1
Heavy drumbeats cut through the silence as the great grass stalks whispered in the night. Lorcan jerked up his head, his tiny fingers wrapped around a rough bundle of wheat. The inky black of the sky shot a tremor of alarm through his gut. He’d been out in the stalks for hours, collecting wheat for Beltane. But while he’d been tolling away, Beltane had already begun.
The drumbeats grew louder as he stuffed the wheat into his barrel and lugged it onto his back. It was the call of the feast, the signal that the revelry had swept through his tiny village of Comharra, located on the southwestern coast of the Air Court. As a mere child of eleven, Lorcan had only seen bits and pieces of the true revels of Beltane. They could become quite wild affairs. Drinking, dancing, and many other a thing that his mother would never explain. He’d always been sent away before he could see it all.
“When you are a full grown fae,” she always said with a kind yet amused grin, her tawny eyes gleaming like the sun on a beautiful spring day. “Then, and only then, may you join Beltane.”
Of course, Lorcan and the other young fae in his village, like Dwynn and Lug, had never been outright banned from the festivities. They joined the main feasting portion of the evening and stayed to listen to bards and minstrels for several hours after. But when the twin moons hung at their highest points during the inkiest hours of the night, the children were promptly sent off to bed. He’d hoped this year would be different. Perhaps he was finally old enough to stay to the end.
Except now he was missing it all.
He hurried through the stalks, his small feet slapping the ground, rushing toward the drumbeats. But as his footsteps quickened so did the sound. The drums now seemed as though they were coming from behind Lorcan, rather than from the small village that glowed just ahead.
Frowning, he slowed to a stop and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Had he somehow gotten turned around? It seemed impossible. He knew these fields better than the constellations in the night sky—and he knew those far better than most. He had spent many a night on the thatched roof of his mother’s cottage, precariously balanced between two wooden beams while the dried, crackly grass sagged beneath him. Soon, he would be too heavy for the roof.
But nonetheless, Lorcan liked to gaze at the twinkling tapestry above him, wondering if he would ever meet the other fae just like him. They were out there, somewhere. Unwanted bastards. Experiments of his father, ones that had failed.
His mother loved him, of course, but Lorcan had always wondered about his father and how he felt about his bastard son, the one he’d never attempted to meet. Lord Bolg Rothach, now the king of the shadow fae. Lorcan had inherited his fae characteristics from him, instead of from his mother, like most fae. Lorcan often felt the whisper of shadows pulse along his skin, and with his thick, dark as night hair, he looked nothing like the sun-kissed air fae of his village.
The drumbeats grew louder as Lorcan gazed into the rustling stalks. A steady wind blew his hair back from his forehead. There was always a wind in the Air Court. It made him shiver in the night.
Lorcan could not see a thing, though he could hear them as surely as he could hear the heavy thudding of his own heart. Hooves pounded dirt; feral roars rumbled like thunder in the sky. Fear sliced through his gut like a butcher’s knife.
He knew who it was far before he saw them. The winged Fomorians from across the impassable sea, out on their yearly Wild Hunt. Legends, myths, folk tales and nothing more. Lorcan had never truly believed they existed, no matter how many times his mother had tried to warn him about them.
No one had ever actually seen a Fomorian. No one that lived.
But they came now in a rush of hooves, steel, and wings, looming from the darkness. Lorcan stumbled back, eyes wide, as they rushed toward him. There were at least a dozen Fomorians charging his way, their muscular arms, banded in gold, outstretched with gleaming golden swords. Black wings tipped in gold rippled behind them as they clung tight to their galloping horses, their shadow-kissed hair melting into the darkness of the night. Their sharply-pointed ears were like daggers, and they were naked but for the thin golden trousers clinging tightly to their muscular legs.
Lorcan was in awe of them. He had never before seen anything more powerful in his life.
But they were coming right for him, murder glinting in their eyes.
He let out a shriek and ran. His tiny legs moved as fast as he could manage, his arms pumping by his sides. The hooves still beat the ground, driving him ever forward. Heart trembling, he weaved through the stalks, desperately hoping they would lose sight of him.
His bare foot slammed into a rock, and he fell face-first in the dirt. Trembling, he flipped onto his back and scrabbled back. The Fomorians had slowed to a stop only a short distance away. They all gazed at him impassively.
“See?” one asked another in a deep voice that sounded like a melody. They were both far taller than any male Lorcan had ever met, and their wings were twice as big as he. “There is something in his aura. He could be the one we need.”
“Then, we should take him,” the other growled, whipping a long, golden staff from behind his back.
Lorcan whimpered.
“No, we cannot interrupt his path. If he is the one, then we cannot intervene.”
“I don’t like this,” another joined in as he edged his horse toward the others, his long, teal hair trailing down his muscular back. “He could just as easily be the Namhaid.”
“Look at him.” The first gestured Lorcan’s way. “Look at his aura. He is not the Namhaid. We must let him live.”
They began to grumble amongst themselves. Lorcan did not dare wait around any longer to see what they decided. He didn’t understand what they were talking about, and beyond that, only half of them seemed inclined to let him live.
He had to get back to the village. His mother would keep him safe. She would know what to do.
Lorcan crept back into the stalks, desperately wishing and praying to the Dagda that the Fomorians would not spot him leave. Something tickled his bare arms as he scuttled backward. The wheat, no doubt. But when he glanced down at his arms, he saw nothing but shadows pulsing around a strange, empty darkness. He could no longer see his own skin.
He swallowed down another shriek, scuttling further backward. The shadows followed every move he made.
His heart roared in his ears. What was happening? Was this some terrible kind of magic only the Fomorians could wield?
But no, they were still wrapped up in their bickering. Not a single one glanced his way.
He would have to worry about it later. It was not hurting him, at least. For now, he needed to run.
Lorcan sprang to his feet and whirled away from the Fomorians. He lurched through the grass, kicking up dirt with his bare feet. Terror stormed through him. With every step he took, he feared he would be shot down at once. They wouldn’t let him get far. Despite whatever strange magic swirled around him, they would see through it.
They were Fomorians, after all. Powerful, strange creatures not far different than the fae. Larger and more terrifying. And they had never experienced the Fall. They still held on to their magic, every last drop.
Lorcan ran through the night, not even daring to glance over his shoulder. He just ran, breathing in the scent of wheat and burnt air. As he approached the village, the sky flickered with an orange red that turned his gut. Sparks shot into the air like a thousand summer fireflies.