Magic burst through Aisling’s body, coursing through her veins, cracking and realigning her spine. The agony of the change had become so familiar at this point that it almost didn’t hurt anymore. She’d felt it nearly a hundred times now. Perhaps more.

Finally, the curse let go of her. Immediate relief made her sag in the water that rose up and over her head until she kicked back to the surface. Blood-red water streaked down her cheeks, shoulders, and hands. There was so much death in this river, and even that didn’t bother her. She’d been around it enough in her life to know it was merely part of living.

Dragging herself out of the river, she slumped against the edge and pressed her cheek against the warm grass. In a few moments, Aisling knew she had to get up and continue her journey. She couldn’t stay in one place for too long or Carman would find her.

Still…

“Bran,” she whispered. “If you can hear me or feel me, please just keep doing whatever it is your doing. Find me.”

They’d only been gone for a few days, and she missed him. She missed the endless quips that made her angry, the ridiculous outlook on life when death was barreling down toward him. But most of all, she missed the soft way his hands would hold her, how he could bring her back from the edge with nothing more than a touch.

“Aisling?” The voice wasn’t similar at all to Bran, but it still made a shiver dance down her spine.

She picked up her head and saw Lorcan standing a few feet away with a banshee at his side.

“What is it?”

“The Duchess would like to see you.”

Yet another duchess involved in a curse. Was she walking the same path as she had before, just with a different danger this time?

Considering how she was alone this time, and the danger was far more personal, Aisling was loathe to admit this was a cycle. She’d helped Bran; now she had to help herself. If she’d been a bard, this might have even felt poetic.

“I need clothing,” she croaked, throat still sore from holding in screams during the change.

“I have those, your majesty.” The banshee stepped forward and held out her arms. A billowing white dress flowed down her hands like the white mist of a waterfall.

“No.” Aisling shook her head. She pointed downstream where her own beetle wing dress lay limp on the shore. “I will wear what I have earned. I might be lying in the muck right now, but I am still a queen.”

Pride shone in Lorcan’s gaze for a moment before he spun on his heels and trod through the sticky river edge to pick up her fallen mantle. The gown would likely smell like earth and dirt, and wasn’t that what the Raven Queen should smell like?

Her throne was not one made of gossamer and gold. It was a throne for the queen of the dead, and it smelled like a grave.

Lorcan returned to her side, reached his hands underneath her arms, and hefted her to standing. He didn’t look at her overly much, only helped her into the dress that molded to her form like a glove. It was the second time she’d worn it, but then perhaps this wasn’t the same one she’d worn. This gown felt like the future and radiated magic.

Beetle wings clacked against her side as she turned around toward Lorcan. “How do I look?”

He gave her a severe once over, then met her gaze. “Like a queen.”

The modest corset hugged her chest and ribs, supporting her posture when she might have slumped in exhaustion. Thin, black fabric looped over each shoulder and draped over her form like a cape. The beetle wings created armor that flared out over her arms, gathered at her hips, and then sprinkled down her skirts to meet the ground.

It would have been impressive if her hair hadn’t been wet and tangled. She felt as though she looked like she’d crawled out of the river already dead. And perhaps she was. This place felt like a resting ground for the damned more than it felt like a place for redemption.

“Shall we?” she asked the banshee. “I trust it’s a poor idea to keep Aoife waiting.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The faerie whirled, her skirts spreading like the wings of a moth, and made her way past her sisters to a path Aisling hadn’t noticed before. Plain and simple, it started as nothing more than dirt until large stones framed the path through the jagged mountain top.

Large stone cairns jutted from the ground. They looked like soldiers standing at attention, dotted throughout the landscape that was barren of any greenery. There wasn’t even moss on the stones themselves. Just ashen dirt and dust.

“Aisling,” Lorcan murmured, speeding up so he could whisper in her ear, “I don’t trust them.”

“I trust no one,” she replied. “This duchess has her own means that she wants to achieve. I don’t blame her for that.”

“I do,” he grumbled. “You are the Raven Queen, and they owe you their allegiance. It matters little what someone did long ago. This is your kingdom, and they must ensure they follow the rules just as everyone else does.”

“They don’t seem to care for tradition.” It was something she admired in them really. Aisling didn’t like the old ways of the faeries, the Wild Hunt only one of the many things she disagreed with. There was a future they could all build together if they wanted to. Unfortunately, most faeries didn’t.

The banshee slowed in front of them and gestured directly ahead. “The duchess awaits you there.”

Aisling couldn’t see where the woman was pointing to. White mist blanketed the land beyond, so thick she wouldn’t have been able to see someone standing right in front of them.

“Through the mist?” she asked. “And what stands in my way?”

“Nothing but yourself, your majesty.” The mist rolled toward them, and the banshee disappeared into its gray fog.

“That’s not cryptic at all,” she hissed. “Lorcan, how do you think we’re to proceed?”

No one responded to her.

Aisling whipped around and saw nothing behind her but white. She pivoted in a slow circle, heart pounding. The mist had already swallowed her whole.

“Lorcan?” she tried again, though she knew he was gone. No one would help her make it to the banshee duchess but herself. That was what the price would be.

Aisling cupped her hands together, the tattooed eyes on her palms staring up at her. “Fire burn and magic bite, give me all that you can light.”

A glow began between her fingers, growing ever stronger until she could hold her hands aloft. The magic burned through the mist enough that she could see the ground around her feet.

Aisling hadn’t realized how disoriented she had become with nothing in front of her. The entire world seemed to tilt once she saw the ground again, and she nearly fell onto her knees before she righted herself.

Blowing her hair out of her face, she shook her head firmly. “This is nothing, Aisling. A little bit of illusion that you’ve seen before. Get your feet under you and walk forward.”

Fear churned in her gut, and she refused to focus on the needless emotion. There would be time to be afraid. Now was not the time. She held her arms higher and stepped one foot in front of the other.

This test wasn’t about her powers or her abilities. They already knew she was a strong witch, made even more powerful by the gifts of the Raven Queen. She could only imagine that this was to measure her bravery and worth, just as they would have long ago when they hadn’t only washed the clothing of the dead in the river, but had a choice in whether or not a human life was deemed worthy of the afterlife.

Farther and farther she strode, fear melting away with each step. Eventually, her toes kissed the edge of a cliff. Though she could not see how far down it went, she felt the stirring of the air and heard the whistling of winds far below her.

“If this is a test of bravery to see how far I’m willing to go to prove myself, it will not be leaping to my death,” she muttered.

The light between her hands grew brighter. Just a little mist burned away, enough that she could see a gray metal chain jutting out of the side of the cliff.

So, this had been the warnings of the giants then. Perhaps the banshee had killed them to take their lands. Another question she would ask the duchess once all this was over.

Aisling made her way over to the chain and nudged it with her foot. It stretched from the cliff and hung suspended in the air. The links were larger than her, each metal piece at least a man’s length across. Only a giant would be capable of lifting them.

She frowned and stared out into the swirling white mist. If the chain was broken, it would hang limp and straight down. It must be attached to something at the other end.

A growl burst forth from between her lips, the sound both angry and disappointed. “Is this the test you send me?” she asked. “Blind faith that you aren’t leading me to my death?”

No one responded, and she had the feeling someone was listening to her. Gods, she was beginning to hate the banshees.

Carefully balancing herself on the first link, Aisling stepped onto the chain and began her slow, meandering crawl across it.

She stepped purposefully each time. The last thing she needed was to slip, and the chains were damp with dew. Cold seeped between her bare toes from metal that hadn’t been heated by the sun in ages.

A wind blew toward her, pushing against the chain and making it sway side to side. Not enough to dislodge her, enough that it shoved her stomach up into her throat at the first movement.

Her heart raced at the possibilities. She could fall, and it might all be a test. There could be ground only a few steps below her and the sounds were all a hallucination, something her mind made up because she couldn’t see the bottom. More likely there was a never-ending fissure far below her. The banshees wouldn’t stop her plummet to death; they had never wanted Aisling as their queen in the first place.

Besides, if she fell here, the fault wasn’t theirs. She had chosen to step out onto the chains. “It’s a shame you can’t see me now, Carman,” she said through gritted teeth. “You might find yourself ashamed of the woman you want to possess.”

A faint chuckle floated through the mist, and Aisling immediately regretted her words. Perhaps the witch was listening after all. And was far from disappointed.

Stones appeared before her, the other side of the chain sunk so deep into the side of the cliff they would never fall out.

Letting out a soft sigh of relief, Aisling stepped a foot onto the other edge and let the feeling of thick moss surrounding her feet ground her. Although she hadn’t let fear impact her movement, she had been more frightened doing that than she had anything else in a very long time. Heights made her more than a little uncomfortable, and cliff edges she avoided at all costs.

She’d done it. She’d conquered yet another fear without letting it cripple her.

Clapping heralded her arrival at the edge of the mist that disappeared with a breath of magic that pushed it out of the way. Aoife stood on the other side, still as dark and pale as before, surrounded by a hundred banshees.

“You have made it to my home,” Aoife said, her voice chiming like church bells. “I’m impressed.”

“I take it not many people make it across the chains?” Aisling asked. When no one responded to her, she switched tactics. “Where is my man servant?”

“Likely still hurling curses at the mist. We wanted to speak with you alone.” Aoife swept her arm back, gesturing that they should walk together. “There’s much I’ve heard about you, Raven Queen. And I would like to know exactly why you are here.”

“I told you everything already. Carman is awake, and I would like to ensure she does not hurt any more of my people.” She stepped up to stride beside the duchess. Together, they walked away from the edge of the cliff where the mist still hung heavy and opaque.

Aoife let out a sound of disappointment. “I don’t quite believe you. From what I’ve heard, your man servant has convinced you to go on this foolish quest. You think you can stop Carman? The mother of all witches?”

“I think I stand a chance.”

“As does a mouse against a cat, but we both know who usually ends up dead. Explain to me more, witch queen of mine. I would like to know exactly why you are running headlong toward your death without pausing for breath.”

Aisling didn’t have an answer for that. She let out a frustrated grunt and stilled her mind as she felt the dark lick of power. Aoife was trying to dig into her thoughts. Or perhaps not dig, but taste the magic that surrounded Aisling like a comfortable, warm mantle.

The banshee sighed. “Interesting. You have so much magic in you that you don’t know what to do with it. Yet, you rarely use the magic. I’ve seen you in memories of my people, working alongside the sluagh. Cursed creatures who have no right to live in the castle, let alone be allowed to see you.”

Anger made the hair on Aisling’s arms stand up straight. “Who has claimed they are nothing more than animals? They are cursed, yes, humans we have forced into forms that are unnatural and frightening to the souls trapped inside them. We are the ones who hunted them, stalked them, enslaved them. Should they not have comfort? At least a little bit in their lives.”

“You are not what I thought you would be, Raven Queen.” Aoife pointed at the mist that swirled and solidified into that of a bench they could sit on. Together, they rested on the cold furniture. “I would have thought you to hate them.”

“Why?”

“They are the perfect example of all the things you’ve tried to change. Sluagh are the only creatures in the Otherworld that can hunt down the changelings and bring them back home where we enslave and imprison them.” Aoife cocked her head to the side. “So you see, it confuses me when you proclaim the sluagh to have rights. Do they not do exactly as we have done to them? They are the instruments upon which we harm changelings. You protect a weapon that murders without discrimination.”

“A hand wields a weapon.”

Aoife looked at her with a calculating expression, and Aisling knew she was being observed by a creature who had seen a millennia pass. This banshee queen was old, far older than any of the other fae she’d met thus far. Perhaps even older than Bahb herself, the grandmother Aisling had always looked up to and assumed knew everything in the world.

She cleared her throat and looked over at the banshee. “I suppose it’s a selfish journey as well.”

“There‘s more to the story then.” It wasn’t a question.

AIsling nodded. “I’m tired of being cursed. I know it’s the way of the Raven Court, but I’ve never been particularly good at doing something simply because it’s tradition. I want the lingering effects of this magic gone from my body. I want to stop feeling jealous of the man I love because his curse can be lifted while mine must remain.”

That was the root of the problem, even though she hadn’t realized it until just now. Bran’s freedom was only partially taken away. He could still beg and plead for a little time. His human body was denied for him only so long as his pride remained intact.

Neither of them had a good life at the moment. At least he could somehow remain himself for a few moments longer, even if it was at the mercy of others. Aisling was adrift in a world of magic where she had so much at her fingertips but couldn’t even break a simple spell.

The banshee nodded. “Ah, it all makes much more sense now. You aren’t searching out revenge or power. You want your freedom.”

“I want my own choices back,” she corrected. “I want to be able to walk out into my kingdom and help others whether it is night or day. The chains that bind me were not faerie made. I can feel that just as I can feel you are an ancient being who might have been alive when the first Raven Queen was cursed.”

Perhaps she had managed to catch Aoife in her own game. The banshee’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You may be correct in that observation.”

“Then tell me how to break the curse. Or if you don’t know, tell me how it was first cast, and I will unravel it on my own.”

Aoife’s gaze turned sad. “You don’t have enough time to unravel it, little witch. The cogs in this wheel are constantly turning, and the time has passed when you might have stood a chance against the great queen of old.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

She’d snapped the words, perhaps a little too strongly. A few of the nearest banshees flinched back from her side. They reacted as though they were far more used to a leader who lashed out in anger, not one who berated herself for her own foolishness.

Aisling could feel her own expression darken. She drew her brows down in anger, clenched her fists tight, and glared at the duchess who she had a feeling liked to hurt her own people when something didn’t go her way.

In contrast, Aoife seemed to relax. She melted into the misty bench. Her lips quirked to the side in a sardonic smile, and she lifted a hand. “So you are embarking on this journey all on your own? Where is your husband, Raven Queen? He should walk this path with you.”

“He doesn’t need to be here.” The words burned her tongue. It was too close to a lie, far too close for comfort. The words twisted back on her, traveling down her throat with the acidic burn of a bitter potion.

“No?” Aoife asked again. “You’re trying to break your curse, yet you do not want your king here?”

This was her price then. The banshee duchess wanted a bit of truth from Aisling, something she could lord over all the other faeries that she knew.

She blew out a breath. “The Raven King… We’re both cursed. Each of us are locked in this form that’s traditional for the role. He hesitates to find a cure for my curse, not because he doesn’t want to break it, because”—she paused and licked her lips—“he’s overwhelmed.”

Aoife gave her a knowing look, catching the lie before Aisling even realized her words weren’t entirely true. “You think he doesn’t want to break your curse.”

“I think if he knew how, he would. The Raven King holds no value in ancient traditions such as this. The weight of his entire kingdom rests on his shoulders. He worries about my curse, his own, the health of the kingdom, and welcoming the sluagh as people and not just tools. There’s far more under his responsibility, and he’s stretched himself so thin he can no longer see the end.” The words poured like a river from her lips, on and on until she finally paused and gulped in a breath. “I need to do this on my own. I want what was taken from me, and that is something I must do alone.”

Aoife looked her up and down, her gaze measuring once more, and then slowly nodded. “You are not what I thought you would be, Raven Queen. The journey ahead of you will be arduous, although I fear it will not be too long. You need time to prepare and learn, but that is not something the universe is gifting you.”

“You know how to defeat Carman and therefore break my curse.”

“I know a way, there are always numerous paths to the same end,” Aoife said. “You will need to perform the most powerful spell Underhill has ever survived. You cannot do it alone. There are powers here, great, unspoken powers that will help you or hinder you. That is up to them to decide.”

Aisling measured what that might mean. She didn’t want to owe any faeries favors, but she couldn’t handle this weakness any longer. It was ridiculous the way she felt like hiding because of what would happen when the sunlight touched her skin.

She hated it. Every instance of her curse that took everything from her being. The ability to speak, to touch, to feel the world the way she should be able to feel it. She deserved that back.

And if that required a few faerie favors…

“I accept,” she replied. “Whatever your cost, I accept it.”

The banshee’s eyes widened in shock, almost as though she didn’t believe Aisling would take the leap. “Brave as well,” Aoife murmured. “Or perhaps merely foolish.”

The duchess reached out her hand, and a rope appeared between her fingertips. It dangled like the limp body of a snake, waving in the faint breeze. Aisling’s eyes couldn’t move from the sight.

There was power in the object, although she couldn’t understand where it originated from. An ancient magic was woven deep into the strands of hemp. It hummed an almost audible song that sank into Aisling’s veins.

“Take it,” Aoife said. “It is the first part of your spell, imbued with my own magic.”

Aisling reached for it, then let the strand slide through her fingers before she closed her fist around it, the rough edges biting into her skin. The rope took on a life of its own. The tail looped around her wrist four times, and then the opposite end coiled over itself when Aoife breathed out a sigh.

Aoife reached out and held Aisling’s hand still. “By knot of one, the spell’s begun.” The ends met and tangled together, securing the rope to Aisling’s wrist. “I hope you know what you’ve started, Raven Queen.”

“I do.” Still, she gulped as anxiety twisted her belly. “What is your price?”

“A message to the Raven King from an old friend.” Darkness brewed in the banshee’s gaze.

Aisling hesitated, then replied, “I’m happy to bring back the message.”

The darkness began a chasm that swallowed the whites of Aoife’s eyes. “You won’t have to.”

With a vicious twist, the Duchess of the Dead snapped Aisling’s pointer finger. The crack was the sound of a dry twig breaking in the forest, ringing in her ears long before the lancing pain pounded along with her heartbeat.

Bran hissed out a breath and grabbed his wrist. He’d touched nothing, but the throbbing ache felt as though he’d punched a wall.

“What is it?” Elva asked from ahead. Climbing the shear mountain cliff was dangerous enough without distractions such as this. A blast of wind shoved her hair in front of her face, the locks tangling on the roots of a tree desperately trying to stay anchored to the mountain edge.

His hand was on fire… No, not the hand. He stared in anger as his pointer finger twisted slightly. Not enough to snap his own finger, but he knew what the message was.

Someone, or something, had captured Aisling and wanted him to know they had her. How dare they? Rage burned through his lungs, making his breathing a ragged gasp of pure hatred. They would pay for this. They would feel her pain a thousand-fold if he ever found out who they were.

“Bran?” Elva shouted. “What is it?”

He looked up the mountain, his gaze searing the mountainside. He locked eyes with her and saw the exact moment she recognized his pain.

Elva frowned, situated her hold on the mountain tighter, and leaned back. “Tell me.”

She was so comfortable up here, dangling on a precipice high above the land. Leather leggings helped her climb with ease, her movement unhindered by foolish skirts. The long braid of her hair waved in the wind, and she held onto the wall of the cliff with only one hand. Strong, and capable, she continued to surprise him with her endurance.

It wasn’t her he wanted to look at. Even now, he saw only Aisling in the planes of her face. That her smile wasn’t twisted enough, her eyes not quite dark enough, and she wasn’t the woman he loved so dearly that it made his heart churn in ridiculous little knots.

“It’s Aisling,” he grunted, opening and closing his hand to banish the ache. “Someone is sending me a message.”

“How so?”

“They broke her finger.” He pulled himself up onto a ledge. His balance was slightly off, his mind not exactly with them as they made their way toward the druid’s home. He needed to focus on what they were doing now, but could only think of Aisling’s pain.

“Why?” Elva was only just ahead of him now. Her braid whipped through the air and nearly lashed him across the cheek. “What message does a broken finger bring other than a threat?”

“It’s the Unseelie way. Sending someone home with a broken finger means they’ve found something I want, and I owe them a boon for losing it in the first place.” He shook his head to clear dark thoughts that bubbled in the corners.

“Have you any idea who would send you a message like that?” she asked. “There has to be a few Unseelie that you know would be so ruthless.”

“It’s just a finger.” It was so much more than just a finger. He had to say the words to remind himself there was nothing he could do. He might have felt her die. The burning pain through their binding curse would have hurled him off the mountain to his own demise. It was just a finger, but it could have been much worse.

A few rocks tumbled from above and struck him on the top of the head. Glowering, he glanced up at Elva where she had clearly sent the stones tumbling on purpose.

“It’s more. That’s my sister, Bran. I don’t care how you’re feeling right now. You don’t get to play with her wellbeing just because you’re distracted.”

“A sister you left on her own for her entire life. You don’t get to dangle that over me like blood somehow means you’re more important.” He climbed hand over hand until he was even with her. “Blood isn’t thicker than water, Seelie fae. She will always see me as her equal and you as the woman who left her to live in the ditch.”

Elva remained silent after that threat, and Bran found he wasn’t interested in talking anymore. There was far more for him to think about than verbal sparring with a woman who had no right in the slightest to speak of his Aisling at all.

He told himself to get ahold of his emotions. That the druid woman wasn’t going to like having a male already enraged. He would say something foolish, or worse, insulting. Then she wouldn’t help him at all, and Aisling would remain on her own.

He flexed his hand again. He couldn’t leave her alone, not when there was so much riding on her safety.

The top of the cliff edge appeared next to his hand. He yanked himself up and over, crouching carefully and observing around him. Elva would make her way beside him, Bran never questioned that once, but for now, he wanted to make sure no one was going to attack them.

He’d heard of Tlachtga’s sons before, although not their mother. Legend said they were warriors who could defeat even the most talented of the Fae. Neither court had bothered with them simply because they lived so far away from the Otherworld. They weren’t a problem if they didn’t attack the Fae on a regular basis, and they didn’t.

The sons were hermits, in fact. They remained on this mountain with each other. He hadn’t even heard of them bringing women here, and most would have spread such rumors if they had experienced it.

The few who had seen the sons said they were handsome beasts. Tall as trees, broad as horses, they were powerful beings who were said to be able to cleave a man’s head from his shoulders in one fell swoop. Women whispered there was more to them than just warriors, although this was always when Bran stopped listening. He had little interest in the prowess of other men.

Stones scrabbled behind him, Elva sliding over the cliff and onto her feet beside him. “Anyone?”

“No.” He looked out over the sparse mountaintop and saw nothing more than a simple wooden house. “Which feels strange. They should know we’re here.”

“I’m sure they do.” Elva straightened and placed a hand on the pommel of her sword. “They’re watching us. Waiting to see what we do next.”

Druids. They were always calculating creatures who wanted to measure a person’s worth rather than act. Bran forced himself not to bare his teeth in frustration. If the druidess wanted to speak to him, then she would. Otherwise, he needed to prove himself worth speaking with.

Grand.

“What would you suggest then?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Elva replied, her eyes sweeping over the barren landscape. “I’m not precisely sure what they want from us.”

“They want nothing from us. We’re the ones who want something.”

“They’re expecting us to do something in return for information. That’s how the world works. We just have to figure out what they want.”

He wracked his brain for any kind of information he might have once learned about druids and their history. Was there anything he could do to bribe them? They had to want something he could manifest. He was the Raven King; anything he wanted was at his fingertips. They need only to ask.

Then it became clear in his mind. These weren’t faeries. They didn’t want some trinket or bauble that no one else had. They didn’t want some magic that he could pull out of the air or knowledge that he hadn’t yet shared.

They were druids, and druids were humans. If he’d learned anything from Aisling, they only wanted one thing that was universal to all their kind.

He smoothed a hand over his ruffled hair, then shook out the dirt that lingered on his clothing. Bran took time to pat down his clothes, making sure that he was presentable to mixed company.

“What are you doing?” Elva asked, her voice vibrating with frustration. “Now is not the time to be concerned about your appearance!”

He ignored her and strode toward the small wooden hut with purpose. His boots struck the barren earth, and he wondered for a moment how the brothers got food up the mountain. Did they not need it? It seemed as though even druids required some kind of sustenance, but perhaps he was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Even Sorcha was beyond his understanding now.

He lifted a fist and knocked on the door as gently as his impatience would allow. “Tlachtga, I have come from afar to sit at your table and beg your guidance. Perhaps you would allow me inside?”

Silence rang from behind the door. Elva stomped up to him, hissing under her breath, “You foolish man! You cannot simply order a druid to do as you wish! Do you want to die? Is that what this is?”

The door in front of them swung open on silent hinges. Beyond, an old woman sat in a rocking chair next to a blazing fire in a stone hearth that crackled merrily. Patchwork rugs covered the floor, and a simple table sat opposite the woman. Three men, each with different colored hair, sat around it while sharpening their knives. He recognized the lazy movements. They weren’t preparing for a fight or a battle, but simply keeping their hands busy while their mother knit next to the warmth.

He hesitated. “Tlachtga?”

The rocker creaked into motion. “You’ve come a long way to speak to an old woman, Raven King.”

Bran lifted a foot and stepped over the threshold into the druid woman’s home. “It was a long way, yes. Well worth the journey if you can help me.”

One of her sons, the blonde, leaned forward and placed his knife down on the table. “Mother? If I might take the woman out back, you’ll be able to speak with him privately.”

Elva snorted. “You aren’t touching me with a single finger, big man.”

He lifted his brows in response. The large beard on his face obscured most of his expression, but even Bran could see he wasn’t all that impressed. “Did I mention touching you? There’s plenty to keep you busy out back, though for someone like yourself, I’d suggest cutting wood. It might do you some good to work off that rage.”

“I don’t need to do your chores,” she growled.

“Elva,” Bran censored. “I believe the druidess wishes to speak to me alone.”

“We came together, we stay together.” Elva crossed her arms over her chest, but it didn’t escape Bran’s notice that she hadn’t stepped into the small hut. Perhaps she felt as though she would be trespassing. It certainly felt that way.

A creak from the rocking chair made him look over at Tlachtga, and he caught the simple movement when she nodded to her son. When he stood, Bran realized the rumors were true.

This man was nearly as big as a Tuatha de Danann. Even larger than Aisling, at least seven feet in height, he must tower over human men. Though his queen was smaller than most faeries her age.

Bran nodded at the blonde man as he moved past, then muttered under his breath, “Good luck.”

A flash of white split the big man’s beard. “I’ve dealt with far more terrifying creatures than a woman on a rampage, Raven King. I look forward to this battle.”

True to his word, the son did not touch Elva at all. Instead, he used his bulk to back her away from the house and closed the door behind him without a single word from Bran’s companion. Strange, he had thought Elva more likely to argue with the man at least a little.

Perhaps she was losing her hatred of men. Unlikely, but Bran could hope.

“Come closer,” Tlachtga said, her voice wavering on the words. “I cannot see you, boy. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Gladly.” Bran strode to the rocking chair and sank onto the floor beside her. “I’m glad to see you, druidess. I’ve heard tales of your life adventures, and I believe you are the perfect person to help me on my journey.”

“Such a charmer,” she said with a chuckle. The remaining two sons chuckled with her.

Bran glanced over his shoulder and realized all the sons were mirror images of each other. The only difference was the color of their hair. Black, blond, and red-headed, they were all as different as they were the same. If they covered their hair with mud, he couldn’t have guessed who was who.

“My boys are remarkable, aren’t they?” Tlachtga asked, gesturing at the other two sons. “Cumma and Diorb, the latter has red hair. Makes it easy to tell them apart, otherwise I never would have been able to know who was who.”

Diorb, the red-headed beast of a man, let out a booming laugh that shook the rafters. “And you’re our mother. You’d think there were other ways to tell us apart.”

“Oh, there are, but I don’t want to say it in mixed company.” The sparkle in the old woman’s eyes spoke of a time when she had been a beauty even Bran would have chased.

“Ah,” he said with a quiet murmur. “Now I see why there are legends about you, m’lady. You are a beauty indeed.”

“Beauty is what always caused me trouble when I was a girl.” Tlachtga reached out and smacked his cheek lightly. “And that is what causes young men to get in trouble, too. What would you ask of me, Raven King? My time is finite and precious.”

Bran licked his lips. “The woman I love was taken from my side. She’s lost, somewhere in Underhill, and I was told you might be able to find her. To help guide me back to her side so that I can keep her from harm.”

“You wish to find a lady love?” Tlachtga’s cheeks burnished with a blush. “I’ve always adored a love story. Perhaps because I never understood it myself, but there is something sweet about a man willing to risk everything for a woman he loves. Come. Stare into my fire, and we’ll see if we can find her together.”

Bran reached out to help her stand, hesitated for a moment to hold her place. “What is the cost?”

“We will speak of a price after we find her,” Tlachtga replied, patting his arm with her hand. “Do not worry overly much, Unseelie. There are many things I might ask from you, but none that will harm you or your people. You’ve been polite, and you surprised me by acting unlike your kind. I find myself far more curious to your story than what I might get from you.”

He hoped she would stay that way. Bran had a feeling that Aisling would think she was lying. Druids were capable of it, and he didn’t know how to tell if their words weren’t exactly what they meant.

With a gentle hand, he helped her close to the fire, though he eyed the flames cautiously. Every movement brushed the fabric of her dress far too close to the flames. The last thing he needed was for the one woman who could find Aisling to be engulfed.

“Tlachtga”—he cleared his throat—“perhaps we should take a step back.”

The dark haired man at the table, Cumma he assumed, slapped a hand to its worn surface. “Mother, you didn’t tell him?”

“I assumed that he knew.”

Diorb shook his head. “Not everyone knows the whole story, and you’re as solid as the day you were when you died. Foolish woman, he hasn’t the faintest clue what he’s touching.”

What he was touching? Bran looked down at her and focused his own magic on the feelings of his body. He could feel the rough edges of her woolen gown against his fingertips. Heard the whispered rasp of her breath. Warmth sank into his hand from her body, which appeared at this moment to be very much alive.

He narrowed his gaze. “You aren’t here, are you?”

Tlachtga frowned back at him. “I’m very much here. Otherwise I wouldn’t be speaking to you at all, Raven King.”

“You aren’t alive.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew what she would say.

“No, I haven’t been alive for quite some time. I died the day my sons were born, but I couldn’t very well leave them, now could I? They were giant babes. Unlike the legends say, I didn’t die of a broken heart.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder and pointed at Cumma. “I died because that one split me open like he does logs. There wasn’t a person here to help me, and I couldn’t sew myself up. Reaching betwixt your own legs and managing a needle while trying to juggle three babes was impossible.”

Bran didn’t want to focus on the image she’d put in his mind. Grimacing, he slowly let go of her arm, making certain she could still stand on her own. “Not a ghost then? I haven’t ever met a spirit I could touch before.”

“Not quite. Druids have knowledge vastly different from your own.” She gestured around them with her hands. “Everything you see here is as much a part of me as it is the land itself.”

“Ah.”

He understood now, although he didn’t like it one bit. He reached out and grasped the edge of her dress in his hands. Carefully, Bran peeled back the sleeve of her dress to reveal the dirt filling out the rest of it.

So, she really was dead. Earth mimicked the form of a human, filled out the corpse and let it continue living as though it hadn’t actually fallen to the worms. He’d never seen such magic before since it was usually performed only by necromancers, but whatever spell this was, it was an impressive one.

He bowed his head. “Golem?”

“Not so simple as that. No word of god rests underneath my tongue.” She gestured toward the flame. “I am the mountain, and the mountain is me. Mother Earth gave me another chance to live and continue with my work. It also allowed my sons to live without dying on the mountain top with me.”

Cumma snorted. “And she’s never let us forget it.”

“Hush, now.”

Another light burst to life in Bran’s mind. He tilted his head to the side, respect for the old woman filling him near to bursting. “The Samhain festival. It celebrates this mountain in the human realm, although it’s more like a hill there. Their sacrifices each year, the festival itself, it feeds you, doesn’t it?”

She stared into his eyes and magic bloomed deep in her gaze. “You see too much, Raven King.”

He held up his hands. “I have no plans to stop you from doing that. I understand a hedge god when I see one. You’ve made yourself far more than a druid, mistress, and that is something I can respect.”

“Leave it to an Unseelie to like a woman turning herself into a god.” Tlachtga clicked her tongue. “No one else would let this go if they found out.”

“And too many would lose a good woman because of it. If I remember correctly from my time in the human realm, you’ve helped the village prosper far better than the others surrounding it.” Bran touched a hand to his forehead. “You’ve done more good than bad, druidess. I see that for what it is.”

Tlachtga stared into the fire, and he knew he’d gotten through her shell. She was afraid someone was going to take her magic away. That someone would try to stop her because the Tuatha de Danann preferred to remain the only gods humans knew about.

As he saw it, there wasn’t anything wrong with a druidess becoming a god like this. She was tied directly to the land and couldn’t take her magic elsewhere without becoming the mud of the mountain that filled her body here.

Let her live in peace. She wasn’t hurting anyone.

He turned to stare into the fire as well, then said one last thing. “If you find my queen, Tlachtga, I will offer you all the protection of Underhill should you need it. There are worse things than helping to protect a small goddess who looks after the village who helped her long ago.”

Her surprise was palpable. “Thank you, Raven King.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Tlachtga lifted a hand and waved it over the fire. He couldn’t see her magic like many of the faeries who could cast such a spell. There were no bright lights or flourish of power. Even the fire remained still other than the images that now reflected within the licks of heat.

Underhill. He saw it from above, as if he were flying over the castle on obsidian wings. The Raven King part of himself, the ancient magic that longed for death and destruction, lifted its head deep within his soul. This wasn’t just Bran’s kingdom, but it was the kingdom of a hundred Raven Kings who desired nothing more than to feel power at their beck and call once more.

He straightened his shoulders and forced the magic deep inside him. It would not rear its ugly head while Tlachtga attempted to help him. Now was not the time, and the ancient power would obey him.

Tlachtga’s vision shifted, moving faster and faster until the sight of Underhill was nothing more than a blur he couldn’t focus on at all.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m trying to find her. It’s fairly easy to do for the dead. I can latch onto the piece of your soul that she carries with her.”

“My soul?” He rubbed a hand over his chest and the star-shaped scar where she had burned a curse into his flesh. “I suppose you could say that.”

“I’m not speaking of your curse,” she replied with a chuckle. “That has nothing to do with the hold she has over you. I speak of your love and the dedication you feel toward each other. You are thinking of her, and she is thinking of you. It’s strange, but it feels as though you both are never far from each other’s thoughts, no matter what is happening to you.”

It made him slightly uncomfortable how easily she read him. Bran had always prided himself on being an independent soul. He hadn’t ever needed someone to stand by his side. Instead, he’d gone into the world alone and without any other to question him.

Now that he’d found her, the entire axis of his world had shifted. He wanted to be beside her. He wanted to experience the world through her eyes, to understand what she did, to show her off to anyone and everyone that would see her.

Even though it made her uncomfortable sometimes.

A wry grin twisted his lips as he thought of the Wild Hunt. His little witch had been a fearsome sight to behold. The Unseelie faeries had yet to stop talking about her. The sluagh whispered in his ear all the stories the other faeries spoke of. They hadn’t seen her in a while, but they wanted to see her again. Aisling had left a mark on the courts with little more than a single sighting.

The Raven Queen was something to be proud of, if one could catch her. And Bran had caught her very soul with his own.

Puffing out his chest in pride, he cleared his throat and watched the flames. “Will this take a while?”

“That depends on how long you think a while is.”

“I would like to see what your son is doing with my traveling companion.”

“Your long lost love?” Tlachtga corrected. “There’s more to that woman than meets the eye, you know. She’ll be just fine with Muach. He’ll help her understand there is more to life than just being a warrior.”

Bran furrowed his brows. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean her story has yet to be told, and there is far more to her than meets the eye.” The strange sight of his kingdom blurred for a moment, and Tlachtga let out a low hiss.

“What is it?” He leaned closer to the fire than was comfortable, trying to see what the druidess had. “What do you see?”

She waved her hand sharply, and the fire suddenly died. In a whirl of motion that seemed impossible for a woman of her age, she snapped, “Cumma, Diorb, bring your brother and that woman back into the house. Immediately.”

Her sons didn’t hesitate. They raced from the hut in a sprint while their mother ran to the windows and began to cover them. She snapped the coverings shut while muttering spells under her breath. The air quickly grew heavy, weighing down on his shoulders like the hands of a hundred people.

Bran fought against it, but he was quickly pinned to the floor in a crouch. Heavy magic poured over his shoulders again and again as Tlachtga forced him to stay still. The front door burst open. The three brothers carried Elva spitting and screaming over the threshold, then slammed it shut behind them.

He didn’t like seeing them handle her like that. She didn’t like to be touched even by him, and they had history.

The anger that bloomed in his chest was enough for him to wrestle his tongue free from druid magic and growl, “What is the meaning of this, Tlachtga?”

“You tricked me,” she said on a howl. “You forced me to reveal myself, and now you will pay the price.”

“I have done no such thing.”

She strode toward him, suddenly no longer an old hunched woman. Instead, a powerful druidess with a straight spine and power sparking on her fingertips. Crouching in front of him, she put a finger underneath his chin and forced him to look up at her. “You are working for Carman, and I do not like witches.”

Bran gritted his teeth. “I want Carman out of Underhill. She is the one who hunts my Queen. If I could kill her, then I would.”

Tlachtga paused. “You don’t mean those words that come out of your mouth, Unseelie.”

“Faeries cannot lie. You know this to be true.”

She shoved his head to the side and strode back to her sons. “Put the female faerie down. I’ll kill her, and perhaps that will make him talk. I want to know what Carman plans and how quickly she’s going to attack us.”

“I don’t know anything about Carman, but if you lay a hand on my companion, then I will tear you apart limb from limb.” The magic of the Raven King seared through his veins, strengthening his muscles and making his vision spark black at the edges. “Don’t test me on this, druidess.”

She gave him a cocky look over her shoulder as her sons held Elva still. “You said it yourself, Unseelie. I am a goddess made by my own magic. Do you really think a faerie will be able to fight me?”

“I’m not just a faerie. I am the Raven King.”

Tlachtga picked up a wicked-looking blade, and Bran’s vision skewed to the side. Her magic still pushed down on his shoulders, but it suddenly didn’t matter. He could stand without fear of what her power might do to him. Striding forward, he let out an angry chuff of air that had Tlachtga’s three sons tightening their grip on Elva’s arms and shoulders.

The druidess hesitated for a brief moment, her knife hovering at Elva’s throat. “You would risk everything for this one, too? Are you building a harem?”

“I’m not a Seelie king. I have no use for harems or concubines. I want my queen back, and you’re going to help me get her no matter what.”

“I will not help Carman’s accomplices.”

“And I’ll say it again,” he growled. “I don’t work for Carman, and I want her out of Underhill for good. If I must send you protection until I kill her, then I will. I was told you could help me find my queen. If you can help me destroy the witch haunting my kingdom, then that is all the better for both of us.”

Tlachtga’s hand shook, then the knife slowly drifted away from Elva’s neck. “I haven’t heard a faerie who could lie before. I trust nothing in that has changed since the last time I was in the courts.”

“I cannot lie, and I will give you a blood vow that I will not harm you or yours if you help me kill this woman.” Bran held out his wrist.

She didn’t wait for him to change his mind. Tlachtga whipped out her hand and drew the knife sharp across his wrist. Blood welled immediately, the strength of his words searing the vow into his own flesh.

Bran hissed out a breath. “Will that be enough?”

“For now,” she responded, then put the knife down. “You want to kill Carman and save your queen? I can’t promise they won’t be the same in the end.”

He didn’t want to know what that meant. There was so much wrong with their lives, he wouldn’t be surprised if Aisling had somehow managed to bond herself to the witch queen. They would fight that battle when they got there, but he wouldn’t kill Aisling. Ever.

“I won’t kill my queen,” he said, baring his teeth. “So I suggest you come up with a better way for this to end.”

Tlachtga hissed out a breath in response, nodded. “There are items of my father’s that are capable of killing the witch queen, only a sorcerer’s magic will do. I can give you the map on where to find them. Dig up his blade and shove it through that horrific woman’s heart. That will put her in the grave for good.”

“Then we have a deal.”

When the three sons let Elva drop to the ground, she whipped out a leg and caught Muach at the knee. He fell with a grunt, Elva dancing out of his reach as he tried to swipe at her with a meaty fist.

Tlachtga paused, her head tilting to the side as if she were listening to something. Her expression shifted into one of curiosity, then foreboding.

“This is for you,” she said quietly, a thin rope with a single knot suddenly dangling from her fingertips.

Bran took the offered gift, watching as it wound around his arm. “What is it?”

“A spell,” she replied, her brows still furrowed. “It seems there’s more at work here than just you.” She looked over his shoulder and said, “I understand. Two parts, one for the druidess and one for the goddess.”

“Who are you speaking to?” He knew there was no one standing behind him, but that she spoke to another ancient being who had reached out to her directly.

“No one,” she said, then held a hand over the rope around his wrist. “By knot of two, it cometh true. By knot of three, so mote it be.”

Two more knots formed on the rope, and Bran felt his stomach drop. Old magic wove through the hemp. Magic that would change the very fabric of time.