Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(37)
“The hard way it is.”
She secured her pack on her shoulders and stepped up the ramp. The hag stone between her breasts slid free. She pressed it to her lips, then held it to her eye and watched the spells melt away.
It was a relatively simple protective curse. There were parts of her mother’s books which spoke of pagan rituals. This spell she recognized from the pages of a black book she never should’ve read.
Her fingers itched to try out what she had learned, to dismantle the circles drawn by witches of old. However, such aged curses were useful. Now she could be certain there was at least one place on the isle she was safe.
Sorcha reached out and dragged her finger straight down the first rune. The second she traced the circles and lines without hesitating. And the last, she turned her hand in the air as though she twisted a doorknob.
A harsh crack echoed in the air, and the door swung upon.
Without the hag stone, the interior terrified her. Eviscerated chickens hung from the ceiling in various states of decay, their blood covering the floor until it shone as if polished, and here and there, startlingly white feathers made downy islands in the gore. Human skulls decorated the walls with candles inside them, making the eye sockets glow. Knives, hatchets, and scythes hung on wall brackets while chains dangled above them.
Through the hag stone, the room was entirely different. Although it was a small, single room hut, it was a home, albeit dusty. A dining room table with one place setting was in one corner. Dried fruit balanced in the center, mummified with age. There was a desk in another corner piled high with papers and adorned with ink wells. A small, but quaint bed was against the farthest wall below a window shining in the moonlight.
Sorcha swallowed hard and steeled her nerves.
“Faeries of this household, I mean no disrespect. I am a weary traveler who searches for a place to rest my head. This home is safe, it is warm, and I vow I will touch nothing which is not mine. If your hospitality stretches so far as to gift food and drink, I will assist in cleaning this household.”
For a moment, she heard nothing. Silence rang as loud as her words. She could only hope she had not offended whatever brownies or redcaps remained.
She twisted her fingers and listened. Her patience was rewarded. Soft chirping sounds heralded faerie movement. Pattering footsteps started towards her and she felt the slightest of nudges against her thigh.
Looking down, she saw that a line on the floor had smudged.
“Salt?” she whispered. Or at least something similar. The white powder now held a fingerprint in it, marring the smooth line.
When she looked back up, the room was no longer frightening nor haunted. It was merely a room to the naked eye.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your kindness knows no bounds. I will honor the words I spoke before entering.”
She made her way to the bed and dumped her pack on the ground. Her back groaned with the movement, balance shifting with sudden lightheadedness. She wasn’t done yet.
Her hands knew where the small jar of sugar was, even if her mind wasn’t entirely functioning. Sorcha rummaged through her pack and came up with the tiny clay jar. It always paid to have some kind of gift for the Fae. She’d learned this lesson time and time again until her pockets were always full.
For good measure, she also snagged a tiny coin. The dim moonlight gleamed off the edges, for she had polished it many times over. Sorcha called it her lucky coin, and it seemed appropriate to give away now.
“I will share what little I have with you,” she murmured. “They are small, but I believe I may find more tomorrow. Not as payment, I know your ways.”
Chairs screeched as she turned, rocking as they thumped onto the floor. Sorcha blinked at the table now clean of all dust and removed of dirty plates.
“Well, you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”
A mug appeared out of thin air and plunked onto the table.
Sorcha was stunned. She wanted to hold the hag stone to her eye just to get a look at the hidden faeries. They couldn’t be more terrifying a sight than their master.
“You are too kind,” she breathed. “I will leave my things above the fireplace. Please enjoy them, and I’m sorry there’s not more.”
Hardly five strides carried her to the other end of the hut. She leaned, blew the dust off the hearth, and set her items down. The brownie in her small room at the brothel liked to climb. She always hid little gifts in the rafters just to give it a reason for adventure.
They were naturally curious creatures, something she always respected about them. Brownies, although sometimes a nuisance, were helpful. They wanted to do everything they could, and when they couldn’t, lost their minds.
Her brow furrowed. She hoped that wasn’t what she was dealing with here. House brownies easily turned to boggarts if they didn’t keep busy. And the room had been dusty…
She turned. “Are you brownies?”
There was no response.
“It will not make me think ill of you. It’s merely easier for me to know what you might like in the cupboards. The brownie at my home was fond of honey, but I met a boggart once, and he was much fonder of fresh bread.”
The cup on the table tilted.
Sorcha smiled. “A boggart then. I’ll do my best to steal something from that nasty Tuatha dé Danann’s kitchen. We’ll have this place shining and then I’ll bake fresh bread, as long as you don’t pull the covers off me.”