by Emma Hamm
“I’m taking you to the castle.”
“I was told to stay away from the castle—your guests are dangerous.”
“They are.”
“I think I’ve had enough of danger for one night.”
Stone jostled her, tossing her up higher against his chest. He was like a furnace and she couldn’t understand how. The water chilled her skin and made her bones ache. Why didn’t it affect him in the same way?
“I’m not putting you anywhere they might find you.”
“Who are they?”
“That’s not for you to know.”
Sorcha shook her head. “I might be freezing, but that hasn’t changed my curiosity. I thought this isle was only visible every seven years.”
“It is.”
“Then who are these people who suddenly arrived? Are they shipwrecked, like me?”
“No.”
“Do they live on a different part of the isle?”
“No.”
“Are they selkies or merrows come to visit?”
“Stop asking questions,” he said.
“No,” she said, repeating his favorite word. “Why are you shirtless?”
“I’m not foolish enough to attempt swimming in armor. Silence. These visitors can hear very well and they would be too interested in a human girl. Keep your mouth shut, and trust me to take care of you.”
Strangely enough, she did.
Sorcha tucked her hands underneath her chin to conserve what little heat she had left. She had survived many winters, but never had she been this cold. The biting rain washed away the salt water on her skin slicking her body with freezing drops. The wind howled and shoved at their bodies although his steps were sure and steady.
She owed this man her life. Sorcha wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Tricking him into coming back to the mainland seemed wrong. He didn’t deserve that mistreatment.
If she was being truthful with herself, it was unlikely she ever would have tricked him. Stone was an intelligent man beneath all that brawn. A noble Fae who had taken up the throne in this forgotten place.
They didn’t disturb any other faeries along their journey to the castle. Most had sought shelter from the raging storm, others remained in the castle to wait out the rain. Storms always seemed to keep everyone from their labor, even the faeries.
He rounded the stone castle walls to the place where she’d seen him training with Bran.
Teeth chattering, she bit out, “Is Bran really the raven who has been following me?”
“So it would seem.”
“Why would he waste his time following a human?”
“I’ve asked him the same question.”
The door slammed shut behind them, sudden silence and darkness making her heart pound again. “And what was his response?”
“I do not control the Unseelie Fae. No one can.”
The darkness made it seem almost as if she were underwater again. Shadows made shapes vaguely familiar, but difficult to piece together. She recognized a room when lightning struck again, spearing light across the room.
Broken statues littered the floor. The haunting faces stared at her with vacant eyes.
Sorcha shivered and tucked her face against the crystals of his neck. Their jagged edges dug into her cheek but she did not care. The pain anchored her, driving away the fear with knife-sharp points and cold, smooth plains.
His hands clenched on her shoulder and legs. “Not far now.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“There’s nowhere safe on this isle,” she whispered, her breath whistling through the circular wound on his throat. “Everything is dangerous and one must decide whether to live in fear, or courage.”
“We all know you’ve chosen courage, little human. Foolishly so.”
“I’m not as fragile as you think.”
He didn’t respond, suggesting he disagreed with her. Sorcha was thankful he didn’t argue his point. She couldn’t debate him right now, not when her body was shivering so violently she worried she might jolt right out of his arms.
They rounded one last, shadowed corner and reached a dead-end. A carving on the wall caught her attention. A warrior held her sword aloft, driving back creatures of the night which Sorcha could only imagine were the Unseelie. Their twisted and warped forms disappeared into the smooth marble.
Her face was beautiful and hard. Her armor carved so meticulously that Sorcha could see individual links of chain mail. The sword itself appeared so realistic that she might pluck it from the woman’s hand and swing it herself.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But I don’t see a doorway. Did you take a wrong turn?”
“Humans. You look at things so superficially.”
Stone jostled her forward, forcing her to grasp onto his neck with a gasp. Their gazes locked for a moment as their noses touched. She felt the warm fan of his breath grazing her mouth. Electric blue eyes burned her flesh and seared her to the bone.
“Look.” A crystal brushed against her mouth. “You need to remember this.”
She wasn’t certain she’d ever forget the cold slide of stone warmed by the heat of his body.
Sorcha ripped herself from his captivating gaze and glanced over her shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the grooved pommel of the sword. She heard a soft click, the rasp of sliding stone, and then he pushed.
It wasn’t just a carving; it was a door.
He wrapped his arm around her again, and she kept one arm looped around his neck. She wanted to be upright for this hidden secret. She wanted to remember.
Darkness lay within the room, not with tendrils of fear but a soft quiet that eased the soul. The slight burble of water reached her ears trickling from some unknown stream. Heat brushed against her skin in an almost physical touch.
Sorcha released a slow breath. “I can’t see anything.”
“I’m going to put you down,” Stone said at the same time. She heard the creaking of crystals. “Patience, little human.”
He set her down on a smooth bench. Sorcha couldn’t see the color, but she could feel the texture as soft as velvet. She ran her palms over the edges, the bumps of carvings, dipping into hollows and valleys.
Impulsively, she toed off her sodden shoes. Soft moss cushioned the arches of her feet as she placed them back onto the floor. It was not wet with rain as she’d expected.
Sorcha tilted her head, listening for the pattering sound. It was there, but far away, as if she was in the very belly of the castle. She couldn’t believe they were in a dungeon. No dungeon had a door so fine nor moss so soft.
Where were they?
Yellow light flashed, blurring her vision in bright sparks of color. The beautiful room before her couldn’t be in the castle! Lush moss carpeted the circular room and ivy covered the walls, making it seem more forest than room. A canopy of blushing roses hung in tendrils over a bed piled high with furs. In the center, a carved woman stretched towards the ceiling atop a still pool studded with white flowers. Her wings spread wide for flight and were so detailed that Sorcha could see the veins stretched across them.
“This place is too fine for me,” she said.
“There’s no such place.”
Her jaw dropped. What did he mean by that? He couldn’t be saying she was worthy of such a room? This was fit for royalty or a high-born Fae gifted in the arts.
Sorcha glanced down at her calloused palms and shorn fingernails feeling well and truly out of place.
“I can’t—” he paused and glanced at her then down at his chest. “I have to ready myself for these pests. I trust you can warm yourself?”
“Is there a place for a fire?”
He gestured towards one of the ivy-covered walls. “Everything you need should be in the room beyond.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. He’d saved her, brought her to this haven and then…was leaving? Who did that? “It’s very difficult to unde
rstand you.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”
“Neither do I.”
He stood surrounded by green and she couldn’t help but wonder who this man truly was. She caught glimpses of him, but never the full portrait.
He held his hands limp at his sides. Drops of water dripped from the strands of his hair, running down the shaven sides, and disappearing into the crevices filled with gems. He couldn’t meet her gaze, and as she watched, his hands clenched and relaxed.
“You aren’t comfortable with me looking at you,” she said. “That’s why you didn’t wish to speak when I saw you training.”
“I know what I look like.”
“What do you liken yourself to?”
“A monster. These,” he gestured towards the shoulder wound and his throat, “are unnatural. Marks of disfigurement that make me less Fae, less of a man.”
“I don’t see how something such as that could make you less of anything. They are startling at first, but the shock fades and I hardly even notice them now.”
“It is a beautiful lie.” He swept into a low bow. “I’d forgotten how refreshing it is to hear such words. Thank you for not telling me the truth.”
“What?”
He swept out of the room so quickly she felt only the breeze of his passing.
Sorcha was left with the trickling water, the soft movement of roses, and complete silence. She sat upon the bench and stared at the ceiling, at the surrounding splendor. She was utterly alone for the first time since arriving.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she blew out a quiet breath. When had she last been alone? Surely it must have happened, but she couldn’t think of a time. Her sisters had always been home. She’d traveled to the MacNara’s with Agatha, had left with the dullahan, spent days upon the ship… Even in the ocean there had been merrow men and the Guardian.
She refused to let her thoughts turn dark. Heat should be her first task. She needed to get out of these wet clothes or she would catch cold.
The healing thoughts helped. She could diagnose herself like a patient, the segmented thoughts easy to follow.
Sorcha stumbled to her feet and brushed the ivy aside. She’d never seen a washroom such as this. More vines covered the walls, blue flowers unfurling their petals and filling the air with a heady floral scent. A large circle cut into the ground, warm water constantly pouring from a small hole in the wall.
“A hot spring,” she murmured.
There was a small chamber pot in the corner, along with a vanity table filled to the brim with hairbrushes and pastes she did not recognize.
None of this was for her, she reminded herself. She should warm her shivering body and then jump into bed. There was no need for pampering, nor did she have any idea what those faerie treats would do to her.
She stripped the sodden fabric away, pausing a moment to stare down at her mother’s dress. Seawater was likely to stain it, but she could at least try to save it. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes.
“I miss you,” she whispered. It was the same feeling every time. She missed her pagan rites, Beltane, the whispered faerie stories her mother had been so good at telling.
Steam rose into the air in wispy tendrils, begging Sorcha to warm herself. She turned and dipped a toe into the water. The shocking warmth made her gasp, then moan as she sank into the water to her shoulders.
Her shivers ceased immediately, coaxed to stillness by the gentle lapping waves of water. She could stand in this pool and it would only come up to her breasts. This was safe water.
Curious, Sorcha scooped a handful and touched it to her tongue. Fresh water. Not a hint of salt tainted the taste, nor was it sulfuric as many hot springs could be.
“This place continues to grow stranger by the hour,” she whispered.
Tipping her head back against the stone lip, she let her mind quiet until her skin pruned. Even then, she took a while to leave the comfort of the bath. It was as if she was the last person on earth. Silence calmed her anxious thoughts, steam whisked away old aches and pains, and the water held her in a gentle embrace.
She could spend the rest of her life like this.
When her eyelids drifted shut more than they stayed open, Sorcha dragged herself out of the warm bath. Blearily glancing around the room, she realized there was no drying cloth available.
She sighed. Hopefully Eamonn wouldn’t come waltzing back in while she stood stark naked in the center of the room. She dunked her mother’s dress in the water and wrung it out a few times.
Leaving the yellow fabric on the edge of the bath, she peeked through the ivy to make sure no one was in the room. Of course, faeries could glamour themselves. She narrowed her eyes.
“Hello?”
No one responded.
“If there are any servants in here, I’m going to come out and I have nothing else to put on. Please don’t…stare.”
She chided herself as she dashed across the moss. Who was going to stare at her? They probably thought she looked as ugly as she found them.
The furs were soft against her skin. They wicked the water away and trapped the heat until she was in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.
She sighed happily, but took stock of her body just in case. The shivers had left, but she could already feel her nose clogging. She would have a slight cold, but hopefully nothing would settle in her chest.
If she was lucky, she would escape this entire ordeal unscathed. If she wasn’t, she would need to make compresses and drink as much tea as she could.
Sorcha could hope that her body wouldn’t have any adverse reactions. There wasn’t time for her to fall ill.
Eamonn sat in the shadows of her room, berating himself for returning here. He hadn’t planned on this. Especially not on this night.
The emissaries from the Seelie court rarely came to visit. He found it curious they chose now, of all times, to show their faces. Was there a spy in his court of fools? He couldn’t think of anyone who would pass secrets to his brother, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He would need to interrogate a few to ensure his safety. For the good of everyone, his brother could not know what happened on this isle.
They always made him angry. These glittery giants, women and men, dressed in full armor under the pretense that they wished to visit an old friend. None of them cared how he lived before his banishment, and they didn’t care now.
He thought the entire thing suspect, always had, but it was not within his power to deny them. If his brother wanted to keep an eye on him, then he could. But Eamonn wouldn’t make it easy on him.
Armored and silent, he stared them down. The throne room changed to ballroom, a slap in the face to the brother who was not king. They brought their own musicians, their own people, everything that they thought he didn’t have. The only thing Eamonn did was have the room cleaned.
Let them think he lived in splendor and enjoyed his life here on Hy-brasil. Eamonn enjoyed the thought of his brother’s anger.
And when it was all done, he meant to go back to his room. To break whatever he could in an attempt to cool his anger and embarrassment.
But he found himself here.
Staring at her.
Her hair fanned out around her head like the petals of a red rose. Streaks of sun kissed skin paled to milk white, beautiful and unique like the rest of her. She was soft in sleep. Softer than he’d ever seen her.
There was always a hard edge riding on her shoulders. Lines formed between her brows, expressive with all her emotions. She was an open book.
His lips quirked. She wouldn’t like how easily he read her.
One hand tucked beneath her cheek, pale lashes spread out and casting shadows. He sat himself in the darkness and counted every freckle on her face. It was the first time in years he had calmed down without crushing marble, shattering pottery, or snapping wooden frames.
He didn’t know how she did it. Even while asleep, there was something infinitely calming about her me
re existence.
Should that frighten him? He felt as though it should.
She stirred in her sleep, yawning, and slowly opening her eyes.
He waited for the flinch, the jump, the terrified shriek that would make his ears rings for days. So many Fae women had reacted in a similar way.
She did none of that. Sunshine, Sorcha, did none of those things. She blinked a few times, focusing on his form in the shadows, and then a soft smile spread across her face.
In that moment, she gutted him. No one had looked at him like a person in such a long time, without pity or fear. She just opened her eyes and smiled at him. As if he was finally where he belonged.
“I had a feeling you might come back tonight.” Her voice was raspy as if water filled her lungs. Right on cue, she coughed into her fist.
“It’s not unusual to fall ill after attempting to take your life.” Why did he say that? Eamonn dug his fingers into the crystals on his opposite wrist. Always picking a fight, especially when worried.
“Oh, hush, you know that’s not what it was. I need my things,” she said when she stopped coughing. “I have a tea for this.”
Eamonn gestured towards the small table he had set next to her pile of furs. “Anise, honey and mulled wine.”
She glanced over at the steam rising from the porcelain cup and back to him. “Yes. Thank you, that’s exactly what I needed.”
“Don’t look so surprised. Healing humans is not so different from the Fae.”
“I guess it isn’t.” She pulled herself up, catching the furs against her chest and shoving the heavy mass of her hair back. “You know the healing arts?”
“A small amount. I watched my nursemaid as a child.”
“Clever.”
“I never claimed otherwise.” He watched her sip the tea, her face scrunching up. “Bitter?”
“I just don’t like the taste of anise. Never have.”
“It will help.”
That soft expression returned to her face, eyes half lidded and lips quirked to the side. “Yes, it will.”
He didn’t know what to say when she stared at him as if he brought all the stars in the sky to her. It was tea. Nothing more, nothing less.
They stared at each other until his heart raced. Eamonn couldn’t piece together why he was so affected. Then his eyes traced the line of her shoulders. Bare and pale as the moon. Tiny freckles dotted her skin, more than he had counted on her face. He hadn’t seen those.
