by E. D. Walker
“My baby. Not her baby.”
“Your son is her baby now.”
Beatrice folded her arms and glared. “Enjoyed your time on the plow today, did you?”
The kelpie let out a small impatient whuffle. Beatrice traded him a sour smile back. He pawed the ground, looking surly. “Fine. Anything to avoid the plow again.”
“Why are you complaining, kelpie?” Mary scoffed. “I heard you didn’t mind being a plow horse today too much.”
“What?” Beatrice asked.
“When the plowman took a break, the kelpie mounted one of the mares while he wasn’t looking.”
The kelpie gave a delicate snort. “A beautiful mare she was too. Besides, I was bored.” Beatrice shook her head, not wishing to contemplate that scenario further. She went to get a more ordinary bridle to lead the kelpie out of her stable. He let himself be towed out the castle gates. Llewellyn vouched for Mary and Beatrice to the gate guards. Beatrice, for her part, kept her face hidden and held the changeling close in her arms under the folds of her cloak, the fabric protecting him from her iron belt. He didn’t make a peep, and she wondered again just how much this uncanny child understood.
When they were on the road again, they waited until they were out of the castle’s sight before cutting off the path toward the village and taking themselves into the woods. Mary had the kelpie by the reins, having to tug him away from promising clumps of foliage along the path as if he were a real horse. In theory, he was quite tame, and one of them might have ridden him. Yet none of them wanted to test or tempt the murderous horse that far.
Gradually the path became wilder, rougher, and the shadows of the trees loomed larger and larger over their heads. Nightfall lay a breath away as the sun dipped low, and Beatrice felt that tingle again along her arms—that sparking uneasiness that had her glancing behind every other moment and jumping at the slightest noise. The baby grew restive in her arms, tears pooling in his eyes, although he made no sound. They left the forest path, and the kelpie made small, grumbling huffs as he was forced to pick a narrow path between the trees with them.
Between one step and the next, something began to tickle at her ears, like a half-remembered song. She paused, listening, trying to catch the tune. Sometimes the melody seemed no louder than a song playing in her head. Sometimes the sound boomed through her, as if her whole body were the instrument, the very air playing on her senses and through her blood like a master musician. She felt unsettled, anxious, and embarrassingly aroused all at once, her blood warm and tingling inside her.
“Stop here. We need to get you two properly ready for the revel.” He turned his head so he could stare at them both with one eye. “You will all do as I say? Follow my lead so you don’t get us all killed?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said.
Llewellyn hesitated, then swallowed. “Yes.”
Mary held the bridle aloft. “Assume your human form then.”
The horse reared onto his hind legs. Beatrice stumbled, whirling to shield the baby with her own body. But the hooves did not touch her. When she looked around, shaking, the kelpie was mid-shift, some strange not-quite-human-or-horse thing. He groaned with a man’s voice one moment, then squealed the high-pitched whinny of a horse the next. His limbs stretched and contorted. His hooves cracked, then split and lengthened into fingers. She closed her eyes and cupped the baby’s head, turning them both away to avoid watching this horror.
Fingers brushed her sleeve, and she jerked away like she’d been struck. But it was only Llewellyn with a kindly smile for her fear. “My lady, Mary must take charge of the bab—of the changeling now.”
“Oh.” Beatrice looked over to check the kelpie’s progress and saw that he was entirely a man now. And entirely naked. Judging from the smug look on his face, the kelpie was hoping to have shocked her.
But Beatrice was no blushing maiden. Even when she’d been a maiden she’d had a distinct lack of blushes. Instead, she eyed the fairy in frank appraisal, then gave a small, unimpressed sniff.
Behind her, Mary cackled. The kelpie looked indignant for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed hard enough that the muscles in his throat convulsed. When he looked at her again, folds of cloth materialized around his body, wrapping and tucking themselves to cover his nakedness. “Oh, I like you, Baroness.” His voice was warm and low. Intimate. “I regret even more that we didn’t claim you before the fat old baron could.”
Beatrice just shook her head, annoyed and flattered all at once. She crossed to Mary, and the changeling seemed to grow heavier and more restive in her arms with each step she took. “You keep him close by. Once we have my son out we’ll have to return the changeling to the Hill.”
Mary had her arms out to receive the boy, but her face was screwed up with distaste.
Seeing that, Beatrice stepped to the side at the last moment. She drew her cloak off and made a small nest on the ground for the changeling. Somehow she couldn’t make herself hand the poor lad to Mary when she knew how much the midwife loathed him.
She’d brought one of her son’s ragdolls along and handed it to the changeling. He immediately stuffed the thing in his mouth, drooling happily. She smiled back and gave a small caress to his cheek. “You’re a good lad.” He caught her finger, gripping it tight, and smiled trustingly at her. Beatrice gently disengaged her hand, feeling like some part of her had been torn away. Babies. Dangerous things, babies. She forced herself to stand and face Mary.
Mary patted her arm. “I’ll take care of him, my lady. You needn’t worry.”
“Thank you—”
“Kind Fate follow your steps and speed you home. I’ll pray for your success so we can be rid of the little pest.”
Beatrice flinched at the midwife’s contempt but forced herself to nod. That was exactly what they were here to do, after all. And her heart ached to have her own son back, of course. But I wish I didn’t have to lose this sweet boy to do it.
Mary held the bridle aloft. “Kelpie, as I hold your bridle you must obey me.”
The kelpie growled low in the back of his throat, but jerked his head in a nod.
“I command you to follow the orders of these two here. Llewellyn of Aquinnah and Beatrice of Réméré. Follow their orders as if they were my own.”
The kelpie’s mouth twisted with bitter amusement, and he pressed his hand over his heart as he bowed to them. But his eyes gleamed with malice in the dark.
“My lady?” Llewellyn held his hand out, beckoning Beatrice on.
She squared her shoulders and, together with Llewellyn, they faced the kelpie. One hand stroking his chin, the fairy examined her first. He reached toward her, and she instinctively flinched from him. The kelpie liked that. His teeth flashed in a smile that had little to do with pleasure, and she forced herself to stay still as he reached for her again. He tugged the veil off her head, then combed his fingers through her hair, picking the ties and pins out until all the mass of her dark red curls fell heavy and loose down her back. Having her hair uncovered and unbound felt strange, alien. Lewd. Wonderful.
The kelpie reached for the ties of her dress, and she caught his wrists to stop him. “Wha—”
He pressed forward, his gaze flicking up to catch with hers. “You look like a noblewoman. A wife. A mother. I need you to look like a wanton. My lady.”
She shoved his hands back and retreated a step. “Then I will take care of that myself.” She glanced at her serviceable brown wool dress and, with a sigh, loosened the ties on the front of the bodice. She shrugged the material down so her shoulders were bare, then tightened the ties again so her breasts were pushed high. The softness of her hair brushed the back of her shoulders and neck, tickling her skin, reminding her how exposed she was.
The kelpie nodded approval, then turned to Llewellyn with a small laugh. “You, my pretty man. You will fit in just fine.” Lunging, the kelpie latched onto Llewellyn’s face, pressing his mouth to the magician’s in a deep, openmouthed kiss.
/> Beatrice gaped, and Mary made some choked noise behind her.
Llewellyn’s hands came up, shoving at the kelpie’s shoulders, trying to wrestle him off. After a moment, the kelpie yelped and staggered back, his mouth bloody. Llewellyn had blood on his teeth. The magician was panting, his face red, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The fairy licked the blood away and smiled at the flushed magician.
We’re in over our heads. Beatrice tried to steady herself with a deep breath but could hardly draw the air in. The kelpie drowned his victims, and at that moment it felt like he didn’t even need water to do it.
The kelpie gave a low, mean laugh. “Don’t worry, Magician. This is the one spot in all of the kingdom where you can indulge your sinful appetites in peace. In pleasure even.” The kelpie’s gaze flicked to Beatrice like the lash of a whip, leaving her feeling raw and stung. “You too, Baroness.” Looking pleased with himself, he did a small skip-step and started down the path. “This way.”
As they walked forward, trailing that damned insolent fairy, Llewellyn looked at her with wide eyes.
“Yes, I like to bed women.” She ground her teeth, muttering under her breath, “What, Magician, did you never listen to the court gossip?”
He swallowed hard. “I thought the stories were rumors to turn King Thomas from your bed. Later, I thought it was a symptom of the court’s dislike for you.”
“Quite.” She snorted. “That doesn’t mean the stories are untrue.”
He cleared his throat and looked away. “You always think you’re the only one. That you’re the only one who’s like this.”
“Not me. I had too many willing bedmates to believe I was the only one. Perhaps you should spread your favors around more, Magician. I can, uh, point you in the right direction at court if you like.” The two men she’d gone to bed with together had seemed rather interested in each other as well as her, after all.
He gave a small laugh, then looked at her from under frowning brows as if he’d never seen her before.
Beatrice gave his shoulder a shake. “You know the kelpie did that to throw you off before we enter the lion’s den. You know that?”
Llewellyn drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, blew it out slowly, then nodded.
“So don’t let him get the better of you.” And nor shall I.
“Don’t dawdle, my lambs. Keep up.” The kelpie’s teeth gleamed in the darkness as he called back to them.
Beatrice’s pulse jumped inside her, and her throat went dry with fear, but she drew her shoulders back and walked forward all the same.
Chapter Ten
They followed the kelpie up a gentle slope, and eventually the trees gave way to a bare meadow with a hill at its center. Strange torches lit the path, bathing the world in a ghostly blue light. A cacophony of noise assaulted Beatrice as she crossed the meadow to reach the fairy hill. Voices and singing, music and shouting filled the air—as if all the fetes and jousts and battles she had ever seen were happening all at once. And yet the meadow was empty. The sounds came from under the ground.
The fairy hill itself lay surrounded by a field of wildflowers, the ground gently sloping upward until it was a stumpy hill. Wildflowers grew on top of the hill too—overgrew, really. The buds were larger and matted together with the long grass like the hair of a maiden set with jewels.
A small hole marred the greenery, and all the riot of noise emerged from that opening. The kelpie sauntered forward, still smiling and jaunty. Beatrice forced her feet to move, practically dragging Llewellyn after her. Was he more hesitant because of the kelpie’s kiss? Or because he didn’t have a son in there waiting for rescue? Or is it because he knows what to expect in there and I do not?
All things considered, Beatrice was grateful that she didn’t know her fairy lore better. She was frightened enough without having better knowledge of what she might find. The kelpie went inside and Llewellyn moved ahead of her, chivalrously entering the revel first.
Please, please. Please let this work. She ducked her head as she entered the hole and shuffled through, her homespun skirts dragging in the dark black mud.
The hole opened up into a chamber with a high ceiling of rough rock. Rowdy pipes and drums assaulted her senses, as well as a wave of heat and stench from the hundreds of writhing, dancing bodies crammed into the chamber.
When she looked around, she blinked in surprise at the crowd of dancing revelers. How have they crammed so many…things inside here? Things seemed the best word, for there were few creatures under the hill that looked even remotely human. The ones who did look fully human seemed dead-eyed and drained, their eyes hollow, their bodies swaying in time to the music like a leaf in the wind—and with as little intent or will behind their movement as a leaf had. Each human might have been beautiful once—there were men and women, all young—but their cheeks were hollow now with lack of food, their eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
Will that happen to my son? She saw no children here, true. But if this was how the fairies treated their captives… She stared wide-eyed around the cavern. Dancing and kissing and even some full-on lovemaking shamelessly happened everywhere without concern for discretion. But there were crueler delights too: a young maiden who looked part tree, with mossy hair and bark-like skin, was being made to dance and dance while surrounded by a ring of jeering onlookers. They pelted her with trash when her steps faltered. A small nut-brown man with a red cap was being held down and force-fed pastries even though the creature wept and thrashed. A sword fight occupied one corner where two flagging combatants were whipped when they stopped, even though their slashed clothing was covered already in sweat and blood. Other shadowy horrors loomed, and Beatrice turned her gaze away, her gut churning.
“This way, my darling.” The kelpie dug his fingers into her elbow.
“Do not call me that.” She recoiled from him, trying to tug her arm free, but he did not release her.
His mouth quirked. “You had rather I call you Baroness and let the whole cavern know who you are and why you’ve come?”
She flinched, imagining all the attention of this court of horrors trained on her. Skin crawling, she let her body melt against the kelpie’s, side to side, gripping his arm hard. She smoothed out her features and pasted a sensual, satisfied smile on her face.
The kelpie blinked at her transformation, and she snorted in amusement. “I was the king’s mistress. Do you think I can’t dissemble when I must?” Truly, it had been her way of life once. Pretending, lying, scheming. She could feel the old toxic habits sliding back over her body like a filthy cloak. No wonder she had been such a shrew back then. No wonder she had hated everyone—and herself most of all. Stephen’s home had been a respite from that, a welcome safe harbor. Until now. “Take me to my son,” she gritted out through her still-smiling teeth.
The water horse patted her bottom and steered her through the cavern’s chaos, hugging the wall to avoid the crush of bodies.
Beatrice spared a glance behind her, and Llewellyn flashed a small, brave smile. His gaze flicked back to the morass in the middle of the cavern with horrified fascination. A scholar to his core. He’s probably keeping notes for some Guide to Fey Folk he wants to write. “Keep up, lover.” She held her hand out to him.
He startled and visibly shook himself. “Of course. Apologies.” He took her hand and gave it a small squeeze, a we're in this together squeeze, an everything will be all right squeeze.
A scream, high-pitched and wailing, pierced the air before it was abruptly cut off. She blinked tears back, holding on to her sensual façade with difficulty. Oh, where is my son? Meanwhile, the revels thundered on as if the terrifying scream had not happened.
How can I return the changeling child back to this? How can I abandon him to this? Beatrice shivered. But I must. The thought felt like a chain settling around her neck, a weight heavy enough to choke her. I must.
A troll thudded into their path. He was a large, hulking creature with boar tusks and flat
-pupiled yellow eyes like a goat. “Kelpie. Two humans? That’s just greedy. Surely you can share.”
Llewellyn pulled Beatrice against him, gripping her arms tight.
The kelpie waved an airy hand. “Ah, a lucky find—a married couple as wants to try the delights of our beautiful hill.”
“Give us the woman, kelpie. She looks succulent.” As the troll’s gaze flicked over her top to bottom, Beatrice wasn’t sure whether he wanted to bed her or eat her.
“Now, now, my friend.” The kelpie wagged a finger. “Queen’s rules: we don’t take those as are unwilling. And these two volunteered for a good tumble with me.”
“The queen’s a fine one to talk after stealing that baby. The messy, noisy little whelp.” The troll grinned, his eyes narrowing to two mean slits. “Besides, the queen is resting below tonight. No queen’s rules to stop us tonight.”
The troll reached for Beatrice, but Llewellyn shoved her to the ground. The troll’s grip fastened on the magician instead, tearing his tunic at the neck and shoulder. The glint of his iron armor caught in the torchlight as the chainmail was revealed.
Howling, the troll released Llewellyn at once, his fingers steaming. “What? What?” The troll’s lips clenched, his ruddy face going white with fury. “Iron. The man’s wearing iron.”
“Run,” Llewellyn hissed at her. He squeezed his hand closed, then opened it, and a ball of fire appeared in his cupped palm. He hurled the flame into the crowd and kindled another ball even as he threw himself toward the troll. Llewellyn’s rather impressive distraction pulled attention long enough for her to scurry away from the mob.
“You fool,” she murmured. “Thank you, thank you.” She crawled along the shadows of the cave wall, glad to be forgotten, unnoticed.
“Baroness.”
She fell back, scooting away as her heart thudded, but it was only the kelpie standing above her. He held a hand out and, reluctantly, she let him help her up.
