Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(14)

“Sorcha, isn’t it lovely?” Agatha’s voice echoed in the room. “They are gracious hosts to allow us entrance to such a grand palace.”

“Hardly a palace,” she responded. Although the home was beautiful, it was lacking a certain human touch. There were no portraits, no artwork, nothing but blank walls and empty space. In fact, it looked as though no one lived there at all.

The butler grunted his disapproval.

“Agatha, please don’t go anywhere without me!”

The Dame’s heels clicked upon the marble floors. Sorcha’s own feet remained silent. Her leather slippers hardly touched the ground as she raced to the other end of the room. Snagging onto Agatha’s sleeve, she steered her back towards the foyer.

“Dearie, you’re far too concerned about my well-being. I may be in the delicate stages of pregnancy but I assure you, I have carried many a child to term.”

“I remember, Agatha. I helped you through each one.”

They passed by the stairs just as a voice slithered through the air. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

The overwhelming scent of oranges filled the air. Sticky and sweet, it coated her lungs with citrus.

Sorcha glanced up at the head of the stairs. A woman stood there, far too beautiful to be human. Unbound golden curls fell in waves to her waist. A red silk dress caressed her body as she shifted, the deep V between her breasts leaving little to the imagination. Gold chains laced across her body, dipping down her torso, and framing her shoulders.

“Oh, my,” Agatha murmured.

Sorcha swallowed hard. “Agatha, perhaps you should tell her why we’re here.”

“I know why the old woman is here,” the MacNara twin said. “What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

“I invited her!” Sorcha felt the Dame tremble. “I assumed your hospitality would stretch farther than just my presence.”

“You were wrong.” Concepta’s hand curled around the railing of the stairwell. “But you have done it, nonetheless. I’ll speak with your friend alone.”

Agatha spluttered, “Well I never! She is my companion and you will not separate us.”

“Ivor, please show our guest to the blue room.”

“I absolutely am not leaving without Sorcha.” The butler walked up and placed his hand against Agatha’s spine. “Take your hand off me, sir! Sorcha? Sorcha!”

“It’s fine, Agatha,” Sorcha replied. “I don’t mind meeting with the lady MacNara. Please rest your feet in the blue room, I’m certain Ivor won’t mind providing you with tea and biscuits.”

The unimpressed stare the butler gave her suggested that he had not, in fact, planned on providing tea and biscuits. Sorcha narrowed her eyes.

He sighed. “It would be my pleasure, Dame Agatha. Please follow me.”

They filed out of the room. A flash of silk was the last bit of her wayward patient she might ever see.

Sorcha sighed again. Faeries were proving to be even more difficult than the stories had claimed.

“Well?” Concepta asked from above. “Are you coming or not?”

“Are you in a rush, Fae?” she asked as she made her way up the steps. “One might think an immortal would be more patient.”

The faerie bared her teeth. “And one might think a weak little mortal would know how to watch her tongue.”

Sorcha reached the top of the stairs and shrugged. “I’ve never been good at that.”

“You should learn.” Concepta lunged forward, anger turning her eyes from crystal blue to raw amber. Sorcha gasped as the faerie’s hand wrapped around her throat. She gripped the other woman’s wrists, but couldn’t break free. Concepta shoved her backward until Sorcha’s spine hit the wall with a harsh crack, her eyes losing focus as pain bloomed behind her eyes.

She blinked. There was something off about the faerie’s face. It twisted and warped in anger, shimmering with sparkling light in one moment and lined with rage the next.

The snarl that tumbled from Concepta’s mouth wasn’t human. Guttural and raw, it vibrated in Sorcha’s ears.

“You reek of my mother, human.” Concepta’s lips brushed Sorcha’s ear. “Are you another of her pets? What foul poison have you come to spread?”

Black spots crept at the edge of her vision. Her mouth gaped open, and a wheeze escaped her lips.

“If you cannot speak, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell my mother you died without ever delivering her venomous message.”

Sorcha pushed her thumbs into the sensitive tissue of Concepta’s wrists. The pressure points allowed her the barest breath which she used to whisper, “Your favor.”

The faerie’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

The grip upon Sorcha’s throat lessened enough for her to cough and gasp, “Your mother said you owe her a favor.”

“And she’s using it for a little human?” Concepta shook her head. “Good guess, but not very believable.”

“She said you knew how to cure the blood beetle plague.”

“She said what?”

“Faeries can’t lie,” Sorcha rasped. “I know this as well as you. Tell me how to cure it!”

Concepta released her and backed away. Her laughter sounded like hammers striking metal. “Oh, this is a pleasurable thing! You simply must meet my brother. He will like you.”