Page 64 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Blood pools in her wounds, running like rivers down her neck and over her clavicle. Piercing my finger, I press my blood to her wounds, watching them close. Blood stops running over her skin, replaced by something clear and salty. Tears. Bryn stands abruptly and follows Sheridan out of the room while I’m left to adjust my pants. Despite the rush of her blood inside of me, I’m enraged to the point I’m struggling to contain my power. Enraged and embarrassed that I’m not a better man.

With a satisfied grin, Brogan looks at me. “Give me until the week of the coronation. I’ll send word of my decision.” The king sweeps the girl’s hair from her neck, revealing an array of scars and fresh wounds layered over one another. It’s clear that no attempts are made on his part to heal her post feeding. He probably enjoys the sight of his marks on her as much as the feed itself. “Surely this decision requires thorough deliberation. I trust you’ll see yourselves out.” He dismisses us with a wave of his hand, cuffed in a bell sleeve with a lace frill. His advisor rings a bell, and the doors behind me open, allowing a chilled breeze to graze my skin.

“Certainly,” I say, my words strained as they pass through clenched teeth hidden behind a plastered smile. The scent of polished wood hangs in the air of the king’s chamber, now mingling with that of fresh blood. “I look forward to an alliance between our courts.” It’s as close to a lie as I’ve ever uttered. I look forward to the freedom an alliance would secure, but not any form of relationship with him.

One after the other, we exit the king’s chamber and step into the massive throne room. Dried leaves crunch under our boots as we continue to the other side. The guards trail closely behind us, their presence adding a palpable tension to the silence that engulfs us all. No one says a word. I see the soldier who called Bryn a pet. Rage propels me as I watch myself advance on him like a mere spectator, fashioning my shadows into a double-edged blade. I watch my hand drive that blade into his throat as his blood gushes from the wound. I watch as he falls to the floor, spluttering at my feet, and I feel nothing. Not even a glimmer of satisfaction. My mind can only focus on Bryn and her expression when Selma entered the room.

The rest of the guards keep walking, following the summoner’s lead, not caring about their fallen companion. I step over the bleeding male, seeing nothing but her face in my memory. Now, her memorised look of displeasure is focussed on me. The monster.

Finally, the summoner guides us through a blinding light, leading us into the lobby of the dimly lit Shadowed Cauldron.

“Son of Carrig!” Eadan exclaims, her hand delivering a sharp slap to the back of my head. I smile back at her. It feels good to finally let go of the secret. “Sheridan? Did you know about this?”

“I had my own unvoiced theories.” Sheridan’s face lights up with the widest smile I’ve ever seen on him. “I see the resemblance. Nicely played, Odhran.”

Sloan bursts into laughter, finding a seat on the bench against the wall. “Well, fuck me sideways… We’ve been in the presence of royalty all along,” he exclaims, folding his arms behind his head. “To think, I’ve beaten your ass in the training arena.”

“I thought you were Darragh’s bastard,” Eadan voices.

My sights remain fixated on Bryn, standing on the opposite side of the room, her unblinking eyes locked with mine. I’ve known Eadan, Sloan, and Sheridan for the majority of my life and have kept my true lineage a secret for a significant portion of that time. Yet, somehow, the weight of my actions and deception toward Bryn is heavier. Somehow, feeding from her, regardless of her approval, together with keeping my true identity from her is a betrayal of a different magnitude.

THIRTY-ONE

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

It is unclear whether or not the immortal party can see the bargain mark. Dishonoring the terms of a faerie bargain will poison your blood.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

The living room in Odhran’s home is cold when the whistling of wind and feathers dies down. There’s not a sound to be heard, not a ray of light other than that of the moon shining through the large bare windows. I focus my gaze on the empty hearth, swept and cleared of timber. Anything to not look at the man whose eyes bore into the back of my skull.

“Bryn,” he whispers my name. A few hours ago, I would’ve been delighted by the sound, but Aed was right. He doesn’t respect me. I’m only a possession. He confirmed it when he had me sit on his lap as his little snack. When he called me his. Faeries can’t lie. To him, I’m merely a plaything. “Look at me…” His fingers brush against my arm, a plea for my attention, but I deny it.

“I’m tired.” It’s a half-truth. My fatigue isn’t physical. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight.” I aim for the double doors leading to the passage, desiring solitude. Odhran grabs my arm, tugging me to him so abruptly that I gasp in response. His eyes urgently search mine for an answer I don’t want to give. Are you alright? Are we alright? No.

“I should have told you about my birthright. I… I didn’t intend to upset you.” His tone is gentle, his words barely more than a whisper. “I shouldn’t have indulged in Brogan’s demand.”

“It’s not all about you, Odhran. I don’t care if your father is this king or the next. It makes no difference to me.” I pull against his grip, and to my surprise, he releases me. The furrow between his brows grows even deeper. “Good night,” I seethe.

“Then what?” he calls out before I’m halfway to the door.

“You said I belong to you.” I stare at him, watching the bobbing of his throat, the set of his jaw, but he says nothing. “Do you want to feed on me again?”

Nothing.

The hammering of my pulse grows louder.

“Well, do you?”

“I can’t deny that it’s something I’d enjoy.” He clears his throat, and I swear his eyes flash as black as night. “But not like that. Not like that. I’d have you in my bed instead.”

Every breath aches as I try to rein in my emotions. As I try to cover the pain of disappointment. Aed was right. “And Selma? Do you feel any remorse for her?”

“I have no control over what Brogan does, or doesn’t, do. You know as well as I do, I couldn’t prevent him from sinking his teeth into that girl.”

Something in me snaps. “Then what of the things in your control? What of my sister?” I want to channel every drop of my ire into my expression and strike him down. “If you care for me at all, you will free her. You won’t allow her to suffer the way Selma does.” Care for me? What was I thinking? Who says he cares for me at all? My heart climbs up my throat as I study the shift in his expression. “Say you’ll set her free. Take her back home.” I watch him, but he says nothing. “Please.”

He exhales a long and tortured breath. “I am sorry, Mo Stóirín. I—”