Beauty

Chapter Five

Lach stared out the back porch and tried to will the sun to go down. It had been hours and hours of waiting. Hours of listening to the Harper twins argue and crack wise. Lach was suddenly deeply appreciative of his own brother.

A huge black dog lumbered into the yard, a gnarly stick in his mouth. The dog was roughly the size of a small pony, though it appeared the Harper twins liked to grow large animals. Their entire stock of horses were oversized and ran the range of colors from a brilliant red to blacks so dark they shimmered blue in the sunlight.

The rest of the group was huddled around the large table inside the brugh, enjoying a meal the twin’s wife, Rachel, had cooked. It was a full table. The twins had five children, all but one larger than Duffy.

But Lach didn’t want to eat. He wanted to move. He wanted to get started.

“You should eat, Your Highness, I mean, Lachlan.” Roan walked out, followed by his vampire partner. They wouldn’t enjoy the cabbage and sausages Rachel had cooked. He stopped, staring for a moment. “Unless you take after your vampire half. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen you or your brother eat.”

Lach managed a smile. “I assure you, we’re just fine. Lots of meat, though the hunger for blood grows by the day. Cousin Julian made sure we had meal pills to fill those hungers.”

Roan growled a little. “Meal pills are nothing once you’ve had real blood.”

“I’ll wait for my wife, thank you.”

Roan shook it off. “Sorry. Being near Rachel always gets my blood high. She’s quite the consort.”

Lach understood what he was saying. Rachel glowed, a faint outline around her body that let a vampire know her blood would strengthen him, elongate his life. A sidhe in need of a bondmate would have to get intimate to know if a woman could bond, but Lach had his vampire heritage to fall back on. Rachel Harper had a gorgeous glow about her.

“Don’t tell Max,” Roan said, his eyes searching the horizon. “Rye would laugh it off, but Max takes things far too seriously.”

“How did you find them?” Lach was curious. Roan had a whole setup. He’d made a business out of stealing into Tir na nÓg.

Roan smiled. “I found the crack, and when I managed to get through it, Rye was staring down at me. He found out what I was doing, and I discovered that he and his brother and wife were rebels looking for a way to fuck with the pretender. Rachel had a sister who disappeared with Torin’s guards. This whole little village the Harpers live in is a wee bit radical. They’re protected by the mountains and they have an intensely smart mayor. They’ve managed to survive relatively unscathed, but they intend to give Torin the fight of his life. We have weapons stashed all over Aoibhneas.”

Aoibhneas. Lach knew the word well. Bliss. “Have you told them about the rebellion?”

Roan turned, and Lach saw Rye Harper walking up, his arm around his wife’s waist. Max Harper followed behind them leading a ridiculously large horse with deeply yellow eyes. He seemed to be muttering to the horse under his breath. Rye Harper had his eyes on Lach. The previously friendly cowboy had a serious look on his face.

“We’re ready,” Rye said. “We’ve been ready for thirteen years.”

Rachel leaned into her husband. “Are they really alive?”

It was hard to believe how isolated Tir na nÓg had become. “Beck and Cian Finn are alive and well, and they have formed their true triad. Beck has mastered storms and Cian is a Green Man. Your kings will be back soon.”

Rachel hugged her husband and cried into his shoulder, clutching him. Rye Harper nodded toward Lach. “We’ll be ready. Tell me something, are you really the Unseelie prince?”

Lach nodded. “I am.”

“He is the Unseelie prince, but only half of him. You two should be happy you only share a face and not a soul.”

Lach stopped and sighed because it had been the damn horse that spoke. The yellow eyes should have been a dead giveaway. A phooka. A potentially dangerous creature, but very powerful. They could often be chaotic, but the phooka had been known to band together with other creatures during times of hardship.

Rye laughed. “You have no idea how much I praise the day we weren’t born symbiotic. I can’t imagine having to be in his head all the time.”

“You wish you had my brain, brother,” Max shot back. He looked at the horse, narrowing his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be undercover? Doesn’t that mean not doing the whole talking thing? It tends to give you away, dummy.”

The phooka gave a regal whinny. “I wouldn’t walk around talking about someone else’s intelligence, Harper. And the other horses hate you.”

Max rolled his cool blue eyes. “I doubt that. Those horses love me. And you better love me, too. I could call the guards down on your nasty ass.”

The phooka tossed his head. “I do not fear this, sidhe. I know far too much. Besides, you can grumble all you like, but you would not turn on an ally.”

Max leaned in. “No, I wouldn’t, but I could move your stall away from that pretty little mare you have those nasty eyes on.”

The phooka turned on him. “Don’t you dare. Do you know how long it’s taken me to convince her to let me close? I’m so close, Max. Have you seen her ass? It’s the hottest filly ass in the whole province.”

“Remember that.” Max turned back to Lach. “You want to explain why we should trust you?”

Lach shrugged. “I don’t care if you trust me or not.”

Max huffed a little, his face betraying a bitterness. “Well, that’s pretty much what I would expect from an Unseelie prince.”

The sidhe walked off, after nodding to his brother and wife.

Rye gripped his wife’s hand. “But you’re going to help, right? I thought Roan said the Unseelie are going to back the true kings.”

“My father is sending a force in. I am merely here to get my bondmate and get out. She is too important to risk.” He looked pointedly at Rachel Harper. “I would certainly assume that you’re not going to risk your bondmate.”

Rye’s face got red, his jaw tense, but the words that came out of his mouth were controlled. “My bondmate, my brother, my children, my town have all been at risk for thirteen years. I’ve been forced to raise my children under the tyrant’s reign, wondering every bloody day if Torin isn’t going to come for one of them. My oldest daughter, Paige, has great skill with magic, and I can’t risk anyone outside of this community knowing it because Torin would take her and, if he couldn’t warp her, he would hang her from the palace walls. So don’t pretend that you know what it has been like for me. I’m sorry, Rachel, I thought I could do this. I’ll be back.”

Rye stalked off after his brother.

“Please forgive him. The last several years have been hard,” Rachel said, smoothing back her strawberry-blonde hair. “At first, when King Seamus fell, we all held out hope that the Unseelie would come and save us. Many of us believed this would be the act that reunited our kingdoms.”

Lach would have assumed the very idea would horrify the Seelie. “I don’t think even King Seamus wanted that.”

Rachel shrugged. “Seamus was a good king, but he was a royal. I have yet to meet a true royal who understood the plight of even the middle class. The best we can hope for is a king who has just laws and the means in place to oust sheriffs and mayors who take advantage. Torin simply takes without caring how it affects us. And he’s systematically killing every creature who isn’t sidhe.”

“Then you’re safe,” Lach pointed out. He meant it to be somewhat comforting, but the minute the words came out of his mouth, a vision of Duffy being slaughtered because he wasn’t sidhe assaulted his brain. He opened his mouth to call the words back, but Rachel Harper rounded on him, her pretty face red with anger.

“Safe? So I should allow the tyrant king to slaughter my neighbors, my sweet kin, because he’s not coming for me? Let me tell you something, Your Highness, if you believe that he will be satisfied with killing only those who don’t look like he does, you’re a naïve idiot. When the brownies and goblins and trolls and pixies are gone, he will come for the rest of us. I will not sit idly by and pray to Danu that he not darken my door. I will not allow him to kill and rape and do as he pleases because he was strong enough to wrest the crown from his brother’s head. I will fight. I will fight for my children. So you take your perfect little bondmate and run back to the Unseelie plane. We do not need you here.”

She began to walk away, and Lach realized just how terribly he was handling his allies. “Mrs. Harper.”

She didn’t turn. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“I apologize if I offended. I am not the diplomatic half.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. “I don’t even know much about the situation here. It didn’t seem to be an Unseelie problem.”

She finally turned to him, tears in her eyes. “We’re living, breathing beings, Your Highness. Call us what you will—Seelie, Unseelie, vampire. It matters not. We want the same things you do. We want our mates and our children to be happy. We want our dreams to come true. We’re dying. How is that not everyone’s problem?”

She sighed and walked away.

Lach watched her, wishing he knew what to say, what to do. It had been simple. Come to the Seelie plane. Get his mate. Get out. Let the war happen or not.

Two hours here and he knew he would have to make decisions he wasn’t ready to make.

He felt his fists clench. His father had done him a grave disservice. Since that horrible day when Bron had died and Shim’s power had surged, burning away half of Lach’s face, his father had treated them both like they were fragile beings, not to be tormented with little things like learning how to run the kingdom they would one day inherit. His father had lost Gillian, seen one of his heirs marred for life, and the other go into a fugue state. It was reasonable that he would be protective, but Lach now lacked the tools he needed. He knew nothing because his father didn’t want to tax his frail system.

Dante stepped out, stretching his long limbs. He nodded Lach’s way. “Almost time to head out.”

But they still had hours left. And Dellacourt had left behind a whole rich life to follow his cousins. Perhaps it was time to toss aside his preconceptions and start asking questions.

Perhaps it was time to become a king no matter what his father thought.

“Could you tell me about the situation here?”

Dellacourt’s green eyes widened slightly. “Are you sure? You didn’t seem at all interested before.”

“I am now.”

Dellacourt smiled. “Then take a seat, Your Highness. Consider this your first briefing.”

Lach sat, and the vampire began to speak.

* * * *

The late-afternoon light was warm on her skin as she stood in the middle of town square, music and laughter all around her. The Festival of Threshing. The agricultural provinces all had their own ways to celebrate the hard work of the season. Here there would be a small party for the threshing and a huge feast after harvest was done. But Bron wouldn’t be around for the feasting this year. She would be on the road, these people she’d come to care about left behind.

Bron watched the children dance around the maypole, the colors blending, making a rainbow as the children bounced and sang. And her heart hurt because she knew how much Ove had wanted to attend. But the little brownie was in hiding. Bron had been forced to leave her in a cold cave with her mother. Gillian had taken food and blankets, but it was only a matter of time before the guards thought to search for them. Torin’s principles of purity had finally reached the outer provinces, and there was nowhere left to run.

Then stop running. You’re of age. The time has come to fight. Gather an army. Be the princess you were born to be.

That angry voice in her head was becoming louder and harder to ignore. She wasn’t a child any longer. Her brothers, it seemed, were not coming back. She was the only Finn left for a rebellion to build around. If she and Gillian left this province, how long would it be until something else sent them running again? How long before they ran out of places to hide? And how many of her friends would die along the way, without her defense because staying alive was all that mattered? Did she really want to spend her life like this, hiding and pretending to be something she wasn’t?

And that brought up the real question. Who the hell was she? She hadn’t been brought up to be a warrior princess. She’d been brought up to be a fluffy little wife. Time and hardship had molded her into something else. Something more.

Who was Bronwyn Finn becoming?

“Hello, my dear, your dress is lovely, though I wished you had worn your sapphire-blue one.” Micha’s rheumy eyes took in her form, and she could practically see the old man salivate. He was dressed in his country best—a velvet overcoat that had been overly adorned with golden buttons and jewel-encrusted medals proclaiming some military service he’d never actually performed. Micha liked to take such things off condemned prisoners and pass them off as his own, or so rumor had it.

One thing Bronwyn Finn was not about to become was the mayor’s wife. She would fight like hell to avoid that, no question.

“I apologize, mayor,” Bron said with a yawn, already planning her getaway. “I suppose I wasn’t thinking about such things as fashion. The harvest begins tomorrow. There was much to do this day to prepare. It has tired me out.”

His lips curled in a condescending smile. “Well, we shall have to make ours a particularly short engagement so you shall never have to work a plow again. Though I would say there will still be a bit of plowing involved in your life. Do not worry, dear, I’ll be the driving force in that particular harvest.”

It was all she could do to not show her disdain. She let her eyes go wide and innocent. She needed to be as virginal as possible so when she slapped him silly, she would have the perfect excuse of utter ignorance. “I did not know you planted your own food, mayor. Well, that explains why you selected me as your mate. I can certainly help with your farming techniques.”

The guards behind him laughed, elbowing each other. The mayor joined them. “My bride will need an education, will she not?”

“You’re just the man to give it to her, mayor,” one of the guards said. They stood behind him, two large men with swords at their sides. Bron noticed the long, distrustful stares of the farmers around her.

Bron felt herself flush. She wanted to show them just what her education over the last years had been. Swords and knives and hand-to-hand combat taught by a pair of open-minded goblins. They had taught her to fight dirty, to use her hands, her legs, her teeth. Anything to win the battle. They had taught her that the only true honor in battle was to stay alive.

There was a particular move they had taught her that she would love to practice on the mayor. It involved her knees and his balls. Yes, she’d been good at that move.

She pushed thoughts of crushing the mayor’s withered old balls down and granted him a curtsey and what she hoped was a simpering smile. “I am sure to be grateful for any instruction you can give me, Sir Mayor, but now I must go and aid my sister. I have left her all alone to sell our bread.”

The mayor frowned. “I don’t know that I like my future wife in a stall selling her wares. I think, perhaps, your sister can handle this day alone, Isolde. Come and we will walk the grounds. I want everyone to see what a lovely fiancée I have found for myself.”

He held out his arm in what she assumed was supposed to be a courtly gesture, and there was nothing to do but take it. Arguing with him would simply make her look like a fool and get both her and Gillian in trouble. She walked sedately beside the mayor as he waved to the people of the town. He stopped and talked to the more prominent members and ignored the pure peasants.

“We shall have to work on your priorities, dear,” Micha said after leaving the town’s richest merchant. “You seem to smile at the worthless and frown at the wealthy.”

Because the wealthy of this town were complete asses. She took a deep breath and measured her response. “I am sorry, Mr. Mayor. Perhaps it is because I know mostly the working folk.”

Though her father had spent time with his subjects, both noble and peasant, he hadn’t ever had loads of time to lavish on her. One of her fondest memories was walking with her father through the village on Saturday mornings. He would stroll through, waving at people, buying food from the merchants and trinkets. It was the only real time he ever spent with her and Cian, and sometimes Dante when he visited. Her father hadn’t been perfect, but he’d understood the value of all of his subjects.

The mayor shook his head. “I know. The Fae you consort with shall have to change. How you behave is going to reflect on me. I can’t have you breaking bread with peasants. After all, the queen herself will be coming to our wedding.”

The thought of being in the same room with Maris brought a smile to Bron’s face. Yes, she had a few things to say to her brothers’ former fiancée, and she would say them with the point of her blade. Being able to kill the traitorous bitch would almost be worth going through with the sham of a wedding.

“Ah, that has made you happy!” The mayor looked delighted. “Yes, you will love the queen. Such a perfect female.”

“I would dearly love to stand in her presence,” Bron allowed. Preferably close enough to slip a knife between her ribs, though it might not work since everyone knew the pretender queen didn’t have a heart. It was said among the peasants she had sold it to a hag in exchange for her crown.

His hand covered hers. Soft and clammy, it was obvious that Micha had the hands of a man who had never worked a day in his life. “Well, dear, this gives me great hope. I worried for a while that you had no interest in court. Shall I fill you in on all the latest gossip?” He leaned toward her, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “I have a spy in the palace. All of the mayors tend to. I talk to her through looking glass once a week.” He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone, dear. Magic is getting a bad reputation these days, but this is a harmless thing.”

Yes, it was harmless because it gained the mayor something, but not three days before Siobhan Hannigan had been jailed for placing a blessing spell on a newborn child who was struggling to breathe. The babe had survived, but both of her parents sat waiting trial, too, for hiring a witch. They probably wouldn’t hold their babe again. Yet a little gossip was all right.

Still, she pretended to care because it kept his hands off her. “Tell me.”

He looked around, leaning in a little and pulling away from his guards. “The rumor is that the princess might have survived the king’s coup. My source said the king is initiating a countrywide search for Bronwyn Finn.”

Bron felt her stomach lurch, her heart stop.

Micha rolled his eyes. “I think it’s ridiculous. They buried the Finn bitch. She was a stupid child. She couldn’t have survived. The king was very thorough when he liberated us. And if she did survive, she’s more than likely with those brothers of hers, eking out an existence on some third-rate plane.”

The world seemed to tilt a little, throwing her off-balance. Micha continued to speak, but his words seemed to come from someplace far away. What had happened? Thirteen years had passed and not a word of her survival had been heard. There hadn’t been a whisper about her in all the towns and villages and provinces she and Gillian had sought refuge in. Thirteen years and now Torin believed?

Panic threatened to suffuse her. She felt that odd tingle that started in her hands whenever she was truly frightened. That tingle that always came before the fire.

Not now. Tears pricked her eyes. She had to get it under control. She couldn’t lose it now in front of everyone.

Over the years, she had been truly afraid a few times, and each time a fire began. The first had been an overzealous suitor who had plunged his hands down her bodice. The chair beneath him had caught fire mysteriously.

Then there had been the vendor buying vegetables who thought she was a part of the bargain. His warehouse had gone up in flames.

Each time she’d felt her hands warm and tingle before whatever she was pointing at had caught fire. It frightened her. She knew not what it meant except her death if she was caught.

“Dear Isolde.” The mayor clucked and hauled her close, his arm going around her waist. The guards chuckled behind her, making rude statements. She could smell the perfume he used to mask his odor. “I can see this news has frightened you. Please, my love, do not worry your pretty head. There will be no revolt. You are absolutely safe with me. Bronwyn Finn is as worthless as her brothers. She’s dead or as good as. She’s no threat to anyone.”

No threat. Useless. Yes, she felt it.

There was a loud shout, and the crowds began to move, opening up for the guard charging toward the mayor. The dancing stopped as a high wail could be heard. Everyone—peasant, farmer, noble—turned to the edge of the crowd.

The guard strode forward, the small body in his hands no impediment to his movement.

Bron gasped. Ove. She looked so tiny in the brutish guard’s hold, her delicate feet dangling. The bastard had the wee brownie by her throat. Ove’s eyes were bulging already as she struggled to breathe.

“Let her go!” Bron shouted, tearing away from the mayor. She thought about nothing but the fact that Ove couldn’t last long. The guard’s hand fit easily around her throat, and he could break her little neck without even thinking about it. “You’re killing her. She’s just a child. She didn’t mean any harm. She just wanted to see the dancing.”

She was barely two. A child in brownie years, not quite on the cusp of her womanhood. She was just a baby who had wanted to come to the party, hold a ribbon in her hands while she pranced around the maypole with the other children. Bron knew what had happened. She’d snuck from safety, hoping to catch a glimpse of the party she should have attended. Ove didn’t understand the principles of purity. Ove wanted to play with her friends. And now she was dying.

“Seize her!” The mayor ordered.

It wasn’t until the guards grabbed her arms that Bron realized he was talking about her. She was brought back to the mayor. At the edge of the crowd, Gillian stood, shaking her head, her eyes begging Bronwyn to stay calm, to play her part. They were surrounded by guards, at least one for every five villagers, and food had been scarce. The villagers were weak. They would be no match for the huge guards.

“You will have to excuse my fiancée. She is a gentle soul who needs a firm hand to guide her.” Micha’s eyes narrowed on her, his mouth a flat line that promised retribution. He turned and looked at the guard who held the brownie. “What is that thing doing here ruining my party?”

The guard dropped Ove to the ground, her body hitting the dirt with a thud. The little brownie dragged air into her lungs, her long fingers touching her throat. “I found the thing in the bushes watching the dancing.”

The mayor sneered down at the sweet little girl. “Take it away. Throw it on the fire. I don’t care, but I want no further disruptions.”

The tingling in Bron’s hands was stronger than ever, and she couldn’t deny it. Without thinking, going only on instinct, she called out to that power inside her and pointed at the guard who held a sword to Ove’s throat. Fire sparked on the guard’s tunic, a flash that erupted in all-out flames, engulfing him.

A hideous scream filled the waning day, and all eyes were on her.

The fire had come from her hands. She had held them up, and like a sorceress calling her power, she had directed it to her enemy.

The mayor gaped at her.

“Witch,” he whispered.

And then a horrible pain hit the back of her head, and darkness took her.