The Torn Wing

by Kiki Hamilton

  The TORN WING

  Copyright 2012 © Karen Hamilton

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Kiki Hamilton and CreateSpace.

  Map by Virginia Allyn

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN 978 – 1470131432

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9881999-0-3

  First Edition: October 2012

  This book is dedicated to you, Dear Reader, for sticking with me and caring enough to want to know what happens next with Tiki and her family.

  Thank you.

  Also by Kiki Hamilton

  THE FAERIE RING

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Author’s Note:

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Key to Pronunciation and Meaning of Irish Words

  (With thanks to irishgaelictranslator.com)

  An fáinne sí (un FAWN-yeh shee)

  The faerie ring

  Na síochána, aontaímid

  (nuh SHEE-uh-khaw-nuh, EEN-tee-mij)

  For the sake of peace, we agree

  Grá do dhuine básmhar

  (Graw duh GGWIN-yeh BAWSS-wur)

  Love for a mortal person

  Óinseach (OWN-shukh)

  Fool/idiot (for a female)

  Nimh Álainn (niv AW-lin)

  Beautiful Poison

  Tánaiste (Tawn-ISH-tah)

  Second in command

  Cloch na Teamhrach (klukh nuh TYARR-uh)

  Stone of Tara

  The TORN WING

  Dear Reader,

  The story told within THE FAERIE RING series is a combination of fact and fiction. Known as ‘historical fantasy’, I like to think of the books as a ‘what if….’ kind of story.

  Much of book one, THE FAERIE RING, is grounded in reality: Queen Victoria and Princes Leopold and Arthur were real historical figures. In fact, the story was set in the year 1871 because that was the year Prince Leopold was eighteen years old.

  Many of the places referenced in the story: Charing Cross Station, King’s Cross Station, The World’s End Pub, St. James Park, the Birdkeeper’s Cottage, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and the Great Ormond Street Hospital, are real and can be visited today -should you be lucky enough to find yourself in London.

  As you read book two, THE TORN WING, you might find it interesting to know The Wychwood Forest is also real and located in Oxfordshire, England. The Wychwood was a royal forest for centuries, providing a place for the sovereigns to hunt. It wasn’t until 1988 that a public footpath was created through the Wychwood, though there was evidence of the trails being used by locals for centuries. “Milton Stone”, used to build St. George’s Chapel of Windsor Castle, was quarried from Milton-Under-Wychwood, a town located within the forest. Among the legends associated with the Forest today are tales of hobgoblins and faerie folk as well as witches and more.

  Additionally, Wydryn Tor, also known as Glastonbury Tor, is a hill in England that has been associated with Gwn Ap Nud, the King of Faeries. The Tor is also said to be linked to Avalon of Arthurian legend, and is believed by some to represent an entrance to the land of Faerie.

  The Hill of Tara is a significant historical site in Ireland and contains a number of ancient monuments. According to tradition, the Hill of Tara is the seat of the High King of Ireland. There are also stories naming the Hill of Tara as the capital of the Tuatha Dé Danann (the Irish race of gods in Irish-Celtic mythology who retreated underground and became known as the Sidhe or Aos Sí— more commonly known today as Faeries.)

  The London Stone is a real artifact which dates back to the Middle Ages and was stored for many years in the wall of the St. Swithin Church. Today, the London Stone is still displayed and available for viewing on Cannon Street. The myths associated with the stone in this story are the same myths associated with the stone in real life.

  Additional information you might find interesting regarding some of the people, places and things mentioned in THE TORN WING are listed in the Author’s Note at the end, though to avoid any spoilers, perhaps best read after you finish the book.

  Now—on with Tiki’s story…

  Chapter One

  The Otherworld

  The killer walked boldly down the corridor of the Summer Court, his steps measured and confident. His fortitude over the years as he’d lain staked and dying a slow, painful death in the depths of the Wychwood Forest would be rewarded tonight.

  Floors, the color and texture of brook-fed moss, softened the approach of his booted feet. Vast columns, similar to those that graced the center front of Buckingham Palace, lined the passageway. Entwined with fragrant vines of honeysuckle, passion flower and wisteria, the great stone pillars supported a ceiling as blue and endless as the summer sky.

  The killer’s lip curled in disgust. The Seelie fey loved the sunlight and their mortal affectations. The UnSeelie’s love of darkness and blood suited his tastes much better. A true UnSeelie would rather torture a mortal than befriend the thing. He, on the other hand, would prefer to eat its heart.

  At the end of the hallway two guards stood at attention in front of a pair of immense arch-topped doors. They gripped a spear in each hand, arms crossed over their red-coated chests, their black eyes alert and wary. Curved backswords hung from their belts, the silver blades glittering in the torch light like deadly adornments. It was common knowledge the razor-sharp blades of their weapons were crafted of cold iron—poison to any fey. What the guards didn’t know was that iron would have no affect on him.

  The killer bowed to the guards, the golden tray he carried proffered for their inspection. Upon the tray rested a single golden chalice, the base and rim sparkling with rubies, emeralds and amethysts. “I deliver the King’s nightly libation.”

  The taller of the two guards raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. “Sionnach, you’ve returned. I didn�
��t know you were now also a serving wench.”

  Sionnach’s lips curved but his eyes remained cold. The magical glamour Donegal had placed upon him provided the illusion of looking similar to the guards, allowing him to fit in.

  “There is much you don’t know about me, Olcán.”

  The second guard sniffed the concoction within the chalice then placed the tip of his smallest finger in the drink before touching his tongue. His face remained impassive as he tasted the golden liquid. He gave a sharp nod, his expression relaxing.

  “As awful as ever, but the drink doesn’t seem to be poisoned.”

  Sionnach pulled the tray away from the guard and spoke as though reciting a familiar litany. “King O’Riagáin believes consumption of mortal ale brings a clearer understanding of the human world and the threat they pose.”

  The taller guard’s black eyes glittered and he spoke in a derisive tone. “Perhaps he should drink from the UnSeelie cup. It might be they who pose the bigger threat.”

  Sionnach inclined his head at the guard’s assessment. “Well said, Olcán. You’ve heard the rumblings, too?”

  “That the UnSeelies are threatening war?” His pointed features twisted in a contemptuous smirk. “They’re always threatening something. I’ll be glad when the Beltane celebration is over in a few weeks and our court returns to the Palace of Mirrors. The UnSeelies can slink back to the darkness and shadows where they belong.”

  Sionnach inclined his head again. “May we all be so lucky to find ourselves in the place where we belong.” He motioned with the tray toward the door. “Gentlemen, may I pass?”

  After searching the killer for hidden weapons, Olcán tugged open one of the great doors and allowed entry into the royal chamber.

  Once the door closed behind him Sionnach’s movements were swift and sure. He didn’t speak as he approached, but pretended to trip just as he reached the royal bed where the king lay reclining. The cold liquid in the chalice drenched the king’s face and chest, causing him to jerk upright sputtering and gasping in surprise.

  Faster than the eye could track, Sionnach yanked out a razor thin length of wire that had been coiled in the heel of his boot and wrapped it around the king’s neck. In a matter of seconds, the Seelie king was dead.

  Sionnach’s lips twisted in a cold smile. Donegal, king of the Winter Court, would be pleased with his success tonight, for the UnSeelie king planned to claim both the Summer and Winter thrones in an attempt to rule all of Faerie.

  But Donegal’s plans didn’t stop there. The UnSeelie king had promised Sionnach his freedom in exchange for two deaths. The first was that of the Seelie king—now accomplished. The second was Queen Victoria, for Winter planned to claim a third throne: England.

  The killer straightened and left the dead king prone on his opulent bed. London was the perfect hunting ground for someone with his desires and abilities.

  He licked his lips in anticipation.

  Chapter Two

  London, April 1872

  The scream of the wind drew Tiki onto the porch of Number Six Grosvenor Square. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter as the gale shrieked around the corner of the building like the eerie cry of a dying beast. A storm was blowing in with alarming speed—it was as if the air crackled with dark magic.

  Overhead, the afternoon sky was growing as black as the coal dust that often coated the City; Shadows loitered beneath trees and crept into corners like living beasts—hunched and watching. A strong gust yanked the hem of Tiki’s forest green dress and threads of her long dark hair danced on the wind as if unseen fingers played with the strands. Unnerved, she pushed her hair out of her face and stepped back where she wouldn’t be so exposed. Her imagination painted threatening, otherworldly faces in the clouds above London’s myriad rows of smokestacks.

  “Teek, why are you out here in this weather?” Fiona’s voice was laced with worry as she joined Tiki on the porch. The fifteen year-old shivered and tugged the worn blue shawl tighter around her bony shoulders. Though food was plentiful now, their years of struggling to survive on the streets of London, not only for themselves, but also for the younger ones, Toots and Clara, were still evident in their wafer-thin silhouettes.

  Tiki’s brow furrowed as she glanced down the empty street. “Toots went out to play stickball with some friends. I hope he has enough sense to come in out of this weather.”

  Fiona gave a dry laugh. “He’s ten. He’s got no sense at all.” Her brown hair, which in the past had been sawed off in uneven chunks and kept short as a boy’s, was growing out in soft waves, framing her angular face. “This storm’s a nasty bit, isn’t it?”

  “Can you feel it too, Fi?” Tiki shifted to stand closer to the other girl. Though only a year separated their ages, at sixteen, Tiki often felt older than Fiona—a result, she assumed, of her broader education from a middle-class upbringing. But she and Fiona had been through much together over the last two years, trying to survive by picking pockets and nicking food when they could. As a result, they shared a bond closer than most.

  Fiona nodded. “It’s like before, when you took the ring.” She folded her arms tight across her chest and looked warily up and down the street. Though her education had not been derived from books, her street smarts were every bit as valuable. “Like we’re being watched.”

  “Exactly,” Tiki said. Nothing had been the same since she’d stolen the Queen’s ring last December, which she’d later learned held an ancient truce between the world of Faerie and the British royals. That simple theft had unleashed a waterfall of events that had put London on the brink of war with the Otherworld. The ring was safely guarded once again, but an ever-present fear squeezed Tiki’s heart as she waited each day for whatever was to come next. For something was very surely coming.

  She watched the black thunderclouds boil across the sky, like the bubbling contents of an evil witch’s cauldron. The skin at the back of her neck tightened in alarm. “I hate faeries,” she said in a low voice.

  Fiona crossed her arms and chewed on her thumb, a habit she’d developed whiling away the time in railway stations looking for pockets to pick. “Do you think it’s Lark—”

  “Don’t even say her name, Fi.” Tiki cut her off. “She’s been captured. We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

  “Shamus says she’s too clever to stay a prisoner for long.”

  “I know what Shamus thinks,” Tiki replied, trying not to snap. As tall and gaunt as a sapling birch tree, seventeen year-old Shamus was Fiona’s cousin. His white-blond hair was a startling contrast to the brown of Fiona’s short locks, as much as his quiet nature was to Fiona’s chattiness. It had been Shamus and Fiona who’d helped Tiki survive when she’d run from her uncle’s house two years ago. “But there’s no reason for—” Tiki dropped her voice— “Larkin to pursue us any longer. The ring has been returned and is guarded. We don’t have anything she wants.”

  “I hope you’re right, Teek.” Fiona stepped toward the door and gripped the brass knob. “Unless she just wants revenge.”

  Thunder rattled in the distance with a series of guttural booms, like throaty laughter.

  “She’s in a prison somewhere, Fi,” Tiki ground out in a low voice.

  Against her will, an image of the faerie filled Tiki’s head. Larkin had often worn a glamour—a magical illusion to make her look human—with blond hair hanging in perfect ringlets framing an attractive face. But in her natural state, Larkin had an exquisite beauty that was compelling; A splendor as breathtaking and fierce as a summer storm. Skin like fresh cream gave the mistaken impression the faerie was more fragile than a porcelain doll, but her eyes—a vivid, turbulent blue-green—reminded Tiki of the bottles of poison in Mr. Lloyd’s apothecary shop in Leicester Square. “She can’t harm us anymore,” Tiki said. Beneath her breath she added, “I won’t let her.”

  “If you say so.” Fiona cast a worried eye at the trees thrashing back and forth in the wind. “Don’t stay out here too long b
y yourself. It doesn’t feel safe.” The door banged shut behind her as she disappeared back into the warmth of the townhome.

  Tiki scanned the street one more time for Toots. In the distance, a carriage clattered down the lane at an unusual clip. Shod hooves echoed against the cobblestones as the driver urged a faster pace. Their sides heaving, the black horses snorted white clouds into the cold air as they slowed in front of Number Six. The rigging of the elegant black coach creaked as the door swung open even before the iron-clad wheels had stopped rolling.

  Rieker jumped to the street, his long coat swirling around his legs. Dressed in black, he blended with the shadows sifting into the City with the onset of the storm, making him look wild and dangerous. Tiki hurried down the steps toward him.

  “You’ve returned early—are you all right?” she said. “What’s happened?”

  Rieker grasped her hand, his fingers warm against her cold skin. His dark hair was brushed back from cheekbones that looked more pronounced than the last time she’d seen him, as if he’d not been getting enough to eat. He reached a long finger up and smoothed a windblown piece of hair from her face.

  “You’re all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  He shot a worried glance toward the townhome. “The others?”

  “Fine—” her fingers tightened on his— “we’re all fine. What’s happened?”

  The tension around his mouth relaxed and he slid a muscled arm around Tiki’s shoulders. For a fleeting moment he pulled her tight against his chest and she inhaled deeply. Horses, expensive leather, the freshness of a summer breeze—his scent created a longing deep in her gut.

  “I’ve news, but I’m afraid it’s not good.”

  Tiki’s heart hammered inside her chest. It was as she had suspected—something had happened. She stepped back so she could see his face. A scar stretched along the line of his jaw, faded white by time. “Tell me.”