Page 47 of The Scald Crow
Enticed by magic, drunk on the wine, the mortals within didn’t stand a chance. They had been here too long, feasting and dancing. Playthings for the immortals. They no longer knew their names.
“Oooh, pretty, so pretty.” The White Woman hearkened to those drunken fools. Beneath her gossamer gown, her bones were liquid, her skin translucent, giving her an otherworldly appearance. Neither dead nor alive, her kind existed on the threshold of both realms. A direct ancestor to the Tuatha, theBean Fhionnserved the boundary between life and death, and in recompense, one human soul was owed every seven years.
I froze on the spot, too late.
She extended her arms, her spindly hands reaching for the stardust. Her eyes were white glass, and her skin appeared spidery beneath the blinding lights. She teetered on the edge of sanity, of life. The one remnantremaining was the cascade of black hair reaching her lower back.
“Aren’t you a handsome one?” Her lips parted, her breath sweet with wine. Her blood-red nails curved into sharp talons, digging into my chest. The dancing fools did not notice her intrusion.
“My lady, how can I help you?” My blood chilled as her essence prowled beneath my skin. I held her unseeing gaze, willing my mind to resist.
“Hmm.” She clung to me, searching for what I did not know. She lifted her lips in disdain, retracting her claws and releasing me.
She did not differ from others in the room. Snuffing out life meant nothing to them. But that was too harsh. Finvarra’s playthings were well-nourished and happily cared for. And to give him credit, none were stolen from the mortal realm. Willing humans who were no longer of sane mind. Perhaps that was what they sought.
I studied the White Woman and almost felt sorry for her. I had lived among these beings for seven years. Having the sight gave me an advantage over the other mortals within. I knew their kind. I had built a rapport with many, some of whom I considered friends. Yes, they held me against my will, yet I had only myself to blame. That was their world. Beneath the pomp, they were a mystical people, at heart, a warring people. I questioned myself. What would I give to hold on to life’s breath? Would I become that?
She lost herself in her ecstasy and forgot my presence.
In seven days, the supermoon would be upon us, and to celebrate the goddess, the great hall would transform into an ice castle of silver stars wrapped in gossamer silks. A masquerade ball with jesters, bards, and mythical beings of all shapes and sizes would go well into the night, but the players would remain the same: queens and kings, an entourage of immortals from every kingdom would attend.
I turned away, cutting across the dance floor toward the solid wall of ivory, the only constant in Finvarra’s palace.
I slipped unnoticed through the castle’s kitchen and the servant’s entrance. I sensed a ’quare wind sweeping through the glen—streamers touched with darkness. Beyond the Faerie rath, the moon cast a silvered glow, and stars sparkled in the night sky.
Human hands hadn’t touched the Tuatha’s side of Ireland. Mountains were thick with forests, meadows abundant with elk, salmon-filled rivers, and a million other unearthly horrors.
I remained in the shadows, preferring to avoid detection. My nightly sojourns were tolerated, but tonight came with risk. Others were about, and an alarm would sound should a visitor to Finvarra’s kingdom discover my presence. I gazed at the crenelated walls and soldiers stationed in every turret and gave no thought to the guarded drawbridge.
Another portal, one few knew about, existed on the other side of the vast estate. A path I knew well. Cian, Finvarra’s bastard son, had shown me years ago.“Can’t have you fading away, O’Donnell. We need you, mate.”Although he referred to an upcoming hurling match between the Faerie kingdoms of Ulster and Connaught, he understood what maintaining my humanity meant, if only to me. With his blue eyes, a rarity among his kind, he might have been more connected to the mortal realm than he cared to admit.
Beneath the boughs of a feathery pine, the druid’s altar revealed itself. The capstone, grooved to allow sacrificial blood to escape, the two portal stones were tall enough to enable a man to enter. The passage narrowed at a shimmering rift. I slid sideways, a restless breeze following me, its sigh haunting.
Passing through the portal proved a disquieting experience. As I had many times before, I held fast to the belief that I would survive the journey. I willed my mind, preparing for the sensation of knives cutting through me and the inferno of wind.
My lungs burst, and I coughed up hell’s fire. I stood in the shadows beneath the same moon and waited for normalcy to return. With each journey, the effect of crossing over took more of a toll. I could smell the poison in my blood and taste it on my tongue.
The shadows danced among themselves, and the wind sang. I skirted the dark path unseen by human eyes. The glamor imposed on me prevented interaction with those I loved.
For that, I despised them.
The whippoorwill flew past, its lonesome song filling the gloom. From somewhere above, an owl hooted.
I shivered, not yet back to myself, my gaze following the mottled bird’s flight through the dark hedges. The curious bird would have to wait another day to capture my departing soul and take me to the underworld—a place I had no intention of visiting.
Eamon’s barn loomed before me, a dark silhouette against the inky blackness of the night sky. I slipped silently through the barn door, the only sound being the soft nicker of the cow, a gentle melody that greeted my ears.
Eamon’s offering to the Other Crowd, a substantial helping of mashed potatoes, and a mug of unpasteurized milk sustained my existence. Without it, my fate would have been sealed, and I would join the ever-growing band of lost souls. I banished the faces haunting me and glanced at my watch. Time was running out.
I sensed her presence before she appeared. I scanned the quiet, searching for the otherworldly being. From the highest rafter, as a black crow, Nemain, the halfling daughter of Finvarra himself, watched me through beady black eyes. The bird pounced, the air buckled, and she transformed into her true form—a golden-haired princess any man would kill for.
“Whatcha doing, Ciarán?” She drawled my name through crimson lips, her sultry voice enticing.
“Faffin’ about, Nemain. Just faffin’ about.” I gave nothing away lest she use it against me.
“Like my dress?” She trailed manicured nails over the body-hugging slip of miniature black diamonds.
“Aye, it’s deadly. What do you want?” I couldn’t hide my smile. Of Finvarra’s two daughters, she amused me most. Before she entered her own, she would follow Cian throughout the castle, begging for his attention. Her instincts were ingrained from birth to charm and cajole and to suck the life from unwary mortals, male or female; she showed no preference. Her appetite was insatiable. Finvarra considered her his equal, in trickery at least.
