Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(49)

Sorcha scowled at the tiny figures. They were equally quiet about their own information. Everyone was polite, kind, and giving, but they didn’t trust her.

Glamours were still in place. They brushed her off when she suggested she might help. They whispered behind her back when she left although they likely thought she couldn’t hear them.

The master, Stone, remained elusive. She saw him in passing every now and then but didn’t feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t repeat the heated experience which had left her dry mouthed for days.

Her knife slipped in her hand and cut her thumb. Hissing out an angry breath, she sank the blade into the ground.

“Sorcha, get your head out of the clouds,” she scolded. “That man is hardly worth your time or effort. Just get him off the isle and to the mainland. And stop hurting yourself while daydreaming!”

She ripped a piece of fabric from the bottom of her dress, muttering about foolish, wool gathering girls. Tying it around her thumb, she cinched it tighter than normal as punishment.

Sorcha planned to spend the entire day upon the ridge. She was getting nowhere with the locals. They wouldn’t give her any information about their master, which meant she had to go directly to the source.

The source was dangerous. The source burned like fire, with ice cold eyes that made her mind freeze in the wake of his hold. She would have to watch him constantly. There would be no more strawberry incidents, or anything of its ilk.

A voice whispered in the back of her mind that she wanted another such experience. She wanted more than that. For a calloused finger to become a hand, to feel what those crystals felt like against her skin.

“Foolish girl,” she muttered.

It was impossible for such thoughts to come to fruition. She’d get herself in trouble, lose focus, or worse, lose herself.

Stones skittered behind her, cracking together and rolling down the mountain in a great avalanche of sound. She rolled onto her side, peering towards the noise.

Snow white hair blew in the faint breeze. Heavy skirts tangled between Pixie’s legs, catching her as she struggled to the top. Her normally calm face was bright red with exertion.

“Pixie!” Sorcha called. She jumped to her feet and ran towards the Fae. “What are you doing up here?”

“Oh, dearie, why do you have to choose such a place to get away from us all? It’s awfully far away and my old bones can’t take it!”

“Somehow, I doubt you’re as old as you portray yourself,” Sorcha replied with a grin.

“You wouldn’t know,” Pixie said with a grimace. “Dearie, I hate to ask a favor of you, but something terrible has happened.”

Sorcha’s smile faded at the worry and anguish in Pixie’s voice. “What happened?”

“It’s little Doo—I mean—” Pixie caught herself and shook her head. “Pooka! It’s little Pooka, he’s fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. A terrible thing, nasty break, and he’s the only child on the island. It’s broken through the skin, dearie, and we don’t know how to set the break. He’s bleeding something awful.”

“Did you put a compress on the wound?” Sorcha scooped up her things and swung them over her shoulder. “How bad is the break? Just how far is the hand pointing away from its usual position?”

“I - I don’t know! I didn’t look at it closely, in truth. The break was so terrible and the boy was in so much pain…”

“Come on then.” A thrill of excitement rushed through her veins. Although Sorcha knew it was likely a terrible thing, she always felt this way before any kind of surgery. Her hands tingled to touch wounded flesh. Her mind fired with ideas on how to solve the problem of pain.

Sorcha's strange mind was both a blessing and a curse. She knew there were countless ways to heal a broken bone, but only a few that worked. If the bone had broken through skin, she would need to set it, then wrap it to encourage healing from the inside out.

She followed Pixie down the mountain at a much faster speed than she’d ascended. Both women rode a wind of anxiety and worry. If the boy bled badly, he might not be alive by the time Sorcha made it to him.

She hoped that wasn’t the case.

They reached the hills and ran. Pixie no longer seemed like an aged woman for she flew over the grass.

“I have one thing to ask,” Pixie said as they reached the castle. “The boy is young and impressionable. You cannot heal him without seeing his true form.”

“Then so be it,” Sorcha replied, breathless. “Open the door, Pixie.”

“No young man wants to feel scorn from a beautiful woman. I beg you to hide any reactions you might have to his appearance.”

“I have already seen both Cian and Boggart, Pixie. There is no reason to worry, just let me see the boy.”

Pixie sighed and swung open the kitchen door.

The room beyond had descended into chaos. The central table was clean of food and utensils. Faeries bodies rushed in wide circles, to and from a small body laid out on the wood. Sorcha saw the faint impression of fur, wings, and scales before everyone erected their glamours.

All but the boy.

He crouched on the table and whined, his face warping through hare, dog, and horse. Pookas imitated animals, but she had never heard of one switching so many times.

Sorcha kept her face steely as she made her way to his side. He opened his mouth with a growl, fanged teeth shining in the candlelight. She had seen animals do that before when they were in pain.