Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(100)

“Come with me.”

She trailed after him into the depths of the castle. Past cobwebbed corners, stained glass windows dimming with the sun, and hidden alcoves where mist gathered. Up a stairwell she didn’t recognize that curved dangerously with no railing. Out onto a catwalk so high that the clouds tangled in her skirts.

“Where are we?” she shouted into the wind.

“Are you afraid?”

“No! This is beautiful!”

His grin flashed as the stars blinked to life behind him. “Wild thing that you are, fear has no name for you, does it?”

“Fear is an enemy to battle! I know her well.”

“Do not fall.”

“Will you catch me if I do?”

“I will fly upon the wings of the Wild Hunt if need be.”

She burst into laughter. “I thought faeries couldn’t lie?”

He tugged her off the edge of the catwalk and into a hidden corner. The heat of his chest seared through the fabric of her dress. “I do not lie. If I had to call the Wild Hunt to save you, I would.”

“I think I would fall to my death before you could manage.”

“I’d find another way.”

Sorcha grinned and shook her head. “What do you want to show me?”

Eamonn pressed his back against the wall and pushed. The sparkle in his eyes caught her attention before she noticed the wall had turned into a door. A warm glow lit the frame with orange light.

He pushed harder to reveal the fur rugs and walls lined with books.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Is this the library?”

“No. These are my quarters.”

“Yours?” Sorcha arched a brow. “Just what kind of woman do you think I am, Eamonn?”

She knew he would growl at her use of his name. She wanted to hear it again and again.

The deep baritone sound rumbled from deep within his chest. It was the call of a lion to its mate, the quiet huff of a stag in the forest, the gurgle of water underneath ice.

He reached for her, yanking her into his chest until her hands splayed against him. “Say it again.”

“I have no need to call you by name.”

“Say it.”

“You brought me here for a reason, Eamonn.” Sorcha grinned at the quake she felt behind her palms. “Why are we here?”

The disappointed breath that blew across her face smelled of mint. “You are temptation, little priestess.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t raised a druid.”

“You don’t need to be. Druid is in your blood, and I’m curious to see what you think of this surprise.”

He didn’t let go of her entirely. Eamonn slid his hands down her arms and tangled his fingers with hers. Silent, he guided her towards a bookcase and released his hold.

The tome he pulled from the shelf sparkled in the light. Its deep green cover and gold threaded words wavered under her gaze.

“Is it glamoured?” she asked.

“Not that I know of.”

It was changing in front of her eyes. The green dappled as if sunlight was striking it through leaves. The letters shifted and moved until she couldn’t read what the title was, let alone who had written it.

Eamonn held it out for her to take.

She stroked the spine, something in her calling out to treat it like a beloved pet. It creaked as she opened the pages. Ink blots stained most of them, hand drawn pictures of herbs and instructions filling the parchment paper.

“Who wrote this?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing on the pages.”

“What?” Sorcha glanced up. “There’s plenty on the pages, there’s just no signature.”

“I can’t see anything written in that book. I have tried for years, but no matter how much I try, the pages remain blank.”

“Interesting.” With her nose buried, she meandered towards the chairs. “There’s much here I’ve never considered. Mugwort, for example, is rarely used to cure nightmares. It’s curious that it suggests using it while chanting… something. I can’t read that part.”

“You aren’t quite ready for it yet, I imagine.”

“Why?” Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Why wouldn’t I be ready for knowledge?”

“For the same reason I was not ready to be king.” He plucked the book from her grasp and set it down on a small table. “We all must grow before we take on responsibility.”

“You would make a good king.”

“So you say, but I was not ready as a young man.”

He circled her. Sorcha knew the expression in his eyes. The darkened edges, the attention to detail, the hunger that she had only seen in a wolf. She was being hunted, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to flee or embrace the danger.

“I see many qualities in you that would make a good king. I don’t know if anyone is ever ready to take on such a daunting task.”

“How did you know I was meant to be king?”

“That’s my little secret.”

She felt his breath fan across the back of her neck. “I don’t like secrets.”

“Would you prefer that I lie?”

“I never prefer lies.”

“Then I am afraid you must resolve yourself to be disappointed, Eamonn.”