Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(81)

“You’ve left this tower more since she arrived than you had in your entire time here on Hy-brasil, and you are considering going to war with your brother.”

“I considered that before she showed up.”

“And now you have meaning behind the action. She would look pretty with a crown atop her head.” Bran mimed placing a tiara on top of his half-shaved head.

“She’s human.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? For once in your life give up that stalwart honor and foolish sense of right and wrong! War is coming whether you choose it or not. Enjoy your last days of freedom. The bloodshed will begin soon.”

The feathers on Bran’s face ruffled and spread across his skin. His form shifted, morphing from man to beast. He let out one croaking scream before lifting into the air and flying out the window.

Good riddance, Eamonn thought. He couldn’t handle one more minute of the Unseelie’s constant suggestion he go back home.

What was left for him? A stolen throne, a twin who hated him, a kingdom who assumed he’d abandoned them! At least here there were people to take care of.

He clenched his fists as the pit of his stomach clenched. He missed home. It was a strange thing, to miss a place so profoundly that his heart ached. But this place held none of the beauty that Tír na nóg could offer.

Standing, he paced in front of his mother’s portrait. “Even you wouldn’t want me home. You, who did nothing when Fionn hanged me in the square. Our own people cheered for days as I dangled, unable to die because the crystals on my throat protected me.” He jabbed a finger towards her. “You didn’t even cut me down.”

The memory was a jagged thing, harsh and cutting even after a hundred years. She had tears her in eyes when their gazes met, but she had not helped her son. Her first born. Her beloved warlord prince who had cut down the world for her.

His mother had shown her true colors. As had his father, who hadn’t even looked as his son hung from a fraying rope. Three days. Three days he swung in the breeze and endured the never-ending pecks of crows, the cries of vultures waiting to feast.

He had defied them all.

Death would not come for him. He would not submit to those who had betrayed him. Eamonn survived. He had always been good at that.

Fionn hated him, of that he was certain. Something festered deep within his twin’s gut, and there was nothing Eamonn could do to change it. What brotherly love there once might have been, was long gone.

Eamonn braced his arms against the wall next to his mother and let his forehead touch the cool stone. What choice did he have?

The faces of the isle’s Fae danced behind his lids. They had been banished for many things. Stealing from a Tuatha dé Danann. Worshiping a different ancestor than their master. Going home to visit family when they should have been working.

Nothing as serious as murder. They would’ve swung next to him on the gallows if they’d done such a thing.

There was no purpose to this place, other than a punishment worse than death. Fionn’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Let him rot.”

And that was exactly what he was doing. He might as well grow barnacles rather than crystals. Eamonn was doing nothing other than sitting and waiting for time to pass.

He glanced over and met his mother’s cold gaze. “I’m coming home, Máthair.”



Sorcha wound through the hallways, twisting the armful of lavender she carried into a purple crown. The brownies were busy cooking and had little time to entertain her. She’d tried to talk with one of the selkies, but he had to go fishing to replenish their stocks.

Every day that passed brought new frustrations and new boredom. Blowing out a breath, she stuck her tongue out as she finished the very end. Lavender made a beautiful flower crown, but the tiny buds sometimes fell off before she could finish.

She’d smelled the patch before she saw it. Rosaleen had always been searching for more lavender to hang in her room. She said it took away some of the more unpleasant scents.

Sorcha didn’t have the heart to say that even lavender couldn’t take away the scent of death. It wasn’t what Rosaleen had been talking about, but Sorcha’s struggles had been far different.

Crown finished, she placed it atop her head and let her red curls coil around it.

Soft slippers on her feet rendered her footsteps silent. If she came across anyone, Sorcha planned on telling them that she’d gotten lost. In reality, she was looking for the master of this isle. He had disappeared after one drunken, angry night.

Again.

She was growing tired of having to find him. Stone should be accessible for all his people, herself included. She had to convince him to come back to the mainland with her.

Every time she saw him, her tongue tied itself into a knot. She hadn’t even asked the question again!

One part of the castle was off limits. The faeries said she was forbidden from entering the western tower. It was the master’s and the master’s alone.

But she had seen Oona slip into the shadows. She had carried food in her arms, for the master himself, but she had still gone into the western tower. That meant it wasn’t off limits for them.

Just off limits for her.

She placed her palm on the cracked wooden door and glanced around. She couldn’t see any faeries, and no one cried out for her to stop.

“Hello?” Sorcha said.