Beauty [A Faery Story 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (16 page)

Lach nodded, obviously reading his brother’s mind.

Shim turned to Roan. “I understand. Just try to make it soon.”

Lach played the part they had designated for him long ago. “What are you talking about, Shim? We need to go now. She’s in danger.”

Roan watched them, his dark eyes taking in their argument. “Prince Lachlan, your brother is being reasonable.”

Dante got in on the action. “We can’t risk the two of you by running around in broad daylight. We all agreed to this plan.”

He meant their father had agreed to this plan, and the Unseelie portion of this particular revolution depended on Lach and Shim’s survival. If they had to, Shim was pretty sure Roan was ready to lock him and Lachlan up and they would go after Bronwyn without them. It would all be for their own good, but he wasn’t having it. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with his mate.

Shim let his face fall into the perfectly amenable expression he wore every day. “They’re right, Lach. We would just put Bron in more danger.”

Lach shook his head. “You’re such a pussy, Shim. When she dies, when we end up holding her corpse instead of her warm, living body, it’s going to be on you.”

Lach stormed out, his boots ringing across the wood floor of the porch. He stalked toward the barn.

Dellacourt started to go after him. Shim put a hand out. “Don’t. I know my brother. He needs to be alone for a bit. Don’t worry. He’ll come around. He doesn’t have a choice.”

He watched as Lach disappeared. As they’d done since childhood, Lach would make the preparations needed to circumvent the people who would hold them back. Lach’s bad reputation served their purpose. And Shim’s served it as well. No one walked after Lach, preferring to praise Shim for his reasonableness.

Roan looked out over the yard where Max Harper stood talking to a desiccated horse, his face a mixture of horror and an odd sense of wonder.

“That horse.” Roan nodded toward it. “How long has it been dead?”

For a long time as far as Shim could see. There wasn’t a lot of flesh left, just sinew connecting bones.

“A year or so. Max loved that filly.” Rye smiled a little.

Roan let loose a long whistle. “It should be delicate. It shouldn’t be able to move like that. The bones should be brittle and break almost on contact. Yet that corpse is moving with ease, almost as it did when it was alive. Is that always what happens around your brother?”

Shim stared at the dead thing. He was beginning to follow Roan’s line of thinking. “They weren’t at first. The first creatures he brought back were very weak. They mostly were things like rats and vermin that lay where they died. But you buried the dog and the horse.”

Rye Harper’s eyes flared. “We buried that horse deep. Max didn’t want the bears or the mountain trolls to get her. He dug for a day and a half. Our neighbors, Rafael and Cameron, helped us dig.”

Roan whistled again. “That horse climbed from its grave when Lachlan’s power called. It makes me wonder what he could do if he focused that power. Gives me something to think about.” He started to walk into the house, but put a hand on Shim’s shoulder. “Thank you, Your Highness, for being so reasonable.”

Reason had nothing to do with it. Shim gave the vampire a placid smile. He wouldn’t be thanking him in an hour when he realized they were gone.

We’re coming, Bron.

Nothing was more important than Bronwyn. Nothing.

* * * *

Torin walked into the room. Deep underground, he could feel the cold chill in his bones. The place of hags and their black magic.

“Why do you need me here, Your Majesty?” Maris asked, her blonde head held regally despite the cesspit they were walking into.

“I told you. I want my queen by my side.” The hags had insisted that both royals be in attendance as they worked this spell. The spell that would lead him to Bronwyn Finn.

“She isn’t alive. I identified the body myself.” Maris had dressed for the occasion in all white, making her sure to stand out in the gloom. His bride had always preferred white and sunny shades, saying they were Seelie colors. Torin rather thought it a clever disguise to mask her dark, brittle heart. Maris was a vision of loveliness amid the gloom. Her very tranquility was what had made her such an effective partner in betrayal.

“Your Majesties.” Una greeted them in true form. They could be nothing less in this space. Her bland attractiveness had fallen away, and her truth made Maris stop and shudder delicately.

Glannis joined her sister. The hag’s nose had grown by three inches, and her flesh sagged everywhere. Una was thin to the point of gauntness, her cheeks hollow and lips sunken in. When she smiled, he wasn’t sure he would call it a smile, Torin noticed the hag had no teeth.

He had rarely seen them in their true forms, not since that fateful day they had saved him from the ogres and set him on his path to purity.

Of course, what they didn’t know was that once he’d won the day, he intended to get rid of them as well. But not until he had no further need of them. Until that glorious day, he hid his distaste.

“You’ve had hours and hours. What have you discovered?” Torin asked, wanting nothing more than to get this over with.

Glannis frowned, her skin sagging until he wasn’t sure how she could see. “Bronwyn Finn is alive.”

Maris gasped. “Impossible. I saw her body.”

“This body, Your Majesty?” Una asked, gesturing toward the back of the cave.

A girl sat on a log, her youthful face illuminated by the firepit in the center of the cavern. She appeared to be fourteen or fifteen, a girl trapped forever in the first blush of her womanhood. She was dressed in a fine overdress of sheer, pale pink silk. Her hair was pinned up in elegant braids. She wore a sun-shaped pendant around her throat, the crest of the Finn line.

Maris stared at the girl, moving in closer. Torin had to give his bride credit. She matched her actions to her words. She wasn’t a shrinking violet. She’d slit a few throats in her own time. His queen walked up to the girl and put a hand under her chin. She looked delicate in the firelight, the dead girl. There was no question she was dead. Her pretty gown was blood stained, and there was a hole in her belly. Yet she sat there as calmly as she could, as though she waited to be called into the temple or the schoolroom.

Maris looked at the girl before turning back to the hags. “Yes. This is Bronwyn Finn. I knew the little brat. I was forced to spend time with her after my parents sold me to the king. She used to call me sister. You think I wasn’t sure? You think I didn’t know the very Fae I was forced to live with for a year?”

Una’s matchstick hand came out, a bony finger shaking. “No, Your Majesty. That’s why it worked so well. You saw what they wanted you to see.”

Torin stepped up. He wasn’t sure what Una was going on about. His little niece sat there, her blank face staring up at him. She was the only one he’d felt a bit of remorse about. Bronwyn had been a sweet child, seemingly harmless. She’d just wanted hugs and little presents from his travels. She’d been a bit starved for affection from a father who had been too busy raising a warrior king.

But he hadn’t hesitated when he’d heard the prophecy. He’d sent his soldiers to kill the one person in the world who could take his heart. And now she sat staring up at him with nonjudgmental eyes, and he wondered who the little brat would have become. She would have been married off, perhaps to the Unseelie princes if the rumors were true. She was better off dead.

“Speak plainly, hag. I tire of these riddles. We got rid of all the witches weeks before the coup. Maris sent the queen’s personal advisor away herself. There was no one with magic here in the palace. Surely you’re not saying that my queen was derelict in her duties.”

Maris frowned his way. “I did as I was asked. I identified the workers with magical abilities and either killed them or sent them from the palace on various errands and then had them butchered. I did my job, Your Majesty. I rather fear that perhaps the hags did not do theirs.”

Glannis shrugged, and there was a rolling motion of her flesh. “We were unaware that there would be guests in the palace until after the battle. We were not allowed into these sanctified walls until the charms and wards against black magic were taken down.”

“Yes,” Maris said, latching on to the idea. “They weren’t taken down until after the battle. So there was no magic in the palace until after Bronwyn was dead.”

Una shook her head. “No black magic, Your Majesty. But white magic was always permitted in the palace of light, encouraged even. The very marble of the palace reflects good intentions and strengthens spells. Spells of protection. Spells that could hide a true face.”

Glannis brought a knife to her arm. She stood over a pitcher that bubbled over with some foamy fog. The hag sliced into her own flesh, her expression never betraying the pain she must have felt, if a hag could feel anything at all. Torin watched as black blood oozed from her veins like some noxious oil and spilled into the pitcher. Glannis smiled, showing off blackened teeth.

“Fear not, Your Majesty.” Her laughter cackled, bouncing off the walls of the cave. “I feasted well for the last days. I am filled with much blood.”

Torin didn’t betray his disgust. He simply watched as she squeezed her wrist until she was satisfied. He understood what the hag had meant. The hags feasted on the blood of traitors. Unlike vampires, they didn’t take it directly from the bodies. They would slit throats and drain the creatures and drink down what came out. Glannis had had a bit too much. If brownie and ogre blood did that to a figure, someone should put the bitch on a diet.

Still, he watched as Una chanted over the pitcher. Witches, hags, priests. All the same with the bloody chanting. It bored Torin. He would outlaw chanting when the time came. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes as the hags called out to some dark goddess with an unpronounceable name. Religion. He would definitely get rid of that.

Finally, Una pronounced the spell done and brought it to the mute dead girl. She seemed so solid, but Torin knew it was an illusion. If he stared hard enough, he could see a thin sliver of bone. It sat on the rock under the girl. Her form shimmered briefly, and the bone was solid. The hags had insisted on keeping one small piece of each dead royal in an ornate box. They had saved one of Bronwyn’s fingers. They held a piece of the queen’s skull. Only Seamus had been spared. His body had burned in the fire that had raged.

Una nodded before carrying the pitcher to the dead girl. “Reveal yourself.”

She tipped the pitcher over. The ghostly fog spread like water falling. It engulfed the girl, and as the fog cleared, someone very different sat in her place.

This girl was thinner but of the same build. Her hair was shorter than Bronwyn’s and not done up in elaborate braids. Her much darker hair was pulled back in a single bun, and her face had gone a horrible blue. There were distinct hand prints around the girl’s throat. She was dressed in plain clothes, the type worn by those who served the queen and her children.

Maris kneeled, staring at the girl. “This is not the girl I saw. This girl is named Eionnette. She was one of the girls who kept Bronwyn’s clothes. This is not Bronwyn.”

Glannis held her wrist and nodded toward the queen. “Yes. We rather thought that when we used the bone to bring back her image. Worry not, Your Highness, we’ve already tested the queen’s skull. She’s very dead. And, of course, you killed Seamus yourself.”

“Seamus is very dead. I know that.” Torin felt weary. Seamus was, once again, standing in the same room, his ghostly eyes passing judgment, though this time there was a hint of fear there, too.

“But his daughter is alive.” Una passed a hand through the ghost girl, and it faded with the fog, leaving behind a single small bone. All that was left of the girl.

Seamus’s eyes flared, and Torin was pretty damn sure if his dead brother could kill, he would have his hands around the hag’s throat.

Torin made a decision. He could scream and wail and beat his chest, but it would give his brother a sense of satisfaction. Seamus had known his daughter was alive. He’d hidden it for years. He’d hoarded the knowledge like a treasure trove of gold that kept him alive.

Torin had thought his victory over his brother complete, but there was one last battle to win.

He kept his voice calm, his demeanor kingly. “So Bronwyn killed her servant and ran?”

Glannis laughed, the sound more like a nasty cough than actual joy. “No, Your Majesty. Bronwyn Finn never showed a single talent for magic. It tends to start early. She would have shown an aptitude, and her parents would have placed her with a mentor.”

Una tapped her nonexistent lips with a bony finger. “I’ve been thinking about the Unseelie princess, Your Majesty.”

He gritted his teeth. It made perfect sense. She was the one they couldn’t vet. She was the one Maris hadn’t been able to keep out. “Then Gillian McIver is still in Tir na nÓg, too.”

Glannis smiled. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty, and she’s the reason why we’re going to find them. The Unseelie have a particular magic about them, even when the magic is pure and white. It’s a signature of sorts.”

Maris looked up, her pale skin a rosy pink in the light of the fire. “You’ve found them?”