THIRTEEN
MHAGDU HUE
At first glance, faeries appear human, but upon closer inspection, one will find pointed ears, and if angered, sharp darkened fingertips.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
A thin line of blood stains the cuticles on my right hand. I can still feel my belt in my hands, the way it vibrates up to my palm with every lash dealt. There’s no need to investigate the source of the blood. It doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to that incessant bother of a girl.
A headache blooms afresh at my temples, and I suck in a deep breath between my teeth, pinching the bridge of my nose.
It’s been a long day. I reach for a nearby cloth, forcefully tugging it off its small wooden rail.
The material is soft on my skin as I wipe my fingers clean.
Pink blotches form on my crisp, white embroidered cloth, and my lip curls with disgust.
The punishment we dealt her today was more severe than the last, but it was with reason. She serves to cause disruption, to destroy plans that took considerable effort to put into motion. I rub harder, reopening a minor cut on my index finger.
I swear Bryndis acts out on purpose, gaining some sort of unexplainable satisfaction from her activities. Stupid girl. Next time, she’ll truly regret her selfishness. My mother beat me, like her mother did her, and I’m better for it.
Three knocks on my door, hard and short in succession, catch me by surprise, and the cloth slips through my fingers. My eyes narrow as I watch it drift to the floor.
“Who is it?” I pull my nightgown together at my chest, eyeing the door while collecting the fallen cloth at my feet.
“Who else vis-visits ye room at night?” His voice is grating and guttural, and my tension eases, replaced by a soft smile.
“Come on in, you stammering fool.” I walk straight toward the door, unhooking the lock that secures it against its sturdy frame.
Hearing Douglas’ voice is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.
“The mistress won’t like seeing the gardener with her daughter’s governess,” I tease, keeping my tone quiet as I pull him in by the collar.
Glancing out behind him, I see only darkness.
“Ye-you are in a grand mood, aren’t ye.” He chuckles, evaluating me before closing the door behind him as he steps in. Douglas is a fit man, as tall as the door itself.
“You smell good,” I say, leaning into him and filling my lungs with his rich herbal scent.
He usually smells of grass, soil, and sweat, but tonight brings something else.
“Have you been thinning out the peppermint patch in the herb garden?” I frown, studying him as he removes his cap and hangs it on the brass hook beside the door.
“Aye.” He nods, shrugging out of his thick woollen coat.
“Did you bring me some?” I ask hopefully, but I already suspect the answer will disappoint.
It’s a request I once left with him that he has yet to fulfil.
If only he knew there’s nothing as degrading for a governess as picking her own herbs.
It’s second to begging for favours. I turn to my kitchenette and the small porcelain teapot waiting for me atop it, steam curling from its spout.
“Bollocks! I’m sorry, darlin’. I forgot.
I’ve been up to the ninety with work.” One of my dining chairs scrapes across the floor behind me and creaks under his weight.
My heart warms with his presence. After all these years alone, I’d found my companion, and he couldn’t have been more handsome if he were noble.
“Can I pour you a cup?” I call over my shoulder.
“Tha wud be terribly kind of ye. I wan mine black—”
“I know how you like your tea, Douglas,” I interrupt him, laughing softly to myself. He may have rough hands and even rougher manners, but he’s only ever been good to me. I thank the gods for this man.
“And an extra helpin’ of honey.” His voice deepens.
I raise my honey dripper from the glass jar and watch the sticky golden substance drip into his black tea.
I can nah take honey. I’m allergic to the buggers, ye ken.
A dose o’ honey goes straight to me chest. Tightens me lungs like those contraptions ye ladies wear under ye dresses. I recall him telling me.
I turn. “You can’t be serious—” The sight of him cuts my sentence short.
“Have I given you the impression that I’m not?
” He may look like my Douglas, but his voice doesn’t match his face, not anymore.
Deep and smooth as satin, it doesn’t carry so much as a hint of the accent I’d grown to love.
He waves a pointed finger, directing it at the cup in my hand, then back at the table before him.
The porcelain cup rattles on its saucer.
My eyes widen. This isn’t Douglas. “You’re clever for such an old, decaying creature, are you not?
Pity you weren’t clever enough to prevent this visit.
” Dread chills my veins. He’s one of them. One of The Others.
Setting the cup on the table before him, I force a smile. I am clever. “Thank you for the compliment, Douglas dear.” Pretend. It’s my only option. Pretend and run as soon as an opportunity beckons.
He may have Douglas’ face, his mouth and clothes, but those eyes… are as black as ink without so much as a speck of white. A breeze blows through the room, and I remember the window behind me. I’m on the first floor, so jumping will hurt, but I’ll live. Once down, I can call for help… and live.
“Why don’t you tell me about your day?” I force sweetness into my voice, turning to my cup of tea on the counter behind me, the most natural thing to do. My legs tremble. My hands shake. But I remain upright, focussed.
Click, click, click, click…
Click, click, click, click…
The sound of drumming nails is sharp on the porcelain teacup in his grip. I swallow, forcing myself to meander. If I rush, it’ll be obvious.
“My day…” He laughs aloud. The sound holds no amusement but venom instead. I wince.
“Yes, your day.” Pretend like nothing is wrong.
I turn to face him, bracing a smile on my face as I take a sip of my too-hot tea.
Oh gods! Save me! Douglas’ short dark-brown hair transforms into a full head of shoulder-length strands, as silver as the spoon I used to stir the tea. Their roots are as black as his eyes.
Click, click, click, click…
Click, click, click, click…
Sharp black nails now tap against the cup. My eyes linger a second too long, blood roaring in my ears.
“Do you like the improvements I made? Dearest Douglas is far too dreary for my taste.” He’s mocking me and enjoying it. Confidence exudes from him in unequalled measure.
I take a step to my right, bracing against the counter at my back. I’m one step closer to the window. My actions are met with a disappointed cluck of his tongue.
“Why, Mhagdu darling, you wound me. Don’t you find my company desirable?”
My cup slips from my fingers, shattering at my feet. I turn to the window, my head spinning. My movements are swift, and my gown flies open. In one heartbeat, I’ve spun around. In another, I’m at the window, ready to leap through it.
The shutters slam shut with a deafening crash. My palms collide with the wooden structure with such force, it’s as though someone struck me with a cane. No! This can’t be real. This can’t be happening! But it is real. Very much so. The pounding pain in my palms confirms as much.
Fingers drum against my table, and I cry aloud. My sobbing sounds desperate, but I don’t care. I just want to be free.
“What do you want from me?” My voice quivers and cracks.
I turn to face him, but there’s no sign of mercy in his icy expression, only a slyly curved smile bearing two sharply pointed cuspids.
Nothing about him resembles my Douglas anymore.
Not the clothes on his body or the features of his face.
It’s Prince Odhran—or a faerie in his likeness.
“A little birdie told me you have a taste for bloodshed.” His tone is quiet, even, as if none of this bothers him, my terror just another conversation.
“No, no, I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I push back until my back is pressed against the wall, the pounding in my ears nearly deafening me. Every beat of my heart is like a stab to my chest.
He slowly drags one sharp black nail across my table, wood splintering beneath his touch. “Are you calling me a liar, Mhagdu darling?”
“No! That’s not what I said.” Oh gods. Oh gods. Please! The door is locked behind him, the latch secured in place. He sealed my windows behind closed shutters. I have nowhere to run.
“I never lie.” The words are almost a growl, and my stomach turns to water. He pushes his hand through his silver hair, kicking out his feet. Prince Odhran reclines in my simple dining chair as though it were his throne. “Come. Join me at the table.”
I shake my head as warm tears stream down my face. My legs are too weak to stand, but I won’t go to him.
“Sit!” he roars.
The air grows thick, the taste of ash filling my mouth, and I gag.
My legs begin to move without my command, walking toward him and the chair opposite his.
“What’s happening? What are you doing to me?
” My hands shake. My heart races. I try to stop, but I can’t.
My body isn’t my own. As if in a dream, I watch myself reach for the back of the chair, pull it out, and proceed to sit.
“It’s unfortunate that you broke your cup. How clumsy you are.” He pushes his empty cup to the centre of the small table. “Here, take mine.” My stomach resembles a rock—if rocks could turn liquid. I’m going to be sick.
“No, thank you.” My chin quivers.
“Take it!” His voice is harsh, feral, like the growl of a wolf. The overwhelming taste of ash returns, and my body responds to his command despite my best efforts not to. A whimper escapes me as I slide the cup closer.
“Have mercy. Please, I beg of you!” My eyes search his, but it’s of no use.
“Since you crave the taste of blood, why don’t you go ahead? Have a drink.” I look into the cup, relieved to find it empty, except for a small splash of amber liquid from his tea at the bottom.
His palm slides against the table, pushing toward me, and when he lifts it, there’s a black blade where his hand was.
What’s left of the warmth in my face drains instantly as bile creeps up my throat.
I try to stand, but I can’t. I’m bound to my chair, held in place by an invisible force.
Nothing keeps me here but his command. No ropes, no shackles, nothing that I can escape from.
I shake uncontrollably, making him smile as he leans against the backrest of his chair.
“Use my knife. It’s so much easier than teeth.” He flashes his sharp cuspids at me, and I wince. “Right along your wrist, palm to elbow.” He mutters his instruction while rolling up his sleeves, utterly bored with the order.
I slowly reach for his blade. He straightens to watch, raising a single brow. The taste of ash overwhelms me, and I wish it would suffocate me instead. Perhaps it would be an easier end.
The blade is heavy in my palm, heavier than it looks. “No! Please stop this!” I outright beg, watching as I slice into myself. The wound burns as blood pools around it, dripping onto the table below. The feeling is hot and cold all at once.
“Fill your cup and drink.” His eyes are as dark as night. Cold and lifeless. His face has no expression save for his look of wicked amusement. “Keep going until I tell you to stop.”
The ink drains from his eyes, and his sharp, elongated fingertips retract. Prince Odhran looks human when he stands, casually rolling up his sleeves.
“Please, I’m begging you. I’ll do anything!” I sob, bringing the warm cup to my lips. Crimson droplets run down the side, spilling over the golden rim. I gag with every sip I take, but my body is under his control, not my own.
“With every sip, I want you to say, I am sorry, Bryndis.” With that, he turns to the door, unlocking it before he ducks under its frame. I want to call out, but my mouth is still full. The taste is thick and metallic as it runs down my throat.
“I am sorry, Bryndis.” Tears stream down my face.
“I am sorry, Bryndis.” My hands tremble.
“I am sorry, Bryndis.” My limbs go cold.
“I am sorry, Bryndis…”