by Emma Hamm
Growling, he swiped a vase from its stand. The shattering crash only eased a small fraction of his anger, but it was something. Shame overwhelmed him.
She had seen him.
When Bran said they were being watched, Eamonn had turned with the expectation that Pixie was coming to announce some other chore he needed to do. But it hadn’t been any of the faeries he would have guessed.
She stood in the middle of the field with goldenrod brushing her fingertips. He had named her aptly. Sunshine caressed her hair and shoulders like a lover. Her hair swirled around her like a dust devil made of fire. Her freckles flecked her nose and forehead as if the sun couldn't help but kiss her cheeks.
She was so beautiful. And he?
Eamonn walked past a shattered mirror and growled. He was little more than a monster.
“She’s even prettier when in a human form,” Bran’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I’m surprised you let her stay, considering the circumstances.”
“Leave, Unseelie. You have overstayed your welcome.”
“I always do. And yet, here I am.”
The fluttering of wings buffeted his ears, and Bran materialized down the hallway before him.
Eamonn clenched his fists. “How does she know your name?”
“Jealous?” Bran picked at his fingernails. “Or anxious?”
“No human should know the true name of a Fae.”
“Does it make you feel better to know she guessed it?”
“No,” he snorted. “But it does speak to your mother’s intelligence. Naming her son so predictably will be your downfall.”
“My mother is plenty intelligent. She created you, now didn’t she?”
Eamonn bared his teeth.
The other Fae hardly seemed intimidated. “Easy there, Stone King. I have no quarrel with you.”
“You’ve done enough.” He brushed past the raven and slammed open the door to another abandoned room. There were hundreds in this castle, filled with relics of a time long ago. They held little meaning to him. Which meant they were far more interesting to break.
“Come now, how can I make it up to you?” Bran trailed after him. “I so hate it when you’re mad at me.”
“The only reason why you are here is to train with the best.”
“And you are the best. But we can’t train together if you’re just trying to kill me.”
Eamonn crushed a stone head between his fists. “In my experience, that is the best way to learn.”
It was thoroughly satisfying to see the Unseelie Prince’s eyes bug out of his head. Bran was whip quick and wiry, impossible to defeat from a distance. But Eamonn was strong, made even stronger by the crystals that decorated his skin like armor plating.
“What has you all riled up?”
“She saw me.” He smashed another piece of a statute, the remaining hand from one of his other rants.
“So?”
“She saw me. I hadn’t planned on ever letting her see me.”
“That would be impossible anyways. She lives on the isle now.”
“She lives in a hut off the isle, specifically so that she would not have the potential to see me.”
Bran couldn’t understand. Not really. For an Unseelie, he was highly attractive. Most his features were unchanged. Sure, the raven eye in the man’s head was unsettling, and he would never have passed for a Seelie Fae, but he was pleasant enough to look at. Handsome for his own people.
Eamonn would never be considered handsome again. Beyond that, he was so flawed that the throne he had coveted for so long had slipped from his grasp. He would never be king and his twin, that treacherous, backstabbing, fool, would forever sit upon Eamonn’s throne.
“What if I trade you a secret?” Bran’s voice danced in the air.
“I don’t make deals.”
“Not a deal. I’ve somehow wronged you, although I can’t understand why. I’ll willingly gift you this secret on a very small condition that you take that poor girl out of the hag’s hut.”
Eamonn paused. “Why would I do that?”
“Because she deserves to be in the castle. She’s lived a tough life, from what I can tell. I’d like to see her pampered.”
“She doesn’t want to be here. I’ve offered her dinner every night in the dining room, and she insists upon eating with that boggart in her house.”
The raven man hoisted himself onto a cabinet, crouching at the much greater height. “Brownie.”
“Excuse me?”
“The boggart is no longer. She’s turned back into a brownie.”
“That’s impossible.” He shook his head. “It’s only rarely done, and a human girl isn’t going to bring a faerie back from the brink of madness.”
“Shows how little you know.” Bran shrugged. “It’s a good secret too. A shame you don’t want to trade for it.”
Eamonn shook his head, brought his elbow down upon a stone soldier tipped onto the floor. The satisfying crack echoed so loudly through his own skull that he saw stars. But it helped. Oh, did it help.
He wanted to break more. To wallow in self-pity that she, of all people, Sunshine had seen his true form. He hadn’t been able to turn around, for fear of what he’d see in her gaze.
Horror? More than likely. When he had been driven from Seelie that was what their expressions had been. Horror that the king wasn’t a man at all.
Beast.
Betrayer.
Secret? His mind drifted towards the tantalizing bit of information Bran held over him. Eamonn, like the rest of his faerie race, had never been able to resist hidden knowledge.
Breathing hard, he glanced over his shoulder. “What kind of secret is it?”
The calculating look in Bran’s raven eye made Eamonn shiver.
Bran leaned forward, hands dangling over his bent knees. “I know her true name.”
Just the mere thought of Sunshine’s name sent him reeling. What would it taste like on his tongue? Likely as distracting as the rest of her. But Eamonn was certain the merest hint would be a droplet of pure honey coating his mouth.
What a deal it was. Moving her from the hag’s hut cost little. There were plenty of available rooms, far away in the depths of the castle. He would have someone placed outside her door, to make sure she didn’t wander where she was unwelcome.
It was insane. Making deals with Unseelie Fae had never ended well for his family. Look at where he was now! And this was the son of the very Unseelie who had cursed their family for all time.
Still… it was her name.
He scratched the crystals on his jaw, pondering the thought. He could do much with a name. He could compel her to leave the island -
No. He would never do that. Could never do that. She was too intriguing, too interesting, far too strange a human to leave. He wouldn’t allow her to wander far from his side, not until he figured her out.
“All I have to do is move her from the hut to the castle?”
Bran leaned forward with a wry grin. “Well, set her up in a nice room at least. I want the girl to be taken care of, not placed on a shelf to gather dust like the rest of your nice things.”
“I can’t promise to take care of her.”
“I didn’t ask for that, she’s capable of protecting herself. She made the swim across the sea to get to you.”
“To get to the isle,” Eamonn corrected. “She didn’t know I existed.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong, Cloch Rí. She’s been looking for you the whole time, and you’ve been a thorn in her side.”
“She wants me to end a plague.”
“For now. But who knows. If you let her closer, she might want more.”
“Since when do you play matchmaker?”
Bran hopped down from the cabinet, sauntering towards Eamonn on clicking clawed feet. “Do we have a deal?”
Eamonn glanced down at the hand offered. Bran had one human hand, and one beast. He held out the clawed hand, taloned with three fingers like the foo
t of a raven.
Although his mind screamed he could find out this information on his own, Eamonn reached forward and clasped the talon. For good measure, he dug the crystals of his palm into the leathery flesh. “We have a deal. Now what is her name?”
The wild smile returned to the raven man’s face.
“Sorcha.”
“Sorcha.” The voice whispered on the winds tingled in her mind. It swept through her window and through her hair, tangling in the red strands.
She recognized the voice. It belonged to a terrifying woman. Tall, stately, wild red hair matching her own.
Sorcha leaned out the bedroom window and peered across the moors. Will-o'-the-wisps danced merrily above the bog. The scent of peat moss filled the air, earthen and musty. She wrinkled her nose.
Perhaps she only wanted to hear her name. After seeing Macha’s face in the fountain, she worried the Tuatha dé Danann had more to say. Was her family all right? She had only made a deal for her father, not her sisters. Had the worst happened, and the faerie come to tell her the bad news?
The thoughts plagued her throughout the evening. Homesickness was a bitter taste in her mouth, leaving bile rolling in her stomach and an empty hole in her chest. She missed them. Briana would know what to do with a man who wouldn’t listen. Rosaleen would charm him with her innocent curls and girlish laughter. Papa would give him a pipe and set him down to talk about adventures and traveling.
Sorcha? She would hover in the corner, waiting until someone asked for something. She was far more comfortable taking care of others than she was being the center of attention.
“Sorcha.” The wind whispered through her window. “Sorcha, come to me.”
Something tugged deep in her belly. The compulsion to move was not a choice, but an order. Her feet slid across the floor even as her mind wailed that she didn’t want to move. She didn’t know who called out to her.
She watched as if someone else moved her hand, turned the door handle, and pushed the door open.
Macha stood in the midst of swirling white lights. They sparkled upon her shoulders and cast a cold gleam upon her eyes. She lost all color, standing in the moonlight with shadows twining through her hair.
“Lady Fae,” Sorcha said. Her feet halted at the edge of the dock. “I had not thought to see you here.”
“No, I imagine you didn’t. Why else would you have washed your filth in my fountain?”
“It was the blood of a child. One of your children.”
“I do not call all faeries my children, nor do I lay claim to a Pooka.” She spat the last word as if it were a curse. “The Unseelie can have their animals, mine are among the Seelie.”
“Is that how you would be known? As a mother who cast aside her offspring?”
“You have become daring, that is good. You will need to be strong for this task.”
“What more could you possibly ask me to do?” Sorcha’s jaw dropped. “I’m already trying to cajole him to come to the mainland.”
“Where is your success? I watch you making friends, not convincing the lord of this isle to leave.”
Sorcha couldn’t argue with that. She hadn’t done much. “I’m trying to befriend him so I might convince Stone that—”
“Stone?” Macha raised her eyebrows. “You’ve named him?”
“Well, yes. How else are we supposed to converse?”
The waters rippled as Macha stepped forward. Will-o'-the-wisps scattered, darting over the lily pads to safety. Ragged edged clothing revealed glinting weapons strapped to her arms and thighs.
Sorcha swallowed hard. She would accept her death if it came now. There was no honor in forcing a man to leave his home, and she refused to give up that part of herself. Stone deserved to make the choice.
“You are a coward,” Macha whispered. She reached out and ghosted her fingertips across Sorcha’s throat. “You hesitate because you wish him to make this decision for you. If you fail, it is not your fault. It is his.”
“That’s not true,” her throat convulsed. “I don’t want to force him to make a decision he isn’t prepared for.”
“While you wait, your people are dying.”
“My family?”
“Your father, as promised, is alive. The blood beetle plague is spreading, and you are forgetting your purpose.”
“I couldn’t forget that.”
“It does not matter to me whether you fulfil your deal. But the deal still stands. If you do not bring the master of this isle back to the mainland, then I will release my hold upon your father’s health. I need not remind you how poorly he was doing when you left.”
Sorcha’s entire body shook. “It’s only been a few weeks.”
“You might not be entirely in the Otherworld, but you are on the border. Time moves differently here.”
“What?”
Macha stepped back from her, a tired and knowing smile on her face. “Take care, little human. I will do my best to help you, but time is not on your side.”
She stumbled backwards, barely catching herself on the edge of the dock. What was she saying? Her mind whirled.
“How long have I been gone?” Sorcha cried out. “How long, Macha?”
“That is not for me to say. Hurry, child.”
“Macha! Answer my question!”
The water rippled slightly as magic brushed its surface and the Tuatha dé Danann disappeared.
Tears burned in Sorcha’s eyes, streaming down her cheeks as she panicked. Had she been gone for months? Years? How could she have forgotten that time was different here?
But she wasn’t in the home of the Faerie, not really. Hy-brasil straddled the line between Otherworld and her world. She couldn’t have been gone more than a few months, could’ve she?
“What must they think of me?” she whispered. “I did not desert you! I would never do that.”
But she had. Sorcha had let memories of her family become substitute for the real thing. In doing so, she forgot the warmth of their touch, the sound of their voice, the lingering support of their embrace.
“I’m so sorry. I should never have lost myself in the magic of this place.”
Chapter Eight
THE STORM
Sorcha paced in front of the kitchen door. She’d spent the entirety of two days mulling over Macha’s words, replaying what she might say and how he might react. The problem was she didn’t know. Stone was a rather unpredictable person. First he was horrible, then he was kind, then he wouldn’t even look at her.
The last thing she needed was to go back to the “toss her out of the castle” route they’d started their relationship with. He had shown an ability to be a gentleman. Now she needed to use that to her advantage.
Her first thought was to dress up. She’d put the green velvet dress back on and twirled around in front of Boggart asking how she looked. Brown patches were showing up all over Boggart’s body, and she stroked one on her forearm before clapping.
But that hadn’t been right. Sorcha wasn’t trying to impress him with her beauty. She needed him to take her seriously. The blood beetle plague was a terrible affliction, and he needed to understand how dire the circumstances were.
She switched to the outfit she usually conducted her midwifery in. Stains decorated the front of the white apron and rips frayed the ends. She thought it rather suited the conversation.
Boggart hated it.
The little faerie then found the perfect dress or at least that’s what her chirps sounded like. It had been Sorcha’s mother’s. Pale yellow, with tiny hand-embroidered white daisies along the hem, it snugged tight to her waist while sweeping the ground. Sorcha rarely wore the dress for fear she might harm the delicate fabric.
Still, she tried it on. Worn cotton swayed against her thighs, delicate lace brushing the tops of her feet. The square neckline allowed the wind to brush over her skin, the tight sleeves complimented her strong arms.
Sorcha didn’t second guess her choice until she stood outside th
e kitchens. Now, she paced back and forth wondering what her plan was. Did she think he would say yes just because she wore a yellow dress?
Of course he wouldn’t. He was a man who called himself master. A peasant girl in a pretty dress wouldn’t change his mind that easily.
A grumbling voice lifted. “Are you going in or not, girl?”
“I’m thinking.”
“What could you have to think about that would make you trample my rutabagas?”
“Hush, Cian.”
The click of his jaw snapping together made her flinch. She should know better than to issue an order while using a Fae name.
Sorcha winced, “I’m sorry Cian. I rescind that order.”
His mouth flew open so fast she thought he might unhinge his jaw. “How dare you! This is precisely why humans shouldn’t have our names!”
“I agree,” she interrupted, stopping him mid rant. “I never should have used it, that was careless of me.”
Cian grumbled but turned back to hoeing the patch of lettuce which she swore had popped up overnight. The man was magic with the garden. Sorcha wished he lived near her sisters, maybe they wouldn’t have given so much money to the marketplace.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the bustling kitchen.
Most of the faeries still kept their glamour around her. They feared her reaction to their true form, or worried they might frighten her. Whatever the cause, it irked Sorcha to no end.
Already bristling, she searched through the steam and heat waves to find Pixie. The old woman was one of the Fae who remained glamoured. That little tidbit Sorcha liked least of all.
“Pixie!” she called out.
Everyone paused for a brief second. Sorcha knew what was running through their minds. The human was here. Be more careful than before. Even though they liked her, even though she had saved one of their own, tension appeared where there hadn’t been before.
Pixie rushed towards her, wiping her hands on a towel as she went. “What can I do for you, dearie?”