Chapter One

No sensible thing belonged in the moors at such a late hour, especially none so lovely as Róisín. Shadows slipped over her milky skin like ink on a canvas so slick it couldn't hold for long. The darkness broiled over her feet, her legs, her torso, but when it found no anchor in her radiance, it slipped back into the depths without so much as a groan.

The wisps took their turn. Bouncing baubles of luminescence whose tinkling voices hardly buzzed in Róisín's ear. They, too, gave up their mission to distract her, to turn her away from the dark beasts within the moors. There was something dark and devious there, and it stamped its devil deeds all over the lands. It was mischief incarnate, and she vowed to eliminate it before it took her people with it into the darkness.

The moors—the formal, magical boundary between human and Fae lands—spread as far as the eye could see in both directions, but that didn't stop this abomination from crossing onto her father's land. Róisín adjusted her grip and held her dagger closer to her chest. Carved from bone and gilded with the purest gold Papa could find, it had been a gift on her eighteenth birthday, and it had served her well for a little over a year.

Róisín entered the moor from the northernmost point of her family's land and followed the grunts and sloshes of an unnamed beast until the clouds split and the moon shone down upon its back. The crescent was at its peak. Róisín was ready to slip into her bed for a few hours of sleep before dawn, but this vileness had other plans. The clouds passed overhead, scattering the moonlight in opposite directions, but it was no matter. She'd found what she was searching for.

Hunched over its meal, the beast slashed and tore. Róisín slunk closer, crouched, and ready. The thing ate with such vigor thick mud splashed in arcs over its back as its feet scrambled to keep it from sinking into the blackness. Mud splattered Róisín's face and shirt. She sighed.

The beast froze in place, rendering the moor silent once again. There was no name for this creature, this scaled and black monstrosity with gnarled features and razor teeth set in a bulbous head. At least, none that Róisín knew, but that hardly mattered. High-pitched clicking emanated from a membranous flap of skin covering the beast's throat as it eyed her, those deep, yellow-orange orbs the only light between them.

"I would think twice before attacking if I were you, vermin."

It shrieked and lunged.

"Why won't any of you take my advice?" Róisín dodged the unnamed creature and pivoted on her heel, prepared for the next attack. Once the bulky thing realized it had missed, it turned, slinging mud over her again. It shook and clicked. The clicking… She would hear that in her dreams.

Róisín leaned forward and blew softly toward it. Darkness slipped from her lips in a fog that crossed the space between them, and then the vile thing knew it had made a mistake. Scrambling on all fours, it turned to run, but her breath enveloped it and seeped through its skin, rendering it paralyzed.

Róisín's skin burned as molten lava bubbled beneath its layers. An ethereal, red-hued glow surrounded Róisín as her wings slowly erupted from her back, just beneath the scapula on either side. At full extension, she groaned.

"Ah, it feels nice to stretch."

The lava beneath her skin burned hotter, brighter as she approached the prone creature.

"I told you to think twice." She plunged the dagger through its heart. An eruption of flame took its body and burned it to ash in seconds, then the ash blew with the breeze across the moors. Róisín's skin cooled and returned to its usual alabaster, almost iridescent in the moonlight. Her wings, though, she would leave out until her work was done. They needed a good stretch.

Róisín turned her attention to the deceased human male the beast had left behind. There was nothing to do for him now, not in his condition. Beside him, a female human lay with her neck broken. There was no way to know what the man looked like with his head missing, but the female had been pretty. Deep olive skin with almond-shaped eyes and plump lips opened in horror. Her once brown hair was stained with her blood, perhaps the male's as well. Róisín's gaze shifted lower. The woman's abdomen moved like the waves at sea.

"Father in Heaven, she’s pregnant!" Róisín fell to her knees and pressed her hand over the woman's pelvis. The belly was swollen large enough that the child might survive an early birth. It would surely die if she did nothing, so Róisín poised her knife over the slain mother's belly. A long, clean cut opened the womb. Róisín reached inside and retrieved the wiggling, premature—though perhaps only a few days—baby girl.

"Shh. Shh, please don't cry out here." Róisín clutched it close to her chest, cleaned its mouth and eyes, then turned it over and patted her back. The gurgling was a sure sign she had not cleared the airway enough, so she turned the babe again and pressed her mouth to hers. The slimy substance turned her stomach, but the baby needed a clear airway, so Róisín sucked. She spat out the fluid, turned the infant, and patted it again. Soon, she whimpered.

"Shh. We must keep quiet, little one."

Using the end of her shirt, she wiped most of the baby's body, removing the blood of the mother it would never know. It smeared into Róisín's black hair, but cleanliness had been abandoned when she set foot in the moors. Her knees squelched free from the mud when she stood, bringing the baby closer as she wrapped it snugly. The trip back to the cabin would take longer, but the child was developed enough to survive the night. In the morning, she could take it to Ailsa. She spat again and wiped her mouth.

The moor would swallow the bodies by morning, leaving no trace the child had any parents at all. Róisín licked her lips and sighed once again. There would be no rest for her tonight. She felt it, but if the child grew and lived a whole life, then she would be glad for a few lost hours of sleep tending to an orphaned child.

In the distance, a yellow flame bobbed across the back of her home. Papa was worried, and with good reason. Dark Fae crossed the moor border every day, more in recent weeks, leaving them no choice but to monitor it day and night. This one, the beast who'd orphaned the tiny girl, even Róisín had never seen before. She would catalog and draw it for reference later, but it was unlikely anyone else in the Raven Court could identify such a demonic thing.

"Róisín! Róisín, is that you?" The light flickered as Papa drew closer, then resumed bobbing as he jogged toward her.

"It's me. I have a baby. A dark creature killed two humans, a male and a female. I didn’t see anything else during my scouting, but I’m sure it brought others." Róisín clutched the child ever closer. She heard her tiny heartbeat, her quiet breaths as she turned her cherub-like face into Róisín's chest.

"She’s hungry. I'll fetch some goat's milk. Better get her inside before a chill takes her. Stew is over the fire for you." Papa shook his head and caressed the child's hair-wisped crown. "Foolish humans. Crossing a moor at this hour. At any hour. Bloody king spreading his lies and making his threats." Papa shook his head again and turned toward the barn, mumbling his opinion of the king of Gwenlyre.

Whatever his opinion, the fact was the king had murdered more humans than Fae ever could. Treacherous and paranoid, hangings and beheadings of suspected Fae and Fae sympathizers had become so commonplace in Gwenlyre that its people hardly noticed them. When he wasn't ordering executions, the king lauded the benefits of Fae medicines, riches, and properties. The foolish, devastatingly poor people of his kingdom set off for Neverknoll in desperation and often died in the moors. If not by drowning, then by dark Fae. Even the occasional wolf. The king, a cruel human, would even hang those planning to travel to Neverknoll for the very prizes he lauded—for treason as Fae sympathizers, of course. A bloody game of cat and mouse that would never tire him, it seemed.

Róisín opened the door and inhaled the savory lamb stew. Her mouth watered, but she would feed the baby and bathe first. Papa had also drawn a bath for her, but it had grown tepid, and the dried flowers used to scent the water had become little more than sludge at the bottom of the tub. Róisín went to the main room, settled the child on the fur rug by the fire, and added a pot of water over the flame. Warming it would take less time than drawing a fresh bath.

"Here we are," Papa said, closing the door behind him. "Enough for the both of you. Eat, Róisín, and I'll care for the baby."

Róisín's wings slowly retracted, leaving her shoulders aching. A necessary discomfort if she were to remain in Gwenlyre to do her work without losing her head. "Thank you, Papa. I'll take her to Ailsa in the morning. Pray it doesn't snow tonight, so I can return and scout before dark tomorrow."

"It does have a certain chill, doesn't it? I can stay up with the darling if you need some rest."

"No, no." Róisín shook her head. "A baby needs a mother's touch. I'm the next best thing, I suppose. I'll stay with her after I bathe and eat."

Papa hummed and ignored Róisín. She smiled as she watched the old man dip a cloth in the warm water she had intended to add to her bath, then cleanse the girl's body. He'd already made a bottle, but the baby refused it twice. Would she survive until morning?

Róisín squeezed her eyes shut and murmured a prayer. There had been enough death in the moor that night. She couldn’t bear to think of the child passing.

***

Cawing woke Róisín an hour after she lay down her head. Not cawing—crying. Arms raised over her head in a stretch, Róisín padded across her room to where the baby lay in a basket. Róisín's heart twinged the slightest when she reached the child wrapped in bunting, face like an angel, seeking her mother’s milk. The basket, woven long ago by Róisín’s mother, was one of the last things Róisín had to remind her of the love she'd lost not so long ago.

"Shh, come here. Who can sleep with you making such a fuss?" Róisín warmed a bit of goat's milk and fed the little girl who had refused Papa's efforts to the bitter end.

"Just like you," he'd said. "Stubborn as a mule but lovely all the same." He’d groaned and dropped his head into his hands before retreating to the quiet of his bedroom. The baby made him think of Mother, which only opened barely closed wounds. Two months. Time had passed so slowly after Mary Dubh died, yet two months had disappeared without her soothing presence.

Róisín smiled when the baby quieted and suckled the bottle, her gray eyes focused on Róisín as she drank. Throbbing at Róisín’s shoulder blades pained her, so she released the hold on her wings and let them spread wide before wrapping them around herself and the baby. Ebony and thickly feathered, they were the envy of most of the Raven Court, just as her mother's had been.

Shadows passed over the child's face, and she cooed around the nipple. Little fingers reached for a feather, so Róisín brought her wing a touch closer for investigation.

"What should we call you? You deserve a name besides baby." Róisín met her gaze, deep brown meeting hazy gray until those little eyelids grew heavy, laden with sleep and sorrow she would not understand until she was older.

Róisín hummed, just a whisper of a tune that tugged at her mind. And then she sang.

"Turaloo, turaloo, babe of mine, sleep gently 'til tomorrow's sunrise. Turaloo, turaloo, dear little—"

Tears choked behind a cloak of darkness, dividing Róisín's past and present. The song, a lullaby her mother had hummed every night, brought more pain than peace. She sniffled and returned to humming instead, a different lullaby that would stir no memory of her mother—nothing at all from that day. That day. Róisín clenched her jaw and hummed until the baby fell asleep again, then settled on the floor beside her. With her wings to keep them warm, Róisín soon drifted into a nightmarish sleep.

***

"Róisín, it's time." Papa's soft tones pulled Róisín from her slumber. He carried the baby, asleep, in the crook of his arm and held a satchel in the other. Róisín yawned, inhaling a sharp bite of cold as she did. "It snowed, I'm afraid, but I took the liberty of preparing your horse and packing food. I would accompany you, but today is a busy one."

"No, no. It's alright, Papa. I know you have orders to fill. Have you completed Ioan's knife?"

"I have. In the saddlebag for delivery today if you don't mind." Wiry gray hair swept over his jaw while wisps of cotton white spread over his head. Lennon Dubh had been an older man already when his wife took with child, but it never slowed him enough to keep him from running in the fields with Róisín.

"I don't mind. Shall I expect payment?"

"He paid half on commission, so only half a payment today," Papa said, then left Róisín to dress.

The Dubh cabin was small, just like the others that dotted the lands along the moors, those close to the border, but it also served to hide their wealth. Money was no concern for Róisín or her father, but that it be used for necessary deeds was most important—like keeping dark Fae from invading human lands and keeping humans with nefarious plans out of the Fae lands. They were wealthy, yes, but every coin was earmarked for the everlasting battle.

Róisín pulled on a pair of sleek black pants tailored for her by Ioan's wife, a seamstress of unparalleled ability. It had been payment for another job, her father's usual work as a metalsmith. A crimson red vest buckled over an ivory blouse covered the lines where her wings hid, always retracted in front of humans. Stars above, if anyone in Gwenlyre knew she was Fae, they would kill her on the spot to earn some favor with the king.

She brushed her long black hair and tied it in a knot at her nape, then snatched her cloak—already clean thanks to Papa—and headed toward the kitchen. There at the table, Papa played with the baby girl. He held a feather, one he'd pulled from his own withering wings, and caressed the child's face.

"You’re so good with her,” Róisín said, nodding toward the bundle in his arms. “Do you think Ailsa will find her a suitable home in this famine?”

“Hard to know, but she’ll make do somehow.” With the money we will give her—the words he did not say, but Róisín knew there would be a sack of money in the bag for Ailsa to help pay for the child’s needs.

Outside, her horse whinnied. Róisín rolled her eyes and picked up an apple, then stretched her arms to accept the baby. Papa kissed her forehead and handed the bundle to Róisín, shaking his head as was his usual show of exasperation.

“Pray these humans will learn to stop parading through the moors at midnight,” he said, then turned his back to clean the kitchen.

Outside, a thick blanket of white covered everything except the chimney. Tendrils of smoke danced in the breeze until they faded in the sky. Siobhan, the mare, gently prodded the ground, seeking a bit of green for a treat.

“You’ll find nothing underneath this dreadful snow, sweet girl.” Róisín hoisted herself on the mare’s back with the baby tucked to her side. She tied a cloth around them both, creating a pouch for the newborn, then wrapped the cloak tightly around them. The cold hardly bothered Róisín, but it was cutting and deadly for a newborn.

A slight nudge encouraged Siobhan down the worn path hidden by the snow, instinct, if nothing else, pulling her toward the just rousing town of Gwenlyre. Human to its core, the village had survived a war with its southern neighbor, a war with Fae from the north, a civil war that stretched its borders, and life with a king dead-set on eradicating his own kind, all within the previous fifty years. It knew little of peace, save winter when everything drifted into a nightmarish haze marked by famine and death from the elements.

It would do the people no good to stockpile their necessities. The king would only send his soldiers to take it away and add it to his own riches. The Fae war had taken more than its fair share from Gwenlyre and Neverknoll, but a fight didn’t care who it destroyed. And neither did the king of Gwenlyre.

And so, Gwenlyre survived in a sort of gray muck slipping from one year to the next, always on the verge of extinction. There was no color in the people’s cheeks, no laughter in their homes, and certainly no food in their bellies. Róisín often wondered how far her money might go to aid the people, but the moment the greedy king discovered their wealth, she and Papa would be executed for some reason or another. Their money would be confiscated and added to King Ullium’s wealth, never to be spent on the people who needed it most.

Róisín’s mind wandered as mile after mile passed under the gray-blue sky. Dark clouds threatened more snow, which meant more death and more desperation. Such anguish that crossing the moors into Neverknoll seemed the only choice for survival.

“Spare a coin?”

Róisín startled, then chastised herself for losing her focus. A woman alongside the village gate had approached her and brushed against her thigh with stick-thin fingers. If she had grasped Róisín, things might have gone badly and fast. She took a breath and willed the bit of wing that erupted to retract. It retreated before exiting her cloak, and Róisín relaxed again.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, miss. I only wish to have a bite to eat.” Hollow eyes stared back at Róisín—sunken, hungry eyes so close to death Róisín was sure the woman could smell the afterlife.

Róisín reached into her bag and retrieved the apple along with the small loaf of bread her father had packed. She handed the items to the woman along with a single coin, enough to buy food for two days. The woman’s breath hitched as those empty eyes looked upon her face again. There, just behind her despair and want and need, a glimmer of hope flickered. Róisín sucked it in and let it warm her soul. She lifted a finger to her lips.

“Shh. Tell no one.”

The old woman shook her head and wandered down the path with her wares, a quiet gasp of laughter escaping her wrinkled lips. Another widow. Another woman whose husband had been worked half to death before shipping home to rot from starvation. Róisín had bought the woman three days, but after that… how long? How long could Gwenlyre survive King Ullium and his reign?

Inside the gate, the market bustled with traders from far and wide. Rugs, spices, perfumes, clothing, food… all things only the fairest of Gwenlyre might afford, but even they kept their coins close during winter. Róisín passed Ioan’s shop on her way to Ailsa’s infirmary. Business would run smoother without the little one strapped to her bosom, so she would visit Ioan after. No one dared look upon Róisín. It wasn’t out of fear but because it would require that they lift their heads to gaze upon her. No one in Gwenlyre had raised their eyes higher than their shoes in decades.

Ailsa’s infirmary stood as a cornerstone in the village, often with a line spread across the market square. How the woman managed to treat so many ills in one day was beyond Róisín, but she did so with a smile and a gentle touch—and Lennon Dubh’s money. Without Papa’s secret funding, the infirmary would close, and more people would die. There was no line today, just a sludge of muck and snow leading to her door.

Róisín entered and stamped her boots on the doorframe, then peered into Ailsa’s workroom.

“Ah, Róisín, how lovely to see you,” Ailsa said as she entered from the rear door leading to her private rooms. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you well?”

“I am, but I found a baby in the moor behind the cabin last night,” Róisín wiggled the tiny baby from its makeshift pocket.

Ailsa’s black brows furrowed over brown eyes as she peered at the lovely face. “A shame, for sure. The mother?”

“Dead, I’m afraid. And the father. At least, I assume it was the father.”

“What was it? Something… from there?” Ailsa shivered and pulled her sweater tighter over her. Scars covered the deep brown skin of her hands, thick and angry. Ullium’s anger had even touched the women of Gwenlyre, including the only physician in the kingdom. She’d earned those scars for treating a man suspected of harboring Fae. That the woman still had hands was a miracle.

Róisín frowned, drawing the worry right out of her mind and onto her face. “I can’t say. Dark Fae, perhaps even a demon, but I’ve never seen anything like it before last night.”

“You killed it, yes?” Ailsa took the baby, still asleep, and nestled her close.

“Yes, but the incidents have increased this year. I can hardly keep up. More spill into the moors every night, but I don’t know where they come from.”

“Not from Neverknoll?” Ailsa’s eyes squinted.

“No, nothing so dark lives there. I’ve no idea where they enter the moors, but I’ll discover it soon enough.”

“You seem ill. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

Róisín exhaled, slow and steady. “I’m exhausted.”

Ailsa studied Róisín’s face—the blackness under her eyes, her pallid complexion, and hollowed cheeks. She pursed her lips. “Only sleep can fix that ailment, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, I suppose.” Róisín splayed her hands on the table, supporting her tired and beaten body. “Seven things crossed just in the past three days. I need to find the entry and close it, but these foolish humans don’t make my work easy.”

Ailsa cleared her throat. One of the humans.

“I’m sorry. You know what I meant,” Róisín said, waving her hand over her comment.

Ailsa was the only living human who knew what Róisín and Lennon Dubh were—wardens of the ancient Raven Court—and she only knew by necessity. Someone had to help the wounded humans and Court Fae, who crossed the wall and survived.

“I took no real offense,” Ailsa said, then sat by the fire to feed the baby. How she had materialized a bottle of milk right under Róisín’s nose was further proof the woman was magical, even if she harbored no true ability. She was quick and cunning, wise despite her young age of only twenty-four, and could—if the need presented—remove a man’s head with little more than a dull butter knife. “I’ll try to find a home for the girl, but I don’t know how long it will take.”

“I have money for you, but I don’t have time. I wish I could help.”

“No, no, I understand, Róisín. I understand the burden your kind must—” The door burst open, startling Ailsa.

“Good morning, fair Ailsa!”

Finley O'Neill rushed through the door bringing the dinge of winter with him along with a healthy dose of arrogance. Russet brown locks and green eyes accompanied a grin that settled somewhere between narcissistic and endearing. If he were not a ranking member in the Guild of Hunters, Róisín might have found him attractive, but he stood for everything she abhorred—men who gleefully hunted and murdered innocent Fae from dawn until dusk. None dared traipse the forest in the wee hours. No, that would require real bravery, which no man in the Guild of Hunters possessed. They hunted during the day, finding only the weakest Fae creatures to prove their necessity in Gwenlyre.

“To what do we owe the unwelcome visit, Finley?” Ailsa asked.

“Why do you have a baby?” he asked and leaned against the door frame. The winter chill flooded in.

Róisín pursed her lips and shoved the door. “The child will catch her death with the door wide open.”

Finley pushed off the frame and closed the door. Green eyes shifted over her body, assessing her stature as the Guild men always did. It was not meant as a compliment but as a judgment of her capability. Everything the Guild did was meant to strengthen the positions of the human kingdom, but with food rations so low and medicine unavailable, hardly a soul in Gwenlyre was suitable for anything more than occupying their own skin. He assessed her survivability, nothing more.

“What do you want, Finley?” Ailsa asked again.

“Information, if you would be so kind.” He strode closer to the fire where Ailsa coddled the baby. His muscular back earned Róisín’s attention, but only for its impressiveness. How the man managed to remain so strong on so little food was beyond Róisín’s comprehension, but perhaps that was the answer. The Guild always seemed to have plenty, even in winter.

“Information about what?” Róisín asked.

“Lord O’Hare’s son has disappeared. Gone during the night and left only a letter behind. It seems our cheeky brethren has impregnated a… Fae.” He swallowed the word as if it burned his lips, his tongue, his esophagus as it passed. Or nauseated him beyond control.

Ailsa’s head jerked up. “Fae? In Gwenlyre? During winter? Don’t be absurd, Finley. He probably got some pauper’s daughter pregnant and ran off just to spite his father. O’Hare is a prickly little pig.” Ailsa turned her nose and went back to obsessing over the child.

Róisín’s blood ran cold. The girl in the moor? Róisín had paid no mind to her features other than to decide she had been lovely. She had admired her beauty, the curve of her cheeks, and her almond eyes, but nothing of the rest of her. Had she been Fae?

“If you hear anything, you will let me know, won’t you, dear Ailsa?” Finley asked, flashing that grin again.

“To be sure.” Ailsa waved him away and cut her eyes toward Róisín.

Finley uncrossed his arms and turned toward Róisín with that ridiculous smirk, dipped his head, and said, “Always a pleasure, Miss Dubh.”

“What will O’Hare do if he finds his son has impregnated a Fae? What would he do to the child?” Róisín asked his retreating form. It was a foolish question, but she desired an accurate assessment of the poor baby’s situation. Better to hear it straight from the Guild’s mouth.

Every muscle in his back tightened, and Róisín heard him swallow. “I’m sure I don’t want to know.” He opened the door, let in the chill again, then slammed it shut behind him.

Five heartbeats. Róisín waited for five human heartbeats before speaking again, ensuring Finley did not overhear things meant for Ailsa’s ears alone.

“Do you think it was O’Hare’s son in the moor last night? I couldn’t say given the state of his… head.”

Ailsa shrugged. “I haven’t the bloodiest idea, but that might change things for this little one. Can’t very well send her to live among humans, not if she’s half-Fae.”

“Blast it all.” Róisín clenched her fists at her sides. Why had they been so foolish to cross the moor at night? If the woman was Fae, she should have known better. “We won’t know for at least five years. Impure Fae abilities won’t manifest until then, sometimes longer. We’ll have to think of something else.” She sighed. “I’ll speak with Papa. We can spare the coin if you can provide for her, at least until we can find a willing family.” In Neverknoll… the words she dared not speak aloud.

Ailsa’s bright eyes widened. “Me? What on earth will I do with a baby?”

“Be a mother?” Róisín asked, a croak in her voice. If she could cry, she would sob for the child. But as she was, a Fae of the Raven Court, she was forbidden to show weakness in front of anyone. Somber and stoic, yes, those were often traits of her Court, even rage, at times, but none of that weeping and moaning was allowed, not in public. Not ever, if possible.

Ailsa closed her eyes and rolled her neck, then sighed. “I will do what I can, but I will need help. This infirmary cannot run itself, and with my time split between it and a newborn, it will be almost impossible. Even so, I’ll do my best.”

“It’s all I ask. I’ll come by to help when I can. I must see Ioan about a knife, but I’ll call on you tomorrow and bring more money.”

“Alright then.” Ailsa’s attention was back on the baby in a blink. “I suppose I should name her. What shall we call you, innocent one?” Ailsa cooed and tickled the baby’s belly.

Róisín squeezed her eyes shut and exited the infirmary with a stone in her gut and a hole in her heart. How the newborn had managed to wiggle its way into the deep recesses of Róisín’s heart in only a few hours was anyone’s guess but walking away without her in her arms felt cold and lonely. It felt wrong. She inhaled slowly through her nose and let it out through her mouth. Papa would send coin, and the babe would be cared for. That was enough.

Ioan’s shop was across the market, tucked in a darkened corner fitting for a butcher. The mud around his shop was always red, and the iron smell of fresh meat permeated the air in that half of the market. Cutting portions smaller and smaller to accommodate those with less coin meant Ioan the Butcher—a title earned during the last war that had nothing to do with his chosen trade—was often in need of sharper knives. He was Papa’s best customer.

“It’s a half-coin a pound, woman. Take it or leave it or send your husband ‘round and I’ll cut out his—Róisín, dear, a blessed interruption!” Ioan shouted. The patron he’d been arguing with dashed away with very little of her pride and a measly scrap of meat.

“Ioan, how are you?”

“Better now that I’ve seen your beautiful face. Have you brought my knife, love?” His ruddy cheeks and squared frame filled the open-air counter with his presence, but his rough demeanor never flustered Róisín. Perhaps between that and her Papa’s skill, she indeed was his favorite person.

“I have. Papa said only half the payment was due.”

Ioan dropped a bag of coins on the counter. No need to check the amount. He was a brute, but Ioan was not a liar or a cheat.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Finley said, leaning on Ioan’s counter to settle his gaze eye-to-eye with Róisín. His hair fell into his eyes, so he whipped his head to clear it and tucked his arms over his chest. “Full day of shopping ahead of you, or can I escort you home today?”

“Boy, get off my table before I chop off your baby maker and sell it to the poor,” Ioan said, running the blade of his knew knife over his thumb to check the bevel. He whistled. “What a beauty.”

Finley stood and drew his gaze over Ioan for a moment before shuddering and turning his attention back to Róisín. She thought but could not determine an appropriate word to describe Finley O'Neill and merely categorized him as no one she meant to spend her time with. Keenan O'Neill, his fourteen-year-old brother, was a far sight less involved with his own stature, but in time he, too, would turn toward a life of murder and mayhem, terrorizing Fae communities along the border.

“I’m heading home, but I don’t need an escort. I made it here just fine on my own.” Róisín fought the urge to vomit on her boots. As far as Guild Hunters were concerned, he wasn’t the worst of them. He was more show than action, but if given a fair chance, Róisín knew Finley might aim to kill. She did not want to be the Fae in his crosshairs.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but I was going that way anyway. I wanted to check the moors, see if anything seems amiss.” He shrugged and nodded at Ioan, who merely grunted and studied his knife, then took Róisín’s elbow and led her back to her horse.

Siobhan munched on week-old straw outside Ailsa’s infirmary, content to wait for as long as Róisín needed. The mare was the only real friend she had, except Ailsa. Finley’s grip was perfectly clear. He intended to ride alongside Róisín whether she liked it or not, but his reason had yet to be established. He’d offered no interest in her before and had never asked permission to traipse across her Papa’s land to enter the moors, so there seemed no reason to assault her senses with his blabbering.

“Why do you hate me, Róisín?” he asked once she was seated on Siobhan.

“Who says I hate you?”

He chuckled. “Every muscle in your body screams it when you look at me, and just now, when I asked you why you hate me, you lied. I can tell by looking at you.”

“Let’s get going, shall we?” Róisín smiled and pulled Siobhan away from her moldy meal. “Come on, girl. Home.” She gave her a little nudge, something to encourage her to leave Finley in the dust. The mare took to the still-covered path and lowered her head. Bolting forward, the ladies left Finley O'Neill behind.

Róisín snickered, but only a few strides later, the nuisance appeared at her side, matching her stride for stride. Blasted man. Rather than attempt to best him, she simply kept her pace and plowed a clearing in the snow one hoofbeat at a time until nothing but snow-capped pines and rows of cabins dotted the landscape. Eventually, the land opened into sprawling fields. There, the snow danced like crystals in the late morning light, covering the land in an elegant peace Róisín wished were real. And clean. Everything smelled new and fresh, unlike the drab death in the market.

Her home appeared in the distance, so she veered toward it and kept her pace. Finley followed, letting her lead the way. Papa’s building was alight, and puffs of thick black smoke billowed from his furnace chimney. He was working, which Róisín should also do, but she couldn’t if Finley, the self-absorbed hunter, would not leave her alone.

She dismounted Siobhan and let her into the pasture to settle while she addressed the annoyance which had inserted himself into her day.

“I thought you were inspecting the moor today. Why are you still following me? The moor is there.” Róisín pointed a slender, pale finger toward the thick, black sludge and water behind her home.

Finley dismounted and smacked his horse on the rump, sending it into the field with Siobhan. Róisín pursed her lips. So, he didn’t intend to inspect the moor, nor did he intend to leave her alone. But why?

“I don’t need to see the moors. We need to talk,” he said, pointing toward her home.

She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “About?”

“The baby you found in there last night. The one you tried to lie about at Ailsa’s infirmary. You really should make sure no one is listening when you cover your lies, Róisín.”

Róisín’s breath caught, and her palms slicked with sweat. “What… what did you hear?” She swallowed, scratchy and painful over her dry throat.

Finley’s usually jovial, if frustratingly conceited, existence faded into the picture of a stone-cold hunter… a murderer. “I heard enough.”