Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

NIALL O’LEARY

“The Sluagh are always hungry.”

The Other Crowd Guidebook for Mortals

T he beach stretches, quiet except for the waves clawing at the shore. I keep my pace slow, letting the sea air cool my heated thoughts. Felicity. Her name alone sends a fresh wave of dread through me. She’s more than I bargained for. Shadows dance to her heartbeat. That’s not something I can ignore.

The wind picks up, biting through my shirt. My stallion snorts in the back of my mind. Restless. Impatient. He wants answers as much as I do.

“Easy, boy,” I mutter. Not that he listens.

Bonding was never about desire. I learned that the hard way with Kaida. Vicious never lets me forget how well that ended. It was always about obligation. My sister. The survival of our kind. I resigned myself to the role long ago, burying any hope of wanting more beneath prophecy and guilt.

And then Felicity came along—her maddening laugh, her impossible shadows—shattering every plan I ever made.

The gravel path crunches underfoot as I near the cottage. I hear voices. Tomas. My father. Shit. I murmur an incantation and trace a symbol in the air, throwing a glamour over the mark on my neck. I open the cottage door. The driftwood mirror in the foyer glows faintly, and sure enough, his image wavers in the glass when I step through the door. Tomas is already leaning against the wall like he hasn’t got a care in the world. The two stop talking immediately.

“Niall,” my father greets, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Have you found a ceangal ?”

Straight to the point, then. Typical Fallon. “I believe so…” I keep my voice even, though tension coils in my gut. I’m holding back because I don’t know what the hell to do about my sister. My plan went to hell the second I bonded with Felicity. And now? Madden will never let her go unless I deliver another human in her place. “…But we’ve got bigger problems. The Veil is thinning, and there’s a priest sniffing around where he shouldn’t be.”

“Tomas briefed me.” My father’s tone is as dry as the Skyreach Mountains. “But the Veil isn’t only a human problem. A villager nearly crossed into Tír na Scáil . Do you understand what that means?”

“When the photograph was taken,” Tomas adds, sotto voce.

I can’t help but push back. “Of course I do. But what if thinning before Samhain isn’t a curse? What if it’s an opportunity?”

My father’s laugh rumbles through the room like a landslide. “You’re a fool if you think the Ironlands want us back. Humans moved on, Niall. Stories of fae are entertainment now.”

“But—”

His gaze hardens. “No buts. This isn’t your decision to make. And the reporter—deal with her before she becomes a bigger problem.”

“With all due respect, sire, have we even tried? Yes, we wanted them to forget. And they did. But if we stay forgotten forever, how do we survive?”

Because if we don’t? The traditions that once tied us to the land and its people will vanish. We’re already seeing it. Aithreach Decline is taking root. The Crimson Court is suffering the most, clinging to purity while they wither. The Decline isn’t about numbers or strength. It’s about severing the lifeline that feeds us. It’s about losing our connection to the earth and its magic.

He scowls. “And what? Do you think they’d welcome us with open arms? ‘Oh, you need our daughters to continue your race? Sure, take them.’”

He has a point. The few who might accept us won’t outnumber the masses armed with fear and Internet access. I’ve finally figured out the meaning of this marvellous human invention.

Yet, each Samhain whispers of the Old Ways breathe life into our fading magic.

“They’d hunt us again,” Tomas says, locking eyes with mine in the portal’s reflection. “Fear turns to hatred, hatred to violence. It’s the way of the world.”

I groan. “So, we hide? Forever?”

“Time is running out,” my father says, his voice like iron grinding against stone. “When you sit where I am, you’ll understand. These choices saved us once. I won’t undo decisions made by men wiser than us.”

With that, he speaks— Go n-éirí leat —and the portal ripples before going dark, leaving only my reflection staring back at me.

I hesitate, my gaze locked on the shimmering surface. Time is running out.

Of course, it is, but the way my father said it wasn’t about the Veil or the priest. It sounded like a man bracing himself for the moment something breaks. Like he’s holding back, and I’m the poor bastard who will find out the hard way.

I run a hand through my hair, moving to stand in front of the fireplace. Firelight dances across the walls, shadows twisting like they’re alive. It pulls me back to the destruction Felicity left behind, the wreckage she caused. And beneath that memory lies the dark stories whispered to me as a child about the Sluagh and its insidious hunger. Hunger that devours everything in its path.

And then there’s the priest.

He knew the fae would rage over the construction. Worse, it feels like he twists things to suit his audience, stirring the pot enough to keep everyone on edge while keeping his own hands clean. He’s always there, meddling, playing the righteous saviour while the Veil thins under his very nose. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. Or maybe not.

I can’t ignore the signs, how fear seeps through the village, how whispers of despair cling to the air. It reeks of Gnáthmharfóirí . The way they weave into human lives, infecting communities with doubt and hatred, makes it seem like they’re clearing a path for the Sluagh to feast.

But I can’t prove it.

My father wouldn’t see the nuance. He’d demand immediate action, and if I told him everything I suspect—Felicity’s connection to the shadows, the priest’s potential Gnáthmharfóirí origins—it would be a disaster. His solution would be swift and absolute, disregarding collateral damage. The risk to Felicity would be too great. I’m not handing her over to him like some pawn in his survival game.

Not when the bond grows stronger every time I touch her.

I grip the edge of the mantle. The Sluagh are terrifying enough on their own, but if Gnáthmharfóirí learned to use them, to leverage that hunger…

I take a deep breath. This isn’t just about Felicity or the Veil. It’s about the balance between worlds, the fragile line we walk to keep ours hidden. If Gnáthmharfóirí infiltrated the village, I need to deal with them. Quietly. Without my father.

And without dragging Felicity into it. At least, not until I figure out what the hell she is.

Tomas pushes off the wall. “You didn’t tell him about Felicity. Gods, I know I should have, but I figured I’d gauge your intentions before giving him half-cocked intelligence.”

“No,” I admit, sinking onto the nearest chair. “And I won’t. Not yet.”

“You know you have to tell her.”

I nod. Felicity deserves to know what she’s stepping into. But how do I explain that she might be the reason the Veil is thinning? That her very existence could tip the scales of our world?

“Think she’ll run?” I ask, swirling the whiskey in the bottle before taking another pull.

Tomas leans back in his chair, twirling his knife like a fidget toy. “Probably. But if she’s still standing after everything you’ve thrown at her, she might surprise you. Or stab you.”

“Comforting,” I mutter.

Tomas snorts, eyes narrowing like he’s looking straight through me. “Oh, spare me the shite. You think I wouldn’t notice the fresh magic stitched into your skin? The Gloaming doesn’t let me ignore what I’m sworn to protect, and right now, it’s screaming her name. Glamour or not, even a blind, halfwit drunk could see you’re bound to her. Fuck, the way you look at her, I’m surprised you ain’t already on your knees, worshipping the ground she walks on like some lovesick cunt.”

I grunt, the whiskey burning down my throat. “Fuck off. I just don’t want to cock it up. So if you’re done taking the piss, you could be useful and tell me how I don’t fuck this up. Any pointers, oh wise and jaded one?”

“Not a bloody one,” Tomas says with a smug and useless shrug.

“That’s what I need to hear before tonight’s ‘date.’”

He pauses mid-twirl, an eyebrow creeping up. “A human date?”

“Is there another kind?”

His laugh is a rough bark. “Fascinating.”

“You’re a bastard. You didn’t have to jump through hoops with your bond because she was bloody gift-wrapped for you.”

Tomas flashes a wolfish grin, all teeth and no sympathy. “Aye, and she was a vision. Ready and waiting.”

“Must be nice.” I stand and pace the room, the stone floors unforgiving underfoot. “All you had to do was stand for the ceremony and claim her.”

Meanwhile, I’m juggling mortal expectations and a bond that could destroy worlds, but I keep that last bit to myself.

“Boo-fucking-hoo,” Tomas says, examining the blade of his knife. “It’s dinner. Don’t be such a whiny cunt.”

I stop pacing and glare at him. “It’s not just dinner. I have to tell her the truth.”

“Oh, aye, that you trot around on four legs sometimes?”

Or that bonding with me could kick-start the apocalypse? I think as I stare into the fire.

He arches a brow. “Sure, lead with that. It’s a real panty-dropper.”

“I hate you,” I mutter, taking another swig of whiskey.

Tomas smirks. “You love me.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope.”

I plop back onto the chair opposite him, the firelight casting flickering shadows between us. “So, what do humans even do on dates?”

His grin widens, a feral thing that makes me regret asking. “Apparently, you bring flowers.”

I arch a brow. “And how would you know?”

“I consulted the Internet on human courting rituals when our king decided to throw down the gauntlet on you bonding with an Ironlands lass.” He flips the knife once more, then stabs it into the table with a dull thunk . “So give her some overpriced bouquet that does fuck all. Fucking waste if you ask me, but be done with it.”

“Flowers?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Aye. They like those.”

I snort. “Flowers won’t fix this, Tomas.”

Not when I’m about to tell her our union could either bridge worlds or burn them down.

Tomas yanks the knife free with a twist, barely glancing at it before setting it spinning between his fingers again, the motion effortless, idle. “And they wear puffy white dresses for mating ceremonies. Looks like a sheep’s arse if you ask me.”

“Ridiculous.” We wear kilts, after all.

“Aye. But there’s whiskey at the end. They call it a reception.”

“Well, as long as there’s whiskey, I’ll fucking endure,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the ridiculousness, but the thought of my little Shadow Witch wrapped in silk and corseted up like some delicate thing meant for display sends a strange heat curling in my gut. “If she expects me to prance around like some love-struck idiot, she’s in for a rude awakening.”

Human courtship is an exercise in absurdity—empty gestures, pretty lies wrapped in ribbons and bows. Flowers won’t change the way I want to claim her, mark her, and own her in ways no polite ritual can capture. There’s nothing civilised about what’s between us. Nothing soft or simple. Bonding makes much more sense. No pomp, no pretence, just raw need seared into flesh and soul. My beast rumbles its agreement, satisfied by the certainty of it.

Tomas laughs. “You’re already halfway there, mate.”

I take another pull from the bottle. “Yeah, because discussing my ability to gallop faster than her car is first-date material.”

“Better to tell her before she finds out the hard way.”

“Been there, done that. Didn’t end well.” I grimace at the memory.

“Dessert, then. Drop the bomb after she’s had some fucking cake.”

“Great plan, genius.” I glare at him. “What’s next? Offer her a bloody gift basket?”

“Couldn’t hurt. Better than a bunch of dying plants.” He shrugs, tone flat. “But you’re overthinking it. She’s either in, or she’s not. Nothing you say will change that.”

He has a point. “I’ll be my charming self and impress her. I can handle that much.”

Tomas grins, eyes glinting with pure fucking delight. “Aye, remember the time you thought juggling flaming, enchanted swords in front of that noble lass would get you in her skirts? Instead, you torched her father’s priceless family tapestry—an heirloom almost as legendary as your cock-ups—panicked, and hit it with a spell that turned the flames into a flock of fire-breathing pigeons. Which, might I add, then proceeded to shit all over the high table and all the guests while setting half the hall on fire.” He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Real smooth, that one.”

I’d forgotten about the pigeons. Probably a good thing that we’d been in the Uisce Court, every square inch surrounded by water and fucking fountains big enough to swim in at every turn. I take another swig of whiskey. “Better than your ‘kidnapped’ love story.”

Tomas grunts. “A proper courtship should always start with a well-executed ambush.”

I shake my head. “Keep Cyn distracted tonight. I don’t need her poking around.”

Tomas nods, his expression turning serious. “Aye. I’ve got it handled. You’d better hope the lass is tougher than she looks. Because if this goes tits up, it won’t just be you who pays the price.”

I stand. “Good talk, Tomas.”

He grins. “Go ruin her for any other poor bastard who dares look at her.”

“I’ll fuck her so deep, she’ll taste me every time she swallows—long after I’ve salted the earth with the blood of any bastard who so much as breathes in her direction,” I mutter.

Tomas actually barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sick, depraved bastard.”

I roll my shoulders, muttering a curse as I head for the kitchen, his laughter following me down the hall like the smug prick he is.