by Emma Hamm
He sniffed hard, but straightened his spine. “It didn’t hurt a bit, ma’am.”
On impulse, she leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I couldn’t have asked for a better patient, sweet boy. Now ask your mother to tuck you into bed with a full jar of honey.”
“I’m not allowed to have that much!”
“I think under the circumstances, you’ve earned it.”
His mother stepped forward, a very tall woman thin as a birch tree. Sorcha stepped back to give her room and made eye contact.
The woman’s glamour shimmered and fell. An adult Pooka looked far different from her son. She was an amalgamation of all mammals. Patches of light and dark fur blended together until she appeared more patchwork quilt than person. Her elongated nose and face were faintly horse-like.
“Thank you,” she said in her deep voice. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“You would have done the same for me, if it came to that.”
“All the same, you are welcome in my house.”
Sorcha nodded. She waited until the kitchen emptied and then sagged against the table. Exhaustion made even breathing difficult, her lungs working overdrive to keep inflated. Her hands ached from overuse.
She held them out, flexing her fingers in and out.
“You did well,” Pixie said.
“I must see him every week for at least a full moon. That wound could still get infected.”
“I’m sure his mother would appreciate it.”
A piece of bread with sliced meat appeared in Sorcha’s line of vision. Startled, she glanced up.
“Thank you.” She held up her bloody hands. “Perhaps a basin of water first?”
“Come with me.”
Sorcha stood on wobbling legs and followed Pixie through the gardens. Cian was absent from his usual post, a blessing she was thankful for. Bantering with the gnome would be difficult when she could hardly see straight.
They crossed a small wooden bridge in the garden and onto another part of the castle grounds Sorcha had yet to see.
It was peaceful here. Water burbled out of an aged fountain. The stone woman inside it poured water from a wound on her chest. She clutched the sword which had plunged between her ribs and held her sword up to continue fighting. Flowers grew wild in this section of the gardens. They tangled with each other, creating walls of roses and thorns.
“I didn’t know roses grew this time of year,” she mumbled.
“This island differs from what you’re used to. Faerie touched lands bear fruit even in the strangest of times. Why else would we have strawberries this late in the year?”
“Fair point.”
“You may wash in this fountain.”
“This one?” Sorcha gestured. “This looks far too nice to be a washing fountain.”
“Long ago, it was a place of worship.” Pixie’s expression fell. “No longer.”
Sorcha could see it was a sacred place. Blooms of every color stretched as far as she could see. The roses grew with wild abandon, vines stretching all around them. And the woman herself appeared eerily familiar.
She leaned forward to peer at the face. “Is this Macha?”
“It is. I thought it fitting you wash in her waters.”
“I won’t desecrate sacred ground.”
“You’re washing innocent blood from your hands. You saved him while telling her stories, Macha will appreciate that.”
Sorcha supposed she was correct. The red-headed woman was fierce. Perhaps she would appreciate a little blood in her waters more than she would wine or gold coins.
She leaned down and dunked her hands into the cool stream. It ran over her hands with a soft, trickling sound, easing the aches from her bones. She saw another face in the ripples. A pointed face with wild hair, eyes flashing an unnatural green.
Macha was watching her. The Tuatha dé Danann winked at her, disappearing when Sorcha released the water she held in her cupped hands.
Her purpose burned bright in her mind. These people may be kind, but they should not distract her. Papa needed her. Rosaleen, Briana, and all her sisters needed her to stay focused. A small boy with a broken arm shouldn’t so easily sway her.
But he did. They all did. With their thoughtful gifts, their easy going way, and the magical way this isle captivated her. Sorcha had always been an outsider among her family. The witch’s child who knew too much. Here? She was just another human girl who could not possibly understand all the wondrous things around her.
If given the choice, she would choose this life over her old one. It wasn’t an option, but was entertaining to muse upon at least. She sighed and turned back towards Pixie.
“I am exhausted and my bed sounds like a respite I have earned. If you don’t mind, I will take your gracious offer of food.”
“Of course, dearie.” Pixie handed the sandwich to her wrapped in a cloth.
When had she gotten a cloth? Sorcha stared down at the bundle in her hands. She was missing details so large as this?
She shook her head to clear it. “Perhaps a good sleep will clear my mind.”
“Unlikely, it’s a rather confusing place for a human such as yourself. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long without losing your head.”
“Do others?”
“You’re the first human who’s shown up on our shore,” Pixie said with a smile. “You’re new to us, although some have experiences with humans. We’re all going through some learning.”
“I appreciate your patience.” Ironic, the words that slipped off her tongue. Hadn’t a certain king asked her to do the same for him? And she had mocked him.
“You may wish to walk around the castle to get to the hut.”
Sorcha arched a brow. “Why? It’s faster to go back through Cian’s garden.”
“A walk is good for your health.”
“I already climbed a mountain today.”
“Yes, but the sights one sees on the other side of the castle are rather rare. You won’t be seeing it on top of that munro. Eat your food on your walk, I promise you’ll feel better if you go the long way.”
The strange smile on Pixie’s face made Sorcha nervous. The faerie had been kind thus far, but there was still plenty of time for trickery. Narrowing her eyes, she nodded. “All right. There are no games afoot?”
“The Wild Hunt doesn’t start for another month yet, dearie. You’re safe.”
Sorcha tucked into the bread and meat as she rounded the castle. The rose garden didn’t stretch very far. Her fingers itched to pull at the weeds, to take on the challenge of taming such a wild beast. Yet, she also knew that tiredness and roses did not play well together. She was more likely to bleed than succeed.
Once free from the tangled mess of blooms and thorns, the emerald hills stretched in front of her once more. The castle had grown into the landscape. Moss covered the bottom most stones, meshing with the green grass until it was nearly impossible to tell them apart.
She waltzed past a sheep which lifted its head and baa’d.
“Hello,” Sorcha nodded. “It’s always a pleasure, mistress wool!”
It gave her a rather unimpressed look and chewed. She had always liked sheep. Their odd, sideways pupils and all. They enjoyed having their cheeks scratched, and Sorcha could appreciate that as well as the next woman.
The bread disappeared by the time she made it halfway around the castle. Pixie had been right. The fresh air was doing wonders for the exhaustion that surged through her body. Each step beat back her drooping eyelids and trembling fingers.
A cracking sound echoed. Too far to cause her to jump — close enough to pique her curiosity.
“What?” she muttered as she picked up her pace.
The sound was strangely familiar. Not something she had heard often, but the ping of metal striking metal wasn’t easy to forget.
Once, two men had gotten into a duel outside the brothel. Briana had been in the middle of it, rolling her eyes and ignoring the two
men fighting over a prostitute. She called them both foolish, slammed the door, and told the girls to pay them no mind.
Sorcha had never been good at that. She had raced up the stairwell, stuck her head out the window, and watched the two men fight. They had been sloppily drunk and incapable of standing straight. Two strikes of sword against sword, and they both gave up.
This didn’t sound like that kind of fight.
The closer she got, the more often she heard the strikes of metal. Each clank rang in the air with the resounding quality of a gong. She counted fifteen by the time she reached the top of a hill and stared with open mouth.
This was a new part of the castle. Sturdy wooden fences marked off a section of field, packed down by stamping feet. Straw dummies hung from posts, their guts hanging out from too many hits. Targets lined one end of the fences, red painted in circles to guide arrows home.
It was the men which caught her attention. A strange dark man stood in the center of the field. Half his head was shaved, dark hair falling nearly to his waist on the other side. There was a smudge of black across the shaved half of his face. He wore little more than breeches. Long and lean, his tanned skin was slicked with glistening sweat. A long, wicked spear glimmered in the sunlight, held with ease in his strong hand.
The other was eerily familiar. Sorcha gasped and dropped into the high waving grass so he wouldn’t see her.
So, this was the master of the isle.
Stone, as she now called him, was even more impressive without his cloak. He was massive, easily reaching seven feet tall, although she would’ve bet her life he was taller than that. Strangely, it didn’t make him blocky. His body was as lean as the other man’s. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist and long muscled legs. He wasn’t wearing his cloak. He wasn’t wearing anything other than a matching set of brown breeches.
She could count his rippling abdomen muscles even from her great distance. Bulging pectorals and flexing biceps caught her attention as her mouth went dry. He, too, was slicked with sweat. They’d obviously been fighting for some time.
Her gaze caught on the sword in his hand.
“Now that’s a sword,” she whispered.
The gold handle sparkled with red stones. The blade itself was clearly well-made, a line down the center hollowed to allow blood to flow freely. It was massive, a broadsword rather than a rapier.
He lifted it as though it weighed less than a feather.
Sorcha’s breath caught and her mind went blank. So that’s what Pixie meant when she said he was handsome man. In his own way, he was indeed.
The damage to his body was far more extensive than his face or hands. A starburst wound bisected his right shoulder and spread in webs. It looked as if someone had cracked through stone. There were hundreds of small fissures that crawled over his shoulders, across his chest, and down to his stomach. Small scars revealed more parted flesh and burgeoning stone.
Their lips moved though she couldn’t hear them from where she hid. Stone lifted his blade and dropped into a fighting stance.
The dark man raced towards him, ears flat against his skull. He leapt into the air with sword held above his head. Stone shifted at the last second, whirling to keep pace.
They didn’t fight in any way she’d ever seen before. Her lips parted as she watched.
It was as if she watched dancers. Although Stone was clearly the larger of the two, he spun in the air and blocked each parry easily. The stones did not seem to hinder his movements. In fact, he used them to his advantage.
The other pivoted off a target and thrust himself high into the air. It was a killing blow if he landed where he wished. Stone kept his sword at his side and grasped the descending blade in a crystal fist. He used the momentum to pound his fist into the other man's face.
Sorcha winced at the cracking sound and forced herself to remain in place when the dark man dropped to the ground. He rolled on his shoulder, ending up on his feet, and shaking his head.
Blood dripped from his nose, but he appeared to be laughing.
“So that was where you got the crystals on your knuckles from,” she whispered.
Stone had punched so many people, or things, that he had worn the flesh from the crystals underneath. That was the closest thing she could think of, for surely a curse was the cause of his affliction. Stone was clearly Seelie. No one else would be as beautiful, even with such disfigurement.
What did it all mean?
She shook her head and sank deeper into the grass as the two men clapped each other on the shoulders. She could already hear the scolding tone he would use when he realized she had spied on him. Or perhaps he wouldn’t scold at all. Perhaps he would draw her into those strong arms, those rock-hard muscles. What would he smell like? Like musk and man? Or like straw and grass?
The unknown man cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Why your highness, I do believe we’re being watched!”
Sorcha’s cheeks turned bright red. She ducked until her chin touched the ground. Surely, they couldn’t see her? The grass was tall enough to cover her twice over if she laid down like this.
There was a grumbling reply she could not quite understand. Peeking up over the grass, she locked eyes with the strange new arrival. She could see his grin all the way from where she was.
He waggled his fingers. “Hello, red-headed lass! You’re a long way from home.”
Sorcha supposed she could stay laying in the grass until they gave up, but he would still know. She had been spying like a little school girl who didn’t know any better. She might as well grit her teeth and be an adult.
Standing felt as if she accepted her punishment. She might if Stone decided he wanted to be the dictator today. The last thing she needed was another repeat of their first night.
She didn’t look up as she walked towards their practice range. Head down, she counted each step and curled her hands into fists. She could do this without embarrassing herself. She was looking for more yarrow. Pooka would need it, and the stores were low.
Why would Pixie send her all this way if she was only going to embarrass herself? Surely the faerie had known her master was practicing.
Sorcha almost stopped in her place. That was exactly why the Pixie had sent her here. What was she up to?
By the time she reached the fence, she was red as a tomato. Sorcha worried her cheeks might be smoking.
She looked up directly into a caramel colored chest. Her gaze traveled farther up, catching on the dark “smudge” on his face that wasn’t dirt at all. Tiny dark feathers covered one side of his face, his eye that of a raven, not a man.
She recognized that yellow eye. Full of intelligence, far too human, and watching her with chagrin. The raven had been far more than just a beast after all.
“Bran?”
He swept into a low bow and looked up through the curtain of his hair, grinning. “M’lady. It is a rarity to see such bewitching beauty on Hy-brasil.”
“If anyone would know, it would be you.” She curtseyed in return. “My apologies, I was looking for yarrow.”
“Ah, then you had no luck?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I believe there is some directly behind you, fair lady.”
She glanced over her shoulder and cursed. “There certainly is.”
There went her lie. The Fae could sniff it out anyways, they were incapable of lying. She flicked a glance towards Stone, who stood as still as his namesake with his back to her.
“I had no idea you would be practicing,” she began. “I was told a walk would clear my head after dealing with the Pooka. You did hear about the boy, didn’t you?”
A droplet of sweat traveled down the valley of Stone’s spine. Muscles bunched on either side, stymied only by the protrusion of crystals. “I had not.”
“He broke his arm while climbing a tree. I’ve set the bone and packed the wound with yarrow, but they will need to watch for infection.”
“And why are you t
elling me this?”
Bran cleared his throat. “I’m glad to hear the boy is well. I apologize for lying all this time to you, beautiful thing that you are.”
“You’ve followed me since the MacNara twins,” she murmured while casting a curious glance towards Stone, who still hadn’t moved.
“I rarely trust the MacNara twins, and when I saw one such as you entering their home? I had to follow you. My honor simply wouldn’t allow for anything else.”
She wasn’t certain he had that much honor. A man who hid himself from a woman in the form of a raven was unlikely to be a gentleman. From the top of his half-shaved head, to the bottom of his taloned feet, this was a man she’d have a hard time trusting.
“You, sir, are surely a rake.”
“Me?” He slapped a hand to his chest. “I have never been called such a thing!”
“Bran,” Stone’s voice cut through the banter. “Enough.”
He glanced over his shoulder, revealing the uninjured side of his face. Sorcha noted how he angled his body away from her. As if he were trying to hide. There was no cloak for him to cover the injuries, at least not that she could see.
The man was strange. So easily risen to a challenge when she could not see him, but now he appeared almost frightened. Embarrassed, perhaps? She had placed him in an awkward situation. It was likely he hadn’t wanted her to see his disfigurement.
She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know. Sorcha couldn’t imagine how he felt knowing that his skin was so severely marred.
She swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, Bran, for pointing out the yarrow. I’ll take my leave gentlemen.”
Dipping into a curtsy for good measure, she cursed herself for listening to Pixie. With burning red cheeks, she snatched the yarrow and rushed away from the castle. If it took her the rest of the day to get to her hut, so be it. She refused to stay any longer in the presence of a man who so clearly didn’t want her there.
Eamonn slammed the door to the castle, hands shaking in anger. How dare she? That woman had no right to walk around the grounds as if she owned the place. All other Fae knew to leave him be when he was in a rage. He would wear himself out with sword and shield, but they were not permitted to view him.