her fists in the air. “What did you do!”
“I’m keeping you here. Survive, human. Eventually, I might listen to your inquiry.”
He turned and walked away.
Sorcha nearly choked on her own tongue. He walked away? He left her with the most dangerous of evil magics behind her and then just walked away?
“How dare you?” she screamed. “Don’t leave me here! You cannot!”
He could, and he did.
She pressed her hands and forehead against the shield he placed at the edge of the dock and sighed. There was no possible way she would even attempt to stay in that hut.
Sorcha turned and glanced at the runes which kept blinking in and out of sight.
“Think. What are your other options, Sorcha? How you can fix this?”
She scanned the surrounding area, stepping towards the edge of the ramp to peer into the water. White glowing eyes blinked back at her.
“Not the water the
n,” she murmured. “So…um…”
The runes on the door glowed a bright red, then dulled to rusty aged chicken blood, splattered upon the wood in patterns she faintly recognized.
“The hard way it is.”
She secured her pack on her shoulders and stepped up the ramp. The hag stone between her breasts slid free. She pressed it to her lips, then held it to her eye and watched the spells melt away.
It was a relatively simple protective curse. There were parts of her mother’s books which spoke of pagan rituals. This spell she recognized from the pages of a black book she never should’ve read.
Her fingers itched to try out what she had learned, to dismantle the circles drawn by witches of old. However, such aged curses were useful. Now she could be certain there was at least one place on the isle she was safe.
Sorcha reached out and dragged her finger straight down the first rune. The second she traced the circles and lines without hesitating. And the last, she turned her hand in the air as though she twisted a doorknob.
A harsh crack echoed in the air, and the door swung upon.
Without the hag stone, the interior terrified her. Eviscerated chickens hung from the ceiling in various states of decay, their blood covering the floor until it shone as if polished, and here and there, startlingly white feathers made downy islands in the gore. Human skulls decorated the walls with candles inside them, making the eye sockets glow. Knives, hatchets, and scythes hung on wall brackets while chains dangled above them.
Through the hag stone, the room was entirely different. Although it was a small, single room hut, it was a home, albeit dusty. A dining room table with one place setting was in one corner. Dried fruit balanced in the center, mummified with age. There was a desk in another corner piled high with papers and adorned with ink wells. A small, but quaint bed was against the farthest wall below a window shining in the moonlight.
Sorcha swallowed hard and steeled her nerves.
“Faeries of this household, I mean no disrespect. I am a weary traveler who searches for a place to rest my head. This home is safe, it is warm, and I vow I will touch nothing which is not mine. If your hospitality stretches so far as to gift food and drink, I will assist in cleaning this household.”