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

small boat where Bran stood staring at the waves.

He was a dark smudge against the sun reflecting on the water. His form wavered, shimmering in the light, but always remaining the same. Never once had he hidden himself behind a glamour. He was as he looked. Beast and man melded into one mysterious figure who had stepped out of the shadows like an ancient god.

He turned toward her, light silhouetting his body, and stretched out a hand. “Are you ready?”

She placed her hand in his and let him guide her into the small boat. Lorcan disappeared underneath the benches, while sand and stones crunched under Bran’s feet as he shoved them into the waters.

Aisling shaded her eyes and stared up the mountain to see her sister’s small form still as a statue. Elva lifted a hand in goodbye. A small piece of her soul would stay on the isle within a broken sister whose heart had been shattered too many times.

Someday, she would return. Someday, she would build the relationship they should have had.

Aisling just wished that day could be today.

Bran hopped into the boat, set his hands onto the oars, and propelled them away from the island.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Bran nodded at the isle slowly becoming smaller. “Family is odd, isn’t it? No matter how different we are, we want to love them.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Too much,” he replied with a chuckle. “My family is the strangest of them all. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

“I never knew what my family was really like. I watched them with spells sometimes, but I can’t say I actually know them.” She paused, then corrected herself. “Not that I remember really. There’s pieces and parts of memories, a past that seems like it came from a different person.”

“I wish mine came from a different person,” he said with a snort.

Aisling twisted her fingers in her lap. There was so much between them. And instead of saying anything, they let the space fill with the quiet gurgle of oars dipping beneath waves.

Finally, she blew out a breath. “Bran, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“I know,” he interrupted. A black feather drifted away from his head, hitting the water and dissolving into seafoam. “We both have secrets, Aisling. Just…let them be as they are until we’ve finished this. We’ll pick up the pieces then, come clean, say whatever it is we have to say.”

“Let them remain until the curse is broken?”

“Just a little while longer.” The sad smile on his face mirrored her own. “There’s so much I want to tell you.”

“Then we will stay as we are for now.”

“And start over when this is finished.”

“Start over?” She arched a brow. “It’s a little late for that.”

“Well, as much as we can. I intend to revisit part of this journey.”

She propped an elbow on the edge of the boat, placed her chin on her fist, and cocked her head to the side. “What might that be, Unseelie?”

The bright flash of his grin nearly blinded her. For a moment, Aisling let herself believe this could work. They would break the binding curse and ride off into the sunset, searching for a way to break her own curse. It was possible because they would make it possible.

The waves splashed by them. The sun touched them with warm rays that didn’t ache or turn vividly hot. Gulls cried out overhead and then circled back toward the isle when they realized no fish would be caught.

Every stolen moment was perfection, and she savored every second knowing it would all be ripped away.

Water pinged the wooden planks of the boat. The sound was strange, unusual considering the waves were still placid. Aisling straightened and looked around them in suspicion. “Bran?”

“Finally heard it?”

She tried to stare him down as if she were brave but tightened her fingers on the edges of the boat. “I thought we were going to row back to Ireland and find a portal there.”

“That would take us the better part of a month in a boat this small.” His raven eye wriggled in its socket. “There are faster ways to get home.”

“Which are?”

Bran released an oar and pointed over her shoulder. “Standing stones.”

“We’re in the middle of the ocean.”

“They pop up everywhere, you know. Portals are portals, regardless of where they form.”

“And what does a standing stone portal look like when it’s created beneath the waves?” She already knew what he was going to say. The spray of saltwater flecked her face, and when she licked her lips, she could taste the sea.

“A bit like a whirlpool.”

“Have you gone mad? We’re in a rickety boat the size of a child’s toy. A whirlpool will tear us apart!”

“Weren’t you the one who said almost dying is an adventure?”

“I’ve never said that Bran.” She whipped around and glared at him. “You’re going to get me killed.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, witch.” He flashed her a smile, pulled the oars up into the boat, and held out his hands. “When have I not saved you from almost certain death?”

Aisling rolled her eyes and took his hands. “One of these times, you’re not going to be able to save me.”

“Never.”

“You just steered us into a whirlpool, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think I might hate you.”

He gave her a wink. “You’re a faerie, remember? You can’t lie anymore.”

Cat claws dug into her calves, and she held onto Bran as the boat tipped backward, then slid down into the belly of the whirlpool.

Water crashed around them, great eddies of powerful liquid spinning so quickly it looked like clear glass. Aisling could see the ocean beyond, dark waters and spears of light sinking through the ocean into the murky abyss. She caught a glimpse of a dark shadow as they plummeted toward the seafloor.

Her hair tangled in front of her face. She hooked her heels underneath the bench but never once felt worried. Bran held her hands, secure and firm. She felt the gentle push of magic on her shoulders holding Lorcan and