The Faceless Woman by Emma Hamm (i love reading .txt) 📕

necklace cord. She didn’t need to use magic, she wasn’t addicted to its power, and she refused to allow it to rule her.

It was a battle she had fought every day.

Something in her wanted to use magic all the time. It wanted sparks flying from her fingertips and the world at her feet. Which likely was the reason she ended up burning in the first place.

The memory brought with it the lingering sting along her feet and legs. She winced and pulled up her shift. Her white flesh was still red and angry.

The faerie had done a remarkable job healing her, but he hadn’t finished it. Aisling frowned and pressed her thumb to the redness. A white mark remained when she removed her hand and then disappeared as blood returned to the aching area.

If they were going to keep walking like this, she’d need to do something about it. Her shoes had barely held on through the fire and the soles were falling off.

Aisling glanced back at the Unseelie’s pack.

“If you don’t want me wearing your extra clothes, shout now, Unseelie,” she called out, and then waited for a response. “No complaints? Perfect.”

She dragged the pack to the edge of the water and laid the clothes out in the sun. They would heat up on the rocks while she washed away the grime of travel. Cold water would cool the slight burn of her legs and hopefully bring down the swelling around her ankles.

Stretching her arms over her head, she let the sun dancing on top of the water blind her. The sparkles were mesmerizing.

“Lorcan, don’t you be spying on me or you’re going to get an eyeful!”

When no one responded, and no leaves rustled, she figured she was safe enough to duck into the water.

Yanking her shift over her head, she left it in a heap near the Unseelie’s clothes. It was strange feeling to be unclothed where anyone could come upon her. Not that it mattered. If it was a human, she could curse them into a toad. If it was a faerie, they would not know who she was.

She hissed as the cold water touched her toes. “Spring water.” Icy and clear, it rushed directly from the earth in frigid temperatures that nearly burned.

But it would help her wounds better than anything else. Aisling gritted her teeth and waded through the eddies frigid enough to create ice until she was up to her chest in the water.

Her jaw ached from keeping the chattering still. She would freeze to death in this water. Forcing herself to remain until the bitter cold became more tolerable, she finally released the breath she was holding with a sigh.

Small currents butted against her sides, tugging and pulling her this way and that. A burble of laughter escaped her lips. How long had it been since she swam?

She couldn’t even remember the last time she was clean. She made do with rags and a few buckets of water once a week while she was in the hut. There wasn’t streams or rivers nearby safe enough for her to bathe in, not while the villagers thought she was an old woman.

It couldn’t hurt to indulge herself a bit. Aisling tucked her toes between algae-covered stones, and let her arms float at her side.

Waves lapped at the top of her head with soothing strokes. Birds chirped in the air, singing songs that soothed her battered soul. The water chilled her flesh and pressed a balm to her wounds.

The spell could wait a few moments more. First, she would heal her body and heart.

Bran spread his wings wide and let the wind calm his anger. It whistled through his feathers, stirring something feral in his heart.

He had no reason to be angry at the girl. She couldn’t know the implications of such a curse, and it was unlike him to be so cruel in blaming an innocent. Albeit a powerful innocent. He was the nice brother, the one the Unseelie court thought might eventually defect and go to the Seelie court for his dislike of harming others.

Why did this little witch get under his skin?

He wanted to throttle her every time she opened that mouth of hers. She thought she was so intelligent, so learned, but she was a mere second in the great tapestry of time.

And she knew how to open a portal to the Otherworld.

He didn’t know how to do that.

Bran refused to entertain the idea she might know more about magic than he did. He’d spent his entire life learning and honing his skills. She was merely lucky to have gotten a few spell books that were rare.

And who was her grandmother, anyway? What kind of woman had access to books like that?

The question burned in his mind until it was the only thing he could think of. There was something off about that tidbit of information, and he wouldn’t put it past the witch to lie. Had she been stealing from the Fae?

It was an interesting theory that made him tilt his wings and head back toward the waterfall. He clacked his beak in anticipation of what she would do.

He’d already seen her holding her fists at her side as if she wanted to strike him. What would happen if she did? A fire burned in his chest at the thought. She could try to harm him, but it wouldn’t do anything. He was larger than her, trained in the art of war, and had survived countless battles.

He soared through the skies, knocking clouds out of his way as he returned. The witch might be done with the portal by now, although he doubted it. She had made it seem as though it was a laborious creature, and he hadn’t been gone very long.

Magic coiled around his body, expanding his form in a quiet pop. He rolled as he hit the ground, ending in a crouch with one hand pressed against the solid earth. The nubs of feathers on the