Many Years Before The Start of Our Story

The Isle of Whispers, Scotland

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Machara couldn’t be trusted. She was the worst sort of fae, but what else did Athdara have to lose? With her son as he was now, he had no life at all. With the body of an old man and the mind of a child, the boy would wither and die long before she would, and whatever time her son had left would be lived in misery. He couldn’t speak, could barely feed himself, and rather than be rocked to sleep as a child his age should be, Willy was forced to cry himself to sleep, for he was too large to be held in her arms.

He was just a wee tot when she lost him, barely teetering about and just learning his first words. She’d known the moment he was gone who’d taken him. A week earlier, the baker’s son had been lured into the world invisible to mortal eyes by a faerie. While Athdara had warned her young niece—begged her—to keep her son away from the spot where the first lad had disappeared, the girl’s curiosity was too strong. Just like the boy before, she was lured into the land of the fae with Athdara’s wee son in tow.

The children were only gone a fortnight before the Isle’s well-meaning laird struck a devil’s bargain with the faerie Machara. But as faeries always do, she found a way to twist her word. Return the children she did, but not as they were before. Their bodies had aged decades in a matter of days, but their minds remained those of children.

“I know ye hate me.”

Athdara reared back and spit on the ground near the faerie’s feet. “Hate is too kind a word for what I feel for ye, Machara. My son was an innocent. He wasna old enough to be fooled by yer charms. What happened to him was no fault of his own. Ye might as well have killed him. He’d be better off dead.”

The faerie’s expression didn’t change. Athdara knew Machara was incapable of feeling remorse. She knew that for Machara to offer her a bargain, there had to be something in it for her, as well. In order to get what she so desperately wanted, Athdara would have to outwit someone far older and more powerful than she.

“Aye, I know. ’Tis why I’ve offered ye this and ye alone. I must hide my son from his father, and he canna live amongst the fae. My own father would kill the boy if I brought him into our realm.”

The child was no more than four—a wisp of a boy with curly honey-colored hair and shimmering green eyes that showed his half-fae blood more than any of his other features. He looked frightened standing next to his mother, shaking in the cold. Athdara watched as the boy reached for his mother’s hand, only to be swatted away by Machara’s spindly fingers. The boy’s eyes began to fill with tears, and Athdara’s heart squeezed.

“Why canna the boy see Nicol? Nicol wouldna harm him.”

A lump rose in Athdara’s throat as Machara laughed. Her cackle dripped with poison.

“Do ye think I care for the welfare of this child? I wanted a half-fae child so I could use him when it suited me later in life. These children have abilities that others will never know. I may need him if my father’s curse comes true. If I gave him to Nicol, the child would grow up poisoned against me, and that willna do for my purposes.”

Athdara wanted nothing more than to reach for the young boy and gather him up in her arms. Machara was a fool. The boy was old enough to remember all of this. She could see the child’s heart breaking right in front of her. It would take no prompting for the young boy to grow up hating his mother. Machara had already done all the work necessary to plant that seed of hate in his heart.

“And what of yer other children?”

“I returned to Nicol’s bed for the pleasure of it, not because I wanted more of his children. Those wretched beings willna be long for this world.”

Athdara had to swallow the vomit that threatened to spill from her at Machara’s confession. “Doona harm them, Machara. Give them to me, just as ye are doing with this boy, and I will care for them as well.”

Machara’s brow lifted. “I will use each of my children for a purpose that suits me. Brachan must live. The others must die. If ye speak of them again, I will take my bargain to someone else. ’Tis time for ye to decide, Athdara. Do ye accept my offer or not?”

Carefully, and with a heavy heart, Athdara prepared her words. It was clear to her that she couldn’t save Machara’s other children. If the faerie wished them dead, she was powerless against the evil fae’s will, but perhaps she could spare one of them, and in the process, regain her son.

“If ye will see my Willy returned perfect and whole and to the same age he truly should be now, with no memory of what happened to him, and if ye promise me that ye will never interfere in my life again or look for me or any of my kin or offspring, and ye willna interfere in how I choose to raise yer child, then aye. I shall take the boy in as my own, and I shall leave this isle with him.”

Machara smiled and Athdara sent up a silent prayer that she’d left no room for Machara to trick her.

“Then we’ve reached an agreement.”

Before Athdara could move, Machara reached for Willy’s wrinkled and twisted hand. As she gripped him, his appearance changed before Athdara’s eyes. As her young son returned to the bonny toddler he’d once been, she collapsed on the ground, pulled him into her arms, and wept.

As she held her son, Machara shoved Brachan toward her, and Athdara gathered him in her embrace, as well.

“Leave here now, Machara. Yer need of me is done.”

Machara nodded, but didn’t leave. “Aye, ’tis. I shall call for my son when ’tis time—when he is grown, not before, as per our bargain.”

“How will ye call for him?”

“He will know. There will be an awakening within him that he willna be able to deny. When this happens, ye must tell him who he is and to whom he belongs and return him to me once more. If ye doona do so, I will kill yer son.”

Shivering, Athdara gripped each child’s hand and rose from the ground. “And what makes ye think that I willna poison Brachan toward ye like ye say Nicol would’ve? Ye’ve already sworn that ye willna interfere with how I raise the lad.”

Machara laughed, but Athdara could see the faerie’s fatal flaw.

“Ye are not his blood. Yer words will have no pull on him. As he grows, he will see ye as little more than the woman who saw him fed and clothed. His loyalty will lie with those whose blood runs through his veins.”

Athdara waited until Machara was gone, but once the faerie was out of sight, she laughed. How little Machara knew of humans and love. Blood means little. Family comes from the heart. And this boy—this half-fae rarity—would grow up to be kind and good and brave—nothing like Machara.

He would be her son, and she would love him completely.