The Faceless Woman

by Emma Hamm

  “And god forbid I make you uncomfortable.” Her head felt as though it wasn’t attached to her body anymore. It was so heavy and difficult to lift, but she managed just enough to give him a stare. “Excuse me while I try to be a normal person.”

  “Yes, well, if you could do it without all the…” He lifted a paw to his mouth and retched. “Never mind, I don’t want to think about it. It’ll make me sick.”

  “Lorcan. How have you practiced witchcraft your entire life and managed to retain a weak stomach?”

  “Well, I didn’t do that.”

  “Just get out of my way or I’ll get you wet.” She hefted herself out of the pool, flinging water in all directions.

  He grumbled and raced to the other side of the room. “You know I don’t like getting damp!”

  “Just shut up, would you?”

  “I would like food. I’ve been tracking you for a very long time, and I require sustenance.”

  “I’ll get you food in a second.”

  “I would prefer it now.”

  Aisling stared up at the ceiling and muttered chants that would hopefully calm her down. When they didn’t work, she gave up and glared at him. “Can I look at myself for the first time in over twenty years first? Or would you like me to wait on you before seeing how much my life has changed?”

  “Before.” He nodded. “I am very hungry.”

  “I should throw you out the window, you useless excuse for a man.”

  She turned away from him and made her way toward the dressing table in the corner. The mirror was cracked and tarnished with age, but it would be enough for her to see what magic had hidden from her.

  A shard, smaller than her hand, remained free from smudges, and she had to stoop to pick it up. She closed her eyes, fearful of what she might see. Was she pretty? Was she a hideous creature? Worse, would she even recognize herself?

  Steeling herself, she leaned down and stared into her own eyes.

  The woman in the mirror gazed back at her, a creature unlike any she’d seen before. She had thought, perhaps, she would have aged like her family. Aisling knew her sister was more beautiful than glimmering gossamer webs. She saw some of her family in the mirror, but she also saw herself.

  Dark curls framed a heart-shaped face, which was pleasant enough. Slashes of dark brows arched delicately over equally shadowed eyes. A finely sloped nose met wine-stained lips over a slightly stubborn chin.

  Yet, there were storms boiling in her eyes. Faint lines feathered from her eyes, lines of hardship, strife, and exhaustion that marked her skin for all eternity. A small scar slashed through her left eyebrow from when the children had thrown rocks at her. Her lips were set in a severe line, the expression of a woman marching into battle. She wondered how often she wore the angry look.

  Pattering feet stepped toward her and then paused. “What do you think?”

  “She isn’t what I expected.”

  “You mean you aren’t what you expected.”

  “Yes.” Aisling lifted a hand and touched her cheek, double-checking the woman she saw was actually herself. “I hadn’t expected to look so…”

  Lorcan jumped up and put his paw atop her hand. “You have always been beautiful, Aisling, no matter what your face looks like.”

  She touched a finger to her lip once more and blew out a breath. “Let’s sleep.”

  “Are you all right?”

  She silently shook her head and sank down next to the fire.

  Her face. It was her face after all this time, and she didn’t know how to feel about it. She was beautiful; certainly that was the truth. But she hadn’t expected to look so much like her family.

  Aisling had only seen them once in person since they gave her up, and from afar. They’d traveled with the Wild Hunt, racing through the countryside looking for people like her. But they would never come after her.

  She had her father’s stubborn brow. She looked at herself the same way he had when he steered the hunt away from her small cabin. Her mother’s bee-stung lips, her brother’s strong jaw, her sister’s stunning gaze, all of them combined to a face she recognized painfully. She looked exactly like her sister.

  Lorcan curled up at her side. He glanced up a few times before heaving a sigh and placing his paw on her hand again. “Go to sleep, little witch. It is done.”

  So it was.

  Trying to hide her shivers, she laid down on the rug with Lorcan tucked under her chin and told herself not to be afraid. She’d made this choice knowing she couldn’t come back from it.

  She was still a wild thing, a woman with the heart of a she-wolf and a face that could tear down cities. Now, everyone knew that as well.

  Bone Dance

  The maid twisted Aisling’s hair, wrapping it around a hot rod that she kept dipping into the fire. She winced at the tug and bit her lip to keep herself silent. Arguing with them had already proven fruitless. It didn’t matter her hair was already curly. They insisted it curled the wrong way.

  How was that even possible?

  A small whimper escaped her lips at a particularly vicious tug. They refused to let her even move from her seat.

  Aisling had walked on pins and needles earlier that morning. She worried they might see her face, the maids. How would they react? Would they think her beautiful? Would they know her family? Worse, would they throw her out because she clearly came from a Seelie bloodline?

  But the women who walked into her room would never know that her curse was broken, for they had no eyes.

  Their skin was dark as midnight, eyeless faces smooth as porcelain. Golden filigree decorated their faces like masks, accentuating the missing features that didn’t seem to hinder them in the slightest. They moved through the room with a grace that rivaled dancers.

  They didn’t appear to be servants, at least not that she could tell. Their clothing was made of the finest silk. It slithered across their bodies, quietly hushing as they shifted and moved. Small circlets were woven through their braided hair. Even their fingers were dipped in gold.

  “Who are you?” Aisling asked for the hundredth time.

  “We are the favored few.”

  “I’m assuming you mean the Duchess of Dusk approves of you?”

  The faerie sagely nodded.

  “Well that doesn’t clear up anything, now does it?” Aisling muttered. “Ouch!”

  Another woman entered, the perfect twin for the one currently tugging on Aisling’s hair hard enough to yank it from her skull.

  In the newcomer’s arms was a swath of black fabric draped over her arm. “Your outfit for this evening’s ball, my lady.”

  “Not a lady.”

  The faerie cocked her head and held out the dress regardless. Aisling didn’t want to touch it. It looked as though it were made out of far too fine a material for her, and she’d spent her whole life running from such things.

  And yet, there it was. So close to touch, and she knew it would feel as smooth as it looked. Silk like that could only be made in faerie realms.

  She blew out a breath and stood up. They helped her into the dress, pouring it over her body like a stream of water until it settled around her form like a second skin. The skirt flared just slightly over her hips, pooling at her feet. Her entire body was covered other than a dangerous dip between her breasts that stopped just above her belly button.

  From afar, the dress had looked plain. But up close, she could see the dark embroidered threads across her shoulders and down to her waist that depicted the Wild Hunt. Tiny obsidian stones tangled with the embroidery, making her glimmer as she moved. But not with light. She shone with darkness.

  “One last piece,” the faerie woman murmured and reached forward with a silver necklace. It was an impressively wrought piece. A tangled vine with sharp thorns created to encircle a slender neck.

  Aisling gasped as the cold metal touched her throat. Thorns rested gently against her pulse, and each time she swallowed, she felt the threatening press. It was terrifying
, and yet all her senses awoke in a wave of heat.

  She pressed her fingers against her collarbone. “All night?”

  “Yes, mistress, you must wear that for the remainder of the night.” The faerie sprayed perfume onto her exposed chest.

  “Why?”

  A rough voice answered her, “The Duchess wants to ensure we do exactly as she wants.”

  “Bran,” Aisling replied. A blush spread from her chest to her cheeks, and she spun away from him.

  He couldn’t see her face. Not yet. She wasn’t prepared. There were so many things she wanted to say, to explain.

  Why hadn’t she told him before? Because a piece of her soul wanted him to always see her as the strange witch who had cursed him. She didn’t want to be a Seelie faerie, a contender for his thoughts and emotions. She was content with nothing, no one; she was a shadow in the night that never remained in memories.

  Until him.

  Her breath caught in her throat as the faeries dipped into curtsies beside her.

  “Out,” he grunted. Their hurried footsteps nearly made her smile until she heard him walk forward as well. “Ridiculous fanfare for nothing. I don’t know what she thinks she’s getting out of a ball. We have work to do.”

  “She doesn’t know we’re here for her heart,” Aisling whispered, frozen in the center of the room.

  “Oh, she knows. She made it very clear that she was up for the challenge.”

  “Then perhaps she feels safe with so many of her followers nearby.”

  “Maybe,” Bran replied. “Or she’s just cocky. I’m betting on her thinking we’re weak. And we are anything but.”

  She knew he meant it as a compliment, but she couldn’t breathe through the tightness in her throat. Aisling didn’t feel very strong right now. She wanted to crumple to the ground, press her hands against her chest, and beg her heart to remain still.

  “Aisling?” he asked quietly. “Is something wrong?”

  Everything was wrong, and she couldn’t tell him because she wasn’t brave enough to turn around. She wanted him to see her face, but every fiber of her being refused to turn.

  “I-I-” she stuttered, then cleared her throat. “Everything will be fine.”

  “It will.” He stepped into the room, his voice deepening. “She gave you a fine dress to wear tonight. Are you afraid to move in it?”

  “No.”

  He drew even closer until she could feel the heat of him against her back. He drew in a deep breath. “You smell like orchids.”

  “I thought that might be the scent. Do you like it?”

  “I prefer your natural scent.” He moved her hair to the side, baring her throat to his gaze and the metal wrapped around her pale neck. “That’s better. Now I know it’s you.”

  A ragged sigh expelled from her lips.

  She could almost feel his frown. “Aisling, what is it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, just… changed.” Her heart raced, but she turned and slowly faced him. She had to take a deep breath to look up. Her gaze met his, the endless well of the ocean meeting a starry night sky.

  Bran blew out a breath. The sound filled her heart with a certain sense of longing she’d never felt before. His expression softened, and he slowly lifted a hand to touch the roundness of her cheek.

  Fingertips, so gentle they were like a feather, brushed along the lines of her face. He stroked the fine edge of her jaw, the fullness of her bottom lip, the featherlight eyelashes which fluttered closed.

  And in that moment, Aisling felt for the first time what it might be like to be cherished. He touched her as though she were something fragile. Like the individual strands of a feather that might part and forever ruin if he was too brutal.

  “Bran,” she whispered. She would tell him everything—who she was, where she came from, explain the feelings bubbling in her chest that she couldn’t control.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied.

  She searched his dark gaze. “Why are you sorry?”

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. There was no tenderness in his eyes, nor awe in the lines of his face. He looked at her as if he was disappointed. No, she realized. Horrified.

  “This is the Duchess’s doing, isn’t it?” he asked, but did not wait for her reply. “Know that she gave you this face to harm me. To distract me. I will not let it, but it cuts to the bone that she would try to use you like this.”

  Aisling’s words stuck in her throat. “Whose face do I wear?”

  She could guess the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it. She still looked like her family, enough he would have recognized where she came from and who she was related to. She just hadn’t thought he’d known her sister like that. Those damning words would remain with her for the rest of her life, but she wanted to hear him say it.

  “That of a woman I once loved. Both myself and another tried to win her heart, and I was certain she would choose me. But she was promised to a prince, although there was a time when she might have been mine. In the end, she chose the Seelie prince as everyone wanted her to.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “It wounded me for years. Centuries.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, little witch.” He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face to the light. “A remarkable likeness, although I can appreciate the small differences she tried to implement. The Duchess is a cruel woman indeed.”

  Aisling swallowed, her heart taking flight through her mouth and whispering words she never intended to speak. “Could you ever love her again?”

  “The woman whose face you wear?” He shook his head. “No. Never again. I have changed, and I know there are many layers to beauty, but that of the flesh is the lowest of them all.”

  His hand slid from her chin, and Aisling felt her heart shatter.

  “I don’t think the ball should take too long. Rest when we return. I’m working on a plan. It won’t be pretty. I underestimated the Duchess, but it will suffice. Have you seen anything that could be useful?”

  She swallowed hard and managed to shake her head. “No.”

  “All right.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe one of the maids will know something we don’t. Are you ready to go?”

  “Not quite.” She pressed her hands against her stomach, holding the butterflies at bay. “If you’ll give me just a moment, I need to adjust the corset underneath the dress.”

  His cheeks flamed bright red. “Ah, well… Yes. I imagine you don’t need help?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll just…” He gestured at the door and raced out.

  She blew out a breath and spun toward the window. Darkness met her gaze, as it always did in this place, but this time it felt more ominous than before.

  What was she going to do?

  Lorcan crawled out from under the pillows, his ears flat against his skull. “Aisling, don’t.”

  “He thinks I look like her,” she whispered. “Like my sister.”

  “She wouldn’t want him to. Her choice led her down the wrong path, but that doesn’t mean she would step back in time if she could.”

  “Does it matter?” She lifted her watery eyes. “He doesn’t want to see this face. It reminds him of pain and heartbreak.”

  “He doesn’t know it’s your face.”

  “He doesn’t know a lot of things.” She smoothed a hand down her stomach, forcing her eyes to dry no matter how much she wanted to release the sobs. “And now he cannot know.”

  “You’re being foolish, Aisling. You have to talk to him.”

  “Soon. Soon I will tell him everything, but let me avoid it tonight.” With her spine straightened and her shoulders squared, a mask of calm fell over her newfound face. “Perhaps you should make yourself scarce again, Lorcan.”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Sadness darkened his eyes. “Being with him for a moment isn’t worth a lifetime of heartbreak.”

  Aisling didn’t know if sh
e agreed. “He’s going to leave once he knows the truth.”

  “You can’t know that for certain.”

  But she did. He wouldn’t want to remain with a woman who had a direct tie to the princess who broke his heart. He wasn’t the first. Aisling’s sister was known to be a heartbreaker. She’d enjoyed that in her youth.

  Bran couldn’t look at her without his face twisting in anguish. It was as horrid as a kiss of death.

  Lorcan shuffled. “You have to go the ball. The Duchess made it sound as though it wasn’t an option to say no.”

  “I will avoid him as much as possible.”

  “Do you think he’ll let you?”

  No, she didn’t. Bran was insistent when he wanted something, and right now he wanted her to figure out the way these faeries ticked. He’d want her eyes on everything, trying to find some chink in the Duchess’s armor.

  Aisling’s eyes fluttered closed. She had a job to do. And she would complete that job whether he approved of her face or not.

  “That’s my girl,” Lorcan said with a warm purr. “You have always been a strong woman, and no man’s disapproval of your looks is going to change that.”

  She turned on her heel. Her fingers flexed as she passed the small dressing table. She desperately desired a mask, something, anything to hide the visage she now wore. Still, she pressed her palm against the door and slid through the wedged opening.

  He stood waiting for her on the other side, a dark shadow lurking in the center of the hallway like some great beast about to attack her. Aisling had never been afraid of the dark, and now she understood why. All the best things stood at the very edge of her vision, hidden from the light.

  “Are you ready?” he quietly asked.

  “I am now.”

  He reached forward, an almost liquid movement until a spear of light shone from the window upon the fine, embroidered sleeve.

  Aisling drank him in as if he were salvation and she the damned. Brocade poured over his shoulders in a high-necked jacket. Black silk fell from his shoulders in an open shirt, leaving his chest bared. She wanted to press herself against the warm skin and count each raised muscle, feel each ragged breath.