Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)
Emma Hamm
Prologue
Once upon a time in a hidden land beyond human reach, there lived a King and Queen of the Seelie Fae. They desperately desired an heir to the throne, but had not been blessed with children. In his frustration, the king journeyed across the sea to the cursed home of the Unseelie.
He made a deal with an ancient crone, half spider and half woman. If she would give him a child then he would bring peace to their lands. The crone was pleased and promised when he returned to his wife, she would bear him a child.
The Queen carried not one, but two children. Twin boys, both heirs to the throne.
Many years passed. Their lives were filled with light and love. They had forgotten the Unseelie do not make deals without payment, and stopping a war paid for one boy.
Not two.
Their first-born son grew into a warrior. His blade was unstoppable, his aim always true, his speed lightning quick. Their second born son grew into a scholar. He knew every whisper on the wind, every lie and story, every bit of knowledge that made the kingdom run smoothly. The King and Queen were certain they would rule the Seelie Fae together.
They had not seen the jealousy growing within their youngest son’s heart, nor had they seen the doubt growing in the eldest.
In a fit of rage, their youngest son buried a blade in his brother’s back. The wound was superficial and might have healed if it hadn’t revealed a nightmare.
Their son, their perfect first born son, was flawed. Gemstones and crystals grew out of the wound, marring his strong body, and marking him unfit to rule their kingdom. Embarrassed and appalled, they did the only thing they could.
Banishment.
The disgraced prince was sent away to a phantom isle which could only be seen once every seven years. He begged his family to allow him to remain, but they had no pity for the man who had hidden his true nature.
The first-born son of the Seelie King faded into myth, then legend.
Then nothing at all.
Chapter One
THE BEETLE
Blood covered her hands. The metallic smell burned her nostrils and overwhelmed her senses. Although she’d finished the surgery an hour ago, she still saw the gaping wound, the splayed open flesh, and the iridescent shimmer of the blood beetle feasting upon sinuous muscle.
Sorcha sat on the back stoop with her hands dangling off her knees. The chickens pecked at her soft leather shoes; the jabs helped to ground her. This weightless feeling always happened after a long, grueling attempt to extract a beetle.
“Shoo,” she whispered. One chicken shook its head, feathers ruffled in displeasure. She was certain the nasty redcap rode one of them. The faerie was secretive in his pranks, and likely thought she couldn't see him, but Sorcha always caught glimpses out of the corner of her eye. “There are tastier things than my feet.”
She tapped her foot against the ground. The chicken clucked loudly and beat its wings against her legs, rushing to the other side of the pen. Even though Sorcha fed them every morning and night, she would bear the brunt of their anger.
Chickens were vindictive little things.
“Sorcha!” A feminine voice shouted. “Get back in here!”
She stood, wanting desperately to dust off her skirts but knowing she would only smear blood on them. To waste new fabric would be the worst kind of sin. She stared down at the blood flaking off her hands, lips pressed in a thin line.
“It will have to do,” she muttered.
Their three-story home was at the edge of town, the only suitable location for a brothel. The stone walls were sturdy and clean, and the wooden roof free of rot. It was by no means elegant, but it was suitable for its purpose. For Sorcha, the cobblestone steps felt like stairs to the gallows.
Sorcha dunked her hands into a bucket of clean water near the door. Her sisters had meant it for cleaning, but if they wanted her to rush, then they needed to make the trek to the river once again.
She scrubbed her hands together, tainting the water with blood. It turned as red as the muscles in her father’s back that had been revealed when she pressed her blade deeper…
“Sorcha!”
Snapping out of her stupor, she wiped her hands upon the plaid wrapped around her waist. A breeze pushed red curls in front of her gaze, obscuring her vision. She huffed out an angry breath and shoved them back.
There was blood caked underneath her nails.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, pushing open the door.
The room beyond was still. Papa's room was always quiet, but now it was silent as a tomb. Sorcha prayed every night it would not become one.
She knew how to prevent children from being conceived, how to birth a child, and all the ailments that might come after for both mother and babe. She had guided countless women through the trials of labor and treated many a croupy cough.
But she wanted to be a real healer. Her soul yearned to do more, to set bones and find cures for diseases. Shelves of books lined her bedroom, each containing detailed notes for every herb, every technique to heal, even the right faeries to beg for help.
It was a shame the faeries had stopped listening a long time ago.
Trophies of Papa's travels decorated the walls of his room. A bear pelt covered the stone floor, a dark wood desk contained all his notes and a balancing scale to count his coins. His pallet bed covered almost the entire back wall, heavy curtains shrouding him from Sorcha’s view.