Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(27)

He swirled the cloak in a wide arc and settled it over his shoulders. Heat enveloped him with unwelcome arms. Eamonn hated the cloak. He hated hiding, but this had become his existence. He was no longer the handsome man he once had been.

“Storm’s coming,” Cian said as he walked up to Eamonn’s side. “And you’re still standing at the top of your castle leaning over an edge that could crumble at any moment.”

“Would it be such a loss?”

“No. We’d get along just fine without you, but I’d have to dig a new hole in the garden and I hadn’t planned on doing that until next spring.”

“Ever so gentle, Cian.”

“I don’t have to be gentle with you. The warlord prince of the Seelie Fae should have thicker skin.”

Eamonn twitched the edge of his cloak over his newly mangled hand. “That was a long time ago.”

“Take one step back, and I’ll tell you who I was before I came here.”

“I know who you were,” his toes curled over the edge. “Gnomes have always been good thieves. You stole from the wrong person and pay your penance here. Hy-brasil was and always will be a prison. Nothing more.”

Cian planted a hand firmly against the base of Eamonn’s spine. The sudden touch made him lock his muscles holding himself in place without twitching or revealing the sudden shock that raced through his veins. The gnome did not push, nor did he pull. He kept his hand against Eamonn’s back relaxed but threatening.

“I was no common thief. I stole to make a living and feed my family. Your people view gnomes as little more than slaves. We work in your gardens, feed your people while the rest of us go hungry. My children went to bed with their stomachs aching, and my wife withered away into nothing. I stole a single piece of bread from the kitchens of a lowly Seelie lord. For that, they banished me here — never to see my family again.”

Eamonn remained silent. He knew the Seelie court was corrupt. It had been his desire to change those ways, even as he fought in the wars that upheld them. He had not been the king, though, and had little power to change anything. Now, he never would.

His silence spurred Cian on. “I don’t like you, Tuatha dé Danann. Not because of what you’ve done here, or even who you are, but for what you stand for.”

The hand against Eamonn’s spine flexed. His own hands slowly curled beneath the cape. If Cian pushed, Eamonn could catch himself on the half wall. He would need to have faith that the castle wouldn’t crumble under his weight.

“I lost everything I ever had because your people consider themselves above everyone else. It was a damned piece of bread, and I was banished from the Otherworld like I’d murdered someone. I wanted to feed hungry mouths, to get paid for the work I did. And look what happened to me!”

Eamonn felt the slightest nudge against his back.

“You got nothing to say to that?” Cian growled.

“There is little I could say which would change your mind.”

“You’re right. There’s not.”

The hand against his spine withdrew, and the gnome backed away. Eamonn straightened and squared his shoulders. He would not bow. He would not yield. Though he was a disgraced prince, he might have been king of these people.

He would not break.

Cian’s feet struck the ground in hard echoes as he returned to the door which led to the rest of the castle. Creaking floorboards fought with the thunder.

“You know,” the gnome’s words flung into the night like sharp assassin blades. “If you weren’t such a prick, I might respect you. You don’t even flinch.”

“I fear nothing and no one. Leave, gnome, before I throw you from the tower instead.”

The door slammed shut. A bolt of lightning sizzled through the air and struck the top of the tower. Thunder crashed so loud the pixies in the gardens below screamed and fled in terror.

Throughout it all, Eamonn stood silent and unmoving.

Long ago, he had been a pillar for his people. They called his name as he rode through the streets. They threw flower petals at his feet in hopes he might look upon them. Now, they ran in fear.

He tilted his head back and let his rage roar at the coming storm. He poured all the feelings of neglect, anger, fear, and self-hatred into the sound. It purged his blackened soul.

Eamonn twisted away from the edge of his castle and fell to his knees. Staring down at his ruined hands, he set his resolve towards living. He would begin his work again, turn his mind and passion towards saving his people in whatever way possible. Storms like this always brought shipwrecked cargo. He would wait to see what his people would find upon the rocky shore.

Death would wait a while longer.



Less than a week at sea, and Sorcha was ready to kill herself. She held onto the railing and breathed through her nose. In and out. Slow and intentional inhalations, or she would vomit again.

Manus tried to make her eat, but she couldn’t keep anything down. Even the ale tasted like bile. It exited her body as fast as she could drink it.

The ship coasted over a very large wave and crashed down the other side. Turning green, Sorcha moaned and leaned over the rail again. Watching the waves didn’t help, but what else was there? Waves upon waves, that was it.

Her vision blurred. The muscles of her stomach clenched, trying to force out what wasn’t there. She’d emptied her stomach of everything but thin bile hours ago. Now, dry heaves threatened to kill her.