The Faceless Woman

by Emma Hamm

  Was she afraid?

  “I have met the Sluagh before,” she finally murmured. “They were not a kind folk.”

  “Kindness has never been shown to them. They do not know what such an emotion is.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “The Unseelie pity them. Their bodies are emaciated, not only from lack of food, but from lack of love. We see them as a reflection of all that is neglected inside ourselves.”

  She shifted her balance and ran her fingers over Lorcan’s fur. “And the Seelie?”

  “They fear them as humans do.”

  Her shoulders squared, and his brave little witch marched into the cave with no further hesitation. What he would give to dive into her mind, to understand her thoughts and reasoning.

  What kind of creature was she that she pitied creatures who lacked love? The Sluagh were the worst sort of beasts, and yet she connected with them. She stalked toward them with intent riding her posture like the weight of a crown.

  Magic danced down his side, tasting him like the lick of a large animal. He grimaced but plunged into the darkness without hesitation.

  “Why do I feel like someone is watching us?” Aisling asked.

  “Because they are.”

  He could feel her. The Duchess. Her magic was one he was too familiar with, but it didn’t concern him. Not as much as the secondary magic laced through hers that tasted like opium and dark deeds.

  The Duke.

  “Damn it,” he growled. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “The Duchess is married now, and the man she’s taken as consort isn’t the kind of creature we want to tangle with.”

  “Worse than a dead god?”

  “Far worse.”

  A stone pinged to their right, dropping into the darkness, and echoing when it struck water. They were no longer alone.

  Aisling tucked herself closer to him. Not in fear, his feral little witch didn’t know what that emotion felt like. Instead, he felt the electric burn of her magic building inside her body.

  “Why should I be afraid of him?”

  He brushed aside a cobweb and lifted it above her head. “The Duke spent his early life researching dark magic, and then one of the Fir Bolg gave him the ultimate spell book. The Necronomicon.”

  The answering gulp suggested she knew what he meant.

  “Learning magic like that at such a young age twists a person. He figured out quick enough that power wasn’t just born, but it could be taken. In the Palace of Twilight, the ultimate honor is to give a piece of yourself to the Duke.”

  “A piece of themselves?”

  Bran grunted. “The last time I saw him he was wearing six sets of arms.”

  “Doesn’t leave a lot of room for much else, I imagine.”

  “Nothing makes you uncomfortable, does it?” When he lifted a hand, blue faerie light bloomed upon his palm and gently floated into the air.

  “No. But when you’re raised a witch, and know just how much is truly out there, it’s hard to be frightened by something like this.”

  “You aren’t afraid for your soul?”

  “I’m not sure I even have one.”

  She laid the words at his feet like an offering, then slipped past him and continued walking through the cave.

  The ball of his magic followed her like a loyal puppy, and he couldn’t help but feel as if he were doing the same. She was something else, this witch of his. No fear, no virtue, no sense of right or wrong. Aisling simply was, and she was not ashamed of that.

  She ducked underneath a stalactite and murmured, “You understand that we’re being followed?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you plan on doing anything about it?”

  “I don’t.” He caught up with her and arched a dark brow. “Are you uncomfortable with that?”

  “I like to know who is following me.”

  “That’s easy. It’s one of the Duchess’s personal guard, although I hadn’t expected such a welcome. Truly, she must be very worried about what I’m here to do.”

  Lorcan shifted, draped over Aisling’s shoulder like a strange mink wrap. “They’ll want an explanation for who Aisling is.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” Bran agreed. He tapped a finger to his chin, feigned as if he was thinking about it, then snapped his fingers loudly. “I know! We’ll say you’re my servant.”

  “Servant?” Aisling’s voice echoed. “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s the only believable thing.”

  “How about apprentice? Lady wife? Anything other than servant.”

  “Slave?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “No.”

  “Servant it is. I’m glad you came around to seeing my way.”

  “I didn’t!” She tossed her hands in the air. “No one would believe I’m your servant. I’m far too obstinate, and we argue at every opportunity.”

  “Shame. I hope you’re a better actor than you are a liar.”

  “What—”

  She didn’t have time to finish her next argument because he stepped ahead of her and loudly shouted, “Duchess! I have returned with my faithful servant. We seek an audience with your esteemed self, husband and, if you insist, your court, although I’d rather they watch from a safe distance.”

  “What are you doing?” Aisling hissed.

  “Getting us captured.” He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “I did tell you that was my plan.”

  She dropped Lorcan to the ground. “Hide, come for us when you can.”

  As the cat dashed away, dark figures lunged from the shadows where they had hidden. Apparently, all he needed to do was request they slink out of their hiding places. It was everything he could do not to roll his eyes.

  Bran held his arms causally at his sides. He knew better than to tempt those who were in the Duchess’s personal guard.

  The guards were too similar to the Duchess. For them, pain was a pleasure, darkness was light, and screams were music.

  “Don’t touch me!” Aisling growled as shadows grabbed at her.

  “Let them, servant. They won’t harm you without an audience.”

  “Servant?” she growled, lurching forward to stand by his side. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “I’ll make your life hell, at the very least.”

  “I cannot wait to see what you come up with.”

  And surprisingly, he couldn’t. This little witch intrigued him with every choice she made and every threat she tossed into the air. She made every nerve ending in his body stand on end. It wasn’t that he was frightened of what she might do.

  On the contrary, he was looking forward to it.

  She growled as a creature pushed her. It was covered in warts, only stood to Bran’s waist, and had a mouth full of pointed teeth.

  “Goblin,” he acknowledged.

  It sniffed at her and pushed Aisling forward again.

  Bran felt a calloused hand touch his back and knew immediately who it was.

  “Daragh,” he grumbled. “I thought you would have died by now.”

  “Hard to kill an immortal.” The voice was the grit of the earth, the shattering of bone against rock, and the echo of a dying groan.

  It grated on Bran’s ears. He’d forgotten how much he hated the bodyguard’s voice.

  “It’s a shame. I think you’d be welcome into the Sluagh.”

  “I will not join their ranks,” Daragh replied. He shoved the center of Bran’s back, although Bran refused to shift. “Move, Unseelie.”

  “Is that not what you are?”

  He turned, another blue faerie light bright in his hand. It cast the cavern in stark relief, revealing the scarred man standing next to him. Daragh had never been a pretty man. His entire body was pockmarked, horrifically scarred, and he limped from an old wound. Silver hair was pulled back from his ugly face in a swinging ponytail, slicked back b
y its own oil.

  Bran arched a brow. “You still have one arm?”

  Daragh lifted the stump in acknowledgement.

  “Shame,” Bran murmured. “I thought he might have given it back when he was done with it.”

  “The Duke is never done with our memories.”

  “What memories does an arm hold, I wonder?” He let himself be shoved forward, talking the entire way. “Perhaps how to hold a sword? What the best angle is to wank yourself off—”

  Daragh smacked him in the back of the head. “Shut up.”

  “My servant threatens to cut my ear off when I tell her that.”

  The creature’s hand fisted in Bran’s hair, yanking his head back so Daragh could hiss in his ear, “I’m going to take yours if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”

  He shoved Bran’s head forward. Dark hair fell in front of Bran’s vision, and it took all his concentration to stay his hand. He could kill them all in one fell swoop. But he didn’t dare. Not until he was close enough to the Duchess to take her heart.

  They exited the cavern and walked into Underhill. It was as beautiful and decrepit as he remembered.

  Bran hurried forward to walk by Aisling’s side as they strode down the carved stone steps in the center of the mountain that descended into the valley below.

  Each stately home was carved out of rock, decorated with bones, and looked as though no one had lived in them for centuries. Cobwebs covered their path, and the entire chasm was eerily silent. Not a single person spoke, no laughter echoed from children, not even an animal dared to make a sound when the Duchess of Dusk was waiting for her prey.

  “Cannibals?” Aisling whispered under her breath.

  He noted she was twisting her fingers together. As carefully as possible, he reached out and tucked her hand into his. “Cannibals.”

  “Are they going to eat us?”

  “I won’t let them.”

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  He flashed a brief grin. “Have I let anything bad happen to you yet? Trust me a little, witch. I’ll get us that heart and out of this mess without any problem.”

  They paraded toward the palace, their personal guard growing as they reached the tall doors. Each beast was stranger than the last. She couldn’t make out individual features, only a wave of warts, callouses, and scarred skin. The stained glass windows must have once been an impressive sight, but now, the glass panels were cracked and broken, littering the ground with rainbow shards.

  The gates shrieked as a tree-like guard placed his shoulder against it and shoved hard. Bran noted this man was missing both of his arms.

  A great honor, he was certain, although he couldn’t understand how it was. The Duke’s followers were oddly religious in the way they admired the man. If he wanted a new body piece, the faeries would scramble to be the first in line.

  The last time Bran had seen such a ceremony, they were euphoric. Losing a limb became a drug, giving a piece of themselves to their leader was the highest enlightenment, and they laid their bodies prostrate in front of him in thanks.

  Throughout the entire ordeal, the Duchess had looked on with a pleased gaze. She fed off chaos and had married the perfect man to create such mayhem.

  Cracked cobblestone marked the path to the palace where a small group of people waited for them. More guards, some missing limbs, others eyes, but all covered in the history of battle.

  Bran glanced over his shoulder. “Have you started decorative scarring since I’ve been gone?”

  Daragh shoved him forward again, grasped his arms, and twisted them roughly behind him.

  Bran flicked his head, flipping a curtain of dark hair over his shoulder so his raven eye could stare over at Aisling. She was still handling it well, although she looked sick to her stomach. Likely because the faerie next to her had laid the stump of his upper arm on her shoulder to keep her in place.

  “Hey,” he murmured, “witch.”

  She glanced over at him.

  “Still good?”

  “Last time you were here?” she asked. “Why were you here at all?”

  “Foolishly got captured by the duchess.”

  “Why did she capture you?”

  “She liked the look of me. Said I would easily fit into her ranks, even though she thought I was a little too pretty.”

  He hated the memory, and walking up the cobblestone steps towards the palace with guards all around him was like stepping into his past. This was a path he’d journeyed the last time he tried to snoop in the Dusk Court, and he despised it as much as the last time. The duchess was too twisted even for his liking.

  “Why do you have to do everything the hard way?” Aisling grumbled. “I’m not sure I can curse the lot of them.”

  “Cursing them wouldn’t be any good. They like pain.”

  Aisling set her shoulders, when she squeezed her fists in preparation for a fight, Bran felt an answering thump in his chest. She shook herself and replied, “They haven’t felt my kind of pain before.”

  Every inch of him wanted to know what her choice of pain was. His muscles tensed, his mind blanked, and Bran vividly saw himself killing the entire personal guard just to see what she would look like with blood streaked through her hair.

  “Eyes forward,” Daragh growled.

  Bran gritted his teeth and told himself that attacking the pathetic excuse for a faerie wasn’t going to end well. The duchess was already angry with him. He didn’t need to make it worse by delivering her guard’s head to her front doorstep. But, oh, how he wished he could.

  The palace of Twilight was a crumbling ruin. Once a beautiful building, age and mistreatment had seen it fall from its former glory. Moss covered the floor, trees grew through the walls, and holes dotted the ceiling. Spears of light illuminated the strange gathering of Underfolk nobility.

  They were all missing pieces of themselves. Some of them limbs, others eyes, a few even half their bodies. They lay prostrate upon the ground before a throne made of gilded leaves.

  The duchess sat upon emerald green cushions, her hands resting on armrests carved in the shape of two great cats, their mouths forever frozen wide open. She was a delicate little creature. Small hands, small body, and a face that always looked slightly childish. There was a hole in the center of her chest where a glass heart glowed a bright green.

  Before them was one of the deadliest women in all the faerie courts, and she looked like a child.

  “Unseelie prince.” Her voice rang out, sweet like the first drop of honey in the fall. “It has been a long time since you graced our court with your presence.”

  “I had little choice, Duchess of Dusk.”

  “That is not what my little birdies say.”

  He almost swore. He’d forgotten about the pathetic little creatures she called “birds.” Their wings were leathery like bats, but they were still a form of bird. She’d twisted them with dark magic, and now they spied for her.

  “Is that so?” he asked. “What did they tell you?”

  “Many things. But first that you enter my kingdom with a woman on your arm. I thought you weren’t interested in a bride.”

  Aisling snorted behind him.

  He held his breath as the duchess cocked her head to the side and narrowed her gaze on the witch behind him. “Something to say?”

  “I wouldn’t marry him if my life depended on it.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn’t she ever manage to stay silent? The woman had challenged a faerie with those words, and now he didn’t know what the duchess would insist upon.

  Bran needed to get close enough to steal the heart from her chest. He had to rip it from her tiny form, and then they could run. He would do whatever it took, even if that meant marrying the little witch to entertain the duchess.

  But, he didn’t want to marry her like that.

  The thought disturbed him. He didn’t want to marry at all. That wasn’t the steps his life would take him. He was going to break his curse,
then galivant off into the world without a care for anyone but himself.

  He was Unseelie. That was their way.

  And yet… his gaze cast toward her. Aisling stared defiantly at the duchess, no fear or indecision softening her straightened spine. She was a powerful woman in her own right, and he stood between two pillars of feminine wiles.

  Bran couldn’t decide if he was the luckiest man in the Otherworld, or the most cursed.

  The duchess chuckled. “I wouldn’t marry him for all the gold in the world, either. In that, you and I see eye to eye.”

  “Good.”

  “But you are wrong.”

  Aisling flinched. “Excuse me?”

  “You are interested in him. A woman in love moves differently than those who are unattached. Your eyes remain fogged with the promise of a future. Your heart beats in a rhythm that is unnatural as it tries to match his. And your hips sway as you try to capture his attention.”

  Bran lifted a brow and turned to stare at her.

  “I do not,” Aisling replied caustically. “I don’t appreciate you trying to ascertain what I’m thinking when you have no idea who I am.”

  “I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your body, and that is a very different thing.”

  “You’re reading nothing, because you’re wrong.”

  The duchess tapped her fingernails on the tops of the giant cats’ heads. “Interesting. You don’t want him to know.”

  “What I do want to know is why you think you can read me so easily?”

  “Because you’re a woman walking into this room with not one, not two, but three curses.” The duchess held up each finger as she spoke. “A woman with that many nooses around her neck knows when something good has landed at their feet. They also have a great sense of self-preservation. You are going to hold onto him in the hopes that you won’t drown. But if you think that will work, then you are very foolish indeed.”

  Bran’s ears were ringing. The words felt as though they were pointed at him, but she was saying them to Aisling. What third curse was this witch bearing? What further secrets was she hiding?

  Aisling’s chin turned toward him, and he felt the vivid burn of her gaze, though he had never seen it.