Hollow: Isa Fae paranormal romance (Fallen Sorcery Book 2)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Niall jogged to the edge of the city and began to ascend the scorched hill, trying to keep his face impassive. He didn’t want anyone stopping him to ask where he was going, or what was in the case clanging against his leg.

  The Hollow loomed above him, a dark beacon of gloom, the symbol of everything that had gone wrong in Niall’s life. Behind it, the black sky crackled. Jagged lightning cracked against the scorched earth. Even from out here, he could hear the creaks and groans of the structure fighting against the two forces that battled to possess it. The whole house glowed with a bright blue aura – the deepest, most vivid blue Niall had ever seen. Niall knew no one else could see it, but you didn’t have to see it to know the house brimmed with stored atern. As his hand closed around the latch of the wrought-iron gate, the metal burned his skin. But behind the pain was something else – a subtle heat thrummed through his fingers. The atern brimmed from every surface, even this old gate.

  “This is for you, Eamon.” Niall swung open the gate, and stepped onto the path.

  5

  Aisling

  Aisling had always known the time would come when she would be in the house alone. She had deliberately saved some of the books for this reason, choosing instead to play games with Bethany and explore the rooms and boxes together. They’d dragged down trunks of Lady Greymouth’s ballgowns from the attic before it became lost to them, and hung all the dresses in the wardrobe. They would parade around the house in the gowns, imagining the day when they had the curves to fill them out. When her mother was alive, Aisling would make her sit and tell them stories from her own imagination, enjoying these tales that starred her and her sister because they were always changing, always new.

  Now that it was just her, she could make a start on the task she had set herself. When you were alone, the way Aisling and their sister had been for three years, and the way Aisling was now in a way she couldn’t quite comprehend fully, the only way to prevent yourself from going insane was to give yourself a task, a goal to complete. Aisling’s self-imposed task was to read every book in the library, and to create a catalogue of what she discovered.

  Aisling already had a list of the first books she wanted to read. Once the raw pain of her loss had dulled to a cold ache, she’d dug out the new ledger book she had been saving for her purpose. For the first time in several months, her heart beat with excitement. It felt good to have a purpose again.

  Down in the library, Aisling stacked her chosen volumes under her arms. Plumes of dust rose up around her as she hunted out books she hadn’t seen in months or years. She was about to sit down on the lumpy chintz chairs under the window, when the thought occurred to her that she could read in the blue drawing room, instead. The Hollow was her house now, and there was no rule that said she couldn’t read in there if she wanted to.

  The library was in the west wing, and it was the first room along the wide hallway that opened off the large entrance hall that served as a through-point for the house. Aisling stepped out onto the marble floor, and her gaze instantly swept upward. The entrance hall was open to all three upper floors of the house. Twin staircases swept up from the ground floor, their carved mahogany balustrades depicting fat cherubs and swirling clouds. Between the staircases, large double doors led into the ballroom beyond. The history books Aisling had read about the house often talked about the lavish parties Lady Greymouth held – with enough guests to fill both the entrance hall and the ballroom and spill out into the gardens beyond.

  The west wing, where the library was located, swept off from a wide archway located near the foot of the staircase. The drawing room was the first room along the east wing, accessed through an identical archway on the opposite wall. It had once been a grand receiving room, hung with elaborate tapestries and delicate french drapes, its large bay windows looking out over the front garden. The tapestries had long since been obscured by a thick layer of dust, and the dark gloom of the overgrown garden and the abyss beyond pressed against the windows, obscuring most of the view, save the bay window that looked out over the porch. Bethany liked to sit at their grandmother’s desk under the window, scribbling drawings and scrawling angry messages in one of her many notebooks. But Aisling rarely went into the drawing room – it had been their grandmother’s favorite room, and her mother’s as well. Their mother’s distinct sandalwood perfume lingered on the moldy furniture. From the window above the desk, one could gaze over Scitis, the lands of the fae who had caused all their woes. Seeing smoke billowing from their chimneys and fae children playing in the snow made Aisling’s blood boil.

  But not today. Today, she ached to smell that perfume again, to be in the room where the three women she most loved in the world had passed their days. As Aisling moved across the large entrance hall, a heavy stack of books and her ledger cradled against her chest, there came a knock on the door.

  Knock knock.

  Aisling froze, the books teetering in her arms. I must be hearing things. It is the knocking in the walls again. We haven’t heard it in months, but it must be back again, and it’s trying to fool me into trying to open the front door—

  Knock knock.

  “Never open the front door,” her mother had warned her, more times than she could count. “Even if the house allows you to.” The Hollow’s grounds – including thehouse, the lawn and the cemetery, but not the front garden, porch, or iron gate gate – were protected by Grandmother June’s powerful spells, but opening the front door created a chink in the armor, a portal through which any fae could pass from the front into the house. It was like inviting a vampire over the threshold. The house knew this, and so it kept that door tightly sealed, except for a couple of rare occasions where it had creaked open a crack, before slamming shut again.

  Bethany had tried to open it once, during one of her screaming fits where she declared that death by the fae was better than being stuck inside for all eternity. She’d pulled and pulled at the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. The house knew how to protect itself.

  Knock knock.

  The sound was definitely coming from outside the house. Her heart pounding, Aisling stood bone still, listening hard. Through the frosted glass on the side of the door, she could see a shadow moving on the porch.

  Her heart in her chest, Aisling raced into the drawing room. She dropped the books on the writing desk and leaned across. The bay window stood out from the house, so the corner window gave the narrowest view across one corner of the porch. She saw a shadow move in front of the door. Snowy footprints led from the cracked steps toward the door.

  Knock knock.

  Aisling wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts. She tore her gaze away from the shadowy figure, and looked to the wrought iron gate at the end of the overgrown path. She gasped as she saw the gate was open, creaking as it swung on rusty hinges. Who could it be? Who would be so bold as to enter the gates of the Hollow and knock on the door?

  The iron gate would hurt any fae who touched it. Who is so bold or so desperate that they would accept that pain?

  Fae came to the Hollow sometimes – some nights, bands of teenage fairies tittered from behind the gate as they dared each other to approach the doors or windows and peer inside, or to balance along the crumbling garden wall that fell away into the nothingness of the abyss. Sometimes, fae scientists came and camped on the lawn. They set up instruments on tripods and aimed them at the house, or bore holes into the ground and shoved instruments down them. But never were any of the fae so bold as to come right up on the porch and knock on the door.

  Aisling leaned further, her knee digging into the hard wooden chair. She could just make out the outline of the figure’s face as it beat at the door with both hands.

  It was a Fae.

  Aisling could tell by the slight upturned edges on his ears, and the obscene beauty of his features, even though she couldn’t quite make out his face. As he raised his fist to knock again, the light caught the familiar wristband glowing around his wrist. Unlike most of the other
fae she’d seen, who were scientists with lab coats and armloads of complex machinery, or superintendents in exquisitely tailored suits supervising workers who dug at the icy ground with pickaxes, this fae was a hunter. He wore a green shirt and trousers covered in pockets, and carried an impressive recurved bow across his back, the quilted arrow quiver banging against his side. Beside him, on the porch, sat a single black suitcase.

  She leaned so far forward, her nose smushed against the glass. Her knee slipped out from beneath her, and she toppled forward, hitting the window with a dull thud.

  The fae spun around, and his eyes found hers. Aisling’s breath caught. A jolt ricocheted through her body, as though she’d caught her hand in an electrical socket. She lost her grip on the windowsill and toppled backwards, stumbling over the chair and crashing to the floor.

  He’s the boy. The one from my dreams.

  The boy with the mesmerizing eyes. The boy who held her, whose touch lit up her body. The boy who whispered in her ear that everything was going to be okay, who seemed to watch over her shoulder when she had to venture into the parts of the house that were not safe. It was him. He was real.

  And he was a fae. Somehow, in all her intense dreams about him, that detail had never been apparent. Dreams are your mind’s conception of the world, Grandmother June had once told her. You see what you want to see.

  She’d wanted a boy. A friend. A lover. Someone to talk to, the way people talked in books. So she’d created him. But then how was he here, right outside the door?

  Heat shuddered through Aisling’s body. She didn’t know if it was from fear or desire. She lifted her eyes to the bottom of the desk. He’s right out there, just on the other end of the porch—

  Rap rap.

  The sound was right above her. Aisling yanked her head up, and smacked her forehead against the underside of the desk. Cursing as the pain surged through her skull, she crawled backward, using the chair to hoist herself into a kneeling position.

  From here, concealed by the heavy desk, she could gaze up at him without him being able to see her. She studied his face – a face that was supposed to be a figment of her imagination but now stood before her. He had the same features common in the fae; that proud, arrogant nose, the strong chin held high, the piercing eyes that seemed to stare into the soul. But instead of the usual haughty, superior expression, this fae’s features showed something else. Fear.

  He was afraid.

  Aisling wanted nothing more than to run to him and fall into his arms. Her whole body ached with need for him, for the comfort he represented. But she knew that was ridiculous. He was Fae. He was here to attempt to take the power from the house, as they all had done before. Nothing else.

  But still … she could not just leave him alone. How can it be the same boy? That can’t be a coincidence. Grandmother June had taught her that nothing was ever a coincidence.

  Aisling’s eyes followed the boy as he leaned forward and rapped on the window again. She pulled herself up, her eyes peering over the edge of the desk. He waved tentatively at her, a short, uncertain wave that made her heart flip. He seemed to move in slow motion, his movements liquid, as though he were underwater. It made him appear even more ethereal, like he did indeed come from a dream.

  His lips – those same ruby-red lips she’d dreamed of kissing so many times – moved. He was speaking to her, but all she could hear through the glass was a slow, muffled moan.

  “Speak louder!” she said, her words coming out a whisper. Aisling cleared her throat and tried again. “I can’t hear you!”

  His lips moved again, but still she couldn’t discern his words. It must be the protection spells, messing with the sound. An idea occurred to her. Aisling stood upright. The boy jumped back with a start, his gaze flowing down her body in a way that made her heart pound faster. His face looked even more terrified.

  She jabbed her finger in the direction of the front door. “Go back there!” she shouted. “I’ll come meet you.”

  He didn’t move. His eyes bore into hers.

  Aisling tore her gaze away, and forced her limbs to move. She rushed back into the hall, and flipped up the mail slot on the door. “Who are you?” she whispered, her stomach churning in anticipation of his answer. “Why are you here?”

  A shadow passed over the slot as he knelt down, and she found herself only inches from those icy eyes, boring into her with a stare so intense she felt as though he saw right through her skin. Aisling swallowed, her head thudding against her chest. It’s him. It’s really him.

  “I’m Niall,” he said. Niall – passionate. The name suited him, or at least, the “him” of her dreams. “Can I come in? I … I have to talk to you.”

  “We can talk fine how we are,” she said, her guard instantly raised. He may have been her dream boy, but that didn’t means she was stupid. He was Fae, which meant he couldn’t be here for any good reason. Perhaps he’s simply glamoured himself, putting on the skin of the dream boy in order to get you to open the door.

  But how would he know what the dream boy looked like?

  “Listen, I’m not supposed to be here. If the Conclave catch me, I’m dead.” He sounded scared. It’s a trick. He’s trying to get you to open the door.

  “I don’t see how that’s my problem.” Aisling settled for bravado to cover her own sweaty palms and pounding heart.

  “I really don’t want to talk about this out here,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “But I have information … you need to know the Quaesitors have invented a new machine to extract magic from objects. They’re testing it at the moment, but as soon as it's ready, they’re going to come out here and aim it at the house. And when they’re done, there won’t be anything left. You won’t be protected any longer.”

  “So you’ve come to gloat at my imminent demise?”

  He snorted. “Your ‘imminent demise’? Who talks like that?”

  “I talk like that.” Aisling’s fear made anger rise quickly in her stomach. How dare her come to her house, terrify her, and then mock her? Dream boy would have never done that. “I’ve lived in this house my entire life. There are lots of books. I study the words. Now, you’ve said your piece, so thanks for the warning. If you haven’t anything better to do, you can go away. I’ve got some fae traps to set for when your posse comes knocking.”

  Where had that come from? Aisling leaned back, surprised by her own words. She didn’t usually think that fast on her feet. She liked a more measured, analytical approach. It was Bethany who flared up when goaded. Fae traps, seriously? There were no such thing as fae traps. But dream boy doesn’t know that.

  Aisling tried to slam down the mail slot, but he jammed his fingers into it. The tip of his finger grazed her cheek. She jumped back as an electric jolt raced through her body. The skin burned where his finger had touched her.

  “Please …” Niall pleaded, his voice like honey. He averted his eyes from hers, staring down at the ground. “I’ve come to help you.”

  I’ve come to help you. Oh, how many nights had she wished for this very thing to happen, for the dream boy to show up and rescue her from her prison. But now that he was here, she didn’t know what to do, what to believe. And worse still, she was all alone, with none of the more experienced witches in the family to guide her.

  Again, she reverted to bravado. “And you think I need help, do you?”

  “You will. I …” He kept his eyes downcast. “I have something that might be able to save your life.”

  “That’s rather vague. This house has protected me from all the other rays and weapons you’re kind’ve thrown at it, so I don’t see how this situation is any different. You still haven’t given me a good reason to open the door.”

  “I know you,” he said, looking up again. “I’ve never met you before, but I know you. I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

  What?

  Okay, this wasn’t normal. Her dreaming about him was one thing, but for them to both have dreams that
involve the other was something else entirely. That was important. It meant something, Aisling just didn’t know what. Was it prophetic? Did they share some kind of magical connection? Aisling hadn’t had much cause to pour through their old family grimoire in recent years (she’d given up after it had become apparent there were no answers that could free her from the house), but she’d have to carefully study the section on dreams. This was unreal.

  “What happens in your dreams?” She finally managed to ask, her voice a whisper. “What happens to me?”

  “You are in trouble, and I try to save you, but every time I fail.” His eyes blaze with fury. “Not this time.”

  Aisling stared out into his eyes. What she saw there terrified her. Here was this fairy, his body built for dominance and war, but his eyes betrayed the turmoil within his own mind. He looked desperate and terrified. That was not the way of the fae.

  Her fingers itched to reach out and touch him, to feel the smooth skin of his face under her hands. She longed to brush her lips against his, to kiss the pain away, to feel her body react the way it did in her dreams.

  Aisling’s hand poised over the door handle. Making a snap decision, she clamped her fingers around it, and tried to turn it. Maybe it will be different this time. Maybe the Hollow knows that he’s here to help me …

  The door wouldn’t budge.

  Disappointment flooded through her, along with a sense of relief. Aisling slumped against the door, and jammed her fist in her eye to hold back the tears. She’d never know what it was like to stand beside him, to gaze into his eyes without a door in the way. But then, he’d never have the chance to betray her.

  “I can’t let you in, even if I wanted to.” Her voice came out as a sob. “The house won’t let me.”

  As if responding, the front door clicked. The handle spun of its own accord. The door swung back toward Aisling. She leapt away in shock. For the first time in fifteen years, she saw the front porch. Her eyes drank in the details; dark stone – darker than she remembered – dotted with still darker stains, the posts cracked and buckling, leafless vines weaving between the lattice balustrade. The whole thing covered in the thick layer of ice.