Leaving the Unseelie castle was more difficult than entering. The cold touch of the portal sent gooseflesh across Sorcha’s skin. Magic such as this should never touch a human. It slid along her body like the foreign touch of an unseen person.

Sorcha shuddered, unnerved by the cold, clammy sensation. It was over soon, or would be as soon as her left foot slid free. Ivy brushed against her face until she blew out a breath that stirred the greenery.

She fluttered a hand in front of her face, parting the curtain of ivy and entering the enchanting bedroom.

Nothing had changed. All her things were exactly where she had placed them. The blue flowers glowed with a soft light emanating from their petals on the far wall. The faerie fountain stared placidly off into the distance, hardly comparable to the real thing.

How could she ever look at this place with the same eyes? This island was beautiful, but the shadows now moved, and the bed looked like a prison.

She sighed and unhooked the clasp of her cloak. It fell to the ground with a wet thump although she didn’t remember getting it wet.

Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t hovering in the corners of her mind like an unwelcome house guest. She never remembered inviting the bone biting feeling, but it never seemed to leave.

A soft sound interrupted her thoughts. Sorcha couldn’t pinpoint where it came from in the room. Everything was how she left it, right down to the emerald leaves overlaying the walls.

Again, the shushing noise echoed in her ears. It was the distinct sound of fabric sliding against fabric. The movement of a human body.

Or perhaps that of a Fae.

She sucked in her breath and froze, shifting until the portal was no longer at her back. The air was too still, laced with violence and aggression. She’d never felt danger so powerfully.

Her heart beat. She breathed so quietly she hardly inhaled at all. Darting eyes searched for the cause of the sound as she wondered what’d followed her onto the isle.

A shadow peeled away from the wall, rushing towards her so fast that Sorcha didn’t have time to react. A pillar of darkness surrounded her. She slammed back into the stone wall, ivy tangling in her hair and around her shoulders.

Sorcha turned her head to the side and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, look death in the eye. Taking one last deep inhale, she caught the scent of lemons, mint, and whiskey.

Stone?

His shaking hand brushed a coiled red curl away from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.

“Where were you?”

The question reverberated in her mind, but she couldn’t find the words to answer. Questions of her own overpowered her tongue. How had he realized she left? Why was he here? What had happened while she traversed the Otherworld?

Was he drunk?

He stumbled, rocking sideways before catching himself with a forearm slammed against the wall above her. “Where were you?”

Again, he asked the same question. Anger made his words harsh, but she caught the distinct tones of worry underneath the growl. Why would he worry about her? She added the question to all the others she would never give voice.

“Unseelie lands,” she whispered.

“And why wouldn’t you ask me?”

“For what?”

“Guidance. Protection. An answer to whether or not it was too dangerous for an unarmed, weak, human woman in the Otherworld?”

Sorcha gulped. “I was unaware I might need any protection. There was no point when I felt like I was in danger. Until now.”

“You think you are in danger from me?” His head tilted and a spear of light slashed across his eyes. Twin lines wrinkled between his eyes, vibrant blue nearly glowing with anger.

She couldn’t respond. Her fear spiked the air with static electricity, making the hair on her arms raise. Of course, she was frightened of Stone. He loomed over her until all she could breathe was his scent and all she could see was the powerful set of his barreled chest.

“Sorcha.” He said her name as if it was a prayer. “You never have to be afraid of me.”

He lifted a hand and traced the outline of her face. Crystals scraped across her forehead, past the sensitive skin of her temple, down the soft curves of her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe as he thumbed the plump rise of her lips.

He swayed again, eyes squinting in concentration. “You are so flawed. So unlike my people who would have scrubbed these markings from their skin long ago.”

“Markings?”

“These,” he touched the peaks of her cheeks, her forehead, and the dip of her upper lip.

“Freckles,” she whispered. “We call them freckles.”

“I’ve never seen them before. The Fae have smooth skin, like porcelain, as if an artist had painted them with one tone. But you…you have so many colors.”

“Colors?”

“Your hair, your skin, even your eyes have flecks of green, blue, yellow.”

“You’ve noticed all of that?” She couldn’t stop asking questions. Shock twisted her tongue, asking questions she didn't mean to voice.

“I notice everything you do. You haunt my steps and my dreams. You’ve bewitched me, Sorcha, and I want my soul back.”

“I don’t know how to give it back to you.”

He leaned closer, his breath fanning over her lips. “I wonder if you taste like the sun.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes, I am.”

She didn’t move as he leaned down and devoured her.

He tasted like whiskey and peppermint. Her eyes fluttered shut as the textures of his mouth slid against hers. Soft lips, like velvet, nibbled at her own. She couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to, even as his arms slid down the wall and slipped around her shoulders.

Teeth nibbled at her full bottom lip. No, she realized, not teeth. The harsh edge of crystal biting into her swollen flesh as he pressed harder.

She inhaled in surprise, and he took advantage of the opportunity. His warm tongue swept into her mouth, bringing with it an explosion of flavor. Spices, foreign to her senses, made her drunk as their tongues tangled.

Strange, she hadn’t thought it would be like this. And then she didn’t think at all.

He tasted her, unmade her, whispered endearments she didn’t understand against her mouth. The crystals sliced at her skin, splitting open her lip, and pouring the metallic taste of blood into her mouth.

He didn’t stop. She didn’t want him to.

Warmth poured over her like a wave. She couldn’t think. He was everything and nothing, tying her to the ground by the electric heat of his mouth. His hands slid over her shoulders and massaged her muscles until she relaxed against the wall.

“I knew you would taste like sunshine,” he whispered against her lips. “I knew it from the moment I first set eyes on you.”

“Another flaw?”

“Entirely.”

He dedicated his attention to sipping from her lips. To licking, and sucking, and tasting every inch she would allow him. Hot breath slid across her cheeks, crystals cold and scraping, a sharp contrast to the soft flesh of his skin.

Teeth worried at the sensitive peaks of her ears. Her knees went weak, mouth dropped open in pleasure even as her eyes snapped open. Her nerve endings came alive. Heat rippled through her from the points all the way to her belly.

“What—” she gasped.

A pleased, masculine growl rumbled in her ear.

His hands traveled down her arms, smoothing across the skin he found so flawed. Somehow, she didn’t think he meant it as an insult. She’d seen the Fae for herself, so perfect they looked like stone. Perhaps he saw something alive in her. Something real.

She arched her back as one of his hands trailed across her collarbone. He nibbled at her ear, scraping both teeth and crystal against the sensitive flesh. His hands traveled further, fingers trailing along the gaping, oversized neckline of her dress. She thought surely her mind would fracture from the pleasure as his hands ghosted over the soft swells of her breasts.

Until the air went cold.

His breathing changed. The hot gusts of breath stilled to calm, measured inhalations. He pulled a long strand of web from her shoulder, the sticky filaments stretching out across his fingers.

“What is this?” he growled. “And you say you had no need for protection?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You lie.” His eyes narrowed further, an entirely different beast staring at her through the windows of his soul.

“I didn’t speak with anyone,” she whispered, cowering against the ivy. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to hurt me.”

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, and I will hold true to that vow. No more lies, little human. Why were you in Unseelie lands?”

She swallowed and contemplated lying. How much should she tell him? The Queen wouldn’t want her running her mouth, and the information she held was a secret. Sorcha still didn’t know who had opened the portal from this side or if it was entirely the Queen’s doing.

But he would know if she lied. She wasn’t certain how the Fae knew, if they tasted it in the air or could read body language. If he knew, then he would continue to push until she told the truth.

Sorcha had never been a good liar. “I don’t know why I was there. The portal opened from this side, and there was information the Unseelie Queen wished to share with me.”

“That portal can’t open on its own.”

“I don’t think there are any Unseelie here.”

His eyes darkened, storm clouds brewing in the vivid blue. “Oona.”

“What?”

He didn’t answer. The heat of his body disappeared, leaving her shivering and alone.

“It’s probably better he left,” she said with a shaking sigh. But she didn’t believe the words. How could she when her body was quivering with unfulfilled pleasure?

Was that how it felt for her sisters? Surely it couldn’t; they had no attachment to the men who came to the brothel.

A memory surfaced of a blond man with his arms wrapped around Briana. Sorcha had caught them in an alcove outside the brothel, whispering words of endearments, the likes of which she’d never heard before. The soft press of lips to skin, the sound of gasps and sighs.

Maybe they did know what this felt like, Sorcha thought. Maybe they’d had it ripped away from them so many times they forgot to tell her.

Or they didn’t want to share. The moment felt so infinitely private that Sorcha wasn’t sure she could breathe a word of it. She tucked the memory into a hidden part of her soul for a time when she felt lost or discouraged.

For a single moment in time, she had felt what it meant to be cherished.

Her mind flared to life as the heat in her body disappeared.

“Oona!” She gasped.

He’d left this bedroom with clear intent in his eyes. Anger had radiated from his skin like a physical being, his crystals glowing and shimmering with rage. Stone had promised he would never hurt her, but Sorcha had no way of knowing whether he promised the same to the faeries under his protection.

She burst into motion, rushing from the room, and swinging herself over the bannister and down the stairs. There was no time for exhaustion, no hesitation nor second thoughts. Sorcha had to warn Oona, to rush her from the castle until she could figure out a way to calm him down if possible.

As much as Stone knew his people’s families, he didn’t know them well enough to guess where they were. Most of the pixies on the isle slept with each other in Macha’s garden. They said it kept them safe and protected.

Oona wasn’t like the others. She slept in the kitchens with the brownies, to make sure that her domain was clean every night.

If Sorcha had observed Stone correctly, he would go to the pixie grotto first. Then he would go to the kitchens.

She ran shoulder first into a door, busting through it so she could shorten her path to the kitchens. Stone’s legs were longer. He would be much faster, but he was operating through rage and nothing else. Sorcha was still thinking clearly.

Rooms filled with covered furniture and shattered wood flickered through her vision as she ran through each long dead room. Spider webs tangled in her hair and dust covered her shoulders as she made the last jump and threw open the door to the glowing warmth of the kitchens.

“Oona,” she frantically called. “Oona! Wake up!”

A small mound in the corner shifted, and the pixie sat up. She didn’t don her glamour immediately. The round face didn't match the persona Oona had chosen for herself. The high peaks of her forehead resembled an oak leaf, violet tinges blushing the high tips and trailing down her shoulders onto her wings.

“What? Who is it?”

“Get up, Oona! He’s coming!”

“What?” The pixie burst into movement, throwing blankets into the air and rushing towards Sorcha. “Where is he coming from?”

“I’d assumed he would go to the grotto first.”

A roar shook the door, coming from Macha’s fountain.

Oona glanced over her shoulder. “You are correct. And now you know I am Unseelie.”

“Yes.”

“I did not mean to lie, but there are so many secrets in our world. The Queen wanted to see you, and I could not refuse.”

“Oona he’s almost here!” Sorcha wrapped her hand around Oona’s forearm and tugged. “You’re coming with me. I know where to put you until he calms down.”

“I won’t put you in harm’s way.”

“I’m the only person in this castle that has nothing to fear from him, he gave me his word. Come with me!”

Oona glanced at her in shock. “He promised what?”

“If you don’t come with me now, I will carry you. Get moving!”

“The master has never given anyone a promise of protection. Explain yourself, dearie.”

Sorcha blew a breath at her hair. “Oona, I order you to follow me now.”

Using the faerie’s name was harsh, but Sorcha could hear his footsteps pounding towards the kitchen. Their time was short.

Oona’s spine straightened and fire flashed in her eyes. But she followed Sorcha when she turned and raced back the way she came.

Sorcha tried to make their trail difficult to follow. She took them through different sections of the castle, hoping a long chase would quell some of his head. They passed broken statues, scuttling spiders, and ripped paintings of faeries she would never meet.

“We’re almost there,” her harsh whisper barely audible over the pounding of their feet. “So close, Oona. Keep up.”

The faerie ran faster.

Sorcha slid around a corner, skidding until her spine hit the wall with a harsh thunk. The air whooshed from her lungs, but she forced herself to keep going. She didn’t know what Stone planned on doing. The fear in Oona’s eyes spoke volumes, and it was enough for her to steal the faerie away.

Her gut said Stone would regret any judgement he made in anger. These faeries had dedicated their lives to him. They weren’t slaves, they weren’t servants, and he had no right to harm them. Even if they made mistakes.

She slammed into the carved wall and pressed the stone in the sword’s pommel. The grating grind echoed. Stone’s enraged shout was far closer than she hoped.

Sorcha grabbed Oona’s shoulders and shook her. “You listen to me. There’s a bathroom in the back corner with a hot spring. Get into the springs and do not come out until I come get you. Do you hear me?”

“You’re putting yourself in danger for no reason, dearie. Don’t worry yourself with me. I’ve lived a full life.”

“And I would have you live more. Oona, I order you to hide in the hot springs.”

The faerie’s spine stiffened, and she disappeared into Sorcha’s bedroom.

“Now that’s taken care of.” She stepped farther away from the carving and the groaning stone slid back into place. “Let's deal with the last bit.”

She slid her fingers around the sword pommel, wiggling and gripping until she felt it give away. The tiny nub of stone slid into her hand with little complaint.

“And you're coming with me.” Sorcha stuck it between her breasts for safe keeping.

Then she turned, pressed her spine against the carving, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long. He came barreling around the corner like a bull, sides heaving and crystals casting violet light onto the floors and walls.

He pointed a finger and shouted, “You defy me?”

“I do.”

Stone walked towards her, each step a deliberate movement filled with aggression and power. She likened the movement to the first night she’d seen him. Intimidation was his purpose, and the first night she had been frightened.

She refused to be this time. Sorcha tilted her head back and met his gaze with a set jaw. “I’m not letting you get to her.”

“She is mine to punish. An Unseelie living under my roof has no right to live.”

“She is no one’s but her own. You have no right to punish her for begging my help. If you want to punish someone, then punish me.”

He hesitated. “You?”

“I walked into that portal without anyone telling me to. If you require someone to scream and shout your anger at, then it should be me!”

“You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I knew precisely what I was doing! I was raised with stories of the Fae. I left offerings and sacrifices to your people since I was a child. Unseelie lands are legend, and I assure you, I know all its dangers. I did not eat nor drink. I spoke to as few people as possible—”

“You spoke to unknown Fae?” he interrupted.

“I spoke to those who were necessary, and Bran helped me back. What more do you want, Stone?”

Angry breaths expelled from his body in short huffs. “You should have asked for my help.”

“Which you couldn’t have provided! You are stuck here with the rest of them.”

“I would have given you a weapon to take with you!” he shouted

Sorcha matched his tone and screamed back, “I wouldn’t have used it! I heal people, I don’t attack them, Stone!”

“My name is not Stone!”

The walls creaked as his thunderous shout struck the stones. The carvings behind her quaked, and the floor shook with the force of his rage. He turned from her, his shoulders shaking with anger.

And fear, she realized as the light of his crystals dimmed. He had been frightened for her and waiting for her to return had only caused the fear to fester.

Sorcha’s own anger dimmed.

“Then what would you have me call you?” she whispered quietly as she stepped forward. “Master? King? Lord? There is nothing else for me to say.”

“I would have you call me by name, if it were possible.”

“And why isn’t it possible?” Daring to reach forward, she placed her hand against his back. Though fabric covered his skin, the dips of crystal gashes were easy to find. She slid her fingers into the wounded valley to hold him in place. “You already know my given name.”

“A human in possession of a Tuatha dé Danann’s name is far too powerful.”

“Why? Do you fear I might order you to kill someone for me? To steal?”

“I fear that you would ask me to lay the world at your feet.” He glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes searing through her calm resolve. “And it would be all too easy to do.”

He walked away from her, each footstep measured as if he were trying not to run. Her hand slid from his back, out of the grooves of crystals that bit at her fingers.

She did not stop him, nor was she certain that she could. The sheer force of his power frightened her. But it was the blunt terror of his words that held her in place.

Would she ask for the world?

Sorcha didn’t know.

It was some time before she walked back into her bedroom. Sorcha’s mind whirled with the possibilities of what he had meant, what that meant for their relationship. Was that a declaration of intent?

Did he feel something for her? Did she feel something for him?

She wasn’t certain. She knew that his eyes haunted her dreams, that his tortured body was intriguing rather than fearsome. Did she want him? The violent reaction of her body to his suggested she might.

How would that even work? He was so much larger than her, surely he would crush her if she even attempted to have relations with him. And a part of her questioned whether she wanted him or the protection he could provide.

Would that make her a whore like her sisters? Was payment the requirement that divided easy women and business women?

Sorcha feared she would never know. And did it matter? Her sisters gave pleasure and reassurance to those who might not have it in any other way. If they derived pleasure from their job, then they should continue it. She would not judge them.

She pulled the small stone from between her breasts, staring down at the carved marble gemstone. Her mind stilled, thoughts narrowing down to one question which loomed above all others.

Would he have hurt Oona?

The stone slid easily back into place, and the heavy door receded into the wall. Sorcha longed for the day when the grinding of stone against stone would cease. When it had been used so much that the passage was smooth and silent.

She toed off her shoes, moss soft against her aching feet. She hadn’t run this much in ages, between her bolting steps in the dark castle and then the rush through the portal. Her body wasn’t certain how to handle the rush of adrenaline followed by bone deep exhaustion.

Along the way to the bathroom, she pulled off each piece of her clothing. The outer kirtle dropped to the ground, the heavy skirts and belts holding each piece in place. Underclothing stuck to her skin where blood and fluid had leaked through each layer of fabric.

Sighing, she brushed aside the ivy and found Oona waiting by the door with a brush in her hand.

“Relax,” Sorcha said. “It’s just me.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” the pixie dropped the brush to the ground. “I wouldn’t have hit him, dearie. I just… I just—”

Sorcha lifted a hand. “If his intent was to hurt you, then you have every right to protect yourself. Now if you don’t mind, I’m very tired.”

“Of course, dear.”

Oona reached for the final ties of Sorcha’s underclothes, quickly untangling the strings, and stripping the heavy weight from Sorcha’s body. She stepped into the hot spring, sighing as her muscles eased.

“Did you bring the water from here?” she asked as Oona turned to put her underthings away. “The first day?”

“No. No, this is a royal room. These rooms are off limits for lesser Fae. Not without permission or company.”

“But I’m not a high Fae.”

“Perhaps you are,” Oona looked at her intently. “You’ve the pointed ears, although far smaller than any I’ve ever seen. Are you sure you aren’t a changeling?”

“My mother would have told me. She was a friend to the Fae and would have raised their child with pride.” As much as she wanted to be Fae, Sorcha doubted there was the barest hint of it in her bloodline.

“And you have no ancestors who came from Underhill?”

“Not that I know of, and I’ve never had any sway with the elements. The earth is just earth, the air just air.”

“Then you must not be Fae.” Oona shook her head. “I don’t know what you are child, but you aren’t entirely human. This room was not meant for creatures such as me. It’s said that all living things would grow ill and shrivel if they weren’t meant for such a room.”

“Are you certain it’s not just a myth?”

“Most things are myths, but there’s a shred of truth in every story. The magic here has deemed you worthy of staying within its walls. How, or why, I have no way of knowing.”

Neither did Sorcha. It didn’t seem right that she stayed in a room like this. It was too fine, too beautiful, and she had never lived in beauty like this before. Why should she start now?

Oona bustled out of the room, muttering about masters and faeries, and Sorcha could hear her opening chests for sleep clothing.

She didn’t have much time then. Sorcha’s fingers ghosted over the tips of her ears, wondering if perhaps she had a bit of Fae in her, after all. But wouldn’t they know?

Perhaps it was something she would never know or understand. Sorcha scrubbed her skin with a brush, the thick bristles turning her skin bright red and digging out all the crust underneath her nails. The water hardly changed color at all, it moved so quickly out the crack at the bottom.

Oona brushed aside the ivy, a light silk nightgown in her hands. “Come on then. You’ve had a busy day.”

“I’m sorry.” Sorcha looked up at her, wet hair tangled at her shoulders and spread out in the water like a fan. “I’m so sorry that I used your name without permission. I didn’t want you to get hurt, but it’s no excuse for treating you like that. I keep using faerie names even when I know how powerful they can be.”

“There’s no harm done, child.” Oona’s lips quirked to the side. “You saved my life.”

“Still, I would like to give my name in apology. I trust you to use it well.”

Oona’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. The nightgown fell from her hands and landed on the floor like a dying butterfly. “Why ever would you do that? Dearie, that is a dangerous thing to do. You should not give any Fae your name! Ever!”

Sorcha stood from the water, wrapped a cloth around her body, and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Oona. My name is Sorcha of Ui Neill. And it would please me greatly if you would refer to me by name from now on.”

Tears slid down Oona’s cheeks. “I couldn’t. It’s not right.”

“Please. I’m so far away from family and friends, and I consider you as close to me now as any other. I would like to hear you call me Sorcha, for it is my given name and should be spoken often.”

“Sorcha,” the faerie whispered. “You are the first human to ever give me their name.”

“Use it wisely.”

“And only with love,” Oona said. She stepped forward and wrapped another cloth around Sorcha’s shoulders, rubbing briskly. “Now let’s get you dried off and into bed.”

“Do you want to talk about the Queen?”

“Let me take care of you. I have no wish for nightmares, my dear.”

Sorcha could almost feel the aching pain of loss. Oona was banished here, and likely would never see her family again. The resolve set inside Sorcha grew all the more strong. She would find a way to send Oona back home. To send all of them home.

They deserved to see their families. They deserved to be free.

* * *

Eamonn stormed into the highest tower of the castle, rage simmering underneath his skin. How dare she? How dare she defy him, in his own castle, without even a hint of fear in her eyes?

She should worry that he might snap her pretty little neck. And he could!

He held his hands out, staring down at the palms that had taken so many lives in his long life. He could feel the shifting of flesh, the crack that echoed through his fingers when a spine gave way. There was not a gentle bone in his body.

At least, that was what he believed.

But even with the multiple bottles of whiskey clouding his mind and judgement, he had been gentle with her. The crystals on his hands hadn’t broken through her speckled skin.

He tossed his head, shaking the long braid down his spine. Speckled wasn’t the word. Flawed, as he had told her, wasn’t the word either. Those freckles were captivating little stars decorating her skin like the splatter of a painter’s brush. She was the most unusual creature he had met.

The voice of his twin brother, Fionn, echoed in his mind.

“But you always loved the humans, brother.”

Eamonn growled. “You have no place here.”

“You’ll hurt her, like the rest of them. Those hands weren’t capable of preserving such delicate bodies even before you broke. Ruined, maimed, beast that you are.”

The old doubt filtered into his conscience. He wanted to be the kind of man who was capable of touching a woman and not worrying that she might break. He wanted to stroke soft skin, to squeeze and pet, but he knew what dangers lay down that path.

And it infuriated him.

Roaring out a frustrated call, he swung a heavy fist at the newest chair in his living quarters. The wood splintered beneath the weight of crystal and bone. Small shards burst into the air, slicing through his forearms.

The now familiar ache forced him to pause and tilt his hand. Meaty flesh split farther and crystals grew through muscle and skin. They glimmered, reflecting the light as if to mock him. They were beautiful, yes, but they were ugly at the same time.

He dropped his hand in disgust.

“That temper tends to you get in trouble.”

Eamonn’s jaw ticked at the familiar voice.

“Why were you in Unseelie Lands, Bran?”

“Am I not supposed to be looking after your newest lady conquest?”

“Why?” Eamonn added steel to his voice, not allowing the other Fae a chance to argue further. Bran would talk around a subject until he was blue in the face.

“I had business there.”

“You should not be following her.”

“Why not?” Bran stepped out of the shadows, a sly grin on his face. “I do what I want, Prince. Just as you do.”

“You should have been protecting her if you were there.”

“She was fine. Managed well if you ask me. The only thing that caught her up was the portal.” Bran’s raven eye winked. “And if we’re being honest, opening that on her own was an impossible task. She wouldn’t have gotten it open without any Fae blood.”

“You don’t think she has any?” Eamonn wasn’t so sure.

“Dry as a bone, that one. I thought perhaps she might, but any power would have surfaced on that ship we came over here on. She’s not Fae.”

“Then what is your explanation for the ears?”

Bran shrugged. “Physical deformation. She is strange though, I’ll give you that. She knows how to manage the Fae and always says ‘thank you.’ I haven’t had a human thank me in what feels like centuries.”

“They forgot about us. That’s why we left.”

“All but her.” Bran nodded towards the now broken furniture. “I’d hazard a guess you did something you’re regretting?”

“Go away, Bran.”

“I’m here now. I don’t think I want to leave until the end of this story. What do you plan on doing with her?” Bran walked towards one of the lounge chairs, splaying his body across it without a care in the world. He pointed towards the comfortable seat. “This one is off limits. Break the others.”

Eamonn sighed, tension and anger giving way to annoyance. “I’m finished.”

“You say that, but then you always end up flipping the chair I’m seated in.”

“That’s because you annoy me so much.”

“I don’t follow your rules, Seelie. It’s just the way I live my life.”

“And you waste your time annoying me?”

Bran kicked his feet in the air, holding his hand out for a drink he knew Eamonn would share. “It’s not like there’s much going on back in my court. And here you are, on the brink of making the next step towards your future.”

Eamonn lifted a glass and the whiskey from his desk, pouring a healthy amount into the crystal. “You think I’m on the brink of something? What other future do I have than rotting away on this isle?”

“Well, you don’t have to stay here.” Bran leaned out and grabbed the drink. “You’re just choosing to.”

“That’s not true.”

The raven eye rolled in its socket. “If you haven’t put that piece of the puzzle together, then there’s not much I can do to help you, brother.”

Eamonn narrowed his eyes, glaring down at the reclining faerie. “Do you know something?”

“I know a lot of things.” Bran sipped the whiskey. “This is quite good.”

“And you will not share?”

“You already know it Eamonn, you’re just refusing to admit that you know it. Use that brain of yours. If the crystals haven’t affected your head yet that is.”

Eamonn stared for a moment, his mind whirling with possibilities until it settled on the information Bran was using. He shook his head. “That was a long time ago, and I am no longer king.”

“Ah, but you are the oldest son.”

“And unfit for the Seelie throne.” Eamonn held his arms out, crystals sparkling in the dim candlelight. “Do I look like a Seelie Fae? Do you really think they’d follow me?”

“I think all the things you used to say were compelling to the faeries who only knew slavery. If you kept whispering in their ears of freedom, they might just follow you rather than your brother who treats his subjects like cattle rather than people.”

“There is still the matter of the Tuatha dé Danann.”

Bran drained the rest of the glass. “Do you think that’s an issue? They always chose you, Eamonn. You were the favored son from day one. Or did you think your brother hated you simply because he was born with darkness in his heart? Hatred is learned, Eamonn, and it festered inside Fionn for years before he stabbed you in the back.”

“I would have been a good king,” Eamonn said. “But I never would have been a great king.”

“Times change.” Bran hopped onto his feet, circling the room, and eyeing the crystal decanters on Eamonn’s desk with a calculating raven eye. “What are you going to do about the girl?”

Eamonn slumped onto the remaining chair. “I haven't a clue.”

“Send her home?”

The glass in Eamonn's hand shattered.

Bran cocked his head to the side. “Unlikely then. Well, if you will not send her home, then just what do you plan on doing with her?”

“I have yet to decide.”

“I have an idea.”

“Do you?” Eamonn’s head thumped against the back of the chair and he stared up at the ceiling. “Please, advise me Unseelie Prince.”

“Remind yourself what it feels like when a woman wants you. It might do you a world of good.”

“She doesn’t want me. She’s frightened of me, yes. But any other emotion has never passed through her at the sight of me.”

“Curious. It didn’t look like that when you tried to consume her.”

“I what?” Eamonn’s face flamed with embarrassment and anger. “You were watching.”

“I’m always watching,” Bran tapped the black feathers circling his eye. “But more importantly, I could see what you did not. Alcohol may cloud your mind, but it does not mine. She wants you, my friend. Almost as much as you want her.”

“And what do I do with that? You ask me to plan for war, and then to distract myself with a woman!” Eamonn tossed the remaining shards of glass onto the floor. “A man can only do so much, Bran.”

“I can help if you want. Although, I’d much prefer the task of distracting your lady.”

Eamonn growled.

“Calm yourself.” Bran lifted his hands in surrender. “I jest. You need to wait for your brother to make the first move, and trust me, he will. Why do you think I was in Unseelie?”

Eamonn wanted to throw something at him. “Was this entire conversation a way for you to circle around to what you found out in Unseelie? Out with it, Fae!”

“Not yet. I want to know what you’re doing with Sorcha first.”

“I don’t like you using her name so freely.”

“I think she’s hardier than you give her credit for. No faerie blood runs in her veins, but there’s something else there that gives her a spine of steel. What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” Eamonn groaned. “Give me peace and perhaps I will find out!”

“You gave her the queen’s room, yet you do not know what you want her for.” Bran tsked. “You’re a confusing man, my friend. A supple woman, willing no less, just floors away from you and you hide in a tower.”

“Are you quite done commenting on my love life?”

“That will never stop.”

Eamonn stared at the ripped portrait of his mother and prayed for patience. He’d never been good at waiting. The battlefield wasn’t a good training ground for patience. “Bran.”

“Fine. Your brother has been keeping track of you, you know, and this girl worries him. He thinks a happy life might coerce you into returning.”

“He is a fool.”

Bran snorted. “A fool who is correct.”

“She has no sway over my actions or decisions.”

“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.

No one responded.

“Good enough,” she whispered as she pushed open the door.

A blast of cold air pushed her backward. Purple petals tangled in her waist length hair and fell onto the floor. The blanket of cobwebs on the ceiling stirred. They bounced with the weight of the musty air and shadows danced upon the walls as spiders fled the light.

Sorcha blew out a breath. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Shadows are just that. Shadows.”

Her own voice echoed, distorted and warped. She shivered, but pushed on.

She wandered for a while. The western tower was far larger than she expected. There were many doors down the long hallway into darkness. None of them opened, no matter how hard she pushed.

Eventually, she gave up trying. She stayed close to the wall and squinted in the darkness to make out where she might go next.

There, up ahead, was a light. Dim and with no source she could distinguish.

Sorcha squared her shoulders and snuck down the hallway until she could press her palm against the door. The light was yellow. Candlelight?

A smile spread across her face.

“Got you,” she whispered. “Let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

She tested the door, one hand on the handle and the other firmly against the wood grain. Unlike the others, this door was well oiled. Silent, it hid her presence as she slid it open inch by inch.

Sorcha peeked through the small crack. A candelabra glowed with the light of a dozen candles placed atop a sconce on the wall nearest her. There was a nice blanket of shadows behind a pillar. If she could sneak over to that, he wouldn’t be able to see her…

Bravery, foolish bravery perhaps, was her middle name. Holding her breath, she darted through the door and ducked into the shadows.

Her heart pounded so forcefully she was certain he would hear it. He’d be so angry if he found her sneaking. Even his servants would berate her for hours if they discovered she had snuck into this forbidden place.

Sorcha furrowed her brows. She listened for some kind of sound. The movement of fabric, the exhale of a breath, the murmuring of voices.

Was he here?

She leaned around the pillar. The room was small, quaint even. Blue glowing flowers grew up from the floor, stretching their vines into the ceiling. Leaves larger than her entire body folded over the thick tendrils and swept the ground.

At the end of the room, a large stone loomed in the shadows. She had seen its ilk before. A sacred stone, the triskele carved into its surface marking it as a holy object.

He knelt before it wearing nothing but a small loincloth. His back was broad, sliced so many times that he glimmered in the weak blue light. Even his feet were broken, she noticed. The sole of one gaped open and a valley of violet crystals danced down it.

Her cheeks burned. He held his hands folded before him, long braid trailing down his back and completely still.

She should leave. This was a holy place and her intrusion was not welcome.

Shame made her palms sweat. She had always been a curious creature, but she’d never waltzed into a church just to watch. This was sacrilege.

“Grandfather,” he murmured. His voice was deep, like the shifting of the earth in the middle of the night. “Nuada Airgetlám, I beseech your help.”

Grandfather? She ducked behind the pillow again and pressed her hands against her chest. He was the grandson of Nuada Silverhand? It wasn’t possible!

“I am lost. I have followed your paths, listened to your wisdom, and still I am here.”

The pain in his voice made her ache. Sorcha had never heard him speak in such a way. He was a private person, and she wasn’t surprised that he kept his secrets close.

Her eyes locked upon the cracked door. He fell silent and her opportunity to do the right thing was now. She could slip out, forget that she had intruded, and tell herself she had eased the curiosity eating at her.

But now, here, she could satisfy that curiosity. It burned so brightly her thoughts burst into flame.

She gritted her teeth and twisted her fingers together. She would regret this.

A few moments more, she told herself. He had to leave eventually. Sorcha leaned around the pillar again, watching as Stone leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the ground.

The strong muscles of his thighs bunched. His back flexed, tightening into a valley following the ridge of his spine.

“They know where I am. I have always said that if they find the courage to fight me, then let them come. My brother must find the man within if he wishes to wipe me from the Otherworld. And I have remained alone.”

She pressed her chest against the pillar. Her fingers were freezing, but she couldn’t pull away from the shadows. Her eyes stayed locked upon his prostrate figure.

“You raised me to be a weapon. I was untouchable with your sword at my side, and then you allowed me to be cut down by my own blood. Through all this, I endured. I existed. But now, I do not know what path you wish me to take.

“There is another here. A woman who survived the journey from Ui Neill to Hy-brasil. I thought such a thing impossible for one so frail, and surely the mark of your children is upon her.”

Sorcha held her breath. She wanted to know what secrets he held regarding her presence.

“She is a distraction I do not need. If I wish to be prepared for my brother’s attack, then I should ignore her. Or perhaps send her away.

“He sent more men. I entertained them for a time in the throne room, but their eyes wandered. They searched for the best place to attack. The easiest way to draw blood and strike at my heart. I’m confident they found nothing.”

He hesitated, and she leaned forward to hear his quiet words.

“I have no fear of pain. My hands are stained with the blood of kings and the ashes of old gods. But I fear what my brother might do to her, should he find out about her existence.

“She is strange. Unlike the creatures I am used to, or remember from Seelie. Breakable and yet strong. Flawed, yet somehow perfect and uncommonly kind. I don’t know what it is you would tell me to do, grandfather.”

Sorcha knew what she wanted Nuada to tell him. Try anything you want, for our time is fleeting.

Her heart raced as her mind played through the possibilities. He was not an ugly man. The crystals were unusual and dangerous, but they didn’t detract from the harsh angles of his face. Her sisters would run from him in fear.

His height alone would be a problem. And if he was so tall, there may be issues with fitting together…

She cocked her head to the side and looked him up and down. It was worth taking a chance. He was a beautiful man.

Stone sat back up, his back and shoulders flexing. Shadows danced across the imposing muscles, flickering to life only to disappear as he shifted.

“I fear touching her with my hands. I am an unyielding man, created to do violent things. Laying with a woman, being kind to a woman, is not in my nature.”

Her heart shattered all over again. Did he truly believe he was incapable of being gentle?

Green light trickled from the top of the triskele to the bottom. Great drops of emerald fluid leaked from the edges of the stone and slid to the ground.

“Peace, grandson.” The voice was smooth honey wine, the comforting voice of the wind after a long journey home. “The course of love is no easy path to tread. The sky may tremble, and the wind may howl, but the only person who can sway your decisions is yourself. What do you feel when you look at this girl?”

“It is like nothing I have ever felt before.”

“Do you like the way it feels?”

“It makes me feel weak,” Stone growled. “One look from her and I am ashamed of myself, of my decisions, of the path I walk.”

“And what path is that?”

“I walk towards my death. My birthright was taken, and I will not allow another to take what should be mine.”

The green light flared so bright that Sorcha had to duck behind the pillar.

Nuada’s voice rose, “And whose choice is that, grandson?”

“My own.”

“Do you wish to die?”

“No.”

“Then my suggestion is for you to live. As much as you can. Experience life, experience courage and honor in ways you were never given as a young man. You are still a being capable of brutality, but that does not define you. The Fae are infinite creatures, capricious and volatile. It is far past time for you to discover other purposes for yourself.”

“You approve?”

Nuada’s chuckle echoed in the room, and the green light faded. She watched the nearest pillar until the light completed disappeared from its gray stone. Only then did Sorcha peek past her own hiding spot, and glance towards Stone.

He remained kneeling in the same spot, head heavy. His hands flexed upon his thighs but he did not move. He did not speak.

He did not know she was there.

Sorcha turned and let herself out of the altar room. She wasn’t certain she breathed a single breath as she raced down the hallway and out of the western tower.

What had she heard?

She pressed her spine against the wall and leaned her head back until her hair caught in the cracks of stone. What was that? What would she make of that?

His words rang through her skull over and over again. She made him weak.

Was that a good thing?