Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(43)

“What would you do, Mathair?” he murmured. “The girl is a problem. A distraction.”

She was the last thing he needed. There were only a few more months to prepare, even then he wasn’t certain if he would manage. Eamonn walked a path leading only to death.

But a fair red-headed lass haunted his steps. She had only been here for one night, and already he had not slept. What more would she do?

“Perhaps she is a witch,” he said. “A temptress sent by my brother to ensure I never return home.”

The thought was likely. Fionn would do anything to keep the Seelie throne.

Growling, Eamonn spun on his heel. Long legs carried him to a wall carved with the image of a great bird. He pressed his palm against a loose stone, pushing hard until the wall gave and revealed a crystal embedded within the structure. Gem touched gem, and the wall shifted.

Beyond, a room filled to the brim with Fae artifacts glowed. Magic swirled in the air. It danced upon his skin, skittering across the crystals of his face and neck. He was not cursed; Eamonn had tested that immediately once the affliction made itself known. But magic enjoyed touching him all the same.

Brushing the dust motes aside, he reached for a small handheld mirror. Carved roses twined from the handle and bloomed at the top. He thought it rather frivolous. Magical objects always were.

“Show me the red-headed lass.” He leaned forward and breathed on the glass. The mirror swirled with mist and cleared. No longer reflecting the room, it revealed to him the interior of the hag’s hut.

“What?” he growled. “There must be trickery here.”

That was not the girl who had marched into his throne room with anger burning her cheeks. The beauty spinning in circles looked more like a Fae lady.

Her hair, which he remembered as matted and oiled, spun around her in a wide arc. Curls bounced with her movements as she hopped from side to side, arms held as if a partner swung her around. The green velvet dress hugging her curves spun in a perfect circle as she twisted and turned.

He recognized that dance. The humans practiced it at Beltane. The women bent and swayed with lively music.

She danced alone. Her hands clapped in time to music that did not play, and the smile stretched across her face spoke of pure glee.

Eamonn’s lips quirked to the side. She was a horrible dancer. Far too bouncy, no control over her limbs or facial expressions, and obviously untrained. Yet, there was still something compelling about her joy.

“This is not the muddy creature with the personality of a shrew,” he murmured. “What other secrets do you hold, little human?”

The mirror heard his request, and the image shifted closer as the woman stopped dancing. Her ears were slightly pointed, he realized.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

The burning need in his stomach expanded, blossoming into a full-blown red haze of want and desire. He had to find out more about her. Where she came from, why she was here, what her plans were.

Eamonn brushed aside the wonderment of how she was raised, who had taught her the secrets of the Fae, and why her ears were tipped with faerie points. These were frivolous things which held little weight. They weren’t important.

She wasn’t important.

And yet… He lifted his head and shouted, “Oona!”

The pixie hadn’t gone far. He heard the door open and her voice call out, “Yes, master?”

“Invite her to dinner.”

“Master, she requested privacy tonight.”

“What?” He dropped the mirror and strode into his parlor. “She said what?”

“She requested that Bronagh and she have a quiet evening to get to know each other.”

“Why?”

Oona shrugged. “I would imagine she wishes to rest after her long journey.”

“No, she’s too smart for that.” Eamonn couldn’t imagine she didn’t have some kind of plan. She was far too dedicated to her cause. Perhaps he was thinking too much like a warrior, and not enough like a man. “How much does Bronagh know about the castle?”

“As much as anyone, I would imagine. She used to live here.”

“Would she remember many of its secrets?”

“Maybe?” Oona blinked and twisted her hands together. “You don’t think the girl has any ulterior motives? Master, she’s been very kind.”

“Even the kindest of people can be coy. I would like to be certain she isn’t plotting anything sinister.”

Oona threw her hands up in the air. “She’s the least sinister person I’ve ever met!”

“And that would make her an incredible spy, wouldn’t it?”

He lifted an eyebrow and reached for his cloak. He would find out just how dangerous this woman might be. Although his people might think him indifferent, they were all he had.

With an embellished swirl, the cloak settled upon his shoulders, and he strode across the battlements.



“You see, Boggart, it’s rather easy to make bread!” Sorcha said as she kneaded the dough into a rough shape.

The answering squeak made her smile. It wasn’t a very supportive squeak, nor did it sound as if the faerie believed her. No matter, the bread would taste wonderful.

Homesickness overwhelmed her as the smell of flour and baking bread filled the small hut. Her sisters loved fresh bread, and Sorcha always made certain it was ready for them at the end of the night. They never wasted a scrap. The scent made the brothel feel more like a home rather than a workplace, and giggles had lifted their spirits to the rafters for hours every night.