The Faceless Woman

by Emma Hamm

  Every piece of her was a thinly veiled visage. She wore her wit and sarcasm like a badge of pride when they were really a shield against the world.

  He knew because he did the same thing.

  Aisling stumbled over a branch and cursed. “Explain this Duchess again?”

  “The Duchess of Dusk is the name she’s given herself. She’s not Unseelie royalty by a long shot, but has appointed herself the unofficial champion of all whom the court will not recognize.” He lifted a branch for her to duck under. “As you can imagine, she’s not a fan of me or my family.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Well personally, I’m too handsome. She finds my looks to be rather intimidating. Don’t you?”

  She didn’t reply. His gaze caught on her fingers tapping against her side, and he grinned. She might not want to give him the satisfying taste of her lie, but she was definitely affected.

  “How many Unseelie have you seen in your life?” he asked.

  “You. A hobgoblin. A couple horned beasts. All the creatures we walked by.”

  “Then you haven’t really been immersed in the Unseelie court before now. You’ve seen the lesser Fae, but you’ve never seen Unseelie royalty.”

  “I lived in the human world, Bran. What do you expect?”

  “You asked me to prepare you next time. I’m trying to do that.” He reached forward and plucked a leaf from her hair, lifting it to the light and twirling it between his fingers. “Or do you want to walk in blind again? We can do that instead.”

  She snorted. “I was the one complaining about it. Of course, I want to know everything I can know. That’s why I asked.”

  He thought she might have muttered something else under her breath. It sounded suspiciously close to “numbskull,” but he let it slide.

  “The Duchess of Dusk is the perfect example of what an Unseelie Fae should look like.”

  “You aren’t?” She turned on her heel to face him. A wave of heat rushed from the tip of his toes to the top of his head, and he knew she had given him a scorching once over. “You don’t look like the glowing representation of beauty such as the Seelie Fae.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, witch.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Aisling slowed, reached out a hand, and leaned against a tree. She was tired, but didn’t want to tell him. So he feigned a yawn and settled onto a fallen log. She wouldn’t take kindly to him pointing out any weakness so he nonchalantly made himself comfortable, leaning back against a trunk and propping his foot up on the worn bark.

  “Here’s the deal, witch. The Duchess and her kingdom aren’t entirely complete.” He lifted a hand when she opened her mouth. “I’m not finished. Don’t interrupt me. It’s rude. Everyone who calls the Palace of Twilight their home is missing pieces of themselves. The land she took over was home to cannibals, now to all those who aren’t considered fully formed.”

  “Are they still cannibals?” she asked.

  “Some. It’s unlikely they’ll try to attack us though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Unlikely or they won’t?”

  He arched a brow. “We’re in the Otherworld, witch. Nothing is certain here.”

  The disgust radiating through her shoulders made him grin. It was too easy to get her riled, and he adored the way she obviously tried not to stomp her feet and scream at him. He almost preferred it when she shouted.

  He kind of liked it.

  Aisling blew out a breath. “Spare me the riddles. How dangerous is this place?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Guards?”

  “She has an entire army at her beck and call.”

  “Do we have weapons?”

  “We won’t need them.” He flashed her a grin. “We’re going to let them capture us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s rather simple, witch. The Duchess of Dusk hates me. She has been searching for a way to remove my head for a very long time. Now that she has the opportunity, she’s going to take it. All we have to do is find the entrance to her kingdom and she’ll deliver us to her doorstep.”

  The witch was so still he thought she might have been staring with a dumbfounded expression. He liked to think he’d stumped her.

  “Are you crazy?” she cried out. “I like my head attached to my neck! If she wants to kill you so bad, what’s going to stop her from doing it on sight?”

  “She likes a show. She hates a missed opportunity to prove to her people how powerful she is.”

  “That doesn’t mean she won’t kill you.”

  “Oh, she’ll try.” He grinned at her frustrated huff.

  “Bran. Please tell me you have more of a plan than we did with the dead god.”

  “I don’t like plans. I find they’re constricting.”

  She threw her hands into the air and stomped in the other direction. Branches snapped under her feet, and she slapped at the trees. They started yanking their branches out of her way, which only made her grumble about plants refusing her an outlet to complain.

  How often did she lose her composure like this? Certainly more than anyone he’d ever seen before, but he was trying hard to annoy her.

  “Where are you going?” he called out. “We have to be captured together.”

  “I’m going to spend the rest of my life enjoying my head attached to my neck!” she yelled. “You get captured, deal with the Duchess, and surprise me when we die.”

  A snort escaped before he could catch it. “We’re in the midst of the Unseelie forest, witch. Aren’t you the slightest bit afraid?”

  She spun on her heel, dark hair flying about in a curtain resembling the night drawing across the sky. “I am the most frightening thing in this forest, Unseelie. They should be afraid of me.”

  Good god, he could love this woman.

  He sank down on the fallen log, eyes wide and heart thumping against his ribs. A few nights ago, he might have laughed in her face. He might have argued that he was the most terrifying thing in this forest. But the tiny witch was damned strong, an untapped well of magic that rivaled his own, and a mystery about her so thick he couldn’t see through it. She might not be stronger than he was, but she most certainly was a sight to behold.

  She blew out a curse, spun on her heel, and marched through the forest with her head held high. Damned if she didn’t look like a queen.

  Bran lurched to his feet, long limbs awkwardly catching on themselves until he found his balance.

  “Hold on there,” he shouted. “I didn’t grant you leave!”

  “Did I need to ask for that? I’m not part of your kingdom, Unseelie.”

  “Bran, damn it. My name is Bran.”

  “I have an exceedingly capable memory. I know what you’re called.”

  “Then call me it.”

  “I’ll call you by name only when you deserve it,” she growled.

  “Then you call me Unseelie when you’re angry?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  He snapped his fingers as he finally caught up to her. “Considering I can’t see your face, I thought it might be an endearment.”

  She growled again. The noise somehow both adorable and slightly intimidating. “What would ever give you the idea it was an endearment?”

  “Oh, maybe how you linger on the tones, as if you’re already thinking about me reclining on the forest floor, entirely nude and at your mercy.”

  “I have never had that thought!”

  She answered too quickly, and he knew what that meant. She had thought about it. She’d thought about him in more ways than that.

  The grin that spread across his face was probably uncalled for. But it was reassuring to know she didn’t think of him as just another faerie. Hell, she’d even let him touch her face.

  That had to mean something, right?

  Aisling was pulling ahead of him again, slipping past branches that snapped down behind her in his way. He push
ed at one and tried to be gentle about it, but even the trees were trying to slow him down.

  “Hold on,” he called out. “Aisling, you’re getting too far ahead of me.”

  “Keep up then.”

  “Fighting someone in this forest isn’t worth it. Just wait for me.”

  “Not planning on it.”

  “Damn it, woman, this is my home. Would you listen to me?” His voice escalated, perhaps a little too loud for her liking because the next branch he passed under revealed she was standing with her hands on her hips, waiting for him.

  As soon as he entered the small clearing, she advanced on him like a woman walking to war. He didn’t know what she was doing, couldn’t see her expression to even guess, but knew the stubborn set of her shoulders and the clenched fists well enough.

  He stepped backward, hesitating briefly when his heel caught on a root of a tree.

  She lifted a hand and pointed at him. “I was raised a witch, Unseelie. I am calm only because I will myself to be.”

  “Dangerous,” he murmured. “Obviously, you are dangerous.”

  “You would do well to remember it.”

  Because he could not help himself, he reached out and feathered a touch down the long column of her neck. “When we get to the castle, I will tie a black silk ribbon around your neck so all know you are mine.”

  “Why would you say that now? When I’m threatening you?” Her voice was breathless, whispering promises best said when a shadow crossed over the moon.

  Bran stepped closer until he could inhale her unique scent of smoke and moss, earth, and the space between shadows. “You were made to wear black velvet with spiderwebs in your hair, while onyx stones dance upon your fingers. You are a midnight woman, made from the ashes of witches burned, wielding magic born from their screams.”

  The words slipped from his tongue with the red-wine dark taste of prophecy. Magic heated his blood, and blunt feathers fanned down from his head, covering his arm with a fine dusting of obsidian. They disappeared as quickly as they came, until all that remained were his black claws tracing her throat.

  She was so beautiful, regardless of her face, the color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. No, none of that was important. Bran could see her soul through his raven eye, and it was as dark as his.

  “Bran,” she whispered.

  And he was lost.

  He touched her chin, tilted her head up. His lungs strained for air, his muscles clenched in anticipation, and his thoughts short-circuited until all he could do was follow his instincts.

  Bran leaned down, touched his lips to hers, and the foundation of his world cracked open.

  She tasted of woodsmoke and dangerous dreams. Soft and yielding, she pressed her hands against his chest and fisted his shirt. A soft sound vibrated her throat. A sound of need, desire, and a longing so desperate it shattered his heart.

  He drew her close, stroking a hand down her ribs while cupping her head with the other. The dark tangles of her hair caught on his fingers, but he didn’t care.

  In that moment, he felt every inch of his immortal soul. A thousand and one kisses had led him to the velvet touch of her lips, the stinging bite of her teeth, and the century old taste of magic dipped in moonlight.

  She destroyed him with each murmured encouragement, every squeeze of her fingers and nip of her teeth.

  Bran broke away only when they were both breathless but pressed his forehead against hers because he couldn’t bear the distance. Catching his breath, his rubbed his nose against hers. “Witch, if I’d known you kissed like that I would have insisted upon it much sooner.”

  “You’re a man of many talents,” she replied. “I assumed correctly that you were practiced in this art.”

  “I wouldn’t say practiced.”

  “You’ve done it before.”

  “You haven’t?” He pulled away to stare incredulously down at her. “You lie.”

  She shook her head, and he desperately wished to see her face. “No. A witch has little opportunities for such whimsy.”

  “Whimsy?”

  “They tried to burn me, Bran. Do you really think any of them wanted to kiss me beforehand?”

  He hadn’t thought. “They can see what you look like. Surely one of them had some sense?”

  Aisling stepped back from him, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her face to the side. He didn’t like that. He knew what that meant. She was pulling away.

  “No, no you don’t get to do that.” He leapt forward, forcing her to look at him. “I didn’t say anything wrong. That’s a compliment.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to talk about things. Look at me, Aisling.”

  “I am looking at you.”

  He heard the heartbreak in her voice, understood it was because he couldn’t tell, but the raven eye imbedded in his skull said otherwise.

  “Look me in the eyes, Aisling.” When she didn’t move, he swore. “I didn’t take you for a coward.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why won’t you look at me?”

  She lifted her head, but he could tell it was to look over his shoulder. He sighed and shook his head.

  The woman had more walls around herself than most. She didn’t want him to know her, to really see who she was, and that was the saddest part of their story. People might sing of them in ages to come.

  They’d tell the tale of how an Unseelie prince pursued an impossible woman across the entirety of the Otherworld. And how her heart was locked up so tight that no key could ever open it.

  “Aisling,” he began.

  “Six,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Six for hell. You said the Duchess lives in your version of the Underworld?” She pointed over his shoulder. “I think that’s where we’re supposed to go.”

  He turned to follow the direction of her finger, gaping at the large mountain that had appeared in front of them. It was unusual for mountains to appear anywhere in the Otherworld, let alone one so large. In the very center, a cave opened its mouth like that of a great beast of old.

  “Where did you hear that rhyme?” he asked.

  “In a dream.”

  “Who was in the dream?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to waste any more time trying to find this Duchess.”

  “Aisling.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “There are many creatures in these woods, some of which are not friendly. Who told you that rhyme?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head, and her words trembled. “Someone who frightened me, but who I believe we can trust.”

  “How does it go?”

  She repeated the child’s tale word for word until the last line.

  “Seven for the Raven King and the toll of a bell.”

  He rocked back a step, each word striking his chest like a physical blow. She reached as if to grab him, only hesitating when he flinched away from her touch.

  “What did he look like?” he rasped. “Tell me now, please.”

  “As if he were made of stone and something more. Great antlers rose from his head, and gristle fell from them as he shed the velvet.” She shivered. “I have never heard of such a beast.”

  “Neither have I.” And he felt immense relief in knowing she had met an Otherworld creature, not the Raven King himself.

  There was still time. His plan could still work.

  “Perhaps we shall trust this creature,” he said and cleared his throat. “The cave, you said?”

  “I’m willing to try if you are.”

  “Lead the way, witch.”

  “Aisling,” she corrected. “Have you seen Lorcan?”

  “He makes his own way.”

  “I’m not leaving without him.”

  “You say that every time, and yet we always move forward. The witch knows how to find us. Uncanny if you ask me.”

  Her hands fisted. “I didn’t ask,
and I won’t leave without him.”

  The brush rustled behind them, and a furry body burst free with a yowl of disapproval. “You were leaving without me!”

  Aisling shook her head and reached out her arms. “We weren’t! I wouldn’t.”

  He leapt into her arms, glaring at Bran as Aisling stroked her hands over his head. “He would.”

  “I would,” Bran agreed. “In a heartbeat.”

  “Bran,” Aisling chastised.

  “What?”

  “If the two of you can’t stop arguing, I’m only taking one of you.”

  “Well, it better damn well be me then, considering those cannibals will eat you alive without me.”

  “Sounds like they’re going to eat me either way.”

  He stared at her hips as she sashayed away from him, flicking the curtain of her tangled dark hair as she went.

  Damned, stubborn woman. She feared nothing, and that would get her in trouble. The Otherworld deserved a healthy amount of respect and fear. If she didn’t know how to give it that, then the land would take it.

  Shaking his head, he started after them.

  The cave was much larger than he originally thought. The maw opened up high above his head where bones hung from tangled roots. Carved runes decorated the walls, and magic gave the air an electric quality, lifting the hair on his arms.

  Wind whistled through the cavern, bringing with it the whispered prayers of a thousand men and women. Their voices were funneled toward the heavens, repenting dark deeds while hoping the gods and goddesses might be listening.

  “What is that sound?” Aisling asked.

  “The pleas of the Underfolk,” he responded. “They ask for forgiveness from the Tuatha de Danann so they might return to the Otherworld.”

  “Have any ever returned?”

  “No. Only the condemned are sent to Underhill, and they will remain part of the host forevermore.”

  He watched her pause at the mouth of the cave and wondered what she was thinking. Underhill was a dark part of faerie history. The Sluagh were notoriously dangerous creatures, stealing souls that cried out for help. Devouring humans added to their own power. They reveled in their own ugliness and hid in the darkest parts of nightmares.