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

flicking the curtain of her tangled dark hair as she went.

Damned, stubborn woman. She feared nothing, and that would get her in trouble. The Otherworld deserved a healthy amount of respect and fear. If she didn’t know how to give it that, then the land would take it.

Shaking his head, he started after them.

The cave was much larger than he originally thought. The maw opened up high above his head where bones hung from tangled roots. Carved runes decorated the walls, and magic gave the air an electric quality, lifting the hair on his arms.

Wind whistled through the cavern, bringing with it the whispered prayers of a thousand men and women. Their voices were funneled toward the heavens, repenting dark deeds while hoping the gods and goddesses might be listening.

“What is that sound?” Aisling asked.

“The pleas of the Underfolk,” he responded. “They ask for forgiveness from the Tuatha de Danann so they might return to the Otherworld.”

“Have any ever returned?”

“No. Only the condemned are sent to Underhill, and they will remain part of the host forevermore.”

He watched her pause at the mouth of the cave and wondered what she was thinking. Underhill was a dark part of faerie history. The Sluagh were notoriously dangerous creatures, stealing souls that cried out for help. Devouring humans added to their own power. They reveled in their own ugliness and hid in the darkest parts of nightmares.

Was she afraid?

“I have met the Sluagh before,” she finally murmured. “They were not a kind folk.”

“Kindness has never been shown to them. They do not know what such an emotion is.”

“That’s sad.”

“The Unseelie pity them. Their bodies are emaciated, not only from lack of food, but from lack of love. We see them as a reflection of all that is neglected inside ourselves.”

She shifted her balance and ran her fingers over Lorcan’s fur. “And the Seelie?”

“They fear them as humans do.”

Her shoulders squared, and his brave little witch marched into the cave with no further hesitation. What he would give to dive into her mind, to understand her thoughts and reasoning.

What kind of creature was she that she pitied creatures who lacked love? The Sluagh were the worst sort of beasts, and yet she connected with them. She stalked toward them with intent riding her posture like the weight of a crown.

Magic danced down his side, tasting him like the lick of a large animal. He grimaced but plunged into the darkness without hesitation.

“Why do I feel like someone is watching us?” Aisling asked.

“Because they are.”

He could feel her. The Duchess. Her magic was one he was too familiar with, but it didn’t concern him. Not as much as the secondary magic laced through hers that tasted like opium and dark deeds.

The Duke.

“Damn it,” he growled. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Why?”

“The Duchess is married now, and the man she’s taken as consort isn’t the kind of creature we want to tangle with.”

“Worse than a dead god?”

“Far worse.”

A stone pinged to their right, dropping into the darkness, and echoing when it struck water. They were no longer alone.

Aisling tucked herself closer to him. Not in fear, his feral little witch didn’t know what that emotion felt like. Instead, he felt the electric burn of her magic building inside her body.

“Why should I be afraid of him?”

He brushed aside a cobweb and lifted it above her head. “The Duke spent his early life researching dark magic, and then one of the Fir Bolg gave him the ultimate spell book. The Necronomicon.”

The answering gulp suggested she knew what he meant.

“Learning magic like that at such a young age twists a person. He figured out quick enough that power wasn’t just born, but it could be taken. In the Palace of Twilight, the ultimate honor is to give a piece of yourself to the Duke.”

“A piece of themselves?”

Bran grunted. “The last time I saw him he was wearing six sets of arms.”

“Doesn’t leave a lot of room for much else, I imagine.”

“Nothing makes you uncomfortable, does it?” When he lifted a hand, blue faerie light bloomed upon his palm and gently floated into the air.

“No. But when you’re raised a witch, and know just how much is truly out there, it’s hard to be frightened by something like this.”

“You aren’t afraid for your soul?”

“I’m not sure I even have one.”

She laid the words at his feet like an offering, then slipped past him and continued walking through the cave.

The ball of his magic followed her like a loyal puppy, and he couldn’t help but feel as if he were doing the same. She was something else, this witch of his. No fear, no virtue, no sense of right or wrong. Aisling simply was, and she was not ashamed of that.

She ducked underneath a stalactite and murmured, “You understand that we’re being followed?”

“I do.”

“Do you plan on doing anything about it?”

“I don’t.” He caught up with her and arched a dark brow. “Are you uncomfortable with that?”

“I like to know who is following me.”

“That’s easy. It’s one of the Duchess’s personal guard, although I hadn’t expected such a welcome. Truly, she must be very worried about what I’m here to do.”

Lorcan shifted, draped over Aisling’s shoulder like a strange mink wrap. “They’ll want an explanation for who Aisling is.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Bran agreed. He tapped a finger to his chin, feigned as if he was thinking about it, then snapped his fingers loudly. “I know! We’ll say you’re my servant.”

“Servant?” Aisling’s voice echoed. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s the only believable thing.”

“How about apprentice? Lady wife? Anything other than servant.”

“Slave?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “No.”

“Servant it is. I’m glad you came around to seeing my way.”

“I didn’t!” She tossed her hands in the air. “No one would believe I’m your servant. I’m far too obstinate, and we argue at every opportunity.”

“Shame. I hope you’re a better actor than you are a liar.”

“What—”

She didn’t have time to finish her next argument because he stepped ahead of her and loudly shouted,