Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(97)

The tangled mass of people parted, and Oona marched towards them. Her wings were on full display, red markings painted from her lip to chin.

“Child of the human world, would you do the honors?”

“The honors?” Sorcha tilted her head. “Do you celebrate the same way my people do?”

“Your people? Or your mother’s people?”

She grinned. “My mother’s people. My father and siblings were never ones to celebrate the old ways.”

“Then light the fires for us, child, and honor the dead.”

Sorcha tangled her fingers with Stone’s for a moment, squeezing his hand. She looked over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. His gaze caught hers, pride and honor reflected in their depths.

“Thank you,” Sorcha said.

“I knew it would be important to you.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I just knew.”

Her fingers slid from his, trailing along the crystals of his palm and whispering across their twin callouses. She walked backwards down the stairs with a soft smile on her face. “And will you be partaking in the festivities, my king?”

Stone’s jaw dropped and Sorcha reveled in his surprise. He seemed unable to speak. A state she found surprisingly suitable to her tastes. With a wicked grin on her face, she turned to Oona and followed her to the altar.

“The Wild Hunt is tonight?” Sorcha asked. “Are we safe here?”

“This is not the Otherworld, but it is not the human world either. The Wild Hunt does not touch upon these shores,” Oona replied. “But we still honor the ride and dream of seeing their might once again.”

“We won’t even see them?” Sorcha had hoped to catch a glimpse. Now that the ointment had cleared her eyes of glamour, it would be a treat to see what the faeries saw. The Wild Hunt, led by their great horned king, had always been fascinating.

Her disappointment was great, but it was also a blessing. She didn’t know what Cernunnos would do if he saw a human in the faerie prison.

Thick branches with green leaves still clinging on their twigs created an altar where Eamonn's throne usually sat. The roots of the tree wrapped in a circle on the floor, creating a base that was strong and steady. Offerings piled near to overflowing all around it. Milk, honey, and more food than any Tuatha dé Danann could devour.

“It is a good offering,” she said.

“This year has been better than most. We have much to be thankful for.”

“As do I.” She reached for a goblet filled to the brim with wine and poured it on the roots. “To many years with family and friends, may we all last the night without nightmares and the next year without pain or strife. I thank my ancestors, the gods above, and the gods below. We come to this place to celebrate Samhain and seek shelter from the Wild Hunt.”

Something stirred within her breast. A memory, or an age-old knowledge passed down through generations. She remembered the words as if her mother whispered them in her ear.

Sorcha lifted a finger and traced runes into the air. “Spirits of the East and Air, I welcome you into our circle and bid you well tidings. On this sacred night of Samhain, come dance with us.”

Faeries stirred behind her, pixies lifting into the air and buffeting her spine with their breeze. Her curls blew over her shoulders. Blue light lifted from the runes she drew. She gasped. Never before had she seen a Samhain ritual like this before.

Leaning forward, she struck flint and steel to light the candle at the base of the altar. “Spirits of the South and Fire, I welcome you to feast with us on this sacred night.”

The candle flared, and the air turned hot. She told herself not to wipe at the sweat on her brow, that it would insult the faeries who enjoyed the heat.

She dipped her fingers into the goblet to her left and flicked the droplets of water. “Spirits of the West and Water, I welcome you to drink and be merry with us tonight. Join our revelries on this sacred Samhain eve.”

The air turned muggy. Her dress stuck to her back and her hair felt heavy with the weight of water in the air. A kelpie snorted although she had not seen any in the crowd.

A small pot of dirt was the last and final piece of her ritual. She rubbed the dirt between her fingers, feeling the ancient knowledge it held.

“Spirits of the North and Earth, I welcome you to this hall and ask that you tell us stories from ages past. Speak easy and loosen thy tongue on this sacred night.”

She felt the powerful cheer of the faeries before it made her ears ache. Sorcha grinned, unable to keep her own happiness from bubbling forth. This was a good night. A blessed night. A peaceful night.

Her chest squeezed tight and her eyes lost focus. There was one more candle that should be at this altar.

She reached forward, traced the outline of leaves that died and withered as she watched. She struck the flint and steel one more time, lighting the dead tree on fire.

The faeries fell silent.

“I welcome thee Morrighan and your sisters to our fold. Lady of Fate, War, and Fear, you are welcome within these walls.” Sorcha lifted a goblet of wine, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. “Morrighan—hail and welcome!”

A deafening cheer followed her words, but she did not hear it. Instead, Sorcha heard a pleased chuckle and smelled the wheatgrass scent of horses.

“Well done,” Macha murmured. “Feast and stay safe from the Wild Hunt.”