Curse of the Fae King

by Delia E Castel

  Curse of the Fae King

  Delia E Castel

  Copyright © 2020 by Delia E Castel.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Download a free short story here:

  http://queen.deliaecastel.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Cordelia Castel’s Books

  Chapter 1

  Wherever there was a commotion, there was a faerie.

  Wherever there was a faerie, someone was about to die.

  I rushed after the crowd of merrymakers toward the tavern’s exit and the source of the commotion. The fresh scent of wildflowers wafted in through the open doors, a welcome respite from sweat and sawdust and sour ale. Someone’s booted foot stepped on the hem of my skirts. I snarled and yanked it free.

  A leprechaun darted through the throng, slashing purses and swiping gold pieces. He stuffed his pickings into the openings of his blood-red tunic, eyes gleaming, handsome features twisted. I clutched my basket of burn salves and stared ahead, avoiding eye contact with the leprechaun, avoiding his clever fingers, and most importantly, avoiding his notice.

  The folk in the Isle of Bresail say that a maiden who can see the fae is twice-blessed. Blessed to behold beings of beauty and blessed again for the chance to bargain for health, riches, and immortality. Whoever said that had never met a faerie.

  The fae, creatures of hideous power and beauty, revel in human misery, beget bad luck, and feast upon mortal lives. Every encounter with the monsters carries the risk of being killed. Or worse, a repeat of that horrific Samhain night seven years ago when the fae slaughtered an entire village trying to find me. Terror still grips my heart like the jaws of the hound of Culann.

  I see the fae. I fear the fae. I’m powerless to stop the fae. And I can say I am thrice cursed.

  As I neared the exit, the baker’s apprentice bumped me on the shoulder, and I stumbled across the gritty floor.

  “Sorry, Neara!” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  My gaze dropped to the salves. They lay in the basket, nestled in muslin cloth I’d wrapped around them for safekeeping. “I’m looking for Eirnin. Is he here?”

  “Have you tried the forge?”

  “They told me he’d be having an early dinner here.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen him.” He raised his massive shoulders. “Maybe he’s watching the spectacle Shona is making of herself in the square.” He rushed ahead, shoving through a group of sailors stumbling toward the doors.

  Dread rolled through my belly like a summer thunderstorm. Shona, the haughty eldest daughter of the mayor of Calafort, would never even sip a tankard of ale in public. If she was doing something to attract the attention of drunken louts, there could be only one cause: the fae.

  I stepped out into the warm evening, inhaling lungfuls of fresh air. The sun hung behind a dip in the Fomori Mountains, a burst of daffodil amidst clouds tinged the color of blood-red poppies. Its yellow haze reflected off the whitewashed timber-framed buildings lining the cobbled thoroughfare. My gaze traveled down to the crowd gathered at the end around the village square.

  Shona, the center of the attraction, wasn’t exactly a friend. Since Father and I moved to the port town of Calafort, she had sullied my name with allegations about my associations with the blacksmith, the retired soldier of fortune, and the local priest—people vital in my private crusade against the fae.

  Two young men sprinted past. The smaller of the pair yelled, “Hoist me up on your shoulders, Colman!”

  “As if!” The taller gave his companion a playful shove.

  A warm wind swirled around my hair, blowing vibrant, carrot-colored strands into my eyes. As usual, its color brought back memories of the night I had been willing to bargain to look… less peculiar. The night I had doomed an entire village. Guilt clawed at my gullet, and I gulped. Even if Shona had soured my existence with her gossip, I couldn’t leave anyone, not even her, to become a faerie’s prey.

  I strode after the rush of drunk men, only for the familiar pull of dread to leaden my steps. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, faeries had become more commonplace in Calafort and more malevolent. Benign household spirits and mischief-makers were replaced by malicious beings of unusual and tremendous power.

  The innkeeper’s wife stormed out of the crowd, skirts swishing, shooting sharp glares at the men rushing through the cobbled thoroughfare.

  “Don’t think I won’t tell your wives and mothers about your disgraceful conduct!” she screeched at their backs. “There should be a law against giving an audience to a public harlot!”

  An iron fist clenched my heart. “Mrs. Martin?”

  “What?” She whirled around, auburn locks falling from her bonnet.

  “Are you talking about Shona Mulloy?”

  Her thin lips twisted. “She’ll never be able to put on airs and graces, that one. Not after revealing the wanton hussy beneath that false piety!”

  My pulse throbbed in my throat. Not waiting to ask any further questions, I broke into a run. The only cause for Shona to make a public spectacle was magic, and no one could stop it but me.

  Hoots and cheers and roars exploded from the podium, louder than a clap of thunder, making me trip on a loose cobblestone. Splaying out my hands for balance, I slowed my steps. What, in the name of all that was holy, was I doing?

  Father’s words echoed in my skull. Every encounter with a faerie increased the chance of being captured. The creature behind Shona’s shameless display could be one of the horsemen from that terrible Samhain night. What if he recognized me?

  I brought my feet to an abrupt stop. After six years of moving from place to place, we edged our way to the coast, where we could escape our past. Now, we had a mere week before the dense mist covering the coast of Bresail would clear. No merrow could lurk in the waters, calling people to their deaths with their enchanted music, and no kelpies would board the ship and attack.

  Father and I planned to gain passage on a ship to Hibernia, the land where holy men slew monsters to protect the innocent.

  Guilt crawled up my back and clung to my shoulders like the talons of a night hag. If I did anything to ruin our chance, Father’s sickness might not grant him another seven years.

  “Get ’em off!” cried one drunken reveler.

  “What kind of lass can’t even undo her own corset?” shouted another.

  Guffaws filled the air, and someone bellowed, “The pampered sort!”

  My eyes widened. Before good sense could prevail, my feet pounded the cobblestones, and I reached the edge of the crowd. Pushing my way through the eager men, I caught a glimpse of the spectacle.

  The bodice of Shona’s dress hung around her waist like a shed skin, her breasts jutting out of her under-bust corset. She had hitched her skirts, revealing her thighs and glimpses of a thicket of mahogany, pubic hair.

  “Higher!” screamed a red-faced drunkard.

  Blood surged through my ears, d
ulling the men’s lascivious shouts. My jaw clenched so hard, it throbbed in time with my raging pulse. I turned my head away, understanding why Mrs. Martin had been so incensed. No-one, not even Shona the gossip, deserved to be humiliated in such a fashion!

  Using the bodies of the lechers as cover, I receded into the crowd and studied the men in the direction of her glazed stare. The usual village louts and ne’er do wells jostled each other about in the front, but one male stood out from the rabble. Not because his silk jacket was too fine for the village of Calafort, not because he was the only man remaining calm amidst the scandalous display, but because his face was devoid of features and did not even have a nose.

  His eyes, fathomless tunnels of black, stared at her with cold amusement. Around his unlit pipe, one corner of his lips curved into a whisper of a smile.

  Gancanagh.

  The word popped into the forefront of my mind. It came from the leather-bound book Father insisted that I study for hours every evening. The gancanagh was a silver-tongued, shapeshifter faerie who could morph into a woman’s heart’s desire and drive her into a frenzy of wantonness.

  While a gancanagh enjoyed sexual contact with women, what really nourished them was the ensuing despair he caused from withdrawing his affections and ruining her reputation.

  Ostracized, isolated, and full of despair, his victim would commit suicide, providing him with a condemned soul upon which to feast.

  “If you can’t manage the corset, open your legs and give us a good show!” bellowed the innkeeper to a roar of drunken cheers.

  Shona’s head lolled to the side, and she moaned. “Please… I need you!”

  The gancanagh nodded, indicating for her to do as they said.

  Disgust curdled my stomach, making me want to spit. That was as much as I could stand. Delving trembling fingers into my pocket, I gathered a hefty pinch of salt. Salt soaked up magic, rendering the attacks of many faeries useless.

  Then, I put it under my tongue, suppressed a grimace, and pushed through the crowd, making sure not to look at the gancanagh.

  “Shona Mulloy,” I shouted, making my voice as shrill as Mrs. Martin’s. “Your father would be ashamed!”

  She ignored me, as I had expected. Those in the thrall of a gancanagh became powerless to do anything but his bidding. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she hiked her skirts to her waist, eliciting ear-ringing catcalls.

  “That’s a bushy tail if ever I saw one!” yelled a voice from within the crowd.

  Affecting a shriek of outrage, I slapped her hard across the face, ensuring that my iron ring made contact with her lip. The salt remaining on my fingers must have either gotten into her mouth or into the tiny cut my ring made because her eyes focused.

  “Get yourself home,” I screeched. “You’re giving all the womenfolk of Calafort a bad name!” I yanked on her arm, hoping to convince the gancanagh that I hadn’t noticed him.

  “Neara, show us your little, red muff!” shouted a heckler.

  I ignored the drunken dolt and headed to a gap in the crowd. A few of the men, now shamefaced, stepped aside. Rage seared my veins. Any one of them could have intervened, but they had chosen to let a neighbor debauch herself.

  According to the information in my book, the gancanagh’s allure only affected women and only if they touched him of their own accord. There was no reason, apart from malicious lechery, that they couldn’t have stopped Shona from falling to ruin.

  A hand wrapped around my wrist, its chill seeping through my skin, permeating my bones to the marrow. I suppressed a shudder. The fae, immortal creatures that were neither alive nor dead, were nothing like humans. My leather-bound book said they were the offshoot of a supernatural race called the Fomorians, but from what I had seen over the years, and I had seen a lot, they were hungry spirits made flesh. The only thing that differed from one type of faerie to another was what satisfied their appetites.

  Gritting my teeth, I turned my head and glared at the hand restraining me. It was an effort to keep my voice from trembling, but I focused on my anger and said, “Let go of my person, sir.”

  “Permit me to introduce myself.” He released my wrist, gave me a gentlemanly bow, and held out an elegant, smooth-skinned hand that could have belonged to an artist or a Prince. “I am Gerald Canice, and I wish to commend you on your valiant rescue of that young lady’s virtue.”

  “I would be doing a better job if you didn’t keep me here talking,” I snapped. “Excuse me.”

  Most would have lowered their hand and stepped away at my rudeness. This creature did not. He glided closer, still with his hand outstretched, now turned as though he wanted to take mine and press a kiss on my knuckles. “Please… I must know your name.”

  “It’s Neara,” shouted a drunk. “And she’s interested in nothing but stinking herbs and withered old men!”

  My face heated, indicating a blush as red as hawthorn berries, one of the many disadvantages of having skin the pallor of diluted milk. The drunks snickered, and I pressed my lips together, trying to exhale my anger through flared nostrils.

  “Ignore those louts.” His voice was soft and cultured, just as I would imagine a storybook Prince. “Won’t you at least look at me?”

  As though of its own volition, my gaze lifted to his face. It was no longer the characterless visage from earlier. He now resembled the raven-haired faerie whose presence had cursed me with the sight. A bolt of shock pierced my heart as fast as lightning, jolting it into action. I drew in a sharp breath between my teeth.

  Everything vanished from my attention. The crowd of drunken men, the sobbing girl at my side, the fear of being discovered by the fae. It all faded now that Gerald had caught me in his mesmerizing, viridian-green gaze.

  His full lips split into a breath-stealing smile of even, white teeth, rising up to high cheekbones, and leading to eyes so longing they wrung my heart.

  “Neara…” My name sounded like supplication on lips that begged to be kissed. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  One of my fingers twitched toward his still outstretched hand.

  My mouth dried, not because of the salt, but due to the warmth pooling between my legs, creating a fire that only he could quench.

  My throat dried, partially because of the salt under my tongue, but mostly because of the male’s beauty.

  If he had chosen any other face, I would have ignored the gancanagh, but I couldn’t resist this dark-haired, green-eyed apparition.

  A tiny voice, as quiet and persistent as a midge, whispered that it was a trap. The monster wanted to infect me with the venom coating his skin and see me debased before my village.

  “I…” A gulp interrupted words that had already withered in my throat. I had come prepared, wearing a bracelet of iron with a matching torque and ring, but I hadn’t anticipated facing the being who haunted my dreams… my deepest, most oft-denied desire.

  “Neara,” said a voice hoarse from sobbing.

  I turned to lock gazes with Shona, her eyes bloodshot and brimming with tears.

  “Will you take me home?”

  Her voice was the splash of saltwater I needed to break the gancanagh’s spell. Without a backward glance, I pulled her away from the lecherous gazes of the crowd, trying not to succumb to the pit of dread wrenching open my stomach. Once again, I had attracted the attention of the fae. The gancanagh likely wouldn’t work out that I had seen through him, but my awakening of Shona from her stupor would have at least aroused his curiosity.

  Shona and I walked unmolested through the crowd of degenerates. Many were now slinking back to the tavern. Without his audience, the gancanagh would not pursue us. He fed on the humiliation of his victims, delighted in their ruin and not their lust.

  His gaze, heavy on my back, turned my steps to lead. The gancanagh was likely evaluating me, wondering why I could resist his magic.

  My throat thickened, and I gulped down my rising panic. This was exactly the kind of thing Father had wa
rned me against. We could not flee Bresail if we attracted the attention of the fae, and I had done precisely that! If the wicked creature stayed to satisfy his curiosity, we were doomed.

  A curious faerie always attracted others, and I of all people would know that arousing the interest of the creatures was deadly.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I escorted Shona home, the sun had dipped low behind the distant mist, filling the sky with the hue of diluted blood.

  Apprehension lined my gut like stinging nettles, climbing, hooking, wrapping around my tightened chest. Daylight was fading, as were my chances of getting the burn salves to Eirnin’s foundry and returning home before dark.

  Somewhere from the direction of the forest, an owl hooted. In response, my heart thrummed. The last thing I needed was to wander the streets around dusk, the time when most fae crept out of their mounds to wreak their mischief. The gancanagh was also likely lurking about, eager for his next victim.

  Like most houses in Calafort, the mayor’s was timber-framed, filled with cob, and rendered in a white lime wash. It was, however, the only two-story building for miles, something that Shona would take great lengths to point out.

  Today, as we walked down the garden path, her proud shoulders curled into her chest, and instead of boasts and barbs and belligerence, the tiniest sobs and whimpers escaped her trembling lips.

  She opened the door a crack, revealing a glimpse of a carpeted reception hall and a mirror framed in gold. “T-thank you, Neara.”

  “It was nothing.” I couldn’t meet her eyes after seeing her so exposed. Public bathhouses were a luxury Father and I couldn’t afford, as we needed every shilling to buy two tickets for a ship out of Bresail.