The Faceless Woman_A Retelling of the Swan Princess

by Emma Hamm

  Blackthorn bushes hid him from her view. He reached through the sharp points and parted them ever so slightly.

  He thanked the gods he was kneeling, or he might have fallen over. She rose out of the water like a nymph, all slick skin and trickling water. Her dark hair swirled over her pale flesh in a waterfall of dark color and movement. She was turned away from him, giving him the perfect view of an hourglass figure and tiny dimples in the small of her back.

  Gods, she was beautiful. For all that she might have buck teeth, warts, and a third eye, her body was enough to make a man crazed.

  She slicked her hands over her head, smoothing her hair until it resembled a well-oiled seal skin. Her head tilted to the side, and he wondered what she was thinking of. Him? Their predicament?

  Bran would prefer it if she was thinking of him, for she had plagued his thoughts from the moment he met her. He couldn’t get the little witch out of his head, and it was driving him mad.

  She shifted, and every muscle in his body tensed. A little more to the left, and he would see a lot more than just her back.

  He could make the right decision here. He could look away, let the brambles fall back in place, stop being the man lurking in the bushes while a woman bathed. And yet, he couldn’t.

  The curve of her hip crested the water. She stepped a few feet forward, just enough that the ends of her hair covered the swell of her bottom. She really was lily white all over, so pale she almost looked like a being carved out of marble rather than flesh and blood.

  He felt a light touch on his foot. Glancing down, he saw the cat sitting on his foot with a paw resting on the other shoe.

  Alarmed, Bran breathed, “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to know you’ve been staring for quite some time.”

  “It means nothing.”

  “Right. In the meantime, I’ll observe that you look like a man who’s either walking to the gallows or has just realized he’s in over his head with a beautiful woman. Which one are you?”

  Bran swallowed. He would admit to nothing, especially not to a cat sidhe masquerading as a familiar. “I’m staring at the witch who bound me to a mortal life. Gallows, obviously.”

  The cat flexed his paw and dug sharp nails into the supple leather of his boot. “Keep telling yourself that. Someday you might believe it. But do try to close your mouth. You’ll catch flies that way, and they don't taste as good as they look.”

  Bran furrowed his brows. He glared at Lorcan as the cat wiggled through the brush and made his way down to the streambed. The witch glanced toward her familiar, frowning with glittering, mirth-filled eyes.

  Now, he was stuck. If he walked out of the bushes, then the witch would know he had been staring at her. If he didn’t, then the cat would likely point him out. Damned cat sidhe. They always leaned toward the Unseelie side of the Fae and liked to cause trouble a little too much.

  Thinking quick, he shifted back into a raven had hopped all the way back to the stream. It was easier to stay hidden in a small form, but it hurt his pride. When was the last time he had to hop away from a woman? It was demeaning.

  Up and over the stones he jumped, spreading his wings and flapping over the rushing water. He quietly clacked his beak the entire time. If he could have grumbled, he would have. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous that he was lowering himself so far. All for a little witch who wouldn’t get out of his head.

  He reached the other side of the stream and changed back to himself in a burst of feathers. Running a hand over the nubs, he spun toward the stream.

  A small part of him wanted to catch her coming out of the water. He wasn’t proud of it, but a man had to take his chances when they appeared.

  She was up to her neck in the water, arms protectively crossed over her chest as if he were a horrible creature that just crawled out of the muck. Obviously, she knew he was there before he’d turned. Which meant she’d been watching him as he made his way across the stream.

  He refused to entertain the thought she might have seen him hopping across the stones like a fool. “Have you completed the portal yet?”

  “Does it look like I’ve completed the portal?”

  “Considering I don’t know what the spell entails, I couldn’t answer that question knowledgeably.”

  Her long hesitation suggested she was holding her tongue. Since he was used to her scathing retorts, he lifted a brow. “Nothing to say?” he asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Hey!” Lorcan shouted from the other side of the stream.

  The witch shifted from foot to foot. “I’m standing in ice water, faerie. And you’re preventing me from leaving the stream, so I’m freezing my legs off. Turn around.”

  “I have no intention of doing that.”

  “Turn around or I will curse you again. This time with something a little worse than a binding curse.”

  Bran wanted to laugh, but he also didn’t want to tempt her. The witch knew how to open a portal to the Otherworld. What else did she know?

  He turned and listened intently. Water trickled from her body, striking the pool with electric pings that made him envision precisely what she looked like. She was a mythical creature all on her own. Long, dark hair dripping pearls into the swirling eddies of the stream.

  Then he heard her cursing and grinned. She had to be freezing, he knew how cold that water was. And dressing in little more than a thin white shift, she wouldn't warm up any time soon.

  Served her right for swimming when she should have been working on the portal. He could proposition to her that his body was twice as warm as her clothes...but those were dangerous thoughts.

  “What else do you need?” he asked. “There must be a reason you’ve been lazing in the stream, other than natural laziness.”

  “Witch spells cannot be cast with a wave of our hand like a faerie, Unseelie. Work and preparation are required. And an attention to detail that far surpasses what you might be used to.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can turn around now.”

  He spun on his heel, words burning at the end of his tongue. He wanted to tear into her for the suggestion he wasn’t capable of preparing for his own magic. But she stood at the edge of the stream looking…adorable.

  She wore his clothing, baggy and far too big. The black tunic and tan pants didn’t suit her complexion in the slightest, and she looked like the ragged witch she pretended to be. But her hair was braided, the long tail leaving soggy marks on his shirt. Her strong stance and twitching fingers clearly said she was pleased with herself.

  The witch rolled up her sleeves and gave him a shrug. “Something to say, Unseelie?”

  Bran shook his head. “Not a thing, witch.”

  She seemed surprised, her arms immediately crossing, her weight shifting from side to side. That surprise was a win, proof he had finally bested her.

  At least that’s what he told himself, but knew it was a lie.

  He cleared his throat and marched toward her with his hands clasped behind his back. “About this portal.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How soon can you complete it?”

  “I need to build it first, and I need Lorcan to bring back a sacrifice.”

  Bran nodded. He’d heard of black magic that required blood. A few witches in his day exclusively used such ingredients in their spells, and even a few faeries utilized the old ways.

  He circled her slowly. “From my understanding then, we’re only waiting on Lorcan to bring something back. A bird, perhaps?”

  “A bird would suffice.”

  “Why is that, precisely?”

  She huffed out a breath. “First of all, I don’t appreciate the tone. I know what I’m doing. Second of all, a bird tends to have the correct amount of blood for a spell, and I have no interest in wasting life for no reason.”

  “Would a raven be an appropriate size?”

  “Are you offering?” She looked him up and down, head tilting.
“I’m not sure your shifted form would really be big enough.”

  The jab stung, but he was learning how to read her. She wasn’t trying to be rude; she was trying to distract him.

  Bran knew how women distracted men by curling their fingers and shifting back and forth. Their attention wandered up and down his body. They licked their lips or ran fingers through their hair, all a ploy so he didn’t see their true thoughts.

  She did none of that. Instead, this little witch stopped all her movements and widened her stance with insults prepared to spew from her lips.

  There was a spark between them, and he planned on using that to his advantage. He looked her up and down.

  “Why are you circling me like a vulture?” she grumbled. “Can you not sit still, or is this another flaw I haven’t seen yet?”

  “When was the last time you had a lover?”

  “A what?” she spluttered, coughed, then crossed her arms firmly over her chest. “I don’t see how that assists us getting into the Otherworld.”

  “I’m trying to figure you out.” He plucked at his shirt on her shoulder. He lingered, stroking the fine muscles of her neck before sliding his hand down her arm.

  She shrugged him off. “Stop it.”

  “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  “Anyone I don’t know touching me and circling me like I’m a rare piece of meat would make me uncomfortable.” She jerked away from his hand again. “Unseelie, I’m warning you.”

  “Are your cheeks red, I wonder? Are you blushing, little witch?” He wanted to see the vibrant color spread across whatever face she had. The longer he knew her and the more tantalizing she became, the more he didn’t care what her face looked like. A face was just a face, but a woman who challenged him on a daily basis was a rare beauty not to be overlooked.

  “One last warning, Unseelie.”

  “Is that a hint of interest I hear? Why, witch, if you were interested, all you had to do was—”

  Her hand struck the center of his chest right over the starburst of her curse. Electricity rocketed from her fingertips and sent him flying through the air. Bran landed hard, the wind rushing from his lungs and black spots dancing across his vision.

  Damn, the girl was powerful.

  She placed a hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?”

  He tried to speak but could only wheeze.

  “That’s what I thought. You sit right there, Unseelie, and let this woman do all the hard work. Say yes.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he croaked, still heaving air into his lungs.

  “Oh, I like the sound of that.”

  She sashayed away from him, although she had to stop a few times to hitch up his pants. He almost offered the belt in his pack but knew she’d send him right back onto the ground.

  This little witch captivated him far more than any faerie ever had. It wasn’t her lack of face, or even her “glowing” personality, but the inner strength he sensed inside her. She was made of steel and vinegar and, somehow, he found that wildly appealing.

  She called out from the water’s edge, “Is the offer of a bird still there?”

  “You’re too late.” He crossed his arms behind his head and relaxed on the ground. “You insulted me. Now you can find your own bird.”

  Muttered curses magnified by the water reached his ears. Bran grinned and let his eyes drift shut. If she wanted to do all the work, then she could. She’d admit her interest soon anyway. He’d make sure of it.

  Aisling finished the final touches in her circle of runes with a flourish that was unnecessary but satisfying. If the Unseelie didn’t think she could perform magic as well as one of the Fae, then she would show him what a witch was capable of. And this was by far her best spell.

  A circle of runes marked the dirt near the rushing water. It was a dangerous place to set it up but would keep the portal open for as long as possible. Streams negated magic, and that power would protect it from anyone tampering with her spell.

  She dusted her hands off on the Unseelie’s stolen pants and nodded. “That’ll do.”

  Lorcan stretched his paws on the ground, arching his back with his butt in the air. “It’s done?”

  “As done as it’ll ever be. It won’t cut us in half at least.”

  The Unseelie stirred from his spot in the shade. “Was that ever a worry?”

  “It’s always a worry with a portal. If they close too early”—she slapped her hands together—“smooshed.”

  “Are you trying to be unsettling?”

  She arched her brow. “Are you unsettled?”

  He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. One side was adorably ruffled and sticking up in all directions. The other was darkened by the faint growth of fine, downy feathers.

  She wanted to touch them. She curled her fingers into her palm as she told herself she would never do so. Touching him wasn’t an option. It didn’t matter the mere brush of his fingers had made her knees weak. She couldn’t let him know he plagued her thoughts.

  Though it was entirely possible he already knew. Her cheeks heated with the memory of his husky voice asking her if she was blushing.

  Damned man had no right to make her feel like this. He shouldn’t be able to tread where no man had before.

  Aisling huffed out an angry breath and turned on her heel. “Lorcan, did you get that grouse?”

  “I got a pheasant.”

  “Close enough.” She held out her hand. “Give it here.”

  Instead of jumping to place it in her hand like she expected, he laid it at her feet, wrinkled his nose, and left to sit by the Unseelie. “You’re being too bossy.”

  “I’m trying to concentrate on opening the portal and keeping us all alive.”

  “You’re showing off. And I don’t appreciate being treated like a familiar.”

  She gaped at him, eyes wide. “You are a familiar.”

  “No, I am a witch trapped in a cat’s body. That doesn’t make me an animal.” He flicked his tail. “Open the portal already, would you?”

  Aisling angrily sighed and grabbed the pheasant from the ground. “What is with men?”

  “Maybe if you were a little nicer, we would be, too!” Lorcan called out.

  The Unseelie rolled to his feet. “I’d like to second that.”

  “I am nice!”

  He reached her and ran a hand down her shoulder as he passed. She twitched her arm away.

  “No, witch, you aren’t.” He chuckled. “But I kind of like that about you.”

  She didn’t want to ponder why those words made her stomach clench. He wasn’t all that attractive, not with those feathers on his face and that eye that never stopped moving. Sure, he was tall, lithe, pretty in a way that was almost feminine if he didn’t look like he might attack her at any moment. But none of that made him attractive.

  A voice in her head laughed.

  Aisling had never been able to lie to herself. There was always some bell in her head that rang loud and clear. The Unseelie was growing on her even though she didn’t want him to.

  His laughter held the slightest hint of cruelty. He moved as if he were preventing himself from flying into a rage or backing her against the nearest tree. And he stared at her with a gaze so hot she could feel the flames again. Only this time, she didn’t mind the heat.

  Foolish, distracting thoughts. She shook her head, tightened her grip on the pheasant’s neck, and marched toward the rune circle with renewed purpose. She’d build the walls around herself so tall he wouldn’t be able to break through. Fraternizing with a faerie never ended well. She needed to guard herself.

  Aisling checked the runes one last time and then held out the bird. Thankfully, it was already dead. Lorcan knew how little she enjoyed killing an animal for magic. It was necessary, but always felt wrong.

  “Open portal, hear my call. Open swift and smooth, let us not fall.”

  She opened her hands and let the wound on the
bird’s neck open. Blood splashed on the runes that began to glow a sickly red.

  It wasn’t the same spell she’d used months ago. That one required a faerie to assist, and though the red-headed lass hadn’t realized it, Aisling knew she had faerie in her. This spell was for humans alone.

  The ground fell out of her circle, and a thick substance took its place. It moved like water, but it wasn’t. Sticky and viscous, the magic that would transport them was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. The previous portal was blue and shimmered with faerie magic. This was blood red and entirely human.

  Aisling chewed her lip and placed her hands on her hips. “There’s the portal.”

  “That is the portal?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the Unseelie who stared at her creation dubiously. “Do you have a problem with it?”

  “It hardly looks safe.”

  “Portals aren’t safe. If you want safe, go find a faerie-created one. We’re sneaking into the Otherworld. It’s not that easy.”

  “I don’t need to sneak into my own home, and I don’t care who knows I’ve passed. I can go through a faerie-made portal and not risk my neck.”

  “But I can’t.” She hesitated, staring at the portal as if it might bite her.

  “What is it?” He stepped so close she could feel the heat of his chest against her back. “Are you frightened of your own spell?”

  She swallowed, staring at the red mass of liquid. Memories plagued her of an ancient woman smiling at her with a warning on her lips. “My grandmother always said everything would change if I went to the Otherworld. She warned me against ever stepping foot in these forbidden lands.”

  “You live with another witch stuck in the form of a cat. You beg for scraps because no one pays you for your services. And the townsfolk tried to burn you alive. Would change really be so bad?”

  He had a point.

  What did this life give her? She had free reign to perform whatever magic she wanted, but the shackles of human knowledge chained her. They couldn’t understand her desire to create, give life, use magic wherever she went without guilt or fear.