Spark of Chaos (Spark of Chaos #1)

Chapter 9

Oenghus and Isiilde left for home the next day. Her stomach was still unsettled, and she swore off chocolates for the rest of her life.

Despite the poor roads, they made good time with their empty wagon. Although the dreary landscape went by at a swifter pace, the journey seemed much longer, because she half expected to find Marsais lying unconscious in a ditch, or worse, dead. Bandits were always a threat.

To distract herself from worry, she told Oenghus about her day at the festival. But she was utterly unprepared for her guardian's reaction.

"You will not have lunch with that swine." Oenghus bit the words out with barely restrained fury.

"Coyle's not a swine—he's a man," she pointed out.

"Exactly!"

"I thought you liked Coyle?"

"Aye, until I find out he had the gall to ask you for lunch."

"And what's the matter with that?" Isiilde demanded, leaning to the side, distancing herself from him on the cramped wagon seat. "Why can't I have friends?"

"It's not friendship that's on his mind. Trust me," he grumbled, tugging on his beard in irritation.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm a bloody man. I forbid you from seeing him."

Her chin tilted proudly. "I will see him if I like."

"You will not, Isiilde Jaal'Yasine. I'm your guardian, and you'll do as I say." It was never a good sign when he used her full name. "I'm dead well serious. If I catch you near that lad, I'll make him wish he never looked at you. I won't hear another word against it."

Isiilde bristled at his ultimatum. She turned away from Oenghus, staring straight ahead in tight-lipped fury. If he didn't want her talking back, then she wouldn't talk at all.

The silence deepened, with only the creak of the wagon and the ocean breeze to interrupt the chasm between them. They passed three lonely cottages before Oenghus finally took a deep, calming breath.

"Look, Isiilde, you can't go fooling around with the lads. I gave an oath to the emperor to keep your honor intact. If you go fooling around, it's not just my head on a block—you'll be sold first chance. And it might not be to one of the larger kingdoms."

It didn't matter which kingdom bought her. She'd still be sold as a slave.

"I just want to have lunch with him. I don't want to... bed him. Am I not allowed to have friends?"

"Not if they piss standin' up," he replied. "And don't think I haven't noticed you eyeing him up at the forge, so don't talk to me about friendship. I don't catch you staring at the other lads like that."

Isiilde stared at Oenghus in confusion. She looked at Coyle because he was nice to look at; she hadn't thought of anything beyond that. But it was pointless to argue. She'd have better luck arguing with a rock.

"You can't see him again." His final words echoed like the trapdoor of a gallows.

Isiilde bit her lip in frustration. And despite his attempts to coerce her into conversation, she kept her eyes firmly ahead. He finally gave up trying to make amends, and they spent the rest of the journey ignoring each other.

Isiilde struggled to make sense of his anger. She'd tried to make friends with other women, but for some odd reason, flaming sneezes unnerved them. It didn't help that she was the youngest apprentice on the Isle. Even Zianna, for all her pettiness, was double her age.

Most men just gawked at her. They rarely uttered a word in greeting. And the few Wise Ones who actually conversed with her were usually peppering her with questions, trying to dissect every detail of her life for research.

Coyle was different, though. He talked with her like another human—not a big-eared faerie of a lesser species who only belonged in a bedchamber.

When Oenghus pulled the horses to a stop in front of their cottage, Isiilde climbed off the wagon seat and stormed into the house, slamming the door in defiance.

Mousebane cracked open an irritated eye from the bed. The hearth was cold, but she didn't care. She slipped out of her clothes, tugged on warm leggings and a nightgown, and crawled beneath the covers. The cat flicked its ears, but forgave her, slinking under the covers to settle against her body.

Humans made absolutely no sense. She wished Marsais was here. But he wasn't, so she wallowed under the covers in misery.

Sometime later, Oenghus brought her a warm dinner and started the fire, chasing back the creeping chill. It promised to be another frigid night.

"I'm sorry, Sprite." He settled on the edge of her bed. "I know it's not fair, but such is life."

"I don't understand why you won't let me see him. Coyle isn't like the others—he's kind." Her voice was muffled by a cocoon of feathers.

"Because he's a man and you're a nymph. Even if you were free to do what you want, it wouldn't be a good idea." Oenghus sighed. "Believe it or not, this is for your own protection."

"Yes, Marsais explained it to me. Nymphs are intoxicating to human males. We're like a drug. It's not my fault they can't bloody well control themselves."

Oenghus grunted. "Not just with nymphs. Though I get drunk all the time and I don't go around attacking women."

"Then why do others?"

"Some people believe they have the right to do whatever they wish. Especially to people they consider beneath them."

"Coyle isn't like that."

"Maybe not," he admitted. "But I'm trying to protect you. I've seen good men—" He cut off, his voice raw. She peeked from under her blanket. His hands were curled into fists, knuckles white. "I'm not doing this to be cruel. Just trust me, all right?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?" she growled.

Oenghus looked at her with so much grief in his eyes that her heart ached. "I'm sorry. But I swore an oath." He stood abruptly, and left.

* * *

Isiilde awoke before midday. A warm ball of purring fur snuggled against her aching stomach. The heat felt good. But an uncomfortable wetness intruded.

It wouldn't be the first time Mousebane had fallen into a trough, then crawled into her bed.

She lifted the covers, preparing to scold the cat; instead, her breath caught in her throat. Blood stained her nightgown and sheets.

Her heart raced.

Had Mousebane brought in a mouse or gotten into a fight? Hope flared, then died when she checked herself over. She'd come of age. She'd be sold to a man who only wanted a nymph in his bed.

Isiilde fled the bed and stains that marked the end of her freedom. She paced from hearth to window, her panic increasing with every senseless footstep.

A desperate plan took shape. Isiilde shooed the cat off her bed and gathered the soiled bedclothes. Her plan was simple; she would not tell anyone. Caitlyn Whitehand wasn't due back for nearly another year, which was plenty of time to plan her escape—to leave everyone she loved.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. The walls closed in, slowly suffocating her beneath the thatched roof and cold stone. Her room seemed a cage.

The fire in the smoldering hearth answered her silent plea, surging towards her, as fiercely as a mother to her young, with a rush of air and sweet release.

The cottage shuddered with dread.

Time meandered as orange coils of heat swept slowly over the entranced nymph. Timber cracked and windows split. Flame filled her ears, stole her breath, and somewhere a cat screamed.

She felt strangely detached from her cold body.

Isiilde gazed from a high perch, watching the red flame devour her nightgown, licking at her naked flesh. Then the world shifted, and she fell off her perch. She looked down at her chest, where a jagged piece of timber protruded from her body.

A moment later, timbers groaned overhead; something crashed, toppled, and the cottage came tumbling down.