Ch1
Wherever there
was commotion, there was a faerie.
Wherever there
was a faerie, someone was about to die.
I rushed after
the crowd of merrymakers toward the tavern’s exit and the source of the
commotion. The fresh scent of wildflowers wafted in through the open doors, a
welcome respite from sweat and sawdust and sour ale. Someone’s booted foot
stepped on the hem of my skirts. I snarled and yanked it free.
A leprechaun
darted through the throng, slashing purses and swiping gold pieces. He stuffed his
pickings into the openings of his blood-red tunic, eyes gleaming, handsome
features twisted. I clutched my basket of burn salves and stared ahead,
avoiding eye contact with the leprechaun, avoiding his clever fingers, and most
importantly, avoiding his notice.
The folk in the
Isle of Bresail say a maiden who can see the fae is twice-blessed. Blessed to
behold beings of beauty and blessed again for the chance to bargain for health,
riches, and immortality. Whoever said that had obviously never met a faerie.
The fae,
creatures of hideous power and beauty, revel in human misery, beget bad luck,
and feast upon mortal lives. Every encounter with the monsters carries the risk
of being killed. Or worse, a repeat of that horrific Samhain night seven years
ago, when the fae slaughtered an entire village trying to find me. Terror still
grips my heart like the jaws of the hound of Culainn.
I see the fae. I
fear the fae. I’m powerless to stop the fae. And I can say I am thrice cursed.
As I neared the
exit, the baker’s apprentice bumped me on the shoulder, and I stumbled across
the gritty floor. “Sorry, Neara!”
My gaze dropped
to the salves. They lay in the basket, nestled in muslin cloth I’d wrapped
around them for safekeeping. “I’m looking for Eirnin. Is he here?”
“Have you tried
the forge?”
“They told me
he’d be having an early dinner here.”
“Can’t say I’ve
seen him.” He raised his massive shoulders. “Maybe he’s watching the spectacle
Shona is making of herself in the square.” He rushed ahead, shoving through a
group of sailors stumbling toward the doors.
Dread rolled
through my belly like a summer thunderstorm. Shona, the haughty eldest daughter
of the mayor of Calafort, would never even sip a tankard of ale in public. If
she was doing something to attract the attention of drunken louts, there could
be only one cause: the fae.
I stepped out
into the warm evening, inhaling a lungful of fresh air. The sun hung behind a
dip in the Fomori mountains, a burst of daffodil amidst clouds tinged the color
of blood-red poppies. Its yellow haze
reflected off the whitewashed timber framed buildings lining the cobbled
thoroughfare. My gaze traveled down to the crowd gathered at the end around the
village square.
Shona, the center
of the attraction, wasn’t exactly a friend. Since Father and I moved
to the
port town of Calafort, she had sullied my name with allegations about my
associations with the blacksmith, the retired soldier of fortune, and the local
priest—people vital in my private crusade against the
fae.
Two young men
sprinted past. The smaller of the pair yelled, “Hoist me up on your shoulders,
Colman!”
“As if!” The
taller gave his companion a playful shove.
A warm wind
swirled around my hair, blowing vibrant, copper strands into my eyes. As usual,
its color brought back memories of the night I had been willing to bargain to
look… less peculiar. The night I had doomed an
entire village. Guilt clawed at my gullet, and I gulped. Even if Shona had
soured my existence with her gossip, I couldn’t leave anyone, not even her, to become a
faerie’s prey.
I strode after
the rush of drunk men, only for the familiar pull of dread to weight my steps.
For reasons I couldn’t fathom, faeries had become more commonplace in Calafort
and more malevolent. Benign household spirits and mischief makers were replaced
by malicious beings of unusual and tremendous power.
The innkeeper’s
wife stormed out of the crowd, skirts swishing, shooting sharp glares at the
men rushing through the cobbled thoroughfare.
“Don’t think I
won’t tell your wives and mothers about your disgraceful conduct!” she
screeched at their backs. “There should be a law against giving an audience to
a public harlot!”
An iron fist
clenched my heart. “Mrs. Martin?”
“What?” She
whirled around, auburn locks falling from her bonnet.
“Are you talking
about Shona Mulloy?”
Her thin lips
twisted. “She’ll never be able to put on airs and graces, that one. Not after
revealing the wanton hussy beneath that false piety!”
My pulse throbbed
in my throat. Not waiting to ask any further questions, I broke into a run. The
only cause for Shona to make a public spectacle was magic, and no one could
stop it but me.
Hoots and cheers
and roars exploded from the podium, louder than a clap of thunder, making me
trip on a loose cobblestone. Splaying out my hands for balance, I slowed my
steps. What in the name of all that was holy did I think I was doing? Father’s
words echoed in my skull. Every encounter with a faerie increased the chance of
being captured. The creature behind Shona’s shameless display could be one of
the horsemen from that terrible Samhain night. What if he recognized me?
I brought my feet
to an abrupt stop. After six years of moving from place to place, we had a mere
week before the dense mist covering the coast of Bresail would clear. No merrow
could lurk in the waters, calling people to their deaths with their enchanted music,
and no kelpies would board the ship and attack. Father and I planned to gain
passage on a ship to Hibernia, the land where holy men slew monsters to protect
the innocent. Guilt crawled up my back and clung to my shoulders like the
talons of a night hag. If I did anything to ruin our chance, Father’s sickness
might not grant him another seven years
“Get ’em off!”
cried one drunken reveler.
“What kind of
lass can’t even undo her own corset?” shouted another.
Guffaws filled
the air, and someone bellowed, “The pampered sort!”
My eyes widened.
Before good sense could prevail, my feet pounded the cobblestones, and I
reached the edge of the crowd. Pushing my way through the eager men, I caught a
glimpse of the spectacle. The bodice of Shona’s dress hung around her waist
like a shed skin, her breasts jutting out of her under-bust corset. She had
hitched her skirts, revealing her thighs and glimpses of a thicket of mahogany,
pubic hair.
“Higher!”
screamed a drunkard.
Blood surged
through my ears, dulling the men’s lascivious shouts. My jaw clenched so hard,
it throbbed in time with my raging pulse. I turned my head away, understanding
why Mrs Martin had been so incensed. No-one, not even Shona the gossip,
deserved to be humiliated in such a fashion!
Using the bodies
of the leering men as cover, I receded into the crowd and studied the men in
the direction of her glazed stare. The usual village louts and ne’er do wells
jostled each other about in the front, but one male stood out from the rabble.
Not because his silk jacket was too fine for the village of Calafort, not
because he was the only man remaining calm amidst the scandalous display, but
because his face was devoid of features and did not even have a nose.
His eyes,
fathomless tunnels of black, stared at her with a cold amusement. Around his
unlit pipe, one corner of his lips curved into a whisper of a smile.
Gancanagh.
The word popped
into the forefront of my mind. It came from the leather-bound book Father
insisted that I study for hours every evening. The gancanagh was a
silver-tongued, shapeshifter faerie who could morph into a woman’s heart’s
desire and drive her into a frenzy of wantonness. While a gancanagh enjoyed
sexual contact with women, what really nourished them was the ensuing despair
he caused from withdrawing his affections and ruining her reputation.
Ostracized,
isolated, and full of despair, his victim would commit suicide, providing him
with a condemned soul upon which to feast.
“If you can’t
manage the corset, open your legs and give us a good show!” bellowed the
inn-keeper to a roar of drunken cheers.
Shona’s head
lolled to the side, and she moaned. “Please…
I need you!”
The gancanagh
nodded, indicating for her to do as they said.
Disgust curdled
my stomach, making me want to spit. That was as much as I could stand. Delving
shaking fingers into my pocket, I gathered a heavy pinch of salt. It soaked up
magic, rendering the attacks of many faeries useless.
Then, I put it
under my tongue, suppressed a grimace, and pushed through the crowd, making
sure not to look at the gancanagh.
“Shona Mulloy,” I
shouted, making my voice as shrill as Mrs. Martin’s. “Your father would be
ashamed of you!”
She ignored me,
as I had expected. Those in the thrall of a gancanagh became powerless to do
anything but his bidding. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she hiked
her skirts to her waist, eliciting ear-ringing catcalls.
“That’s a bushy
tail if ever I saw one!” yelled a voice from within the crowd.
Affecting a
shriek of outrage, I slapped her hard across the face, ensuring that my iron
ring made contact with her lip. The salt remaining on my fingers must have
either gotten into her mouth or into the tiny cut my ring made, because her
eyes focused.
“Get yourself
home,” I screeched. “You’re giving all the womenfolk of Calafort a bad name!” I
yanked on her arm, hoping to convince the gancanagh that I hadn’t noticed it.
“Neara, show us
your ginger muff!” shouted a heckler.
I ignored the
drunken dolt and headed to a gap in the crowd. A few of the men, now
shamefaced, stepped aside. Rage seared my veins. Any one of them could have
intervened, but they had chosen to let a neighbor debauch herself. According to
the information in my book, the gancanagh’s allure only affected women and only
if they touched him of their own accord. There was no reason, apart from
malicious lechery, that they couldn’t have stopped Shona from falling to ruin.
A hand wrapped
around my wrist, its chill seeping through my skin, permeating my bones to the
marrow. I suppressed a shudder. The fae, immortal creatures that were neither
alive nor dead, were nothing like humans. My leather-bound book said they were
the offshoot of a supernatural race called the Fomorians, but from what I had
seen over the years, and I had seen a lot, they were hungry spirits made flesh.
The only thing that differed from one type of faerie to another was what
satisfied their appetites.
Gritting my
teeth, I turned my head and glared at the hand restraining me. It was an effort
to keep my voice from trembling, but I focussed on my anger and said, “Let go
of my person, sir.”
“Permit me to
introduce myself.” He released my wrist, gave me a gentlemanly bow, and held
out an elegant, smooth-skinned hand that could have belonged to an artist or a
Prince. “I am Gerald Canice, and I wish to commend you on your valiant rescue
of that young lady’s virtue.”
“I would be doing
a better job if you didn’t keep me here talking,” I snapped. “Excuse me.”
Most would have
lowered their hand and stepped away at my rudeness. This creature did not. He
glided closer, still with his hand outstretched, now turned as though he wanted
to take mine and press a kiss on my knuckles. “Please… I must know your name.”
“It’s Neara,”
shouted a drunk. “And she’s interested in nothing but stinking herbs and
withered old men!”
My face heated,
indicating a blush as red a hawthorn berries, one of the many disadvantages of
having skin the pallor of diluted milk. The drunks snickered, and I pressed my
lips together, trying to exhale my anger through flared nostrils.
“Ignore those
louts.” His voice soft and cultured, just as I would imagine a storybook
Prince. “Won’t you at least look at me?”
As though of its
own volition, my gaze lifted to his face. It was no longer the characterless
visage from earlier. He now resembled the raven-haired faerie whose presence
had cursed me with the sight. A bolt of shock shot through my heart as fast as
lighting, jolting it into action. I drew in a sharp breath between my teeth.
Everything
vanished from my attention. The crowd of drunken men, the sobbing girl at my
side, the fear of being discovered by the fae. It all faded now that Gerald had
caught me in his mesmerizing, viridian-green gaze.
His full lips
split into a breath-stealing smile of even, white teeth, rising up to high
cheekbones, and leading to eyes so longing they wrung my heart.
“Neara…” My name sounded like supplication on lips
that begged to be kissed. “I
am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
One of my hands
twitched toward his still outstretched hand. My mouth dried, not
because of the
salt, but due to the warmth pooling between my legs, creating a fire that only
he could quench.
My throat dried,
partially because of the salt under my tongue, but mostly because of the male’s
beauty. If he had chosen any other face, I would have ignored the gancanagh,
but I couldn’t resist this dark-haired, green eyed apparition.
A tiny voice, as
quiet and persistent as a midge, whispered that it was a trap. The monster
wanted to infect me with the venom coating his skin and see me debased before
my village.
“I…” A gulp interrupted words that had already
withered in my throat. I had come prepared, wearing a bracelet of iron with a
matching torque and ring, but I hadn’t anticipated being faced with the being who haunted my dreams… my deepest, most oft-denied desire.
“Neara,” said a
voice hoarse with tears.
I turned to lock
gazes with Shona, her eyes bloodshot and brimming with tears.
“Will you take me
home?”
Her voice was the
splash of saltwater I needed to break gancanagh’s spell. Without a backward
glance, I pulled her away from the lecherous gazes of the crowd, trying not to
succumb to the pit of dread wrenching open my stomach. Once again, I had
attracted the attention of the fae. The gancanagh likely wouldn’t work out that
I had seen through him, but my awakening of Shona from her stupor would have at
least aroused his curiosity.
Shona and I
walked unmolested through the crowd of degenerates, many were now slinking back
to the tavern. Without his audience, the gancanagh would not pursue us. He fed
on the humiliation of his victims, delighted in their ruin and not their lust.
His gaze, heavy
on my back, turned my steps to lead. The gancanagh was likely evaluating me,
wondering why I could resist his magic. My throat thickened, and I gulped down
my rising panic. This was exactly the kind of thing Father had warned me
against. We could not flee Bresail if we attracted the attention of the fae,
and I had done exactly that! If the
wicked creature stayed to satisfy his curiosity, we were doomed.
A curious faerie
always attracted others, and I of all people would know that arousing the
interest of the creatures was deadly.
*****
The folk in the
Isle of Bresail say a maiden who can see the fae is twice-blessed. Blessed to
behold beings of beauty and blessed again for the chance to bargain for health,
riches, and immortality. Whoever said that had obviously never met a faerie.
The fae,
creatures of hideous power and beauty, revel in human misery, beget bad luck, and
feast upon mortal lives. Every encounter with the monsters carries the risk of
being killed. Or worse, a repeat of that horrific Samhain night seven years
ago, when the fae slaughtered an entire village trying to find me. Terror still
grips my heart like the jaws of the hound of Culainn.
I see the fae. I
fear the fae. I’m powerless to stop the fae. And I can say I am thrice cursed.
