by Blake, Laila
Brock looked away, distaste flitting over his features again.
“Your magic for a project. They have to disappear and I keep that one, just as insurance.” He nodded at Iris and Maeve immediately rolled her eyes and shook her head. Before she could say anything, Iris stepped forward.
“Deal,” she exhaled and ignored her mother’s stare and her attempt to interrupt.
“Deal,” Brock said between his teeth. They both looked at the two lovers on the floor, the way Owain cradled Moira in his arms and held her like he never wanted to let her go again.
• • •
“Wait … where are we going?” Moira whispered. She and Owain were the last in the quiet procession down the stairs and into the Rochmond wing. Neither she nor Owain had been allowed much input on the deal the others had struck. Moira, especially, was still trying to catch up while Owain had had a frown solidly plastered onto his face from the moment they had left the tower room.
“What if someone sees us?” Moira asked again when nobody answered. She was shaking again, but then could remind herself that there was Owain walking next to her and whatever else happened — he was there. It didn’t quite make up for the fact that she knew she was walking behind her mother and half sister, but neither of them seemed to take much notice of her.
“Why are we … can someone please explain?” she pressed out, face pink with embarrassment and frustration and — instinctively — she stamped her foot and stood still. For a moment nothing happened before the first heads started to turn, Owain’s included. But Moira stood her ground, slightly subconsciously rubbing her sore wrists as though the red rope marks might loudly proclaim her right to ask questions.
“Will you explain it to your mutt?” Brock sneered at the beautiful tall woman that Moira could hardly look at; not just because it caused her the same strange need to rub her eyes she’d experienced with Brock before, but also because she just couldn’t believe she was supposed to be her mother. She couldn’t, for the life of her, look like she longed for her to look back or say a kind word.
She did have the impression that the Fae took a breath to answer when the older one — her sister, the one she’d seen with Fairester before — raised her voice in a distant, tired monotone.
“They need a cloud of magic; — an aura, if you will — in order to do more than the most basic enchantments,” she explained with a weary expression. “It is formed by a group of Fae. The bigger the group, the more powerful the magical cloud.” It looked like she wanted to say something else, but then caught Brock’s eye and stopped.
Moira, however, wanted more. She shivered and looked at Owain, just to calm herself. Magical clouds, glow, blood, family, too many ideas and words that should have elicited all kinds of emotions swirled around in her head, too many at once, fighting for power while Moira remained quite numb.
“But I’m not … you’re not, he’s not … ” she stuttered.
“Oh believe me, I’d love to send the pooch back into his kennel,” Brock sneered. When Owain growled, he gave him another spiteful glance and turned around again before the Blaidyn could answer.
“I won’t leave her leave her alone with you … any of you,” he said quietly, threateningly and looked at each of them as though challenging them to try and deny him but nobody seemed inclined to.
Instead, Maeve finally raised her voice, eyes solely resting on her youngest daughter; “And you have the blood in you — both of you — that is more powerful and more meaningful than someone like him could bring himself to admit.”
Brock sighed, but Maeve’s eyes were still on Moira until the young woman nodded silently and then quickly looked away. They started to walk again, but the closer they came to her parents’ sleeping chambers — not really her parents, Moira had to remind herself with a pang of unexpected pain — the more uncomfortable she grew.
“How do we know he’s not going to use the … cloud … thing to trick us?” Moira asked in a whisper before continuing, a little alarmed. “I mean, aren’t we making him stronger?”
“Fae can’t effectively harm other Fae by using magic,” Iris explained, still distant, hardly looking at Moira or Owain, and Moira looked at the ground. She still didn’t understand the deal that had taken place, but something told her that this old woman was the one losing the most. And Moira didn’t even know why. “Not even us.”
“It’s a shared energy,” Maeve went on, trying an almost shy smile at her daughter, “part of the immortal life-force in which we all. It is warm and it flows; it can’t be turned against someone who helps supply it. It can heal, but not harm.”
“But … he gave me something, it did something to me,” Moira protested, hugging herself. Instinctively, Owain laid his arm around her shoulder, drawing her closer.
“The blood is different,” Iris replied again and shrugged.
“Its strength depends on the Fae’s age, their power … ” Maeve contributed and ignored Brock’s grunt of frustration. “And your system fought it. A human could be completely overwhelmed by a Blood spell, sometimes for days, sometimes forever.”
“Can we stop the Fae lesson here?” Brock hissed, raising his hand for them to stop.
“This is my … this is Lady Cecile’s chamber,” Moira whispered in protest, but a sharp glance from the strange-looking man she had once known as her old Brock caused her to fall silent.
“A deal is a deal,” Brock whispered, shooting each of them warning glances as he held his glowing palm over the lock and then silently pushed down the handle.
Silently, they all filed into the room, Brock leading the group. While he stepped further into the bedchambers, however, the others remained by the door until the Fae’s glowing palm came to rest on the sleeping noblewoman’s forehead, deepening her sleep.
“Wait … ” Moira exhaled, but Maeve shook her head at her and Moira turned her face away and against Owain’s chest. She didn’t want to see. She had always known that Lady Cecile wasn’t her mother, that her greatest wish was a boy to replace Moira in the line of succession, but she didn’t want her harmed, however much she had so often wished herself away from the woman.
Owain’s chest was warm. It still smelled like blood, but she could cope with it for the moment while Brock’s calming draught was still in effect. It was something she was still trying to come to terms with; her body had resisted the one that sought to harm her, but was allowing the other one to remain in place for longer. It didn’t seem possible; but so many things that night had been and still were.
“What … is he doing?” Moira asked in the quietest of whispers and Owain bent over her to brush his nose over her fiery hair before his lips found the shell of her ear. Just for a moment, they ran over the softest little hairs there, tickling and making Moira press her body closer against his. Finally, he made himself answer.
“He pulled back her duvet,” he breathed, trying not to betray his distaste. “He is touching her stomach.”
“What?” Moira wheeled around, and breathed in deeply through her mouth. It looked so wrong, the glowing hand on Lady Cecile’s nightgown and she immediately looked away again, trying to catch the other’s eyes imploringly, but nobody was looking at her. Before she knew it, Brock was done. He replaced the duvet and turned back to the small group before they exited the room. Nobody was looking at one another as they filed back down the corridor.
“What did you do to her?” Moira finally dared to ask. There was an exhaustion in her voice that had nothing to do with physical lack of energy.
“Not that it is any of your business,” Brock sneered back at her, “but I made her fertile. I need a new protégé when you disappear, don’t I?”
Moira swallowed. Brock snorted at her confused face and then turned away again before they reached her room and stepped inside. He had interpreted her expression rather well; in tha
t moment, Moira couldn’t combine the image of him that had formed over the last hours with such an act of kindness. But nobody else seemed to find it touching at all. Carefully they stepped from one foot to the other, still avoiding each other’s eyes.
“There’s one other thing … ” Brock said, taking control again. “You disappear this very night. Both of you, I’m sick of your faces. This place is mine. Remember that. Pack some things and leave. Don’t come back or the deal is off.”
Moira swallowed, helplessly looking at Owain. She hardly knew if he wanted to leave and go anywhere with someone like her and the panic set in again, starting in her chest and slowly moving outward into her limbs.
“As for you … ” Brock continued, his eyes landing on Iris. Maeve stepped forward, shaking her head.
“You can’t … ”
“Hold your tongue, Maeve, the deal is struck.”
“If you hurt her … ” swallowing, Maeve narrowed her eyes but her threat caused Brock to chuckle and shake his head. Iris stayed silent, standing straight and facing the man she was promised to stay close to.
“There’s one more thing I want to do before the cloud dissipates,” he stepped toward the old woman. Maeve flinched but she was too late in stepping between them and Iris gave her a long look.
“He can’t harm me by magic, mother. I made my choice.” But even Moira could see the distance and coldness in her eyes and it made her shudder. It made her want to look away as Brock reached out his hand and brushed it over Iris’s ageing cheek.
“This won’t do … ” he told her with a shake of his head. His palm started to glow again. “I need you to pass as a wet nurse when the time comes.” His hand moved over her face and then rushed down her body and when the golden glow dissipated, a much younger woman stood before them. She was fair-skinned with hair of light brunette and looked pretty, if ordinary.
Brock shrugged. “You can’t expect me to look at that sack of old bones all every day, now can you?”
Moira stared, so did Owain and even Maeve who was about to move toward them when a glance of Brock’s stopped her. Iris was breathing shallowly, walking over to Moira’s mirror and was touching her smooth face with a shivering sense of wonder.
“I … ” she started, stopped at the slightly different sound of her voice and then tried again; “I’m … am I … ?”
“Young again?” Brock asked, and Moira had the sudden desire to claw his eyes out at the coldly mocking tone in his voice. The sudden violence in her thoughts made her tremble and turn away, leaning against Owain again.
“No,” Brock answered when Iris’s face told him everything he needed to know. “I’m not in the habit of giving mortals ideas of immortality, crossling.”
“Don’t … call her that.” Maeve spat before she had her own mocking expression fixed back on her face. “The truth is, you don’t have enough power for that, isn’t it, Brody?”
The man shrugged as though it was one and the same, and then looked at his creation again. “Come with me, I will go over your story with you. I’m growing weary of the … company. Be gone by morning, all of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You should get ready … ” Maeve said quietly after Iris and Brock had left them. Moira’s head was spinning and she looked helplessly from Maeve to Owain and back.
“We have to leave tonight?” she asked, swallowing.
“Tonight … this place has attracted enough attention. And we shouldn’t give Brody … Brock any reason to feel like he can go back on his word.” Maeve breathed in deeply and then gave them a careful smile.
“I have to speak to Iris … I’ll give you some privacy. Don’t bring more than you can carry.”
• • •
Moira watched the woman — in her head, she couldn’t call her mother, not even in theory quite yet — leave the room. She exhaled audibly through her open mouth and then sank down on her bed.
“I … I can’t believe … any of this,” she admitted softly, forehead in a deep frown. “I’m so … so so sorry, Owain. I … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he whispered, shaking his head and squatting down in front of her. He placed his hands gently on her knees and smiled up at her. She was pale and sweet, but he had seen her strength and her stubborn side, too. He loved the way her hair was spread untamed all around her porcelain face.
“It’s all right,” he went on. “Look at me, Momo.”
His roughened fingertips touched her chin with the same gentle brush she remembered from a time before everything had sunk into chaos. The name evoked a similar feeling in her; warm and sweet and perfect. Her eyes met his easily and he smiled.
“You have nothing - nothing - to apologize for. Do you hear me? Nothing. I’m the one who … ” He tried to say it but even repeating how abominably he had behaved to her seemed to invoke it again. Moira, too, shook her head, and smiled a little wider.
“No apologies then,” she whispered. “From either of us.”
It didn’t seem like it could be that simple but when he smiled at her and leaned in to brush his lips over hers, it seemed settled and easy. He would leave with her, they would go together; wasn’t that the dream? Wasn’t that the unattainable she had never even dared to hope for?
“What are we going to do?” she asked sniffing and trying to put her mind to rest even if she couldn’t quite stop smiling at the idea of leaving with him; leaving and being free. Her fingers touched his hair, ran through it and over his sensitive scalp.
“We’ll … find out,” he promised, but then looked down. She recognized the worry line on his forehead and carefully, smoothed her thumb over it and leaned forward to kiss it softly.
“Momo, I … I have nothing to offer you. Nothing. I own the clothes on my back. I have no family, no home, no pack to offer you. But I’m strong, I can find work, we … ” he shook his head. Exhaling through his nose, he allowed himself to lean his forehead against her lips again and submit to the soft petting of her fingertips.
It made her smile. Her Owain. Gently, she found the soft place behind his ear, caressing and rubbing it until he uttered a tiny whine of pleasure and looked up at her half amused, half embarrassed. His wolf liked being petted, and so did he.
“I don’t need people,” she promised, leaning her forehead against his. “I just want to be with you. I want to be free with you … ”
Owain didn’t sigh. He knew it was more difficult than that. Most people weren’t as vocal about it as Brock had been, but a relationship between humans and Blaidyn — especially a male Blaidyn and a human woman — was generally regarded with distaste. It fell worse on the woman but he didn’t have the heart to warn her, to let any doubt or shadow fall on the moment they shared. To him, she was perfect, warm and sweet and caring. He had never seen himself as the marrying type, the one to raise a family or find that woman who made him want to spend the rest of his life adoring her and doting on her. Yet here they were, planning a rushed future together.
He kissed her again, deep and desperate. How long had it been since he had pulled her dress over her shoulders and laid her back on that very bed she was sitting on? It felt like an eternity; but they didn’t have time. Not then.
Breathing a little harder, he pulled away from her, cupped her cheek and took her hand, squeezing it gently. She had beautiful hands, like milk and peaches, hands that had never held a heavy tool, had never born blisters and calluses by performing hard labor in the kitchen or the laundry trove. As much as his own kind disliked such distinctions of class that divided people into those who worked and those who didn’t, he still suddenly felt a pang of heartache at the knowledge that her hands would change. He would change them in taking her away from her life.
It didn’t matter that the Fae wanted them both gone, nor that Moira wanted to go. All Owain could s
ee was how all of it, suddenly and mysteriously, had fulfilled his wildest dreams. He was able to take her away with him — but it would change her. Her fingers and her face would change and it would forever feel like something he had done to her, like dragging a heavenly creature down from the creamy clouds into the mud of men.
“You are worrying again,” Moira whispered when he had rubbed his thumb over her palm a few times and the lines had appeared back on his forehead. He was so handsome to her, she wanted to touch him all the time, until her fingers remembered every curve and every line of his face and could feel him out among a thousand men.
“Only a little,” he answered and smiled up at her. “We should pack. Why don’t you start and I’ll see if I can’t find another pack in the soldier’s quarters?”
Moira nodded, trying to remind herself that she was strong, too, that she was the daughter of a woman who turned traitor to her own kind, just to keep her safe. It didn’t sound right yet; nothing sounded right or believable.
It also didn’t help that she was the little sister of a woman who looked like her grandmother and who was braver than her. A sister who had offered to stay at the Bramble Keep in order to let her, Moira, go free. Owain smiled at her with his beautiful sad smile and bent down to kiss her forehead.
“Everything will be all right,” he promised and Moira believed him. What choice did she have? They would be together.
It was like a dream, however confusing and scary the circumstances, however uncomfortable she felt with leaving the Keep — and her parents — in Brock’s hands. Had he really given Lady Cecile a baby? Would they forget her fast?
She looked down at her feet and then forced herself to move. She slipped out of her dress which seemed much too fine for travelling and which had suffered under Brock’s treatment of her. Owain’s blood was on her sleeve and she swallowed hard when she saw it, quickly casting the dress away before she could take a deep, calming breath.
