The Faceless Woman_A Retelling of the Swan Princess

by Emma Hamm

  “What? I can’t do that. I just need blood. I don’t need to kill you—”

  “Changeling.” He placed his hand over hers, their fingers laced together over his heart. “I am already dead. They plunged that dagger through my heart a hundred times so long ago the earth doesn’t remember my name. Let my blood run out and take it for yourself. It is a gift.”

  The Unseelie shouted from beyond the mist, and she felt another spike of pain trail down the column of her back. She’d have a welt there, but he would bare a scar.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Lifting his hand, she pressed a kiss against his fingers in the only way she knew how to show respect. He was not a named god, but he was one she would forever remember.

  Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the stone blade, and he sighed in resignation. “Your admiration is a gift I had not thought to receive. I wish you well on your journey, changeling child.”

  Aisling wasted no time. She lifted the blade over her head and brought it down in the center of his chest. His breath wheezed out, slow and steady as though planned. His eyes and mouth closed, and the stone smoothed over his features once more.

  “Goodbye,” she said in quiet farewell.

  Blood pooled around the knife. Carefully, she pulled the blade free from the stone sheath and watched as the wound healed. It filled up with stone, pushing out a small bit of blood that solidified in the center. A red gem, glimmering so brightly it seemed to have its own life, sat in the center of his chest.

  Relief made her knees weak. She wasn’t going to have to carry the blood in her mouth. Thank the gods for small gifts.

  Aisling plucked the stone from its resting place and tucked it into the pocket of her stolen pants. Sharp edges dug into her thigh.

  “Don’t take any more blood,” she grumbled. “I’ve already given you enough.”

  She heard the faintest chuckle in response, as if the dead god could still hear her.

  She turned and bolted through the mist. It parted for her this time, perhaps reacting to the magic of its master held safely against her body. Mustering a spell felt like a stretch, so she wasted no time for the mist to change its mind.

  Aisling burst through the other side of the fog and came to a stumbling halt. The Unseelie was alive, she would have felt his death, but she hadn’t expected the carnage splattered across the cave floor and walls.

  Only two guards remained alive, both pinned to the back wall of the cave with their own swords trapping them. The other eight were strewn about in bits and pieces. She noticed an arm near her foot and nudged it with a toe.

  The Unseelie stood in the middle, covered in blood, chest heaving and eyes narrowed. He held one of the golden swords in his hand, stolen from a fallen guard. She’d heard stories of this happening before. The bloodlust faeries felt when in battle and their rage that tore through storm and stone.

  Aisling cleared her throat. “Got it.”

  “What took you so long?” he growled deep in his throat.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to rush cutting into a dead god’s corpse?”

  “When I’m battling all ten of his guards, yes, you’re supposed to rush, you fool woman.”

  She ground her teeth together and gave him a curt nod. “The next time I’ll make sure not to serve him tea and biscuits while you’re murdering his guards. Are you quite finished arguing with me, or are you going to insist we stay here until you think you’re right?”

  “Get through the portal before I add you to the pile.”

  She smiled sweetly and cocked her hip. “Oh, Unseelie, I didn’t know you were such a romantic. Dying with me all because you have such a fat head.”

  “Shut up, witch,” he grumbled as he made his way toward the portal.

  “You owe me an ear now.”

  In one swift, fluid movement, he leaned down and snatched a piece of gristle from the floor. He tossed it over his shoulder for her to catch.

  She snagged the object from the air and opened her palm to reveal an ear.

  Aisling burst into laughter and let it fall back to the floor. “I knew you were a romantic!”

  Dreams Of Blood

  Aisling stumbled through the portal, magic clinging to her legs and trying to drag her back into the carnage left in the cave. Shaking off the sticky tendrils, she placed her hand on the hanging tree for balance.

  Her head was swimming. Her eyes refused to focus on anything other than the ground, and her shoulder ached like mad. How did warriors do this? They went to battle day in, day out, for weeks on end. No wonder so many of them died.

  The Unseelie began to pace away from her, but stumbled when pain blasted through their bodies. He reached out a hand that did not catch the tree and fell onto his side. The heavy thump echoed through Aisling, a mere pang when she knew it knocked the breath from his lungs.

  “Stubborn man,” she muttered under her breath. “I can help, you know.”

  “Yes, you could have. While I was fighting off those cursed things, you were taking your sweet time figuring out a puzzle.”

  “Would you stop arguing for a second and let me look at you?”

  He rolled onto his hands and knees, glaring up at her from the ground. “Why are you so arrogant?”

  Laughter burst out of her chest. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I can feel that you are not, in fact, fine. You’re driving me crazy with your pain, so let me help.”

  “I don’t need help from you.”

  “Just a few seconds ago you were saying I could have helped. Get your story straight. And while you wrack your brain for the next insult, lean against the tree so I can tend to your wounds.”

  She shoved her hands under his armpits, ignoring the pained groan and answering jolt in her shoulder, and dragged him to the tree.

  “For a small woman, you’re surprisingly strong,” he ground out.

  “A lifetime of hard work will do that to you. Lean back.”

  She managed to get him wedged against the tree, hating to leave him there for even a second. Bad magic pulsed inside the bark. She pressed a hand against the trunk, waiting to feel the cold sting of darkness.

  When she didn’t, she pulled it away and nodded. “I think it’s contained inside the tree, at least for now.”

  The Unseelie listed to the side and pressed a hand against the ground for balance. “Are you a healer?”

  “No, I’m not a healer.”

  “Then why should I let you heal me? I can do it.”

  “Are you really in any condition to be using magic?” She gave him a severe once over, plucking at the sodden fabric soaked with his blood. “Looks to me like you should just shut your mouth. But if you must open it and speak, ‘thank you’ is acceptable.”

  He snapped his mouth shut and glared at her. But at least he stopped talking.

  Aisling brushed aside the long tail of his hair and peeled back the shredded fabric of his shirt. The open wound was seeping. Sluggish red rivers trailed down his chest and arms.

  Muttering under her breath, she focused on her own pain to identify any other wounds. Finally, she leaned back and gestured with her hands. “Off with the shirt.”

  He arched a brow. “If you wanted to see me naked, then all you had to do was ask, witch.”

  “I thought I said not to talk?”

  “I’m not very good at that.” He gingerly reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head.

  She might have enjoyed the smooth planes of muscle if she wasn’t breathless with her own pain. Aisling stilled her ragged breathing and reached out with shaking hands to help him remove the torn fabric. The sooner this was over with, the better they both would feel.

  She hoped.

  “All right,” she managed to breathe, “that’s over with. Now, it’s just getting the blood to stop.”

  “Shouldn’t it be cleaning the wounds?”

  “Blood first, clean lat
er.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s backwards, witch.”

  Impulsively she bit out, “Aisling.”

  The Unseelie stilled. He didn’t even breathe as he stared up into her face, both eyes searching for hers even though he would never see them. “What did you say?”

  His eyes burned. Aisling swallowed and touched a hand to her chest. “My name is Aisling.”

  “That’s a foolish thing to tell a faerie.”

  “You kept me alive in there. I think you’ve earned the name.” She mockingly shrugged. “Besides, if you hurt me, you hurt yourself.”

  “Not forever. We’re going to break the binding curse.”

  He seemed almost panicked by her admission. Why would he be so sorry on her behalf? It was his choice to use her name or not.

  Aisling shook her head and slapped a hand to his wound. The sharp jab of pain was worth it when he hissed out a breath. “Stop dwelling on it, Unseelie. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  She picked a long strand of thread out of his shoulder wound and brushed her fingers over the bloodied flesh. It wasn’t going to be clean any time soon, but faeries were supposed to heal fast. Theoretically, her plan should work fine.

  His hand covered hers, warm and strong. “Bran. My name is Bran.”

  Aisling’s lips curved into a brilliant smile he wouldn’t see, but she hoped he might be able to feel. The name filtered through her mind like the first ray of sun after a storm. Bran. A strong name that fit him like a glove.

  “They named you after a raven?” she said with a quiet chuckle. “A little obvious, don’t you think?”

  “You didn’t guess it?”

  “I wasn’t trying to.”

  He huffed and leaned back against the tree. “Don’t think much of it, witch. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  She smirked. A name might not mean something now, but it did mean something in the end. And if he finally trusted her, then perhaps he would explain what their fool’s errand really was.

  “This isn’t going to be pleasant,” she began, “but it’s going to help.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “It’s not.”

  She grabbed a handful of mud at the base of the tree and mashed it into the open wound on his shoulder. The earth was fairly clean. No people had passed by, and the only thing she was concerned about was animals. The mud would dry and close up the wound until they could find a quiet place to rest.

  He hissed out a breath. “What are you doing?”

  “Hush, you said I could treat your wounds.”

  “Not like an animal!”

  “If it works for animals, then it’ll work for you. Hush.”

  It would at least give them time. Lorcan would know what to do, but he didn’t know they were back. Where was the damn cat anyway? The witch had spent much of his human life healing others. That was why he’d wanted to use magic in the first place.

  “Turn,” she instructed. “Let me get your back.”

  Grunting, Bran pushed himself from the roots and knelt at her feet.

  He was so tall his head reached her chest. His eyes drifted shut, pain and exhaustion swelling over the two of them in a crushing wave. She listed to the side but forced herself to remain standing and cross behind him.

  Her hand on his unharmed shoulder balanced her. Even wounded and in pain, he was warm. She flexed her fingers, feeling the cords of muscle bunch against her palm.

  The long lines of his back captivated her gaze. Defined muscles bulged, dipping into the hollow of his waist, creating hollows in the small of his back. He had dimples there. Even corded with muscle, he had small indents begging to be touched.

  She swallowed hard, and the eyes on her palms blinked open.

  His muscles flexed as she drew her hand from the nape of his neck and followed the sword slash down his torso. It was a shallow cut, but she could hardly focus on that. All she saw was the swath of pale skin slowly bumping with gooseflesh as she stroked a gentle hand over him.

  “All done,” she whispered. “That will stop the bleeding long enough for Lorcan to clean the wounds.”

  “Why were you so free with his name?” he asked, voice hoarse. “You weren’t free with your own, so obviously you know what I can do with a name.”

  “It’s not his name.” At his sharp glance, she shrugged. “He’s a secretive one. Lorcan is what I called him as a child, and it stuck.”

  “Then it’s as good as a name.”

  “Not for magic.” Aisling patted his shoulder and stepped back on shaking legs. “We need to get away from this tree.”

  “Where is your companion?”

  “Damned if I know. The cat does what he wants.”

  A branch above their head shook wildly. She glanced up to see a furry body slowly standing, stretching his paws and arching his back before leaping down to land at her feet. Lorcan yawned again, tiny fangs blinking in the light.

  “Were you looking for me?” he asked.

  Insulted, Aisling gestured at the blood on both herself and the Unseelie. “What do you think, cat?”

  “No need to get snippy,” Lorcan grumbled. “I was waiting for the two of you for hours. I thought I’d take a nap.”

  “You’re always napping.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he climbed up the long column of the Unseelie’s legs. His large feet punched each wound on the way up, and she swore a grin spread across Lorcan’s face at the answering grunts.

  “Down,” he advised. “All the way down or it won’t heal right.”

  Bran cast her an incredulous glance before he laid out on the dirt. “What are you going to do?”

  “Heal you. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Never been healed like this before.”

  Lorcan settled himself on the center of Bran’s chest. He lifted a paw, licked it slowly, and sneezed.

  Aisling covered her mouth, holding in a giggle as Bran glared at her again. “Is this how he heals? I’ll admit, it doesn’t seem very useful.”

  “I don’t think he’s started yet.”

  “Oh, that’s fine then.” Bran’s fingers curled in the dirt as he stared up at the sky. “I’ll just lay here, bleeding out.”

  When Lorcan slapped the paw directly over the faerie’s wound, they both hissed at each other. “Healing is an art, Unseelie. I’m not going to rush it, and you aren’t going to rush me. Otherwise, I’ll grow another arm from this wound and we’ll see how much you like that.”

  “I’m sure the other Unseelies would love it,” Bran gritted out.

  “Oh, I know how much you all enjoy your freaks. I’ll make sure your new limb is as uncomfortable to look at as possible.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Aisling clapped her hands. “Idiots! Just heal him Lorcan, please. And Unseelie, keep your mouth shut while he does it. I’m tired of feeling your pain when I didn’t earn these wounds.”

  “You most certainly earned those—” Bran’s voice was muffled by a cat paw stuck squarely over his mouth.

  “Why are you two always like this?” Lorcan asked. “It’s like you couldn’t get along if the world was ending.”

  “He’s sweet on me, and I just can’t lower myself to be interested in a faerie.” Aisling mock-flicked her hair over her shoulder and spun away on her heel. “Get it done, Lorcan. I’m going back to the campfire. You two can join me when you’re done pissing in the corners.”

  She kept her shoulders squared and head high as she descended the trail, when in reality she wanted to fall apart. She was exhausted, her shoulder was on fire, her back ached, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep for a hundred years.

  They couldn’t know it, of course. The binding curse would transfer her exhaustion to the Unseelie, but he could easily mistake it for his own. They’d had a trying day.

  Her ankles twisted in the muck and mire. It sucked at her legs, trying to hold her firmly in place for whatever creature that would wander upon her. The las
t thing she needed was some bog faerie finding her stuck in the mud. The Unseelie court was rumored to eat weaklings.

  “You won’t find me very tasty,” she muttered, pulling her legs out one by one. “I’m too tough and far too bitter.”

  That was the worst part about this journey. Aisling didn’t like the self-revelations she was having. Her life had been simple. She’d been rude, caustic, downright mean to drive people away so she wouldn’t have to remember what it felt like to be left alone in the dark.

  But that damned Unseelie was wiggling his way through her defenses, and she could already see the writing on the wall. She liked him. As a travel companion, partner, and a person.

  The sparkle in his eye when one side of his mouth lifted in mirth made her gut clench. The whispered promise of mischief whenever they spoke made her knees tremble. And most of all, the way his fists clenched when they argued made her want to grab onto him and never let go.

  He didn’t know who she was, what she was. There could never be anything between them when secrets filled the space with fire and brimstone.

  “Never going to happen,” she muttered and shook her head. “It’s too risky.”

  It couldn’t go anywhere. She was a woman with more than one curse. All her pieces and parts had scattered to the wind until she hardly knew who she was. How was she supposed to bring another person into her life?

  She was getting ahead of herself. He might not even be interested in her.

  A blast of healing energy slammed into her shoulder, forcing her onto her knees at the edge of the muck. Blowing out a breath, she stared at the bubbles popping in front of her.

  “Damnit, Lorcan,” she grumbled. “There’s no need to be so forceful about it.”

  The Unseelie was probably annoying him so much he felt the need to heal by force. Damned cat always let emotions get the better of him, which was why his spells hurt like hell. Even the ones that weren’t supposed to hurt at all.

  Aisling forced herself to stand and made it back to where they’d left their pack. She crumpled into a ball in the roots, eyes wanting to drift shut but mind racing. She was so tired, yet not a single part of her mind was ready to sleep.