Beauty [A Faery Story 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Sophie Oak

  “Go on then, I see the little ones have already brought the news.” She winked down at Ove. “Go back to your mum.” She passed her a small container. “Morning milk, to thank her. Stay out of sight. The less they remember you exist, the safer you will be.”

  Ove nodded her scraggly head and took off, the shafts marking her progress.

  Bron was halfway up the stairs when Gillian caught her.

  “You have to be more careful. If the guards caught you holding hands with Ove, they would have every right to arrest you.”

  Anger curled in Bron’s stomach. “Then perhaps we should do something about the guards.”

  Like gather together and show them what a mob could do.

  She marched to her room and flung her clothes off with a reckless hand. She slammed open the door to her dresser and pulled out her work dress.

  Gillian sat down on the edge of the bed. “Could I talk you into the blue cotton?”

  The blue cotton was her best dress, the one she wore to weddings and festivals. “I won’t waste it on him.”

  She hated the mayor with his covetous eyes. She’d selected her work dress because it covered her chest and masked her curves. The mayor was looking for a wife, and he’d already asked Bron. She’d been trying to put him off.

  “Will you please try to remember what your main job is?” Gillian asked.

  This was a lecture Bron had heard almost every day of her life on the run. “I don’t know. Remind me.”

  Gillian huffed a little. “One day you are going to make some men insane. I simply know it. Your job is to stay alive. Your job is to be a living, breathing woman when your brothers return.”

  If they returned. “I will endeavor to not become a corpse in the next few hours.”

  Gillian came up behind her, working the buttons up her back. When she was done, she turned Bron around and looked at her, smoothing down the small bit of scalloped edges of the neckline. “I am sometimes deeply glad that Torin planned his coup when you were a youngling since I could never make you pass for a boy now.”

  Bron smiled, but it was a sarcastic thing. “I prayed for bosoms all my life. Now I rather wish I was slender.”

  Gillian shook her head. “No, you don’t. You’re beautiful just the way you are. Don’t let the current palace fashions make you think otherwise.”

  There was a knock on the door. Even his knock sounded short and officious, like the man himself.

  Gillian took a deep breath. “I know you’re angry, love, but hold on for a bit longer. Things are happening. I can’t see them clearly yet, but something changed a few months back. I felt it. I still feel it. Something’s coming.”

  “That might not be a good thing, Gilly.”

  “Please.”

  How in all the planes could she deny this woman? Bron nodded, giving her a silent promise to behave. Gillian called out the window to let the mayor know they were coming, and Bron followed her down the stairs.

  Gillian had been a princess. She could have gotten out. She more than likely could have negotiated with Torin for her release. Torin had been looking for allies, desperate for them. He would have loved having the Unseelie king in his debt, yet Gillian hadn’t abandoned her. She’d sought a way out for them both, and when that failed, Gillian McIver had made a home for them here.

  No matter how much Bron wanted to take her weapons and practice on the mayor, she would hold her tongue.

  The door was opened, and there stood Micha and his ever-present guard.

  “Ladies,” he said, bowing slightly.

  She could hear him. Even in a backwater province, courtesy is required. She wondered if he would be so courteous when she gutted him.

  Bron did what was expected and curtsied, though not as deeply as he would have wanted.

  “May I come in for tea?” Micha asked with the smile of a man who knew the question was mere formality. “The palace has set forth some exciting new plans. I thought I would talk to my favorite citizens before they’re posted in the square for all to see.”

  Gillian managed a bright smile. Bron’s stomach churned. He acted like it was exciting news when it more than likely was a new and inventive way to kill those Torin despised. Fae were starving across the plane, but Torin seemed more interested in coming up with ways to dispose of his enemies.

  “Of course, Mayor, please make yourself welcome.” Gillian invited him in, her hand sweeping gracefully across the room, as though she were welcoming him into a palace, not the sad tower that was their home. “And your guards?”

  Micha’s nose wrinkled as though it was common to even acknowledge they were there. “My guards will do their duties. Two will remain outside and one in the hallway. They have no need for anything so delicate as tea.”

  The tightness of the guard’s mouth told Bron that perhaps he had been looking forward to some food. Even the guards were on rations, it seemed. When he noticed her watching, he gave a tight smile and a nod. Bron thought he was almost giving her permission to ignore him.

  “I’ll get the tea,” Bron said as Gillian showed the mayor into what passed for the parlor.

  Bron started the tea and gathered the bread and cheese they had left. It seemed a shame to waste it all on the mayor, who didn’t look like a man who had missed many meals.

  “How is the crop looking this year?” Micha was asking Gillian.

  “Better than even last year. Danu has blessed us.”

  “The king will be happy to hear it. He’s requesting an extra twenty percent this year.”

  Bron nearly dropped the teapot. An extra twenty percent after he already took half? It was outrageous.

  Gillian’s response was measured. “An extra twenty percent, did you say? I worry that sending so much to the palace will mean our own people will starve.”

  The mayor laughed. “Don’t you worry your pretty head now. We’ll be fine. The king has declared rations for all citizens. And he’s redefined citizenship. The king and queen will always take care of the sidhe.”

  Bron forced herself to pour the hot water into the pot. So he’d done it. Torin had finally declared that only sidhe were true Seelie. The brownies and the trolls, the dryads and leprechauns, would be declared Unseelie and therefore undesirable. They would receive no rations. Any land they possessed would be confiscated. They had no protections.

  She passed the guard in the hall. He didn’t see her or he surely would have tempered his expression. When the mayor mentioned getting rid of the riffraff, the guard’s face became fierce, a dark, vengeful look passing over his handsome countenance.

  An ally?

  She couldn’t be sure, and she certainly couldn’t walk up to him and say, hey, I’m the supposedly dead princess of the Seelie Fae. Wanna start a revolution? Nope. That would fall under the heading of “stupid things to do.” But if the mayor’s guard could be swayed to her side, there was no time like the present to begin the process.

  She gave him what she hoped was her kindest smile and passed him a sandwich of soft bread and tangy cheese.

  The guard’s eyes lit, and then he frowned. “Best not, Miss.”

  He really was hungry. It no longer mattered what damn side he was on. Bron couldn’t help but feel for the man. She’d been hungry. She’d felt it gnaw at her stomach and prayed for anything to end the slow torture of starvation.

  “Please. We have more than enough, and the mayor won’t notice.” She pressed the sandwich into his hand. “I won’t be able to enjoy a thing if I know you’re out here with your stomach rumbling.”

  The guard smiled, the look softening his face. “My thanks to you, Miss. It’s said around town that you and your sister are kind ones.” He leaned over and whispered. “Tell the brownies to hide. Leave their homes. They need to go underground. He’s going to come for them.”

  He stood back up, his face red as a beet as though he knew he’d just committed treason.

  Bron nodded and put a hand on his. “I thank you, sir.”

  Her h
eart pounding, she walked into the parlor. She prayed her rage didn’t show on her face.

  “There she is.” The mayor looked up, satisfaction written on every line of his face. “Beautiful Isolde.”

  Bron was glad the man didn’t know her real name. She would hate to hear it on his lips. She set the tray on the table, grateful that unwed women were supposed to be shy. He would think the fact that she wasn’t looking at him was charming.

  “Come and sit with me, dear.”

  Panic threatened to overtake her. Gillian shifted uncomfortably, her eyes going to the window where the silhouettes of the two guards Micha had left outside stood, their pikes held high. Bron had dreams at night of Gillian on the end of one of those hated pikes.

  She sat down, trying to keep plenty of distance between them.

  “Gillian, dear, might I have a word alone with your sister?” The words practically slithered out of his mouth.

  Gillian sat straight up, and Bron could see she’d reached the end of her patience. She had to stop her.

  “Please, Gilly. I’ll be fine. I can handle it. After all, being a good hostess is all a part of my job, right?” She placed careful emphasis on the word “job” since Gillian had just given her a lecture on what her true job was. Staying alive.

  Her jaw tightened, but Bron breathed easier as Gillian got up. “I suppose I can go and find something a bit stronger than tea if Your Honor would prefer it.”

  The mayor winked. “I think we might be needing that. Find something for a celebration, dear.”

  Her stomach turned since she knew what was coming.

  The minute Gillian was out the door, he scooted over, placing himself so close to her she could smell the rank heat of his body under his layers of proper clothing. No true country Fae would wear such fancy clothes, but the mayor liked to pretend he was going to the palace instead of running a small agricultural province.

  “Now, my dear, have you given any thought to my proposal?”

  Bron had to force herself to smile. She decided to go for simpering and brainless. “I have thought of little else.”

  Since the moment the man who could have been her grandfather had blandly proposed marriage to her, she’d tried to think of anything but that old goat getting his hands on her.

  A sly smile crossed his face. “Well, then, shall we announce it tomorrow at the festival?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. I don’t think I would make a good mayor’s wife. I’m a simple country girl.” She’d hoped for more time. She’d rather hoped that the man would find a wife at court who suited him more. He’d spent the last two months there.

  He shook his head, reaching for her hand. His were clammy and soft, the hands of a man who’d never done an honest day’s work. “Not at all, my dear. You’re actually quite well educated. As is your sister. Your manners are far beyond a mere country girl. You have everything required to be an excellent wife for me. Once you’ve been cleaned up and are in proper attire, you’ll be quite pretty. You’ll fit right in. And I’m going places, Isolde. I spoke to King Torin himself. Our little kingdom is changing. He’s bringing us back to our rightful place. The Vampire Council is going to acknowledge Torin as the rightful king.”

  She was sure she’d turned a little green. If the Vampire plane acknowledged Torin, the others would follow.

  If Micha noticed, he didn’t show it, merely continued talking in his most pretentious tone. “King Torin was very interested in our little province, I tell you. Once he sees how well I enact his new laws, he’s going to understand that I should be given a much bigger place in the ruling class. But before I can request a new assignment, I truly must have a wife and family in place.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mayor.” She stammered out the words, not sure how to extricate herself.

  His face turned cold, his thin lips nearly disappearing. “Well, you’re not supposed to think, are you, dear? Do you know what I think? I think it’s odd that a girl your age hasn’t married and had children. You’re what? Twenty-five?”

  She nodded, not wanting to explain that she was actually twenty-seven.

  “And your sister is at least ten years older. Odd then that she’s avoided marriage.” He leaned in, his words a cold chill running down her spine. “Some people around here whisper that your sister hasn’t married because she’s too busy practicing magic. I don’t like that rumor, do you?”

  Tears threatened, angry, frightened, utterly impotent tears. “No. I don’t like it.”

  That rumor would get Gillian strung up, and no amount of magic would stop it. Gillian could try, and she might take out a few, but Gillian’s magic tended to be more about helping than defending. And no matter how often Bronwyn trained with sword and knife and bow, she couldn’t stop the troops by herself.

  “Can you think of any way to quell such a rumor?”

  Bastard. “I think no one would believe it if her sister married someone as important as the mayor.”

  He had her in a corner, and he knew it. They would be forced to flee, but not before the harvest. Everything they had was invested in that wheat, and until they had the coins in their pockets, there was nothing to do but agree and pray that planning a wedding took lots of time.

  “Excellent.” He sat back, completely satisfied. “Pass me one of those lovely sandwiches, dear. And pour me some tea.”

  Feeling like one of the clockwork dolls her cousin, Dante, had loved to bring her from the Vampire plane, she moved as though wound up and set to a task. Pass sandwich. Pour tea. Don’t thrust the knife in his neck.

  “See, you do that with such grace. An excellent wife indeed. And I was describing you to the Queen. What a beauty. She’s eager to meet you, dear. I believe she’s planning a visit in the next few months.”

  She passed him the tea and prayed Gillian found something stronger. She was going to need it. And she was going to need to run. The last thing she could do was meet the queen. Bronwyn had already met her—on the day the queen had pledged herself to Beck and Cian. Queen Maris had eagerly entered their uncle’s bed.

  The mayor chatted on, but Bron prayed for darkness. Sleep was the only place she felt safe.

  * * * *

  Lach took his seat at the far end of the table, a bit of bitterness spreading through his veins.

  “Don’t.” Shim sat down beside him, smoothing over the clean tunic he’d donned for this meeting. “You know why he does it.”

  King Fergus sat in the middle of the long table on his throne. This was the room he used to receive his guests. It was a large hall that could hold a banquet or play host to a series of negotiations. Long ago, the twin smaller thrones that should have been set for the princes of the realm had been moved out, leaving room only for the king.

  “Father is an idiot. He makes us look weak.”

  “Because he thinks we are weak.” Shim sighed and looked up the table at the host of Fae their father considered more important. Including the Seelie twins. “He thinks we’re dying.”

  For a long time, Lach had thought Shim would die, too. It was unspoken between them, but Shim had never fully regained his previous strength after that fateful night and the long period of a fugue-like sleep that followed.

  Maon, the king’s seneschal, walked up behind them. He looked down his patrician nose, his voice just the tiniest bit shrill. “Because you two are bloody dying and you know it. This is a power play. If you give in and take a bondmate, your father will restore your rightful place.” He softened a bit. “No one wants to see you here. You should be at his side. Your cousin Julian can bring you a mate within days. Say the word and it will be done.”

  A bit of Lach’s rage quelled. Maon, for all his snobbishness, really was loyal. It would have been easy for a truly ruthless man to let them fade. Maon would likely be king since as far as everyone believed, Gillian was dead and he and Shim would fade. Still Maon pushed them, ever devising new manipulations to force them to take a mate and live. There was o
nly one problem with the scenario.

  “We already have a mate.” It was the only reply Lach could give.

  Maon stood, and his mouth flattened in a derisive frown. “The princess in the tower. Yes, I’ve heard the tale. And you two wonder why you’re relegated to the bottom of the table. You’re lucky he allows you to be here at all. Your minds are going. And tell that damn gnome to keep quiet.” He tapped on the table. “Yes, we all know you’re here.”

  Duffy’s squeak could be heard through the room.

  Maon walked away, taking his place among the important men of the kingdom.

  Duffy’s head came up. “I tried to sneak in quietly.”

  Shim scooted over. “It doesn’t matter, Duffy. Come on up. They know you’re here.”

  The gnome huffed a little as he pulled his body up and into the chair beside Shim. “Don’t know as I like the way everyone talks about you.”

  Lach shrugged. “I do know how I feel, but no one seems to care.” He stared at the Seelie twins. They were everything legend would have them be. Perfect in form and function. They looked like twins. Neither of them had a ruined face and everyone took them seriously.

  His hand slid over the left side of his face, touching the ruined flesh there. He stole a glance at Shim, who’d gone pale, his eyes sliding away, guilt evident every time Lach reminded him of that terrible day.

  “So we’re meeting the Host, eh?” Duffy sat forward, watching the door with a fierce look on his face. He’d used the formal name for a group of sluagh. The Host. No one wanted to deal with the damn Host. Duffy’s tiny hands clenched into fists. “I think I can handle them. After all, they’re nothing but shade, right. Warriors of the Fae should be able to take them down no trouble.”

  “They’re non-corporeal dead, Duffy. I doubt your axe is going to work on them,” Shim pointed out.

  If Duffy could hoist his axe at all. Lach worried for the little gnome. Not because he thought Duffy would flee in a real battle, but rather because he knew he wouldn’t. “Let father handle the sluagh.”