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

Every moment was precious, every second a stolen gift.

Bran drew back with a quiet sigh. “They’re waiting for you.”

“I know.”

“They like you.”

“You say that every time, but I’m not so certain they do. Not yet.”

“Soon,” he said and pressed another kiss to her lips. “Soon they will see what I do. Give them time.”

“Be safe tonight.”

He stepped back from her with a wicked grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “You know I always try.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“I’m not very good at a lot of things. I’ll try to be better, witch.”

“You do that.”

He released the power inside of him, bursting into an unkindness of ravens that swarmed away from her. They screamed at the night as the last star flickered to life. She watched them go, knowing at the heart was her cursed king.

A tear slid down her cheek, but quickly dashed away before anyone might see it. It would not do to be weak here of all places.

She picked up the dress one of their servants had laid at the shore’s edge. Black velvet smoothed along her fingertips, cool to the touch. It slid over her body with a sound like rushing water. Trickling down her curves, it appeared almost as a second skin. Twin slits on the sides revealed her long legs.

It dipped low in the front. More tattoos covered her there, swirling patterns and ogham marks that told the story of the Raven King. She was more than just a consort, more than just cursed. She was the living, breathing embodiment of all that was the Raven Kingdom.

Underhill.

Aisling strode from the lake, the long train of her black gown whispering along the ground behind her. She crunched through fallen leaves, because it was always autumn here. The trees tried to push out buds, but they always fell, and they always died orange and yellow in the distance.

The scent of pomegranate filled her senses. She knew why, of course. Bran’s magic was stronger now. It almost had a life of its own.

Footsteps padded beside her.

“Lorcan,” she breathed. “You have returned with news?”

“Nothing yet. No one has ever heard of the Raven King’s consort, let alone a way to break the spell.”

“Either spell?”

He shook his dark head, the white starburst on his chest glowing in the moonlight. “Neither.”

“At least we’re trying,” she replied. “That is good enough.”

“I won’t live forever.”

“Do you really think I will ever let you die? My faithful friend…” She paused, stooping to run a hand over his soft fur. “You are immortal for as long as you wish it.”

“It scares me that you have that power now.”

“It scares me, too.”

She stood and squared her shoulders. They were waiting for her.

Through the forest of dead trees, she traveled barefoot on the plain dirt path. All the way to the winding staircase. It crumbled constantly, magic picking up the pieces and putting it back as it did for the entire labyrinth that made up Underhill.

Staircases lifted from the ground. They ended in midair, against the sides of buildings, or sometimes just stopped entirely. The tangled network of paths were known only by those who lived there.

A collective sigh lifted into the air. She could always hear them, though she could rarely see them.

At the foot of the correct stairwell, a Dullahan waited for her. He held his grinning skeletal head in his hands and nodded at her arrival. His coach made of skin stood behind him at the ready. She smiled softly at it and took his offered hand.

“Not today,” she said. “I’ll have you carry me on another tour soon.”

The Dullahan bowed over her fingertips, and she bent to press a kiss to the head in his hands.

The paths were still a mystery to her, but there was always someone willing to guide her. They made certain her steps were true and that the stairs never lead her wrong.

“This way, mistress,” a soft voice called. “They are waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

The Dearg-Due had been a pretty woman in her day. It was a shame she had been killed. The jagged knife wound on her throat would forever bleed, fueling her need for human blood to survive.

Aisling did not hesitate to reach out and touch a finger to the wound. Blood slicked her fingers, but it slowed at her touch.

“You waste your gift on me,” the Dearg-Due whispered. “Please, mistress. There are more that are worthy.”

“There are none more worthy than you.” She touched a fingertip to the other woman’s chin. “I know where to go from here.”

“As you wish.”

As it would always be for the rest of her life. Aisling smiled and made her way into the castle that was missing bits and pieces. The inside was nearly worse than the outside.

The center of the castle had been eaten away by a network of tunnels beneath it. She picked across the largest hole and made her way to the great hall where the most dangerous of all Underhill’s inhabitants waited.

They wouldn’t hurt her. They wouldn’t dare touch the Raven King’s consort.

Double doors opened, silver handles gleaming as someone on the other side turned them. She let out a slow breath as the first of the Sluagh greeted her.

Haggard and thin, the creature before her was half bird, half woman. Its paper-thin skin revealed a sickness embedded deep inside its body. Light flickered within, the remnants of souls they stole to give themselves something upon which to exist.

Leathery wings stretched from her back. Aisling noted new holes the Sluagh tried to hide as she folded them around her body like a cloak. Had Bran taken them on a hunt recently? Or were they attacking each other?

The Sluagh covered as much of her body as she could. They still thought she would find them disgusting, the last bit of their humanity embarrassed by their appearance.

She reached out and brushed a hand over the creature’s head, sparse strands of hair digging into her palm. Following the bone of its