Sorcha crested a hill. Her breath was ragged and dripping sweat stuck long strands of her hair to her brow. She’d wrapped a bedsheet across her body as a makeshift pack. Her own was too large to bring on an adventure across the small isle.

The white sheet was a stark contrast to the old dress she wore. She found it in a chest left behind by the hag. Moths had gotten to it, chewing holes through the fabric and leaving the edges ragged, but there was nothing functionally wrong with it. She wouldn’t ruin it any further, and who needed fine clothing every day? The velvet was lovely, but not practical.

She prided herself on being a practical woman.

Hiking the sheet higher up her shoulder, she blew out a breath. A curl bounced from its confining tie.

Sorcha groaned. At this rate, by the time she crested the small mountain there wouldn’t be any hair left in the tie! The unruly curls demanded freedom.

Gravel crunched under her borrowed boots. There used to be a path here, the ground worn down by centuries of feet. The earth had grown back over the years, smoothing the marred ground, and covering the path to the peak.

She scrambled on hands and knees to the crest. Air sawed from her lungs and her knees wobbled, but she had done it. Plunking down near a cairn, she yanked the wayward curls back into their tie.

Bran cawed overhead, his voice shouting in the air.

“Yes, yes,” she muttered as she pulled hard. “You could have done this in half the time. Need I remind you feathers are far faster than flesh?”

He circled above her, dipping and diving as if to mock her exhaustion.

“Must be easy being a raven. Those of us down here have to struggle our way up the mountain. You can soar over and far beyond.”

She released the knot across her chest with a relieved sigh. Food was only a slight weight, but she was still sore. Her muscles needed to move, to release the tension and stiffness that hindered her movements.

Perhaps a mountain had been a little more than she could handle.

Rubbing her shoulder, Sorcha pulled out the small jug of water and block of cheese. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

She kept a sgian dubh, a knife, strapped to her ankle for moments like this. Dicing the soft cheese, she lifted it to her mouth and glanced down the mountain.

Everything seemed so small from up here. The land stretched out before her, dotted with sheep-like stars in the night sky. Tiny people worked diligently on their land. From here, she could see they had cast aside their glamour. Wings sparkled in the sunlight, warped forms bent over the fields. She knew if she walked within a few feet of them, they would put their glamours up so fast she never would get a peek at what they looked like.

It was the only mountain on the isle and was even with the top of the castle. Quiet, and lonely, it gave her moments to think while remaining away from all the people here.

No one wanted to speak to her about their master. They were as elusive as the man himself, answering her questions in vague responses that weren’t quite lies. Perhaps he had warned them away from speaking to her. Perhaps they were loyal to the mysterious man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Foolish girl,” she muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hoped that wasn’t the case.

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

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

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

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

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

Pixie sighed and swung open the kitchen door.

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

All but the boy.

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

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

She reached out a hand. “Shh, little master. I will not hurt you.”

He growled again, but his lips closed. Again, his features changed. His nose dipped down, his pupils turned to slits, and whiskers grew upon his cheeks.

“Can you control it?” she asked. “I’ll need you to pick a form before I can heal your arm.”

He turned his face from her, scooting on his butt towards the other side of the table.

There was little time. Blood smeared his front and slicked the table. Red like hers. Red like a human.

She lunged forward and wrapped a hand around his ankle. The other Fae hissed at her movements reminding Sorcha just how dangerous the situation was. These people liked her, but they did not trust her. This was the one youngling they had. They would not tolerate mistakes.

“Easy there,” she whispered. “Let me see your arm. I can help.”

The boy stared back at her with mistrusting eyes. He had a reason to, she supposed. Sorcha’d had very little opportunity to earn his trust.

“I know I’m a stranger,” she breathed, turning her voice into a coo. “You are right to be scared. It is a good thing for you to be wary of those you do not know. I can make your arm feel better if you’ll let me.”

He inched towards her. The movement was slight, but it was there.

Sorcha let out a relieved breath. “That’s right, come to me. What a brave boy you must be! To break your arm like this, you must have been doing something terribly heroic.”

“No,” he grunted through blunted teeth. “I was climbing a tree.”

“Oh well, that is very heroic! There’s plenty of heroes who climbed trees, do you know any of them?”

Pooka shook his head and moved the rest of the way. She gently positioned him so his legs hung off the edge of the table. He moved his hand from the broken arm, stark white standing out amidst all the blood.

“It’s hurt real bad,” he whimpered.

“Yes, yes it is. But I’ll help. While I’m working, I’ll tell you a story.” She gestured over her shoulder, and Pixie leaned in. “Yarrow, as much cloth as you can, and perhaps a little liquid courage. Is there anything different about Fae bodies I should know?”

“Not that I can think of, is he going to survive?”

“Of course he is,” Sorcha leaned back in shock. “I’m here now.”

The collective sigh rocked through Sorcha. Why would they think the boy would die? A severed limb, or perhaps impalement yes, but a broken arm? He hadn’t bled out, now she could fix him.

She hesitated and asked, “What did you do before?”

“Well,” Pixie glanced at the boy and lowered her voice. “Usually we’d let it be and hope it healed on its own. A wound like this usually festered. We’d do what we could with honey compresses, but most times we’d lose them.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’m here.”

Sorcha shouldn’t have said the words, but she did. These people needed her strength, her courage, her understanding. They didn’t need to know she planned on leaving as soon as possible. Or that she was leaving at all.

She turned back towards the boy and plastered a smile on her face. “Have you heard the story of Macha?”

“Yes,” he said with a sniff. Two large tears rolled down his face and dripped onto his bloodied pants.

“Did you hear how she cursed the line of Ulster?”

“No.”

“Good. Listen to my voice and nothing else, all right? This will hurt, but I want you to hear the story and not focus on the pain.”

They had waited a long time to come get her. The muscles of his arm had wrapped around the bone’s new position and did not want to release. Thankfully, it was a clean break. She was gentle with the sensitive bone and ragged edges of flesh.

Sorcha viewed the entire injury before deciding she would need to stretch the muscles before they would allow the bone back in its place. Theoretically, it would be easy. For her.

The boy she worried about.

She set about the surgery in the best way she could. The entire time she told the story of Macha. How she had married a mortal man and carried his child. How the foolish man had bragged about his wife to a rival king who forced her into a foot race. When she beat him, and lay near dying on the finish line, she cursed nine generations of his family to experience the pain of childbirth.

Although the pain must have been great, he listened. The boy repeated sentences of the story as she made three passes of stretching the muscle. He asked her questions as she snapped the bone back into place with an audible crunch. He bit back tears as she packed the wound with yarrow and wrapped it tightly with cloth.

They were both covered in blood and exhausted by the time she finished. She tugged the knot of his sling and nodded. “That will do. You have been brave enough to claim the title of hero, young Pooka. It’s been an honor.”

He sniffed hard, but straightened his spine. “It didn’t hurt a bit, ma’am.”

On impulse, she leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I couldn’t have asked for a better patient, sweet boy. Now ask your mother to tuck you into bed with a full jar of honey.”

“I’m not allowed to have that much!”

“I think under the circumstances, you’ve earned it.”

His mother stepped forward, a very tall woman thin as a birch tree. Sorcha stepped back to give her room and made eye contact.

The woman’s glamour shimmered and fell. An adult Pooka looked far different from her son. She was an amalgamation of all mammals. Patches of light and dark fur blended together until she appeared more patchwork quilt than person. Her elongated nose and face were faintly horse-like.

“Thank you,” she said in her deep voice. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“You would have done the same for me, if it came to that.”

“All the same, you are welcome in my house.”

Sorcha nodded. She waited until the kitchen emptied and then sagged against the table. Exhaustion made even breathing difficult, her lungs working overdrive to keep inflated. Her hands ached from overuse.

She held them out, flexing her fingers in and out.

“You did well,” Pixie said.

“I must see him every week for at least a full moon. That wound could still get infected.”

“I’m sure his mother would appreciate it.”

A piece of bread with sliced meat appeared in Sorcha’s line of vision. Startled, she glanced up.

“Thank you.” She held up her bloody hands. “Perhaps a basin of water first?”

“Come with me.”

Sorcha stood on wobbling legs and followed Pixie through the gardens. Cian was absent from his usual post, a blessing she was thankful for. Bantering with the gnome would be difficult when she could hardly see straight.

They crossed a small wooden bridge in the garden and onto another part of the castle grounds Sorcha had yet to see.

It was peaceful here. Water burbled out of an aged fountain. The stone woman inside it poured water from a wound on her chest. She clutched the sword which had plunged between her ribs and held her sword up to continue fighting. Flowers grew wild in this section of the gardens. They tangled with each other, creating walls of roses and thorns.

“I didn’t know roses grew this time of year,” she mumbled.

“This island differs from what you’re used to. Faerie touched lands bear fruit even in the strangest of times. Why else would we have strawberries this late in the year?”

“Fair point.”

“You may wash in this fountain.”

“This one?” Sorcha gestured. “This looks far too nice to be a washing fountain.”

“Long ago, it was a place of worship.” Pixie’s expression fell. “No longer.”

Sorcha could see it was a sacred place. Blooms of every color stretched as far as she could see. The roses grew with wild abandon, vines stretching all around them. And the woman herself appeared eerily familiar.

She leaned forward to peer at the face. “Is this Macha?”

“It is. I thought it fitting you wash in her waters.”

“I won’t desecrate sacred ground.”

“You’re washing innocent blood from your hands. You saved him while telling her stories, Macha will appreciate that.”

Sorcha supposed she was correct. The red-headed woman was fierce. Perhaps she would appreciate a little blood in her waters more than she would wine or gold coins.

She leaned down and dunked her hands into the cool stream. It ran over her hands with a soft, trickling sound, easing the aches from her bones. She saw another face in the ripples. A pointed face with wild hair, eyes flashing an unnatural green.

Macha was watching her. The Tuatha dé Danann winked at her, disappearing when Sorcha released the water she held in her cupped hands.

Her purpose burned bright in her mind. These people may be kind, but they should not distract her. Papa needed her. Rosaleen, Briana, and all her sisters needed her to stay focused. A small boy with a broken arm shouldn’t so easily sway her.

But he did. They all did. With their thoughtful gifts, their easy going way, and the magical way this isle captivated her. Sorcha had always been an outsider among her family. The witch’s child who knew too much. Here? She was just another human girl who could not possibly understand all the wondrous things around her.

If given the choice, she would choose this life over her old one. It wasn’t an option, but was entertaining to muse upon at least. She sighed and turned back towards Pixie.

“I am exhausted and my bed sounds like a respite I have earned. If you don’t mind, I will take your gracious offer of food.”

“Of course, dearie.” Pixie handed the sandwich to her wrapped in a cloth.

When had she gotten a cloth? Sorcha stared down at the bundle in her hands. She was missing details so large as this?

She shook her head to clear it. “Perhaps a good sleep will clear my mind.”

“Unlikely, it’s a rather confusing place for a human such as yourself. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long without losing your head.”

“Do others?”

“You’re the first human who’s shown up on our shore,” Pixie said with a smile. “You’re new to us, although some have experiences with humans. We’re all going through some learning.”

“I appreciate your patience.” Ironic, the words that slipped off her tongue. Hadn’t a certain king asked her to do the same for him? And she had mocked him.

“You may wish to walk around the castle to get to the hut.”

Sorcha arched a brow. “Why? It’s faster to go back through Cian’s garden.”

“A walk is good for your health.”

“I already climbed a mountain today.”

“Yes, but the sights one sees on the other side of the castle are rather rare. You won’t be seeing it on top of that munro. Eat your food on your walk, I promise you’ll feel better if you go the long way.”

The strange smile on Pixie’s face made Sorcha nervous. The faerie had been kind thus far, but there was still plenty of time for trickery. Narrowing her eyes, she nodded. “All right. There are no games afoot?”

“The Wild Hunt doesn’t start for another month yet, dearie. You’re safe.”

Sorcha tucked into the bread and meat as she rounded the castle. The rose garden didn’t stretch very far. Her fingers itched to pull at the weeds, to take on the challenge of taming such a wild beast. Yet, she also knew that tiredness and roses did not play well together. She was more likely to bleed than succeed.

Once free from the tangled mess of blooms and thorns, the emerald hills stretched in front of her once more. The castle had grown into the landscape. Moss covered the bottom most stones, meshing with the green grass until it was nearly impossible to tell them apart.

She waltzed past a sheep which lifted its head and baa’d.

“Hello,” Sorcha nodded. “It’s always a pleasure, mistress wool!”

It gave her a rather unimpressed look and chewed. She had always liked sheep. Their odd, sideways pupils and all. They enjoyed having their cheeks scratched, and Sorcha could appreciate that as well as the next woman.

The bread disappeared by the time she made it halfway around the castle. Pixie had been right. The fresh air was doing wonders for the exhaustion that surged through her body. Each step beat back her drooping eyelids and trembling fingers.

A cracking sound echoed. Too far to cause her to jump — close enough to pique her curiosity.

“What?” she muttered as she picked up her pace.

The sound was strangely familiar. Not something she had heard often, but the ping of metal striking metal wasn’t easy to forget.

Once, two men had gotten into a duel outside the brothel. Briana had been in the middle of it, rolling her eyes and ignoring the two men fighting over a prostitute. She called them both foolish, slammed the door, and told the girls to pay them no mind.

Sorcha had never been good at that. She had raced up the stairwell, stuck her head out the window, and watched the two men fight. They had been sloppily drunk and incapable of standing straight. Two strikes of sword against sword, and they both gave up.

This didn’t sound like that kind of fight.

The closer she got, the more often she heard the strikes of metal. Each clank rang in the air with the resounding quality of a gong. She counted fifteen by the time she reached the top of a hill and stared with open mouth.

This was a new part of the castle. Sturdy wooden fences marked off a section of field, packed down by stamping feet. Straw dummies hung from posts, their guts hanging out from too many hits. Targets lined one end of the fences, red painted in circles to guide arrows home.

It was the men which caught her attention. A strange dark man stood in the center of the field. Half his head was shaved, dark hair falling nearly to his waist on the other side. There was a smudge of black across the shaved half of his face. He wore little more than breeches. Long and lean, his tanned skin was slicked with glistening sweat. A long, wicked spear glimmered in the sunlight, held with ease in his strong hand.

The other was eerily familiar. Sorcha gasped and dropped into the high waving grass so he wouldn’t see her.

So, this was the master of the isle.

Stone, as she now called him, was even more impressive without his cloak. He was massive, easily reaching seven feet tall, although she would’ve bet her life he was taller than that. Strangely, it didn’t make him blocky. His body was as lean as the other man’s. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist and long muscled legs. He wasn’t wearing his cloak. He wasn’t wearing anything other than a matching set of brown breeches.

She could count his rippling abdomen muscles even from her great distance. Bulging pectorals and flexing biceps caught her attention as her mouth went dry. He, too, was slicked with sweat. They’d obviously been fighting for some time.

Her gaze caught on the sword in his hand.

“Now that’s a sword,” she whispered.

The gold handle sparkled with red stones. The blade itself was clearly well-made, a line down the center hollowed to allow blood to flow freely. It was massive, a broadsword rather than a rapier.

He lifted it as though it weighed less than a feather.

Sorcha’s breath caught and her mind went blank. So that’s what Pixie meant when she said he was handsome man. In his own way, he was indeed.

The damage to his body was far more extensive than his face or hands. A starburst wound bisected his right shoulder and spread in webs. It looked as if someone had cracked through stone. There were hundreds of small fissures that crawled over his shoulders, across his chest, and down to his stomach. Small scars revealed more parted flesh and burgeoning stone.

Their lips moved though she couldn’t hear them from where she hid. Stone lifted his blade and dropped into a fighting stance.

The dark man raced towards him, ears flat against his skull. He leapt into the air with sword held above his head. Stone shifted at the last second, whirling to keep pace.

They didn’t fight in any way she’d ever seen before. Her lips parted as she watched.

It was as if she watched dancers. Although Stone was clearly the larger of the two, he spun in the air and blocked each parry easily. The stones did not seem to hinder his movements. In fact, he used them to his advantage.

The other pivoted off a target and thrust himself high into the air. It was a killing blow if he landed where he wished. Stone kept his sword at his side and grasped the descending blade in a crystal fist. He used the momentum to pound his fist into the other man's face.

Sorcha winced at the cracking sound and forced herself to remain in place when the dark man dropped to the ground. He rolled on his shoulder, ending up on his feet, and shaking his head.

Blood dripped from his nose, but he appeared to be laughing.

“So that was where you got the crystals on your knuckles from,” she whispered.

Stone had punched so many people, or things, that he had worn the flesh from the crystals underneath. That was the closest thing she could think of, for surely a curse was the cause of his affliction. Stone was clearly Seelie. No one else would be as beautiful, even with such disfigurement.

What did it all mean?

She shook her head and sank deeper into the grass as the two men clapped each other on the shoulders. She could already hear the scolding tone he would use when he realized she had spied on him. Or perhaps he wouldn’t scold at all. Perhaps he would draw her into those strong arms, those rock-hard muscles. What would he smell like? Like musk and man? Or like straw and grass?

The unknown man cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Why your highness, I do believe we’re being watched!”

Sorcha’s cheeks turned bright red. She ducked until her chin touched the ground. Surely, they couldn’t see her? The grass was tall enough to cover her twice over if she laid down like this.

There was a grumbling reply she could not quite understand. Peeking up over the grass, she locked eyes with the strange new arrival. She could see his grin all the way from where she was.

He waggled his fingers. “Hello, red-headed lass! You’re a long way from home.”

Sorcha supposed she could stay laying in the grass until they gave up, but he would still know. She had been spying like a little school girl who didn’t know any better. She might as well grit her teeth and be an adult.

Standing felt as if she accepted her punishment. She might if Stone decided he wanted to be the dictator today. The last thing she needed was another repeat of their first night.

She didn’t look up as she walked towards their practice range. Head down, she counted each step and curled her hands into fists. She could do this without embarrassing herself. She was looking for more yarrow. Pooka would need it, and the stores were low.

Why would Pixie send her all this way if she was only going to embarrass herself? Surely the faerie had known her master was practicing.

Sorcha almost stopped in her place. That was exactly why the Pixie had sent her here. What was she up to?

By the time she reached the fence, she was red as a tomato. Sorcha worried her cheeks might be smoking.

She looked up directly into a caramel colored chest. Her gaze traveled farther up, catching on the dark “smudge” on his face that wasn’t dirt at all. Tiny dark feathers covered one side of his face, his eye that of a raven, not a man.

She recognized that yellow eye. Full of intelligence, far too human, and watching her with chagrin. The raven had been far more than just a beast after all.

“Bran?”

He swept into a low bow and looked up through the curtain of his hair, grinning. “M’lady. It is a rarity to see such bewitching beauty on Hy-brasil.”

“If anyone would know, it would be you.” She curtseyed in return. “My apologies, I was looking for yarrow.”

“Ah, then you had no luck?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I believe there is some directly behind you, fair lady.”

She glanced over her shoulder and cursed. “There certainly is.”

There went her lie. The Fae could sniff it out anyways, they were incapable of lying. She flicked a glance towards Stone, who stood as still as his namesake with his back to her.

“I had no idea you would be practicing,” she began. “I was told a walk would clear my head after dealing with the Pooka. You did hear about the boy, didn’t you?”

A droplet of sweat traveled down the valley of Stone’s spine. Muscles bunched on either side, stymied only by the protrusion of crystals. “I had not.”

“He broke his arm while climbing a tree. I’ve set the bone and packed the wound with yarrow, but they will need to watch for infection.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

Bran cleared his throat. “I’m glad to hear the boy is well. I apologize for lying all this time to you, beautiful thing that you are.”

“You’ve followed me since the MacNara twins,” she murmured while casting a curious glance towards Stone, who still hadn’t moved.

“I rarely trust the MacNara twins, and when I saw one such as you entering their home? I had to follow you. My honor simply wouldn’t allow for anything else.”

She wasn’t certain he had that much honor. A man who hid himself from a woman in the form of a raven was unlikely to be a gentleman. From the top of his half-shaved head, to the bottom of his taloned feet, this was a man she’d have a hard time trusting.

“You, sir, are surely a rake.”

“Me?” He slapped a hand to his chest. “I have never been called such a thing!”

“Bran,” Stone’s voice cut through the banter. “Enough.”

He glanced over his shoulder, revealing the uninjured side of his face. Sorcha noted how he angled his body away from her. As if he were trying to hide. There was no cloak for him to cover the injuries, at least not that she could see.

The man was strange. So easily risen to a challenge when she could not see him, but now he appeared almost frightened. Embarrassed, perhaps? She had placed him in an awkward situation. It was likely he hadn’t wanted her to see his disfigurement.

She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know. Sorcha couldn’t imagine how he felt knowing that his skin was so severely marred.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, Bran, for pointing out the yarrow. I’ll take my leave gentlemen.”

Dipping into a curtsy for good measure, she cursed herself for listening to Pixie. With burning red cheeks, she snatched the yarrow and rushed away from the castle. If it took her the rest of the day to get to her hut, so be it. She refused to stay any longer in the presence of a man who so clearly didn’t want her there.

* * *

Eamonn slammed the door to the castle, hands shaking in anger. How dare she? That woman had no right to walk around the grounds as if she owned the place. All other Fae knew to leave him be when he was in a rage. He would wear himself out with sword and shield, but they were not permitted to view him.

Growling, he swiped a vase from its stand. The shattering crash only eased a small fraction of his anger, but it was something. Shame overwhelmed him.

She had seen him.

When Bran said they were being watched, Eamonn had turned with the expectation that Pixie was coming to announce some other chore he needed to do. But it hadn’t been any of the faeries he would have guessed.

She stood in the middle of the field with goldenrod brushing her fingertips. He had named her aptly. Sunshine caressed her hair and shoulders like a lover. Her hair swirled around her like a dust devil made of fire. Her freckles flecked her nose and forehead as if the sun couldn't help but kiss her cheeks.

She was so beautiful. And he?

Eamonn walked past a shattered mirror and growled. He was little more than a monster.

“She’s even prettier when in a human form,” Bran’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I’m surprised you let her stay, considering the circumstances.”

“Leave, Unseelie. You have overstayed your welcome.”

“I always do. And yet, here I am.”

The fluttering of wings buffeted his ears, and Bran materialized down the hallway before him.

Eamonn clenched his fists. “How does she know your name?”

“Jealous?” Bran picked at his fingernails. “Or anxious?”

“No human should know the true name of a Fae.”

“Does it make you feel better to know she guessed it?”

“No,” he snorted. “But it does speak to your mother’s intelligence. Naming her son so predictably will be your downfall.”

“My mother is plenty intelligent. She created you, now didn’t she?”

Eamonn bared his teeth.

The other Fae hardly seemed intimidated. “Easy there, Stone King. I have no quarrel with you.”

“You’ve done enough.” He brushed past the raven and slammed open the door to another abandoned room. There were hundreds in this castle, filled with relics of a time long ago. They held little meaning to him. Which meant they were far more interesting to break.

“Come now, how can I make it up to you?” Bran trailed after him. “I so hate it when you’re mad at me.”

“The only reason why you are here is to train with the best.”

“And you are the best. But we can’t train together if you’re just trying to kill me.”

Eamonn crushed a stone head between his fists. “In my experience, that is the best way to learn.”

It was thoroughly satisfying to see the Unseelie Prince’s eyes bug out of his head. Bran was whip quick and wiry, impossible to defeat from a distance. But Eamonn was strong, made even stronger by the crystals that decorated his skin like armor plating.

“What has you all riled up?”

“She saw me.” He smashed another piece of a statute, the remaining hand from one of his other rants.

“So?”

“She saw me. I hadn’t planned on ever letting her see me.”

“That would be impossible anyways. She lives on the isle now.”

“She lives in a hut off the isle, specifically so that she would not have the potential to see me.”

Bran couldn’t understand. Not really. For an Unseelie, he was highly attractive. Most his features were unchanged. Sure, the raven eye in the man’s head was unsettling, and he would never have passed for a Seelie Fae, but he was pleasant enough to look at. Handsome for his own people.

Eamonn would never be considered handsome again. Beyond that, he was so flawed that the throne he had coveted for so long had slipped from his grasp. He would never be king and his twin, that treacherous, backstabbing, fool, would forever sit upon Eamonn’s throne.

“What if I trade you a secret?” Bran’s voice danced in the air.

“I don’t make deals.”

“Not a deal. I’ve somehow wronged you, although I can’t understand why. I’ll willingly gift you this secret on a very small condition that you take that poor girl out of the hag’s hut.”

Eamonn paused. “Why would I do that?”

“Because she deserves to be in the castle. She’s lived a tough life, from what I can tell. I’d like to see her pampered.”

“She doesn’t want to be here. I’ve offered her dinner every night in the dining room, and she insists upon eating with that boggart in her house.”

The raven man hoisted himself onto a cabinet, crouching at the much greater height. “Brownie.”

“Excuse me?”

“The boggart is no longer. She’s turned back into a brownie.”

“That’s impossible.” He shook his head. “It’s only rarely done, and a human girl isn’t going to bring a faerie back from the brink of madness.”

“Shows how little you know.” Bran shrugged. “It’s a good secret too. A shame you don’t want to trade for it.”

Eamonn shook his head, brought his elbow down upon a stone soldier tipped onto the floor. The satisfying crack echoed so loudly through his own skull that he saw stars. But it helped. Oh, did it help.

He wanted to break more. To wallow in self-pity that she, of all people, Sunshine had seen his true form. He hadn’t been able to turn around, for fear of what he’d see in her gaze.

Horror? More than likely. When he had been driven from Seelie that was what their expressions had been. Horror that the king wasn’t a man at all.

Beast.

Betrayer.

Secret? His mind drifted towards the tantalizing bit of information Bran held over him. Eamonn, like the rest of his faerie race, had never been able to resist hidden knowledge.

Breathing hard, he glanced over his shoulder. “What kind of secret is it?”

The calculating look in Bran’s raven eye made Eamonn shiver.

Bran leaned forward, hands dangling over his bent knees. “I know her true name.”

Just the mere thought of Sunshine’s name sent him reeling. What would it taste like on his tongue? Likely as distracting as the rest of her. But Eamonn was certain the merest hint would be a droplet of pure honey coating his mouth.

What a deal it was. Moving her from the hag’s hut cost little. There were plenty of available rooms, far away in the depths of the castle. He would have someone placed outside her door, to make sure she didn’t wander where she was unwelcome.

It was insane. Making deals with Unseelie Fae had never ended well for his family. Look at where he was now! And this was the son of the very Unseelie who had cursed their family for all time.

Still… it was her name.

He scratched the crystals on his jaw, pondering the thought. He could do much with a name. He could compel her to leave the island -

No. He would never do that. Could never do that. She was too intriguing, too interesting, far too strange a human to leave. He wouldn’t allow her to wander far from his side, not until he figured her out.

“All I have to do is move her from the hut to the castle?”

Bran leaned forward with a wry grin. “Well, set her up in a nice room at least. I want the girl to be taken care of, not placed on a shelf to gather dust like the rest of your nice things.”

“I can’t promise to take care of her.”

“I didn’t ask for that, she’s capable of protecting herself. She made the swim across the sea to get to you.”

“To get to the isle,” Eamonn corrected. “She didn’t know I existed.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Cloch Rí. She’s been looking for you the whole time, and you’ve been a thorn in her side.”

“She wants me to end a plague.”

“For now. But who knows. If you let her closer, she might want more.”

“Since when do you play matchmaker?”

Bran hopped down from the cabinet, sauntering towards Eamonn on clicking clawed feet. “Do we have a deal?”

Eamonn glanced down at the hand offered. Bran had one human hand, and one beast. He held out the clawed hand, taloned with three fingers like the foot of a raven.

Although his mind screamed he could find out this information on his own, Eamonn reached forward and clasped the talon. For good measure, he dug the crystals of his palm into the leathery flesh. “We have a deal. Now what is her name?”

The wild smile returned to the raven man’s face.

“Sorcha.”

* * *

“Sorcha.” The voice whispered on the winds tingled in her mind. It swept through her window and through her hair, tangling in the red strands.

She recognized the voice. It belonged to a terrifying woman. Tall, stately, wild red hair matching her own.

Sorcha leaned out the bedroom window and peered across the moors. Will-o'-the-wisps danced merrily above the bog. The scent of peat moss filled the air, earthen and musty. She wrinkled her nose.

Perhaps she only wanted to hear her name. After seeing Macha’s face in the fountain, she worried the Tuatha dé Danann had more to say. Was her family all right? She had only made a deal for her father, not her sisters. Had the worst happened, and the faerie come to tell her the bad news?

The thoughts plagued her throughout the evening. Homesickness was a bitter taste in her mouth, leaving bile rolling in her stomach and an empty hole in her chest. She missed them. Briana would know what to do with a man who wouldn’t listen. Rosaleen would charm him with her innocent curls and girlish laughter. Papa would give him a pipe and set him down to talk about adventures and traveling.

Sorcha? She would hover in the corner, waiting until someone asked for something. She was far more comfortable taking care of others than she was being the center of attention.

“Sorcha.” The wind whispered through her window. “Sorcha, come to me.”

Something tugged deep in her belly. The compulsion to move was not a choice, but an order. Her feet slid across the floor even as her mind wailed that she didn’t want to move. She didn’t know who called out to her.

She watched as if someone else moved her hand, turned the door handle, and pushed the door open.

Macha stood in the midst of swirling white lights. They sparkled upon her shoulders and cast a cold gleam upon her eyes. She lost all color, standing in the moonlight with shadows twining through her hair.

“Lady Fae,” Sorcha said. Her feet halted at the edge of the dock. “I had not thought to see you here.”

“No, I imagine you didn’t. Why else would you have washed your filth in my fountain?”

“It was the blood of a child. One of your children.”

“I do not call all faeries my children, nor do I lay claim to a Pooka.” She spat the last word as if it were a curse. “The Unseelie can have their animals, mine are among the Seelie.”

“Is that how you would be known? As a mother who cast aside her offspring?”

“You have become daring, that is good. You will need to be strong for this task.”

“What more could you possibly ask me to do?” Sorcha’s jaw dropped. “I’m already trying to cajole him to come to the mainland.”

“Where is your success? I watch you making friends, not convincing the lord of this isle to leave.”

Sorcha couldn’t argue with that. She hadn’t done much. “I’m trying to befriend him so I might convince Stone that—”

“Stone?” Macha raised her eyebrows. “You’ve named him?”

“Well, yes. How else are we supposed to converse?”

The waters rippled as Macha stepped forward. Will-o'-the-wisps scattered, darting over the lily pads to safety. Ragged edged clothing revealed glinting weapons strapped to her arms and thighs.

Sorcha swallowed hard. She would accept her death if it came now. There was no honor in forcing a man to leave his home, and she refused to give up that part of herself. Stone deserved to make the choice.

“You are a coward,” Macha whispered. She reached out and ghosted her fingertips across Sorcha’s throat. “You hesitate because you wish him to make this decision for you. If you fail, it is not your fault. It is his.”

“That’s not true,” her throat convulsed. “I don’t want to force him to make a decision he isn’t prepared for.”

“While you wait, your people are dying.”

“My family?”

“Your father, as promised, is alive. The blood beetle plague is spreading, and you are forgetting your purpose.”

“I couldn’t forget that.”

“It does not matter to me whether you fulfil your deal. But the deal still stands. If you do not bring the master of this isle back to the mainland, then I will release my hold upon your father’s health. I need not remind you how poorly he was doing when you left.”

Sorcha’s entire body shook. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

“You might not be entirely in the Otherworld, but you are on the border. Time moves differently here.”

“What?”

Macha stepped back from her, a tired and knowing smile on her face. “Take care, little human. I will do my best to help you, but time is not on your side.”

She stumbled backwards, barely catching herself on the edge of the dock. What was she saying? Her mind whirled.

“How long have I been gone?” Sorcha cried out. “How long, Macha?”

“That is not for me to say. Hurry, child.”

“Macha! Answer my question!”

The water rippled slightly as magic brushed its surface and the Tuatha dé Danann disappeared.

Tears burned in Sorcha’s eyes, streaming down her cheeks as she panicked. Had she been gone for months? Years? How could she have forgotten that time was different here?

But she wasn’t in the home of the Faerie, not really. Hy-brasil straddled the line between Otherworld and her world. She couldn’t have been gone more than a few months, could’ve she?

“What must they think of me?” she whispered. “I did not desert you! I would never do that.”

But she had. Sorcha had let memories of her family become substitute for the real thing. In doing so, she forgot the warmth of their touch, the sound of their voice, the lingering support of their embrace.

“I’m so sorry. I should never have lost myself in the magic of this place.”