Page 98 of The Exorcism of Faeries

“Em, sort of a strange book. I think it belonged to your mother.”

Sonder sat forward in his chair. “What kind of book?”

“A collection of fairytales.Into the Faerie Wood.”

Sonder’s face contorted. “But my mother lost that book when I was a baby. She complained about it all the time. Where did you find it?”

To lie or not to lie? Atta settled on a variation of the truth. “In the Hawthorn Grove.”

Sonder’s brows rose. “Tell me you didn’t go out there alone at night.”

Affronted and afraid, Atta started. “It’s just a grove of trees.” Wasn’t it?

“What of the foxes? The stags? It’s not safe alone at night.”

She needed to start the day over. Her belly was on fire or ice, she couldn’t tell which, her blooditchy. “We have a lot to do before we go to our next exorcism. I need to catch you up on my work from last night.”

Sonder studied her face for a long moment, but Atta refused to flinch, refused to look away. “All right,” he finally said and rose. “What’s that on your cheek?” He came forward and swiped at it softly with his thumb. “Dirt?”

She’d forgotten in her dizziness to bathe. Atta tugged at the long sleeve covering the bite and scratch marks. “I might need a bath.”

The concern in his eyes set a guilt in her heart. “I’ll come with you.” Her brows rose and he chuckled. “Not like that. I’ll bring what we need to work on and we can discuss it while you bathe. You look as if you could use a long, comforting soak.”

Tears welled in her eyes at his thoughtfulness and her desire not to be alone. “I’d like that.”

When she made it to the master bathroom with fresh clothing andInto the Faerie Wood, Sonder had the water running, the bath nearly overflowing with bubbles.

“I might have over-poured.” He shrugged apologetically and gestured to the tub. “It’s all yours. I’ll go grab a stool.”

The water was deliciously warm, stinging her cuts and soothing her sore muscles from her fall. Sonder returned with a stool just the right size to put him at eye level with her. He sat, one leg crossed over the other, elbows on his knee, and flipped openInto the Faerie Wood.

As he read her fairytales, Atta closed her eyes, pressing her neck against the lip of the tub, and let his voice drown out her fears, keeping her arm hidden beneath the bubbles.

Atta

The next exorcism was gruesome.

A Stage 3 headed straight for Stage 4.

Jesus. His eyes.

“His eyes,” Sonder echoed her thought. “Hornets.”

“Vulture Hornets,” she breathed out, but there was no such insect in Ireland. They were devouring his eyes, burrowing their way in while the poor man was still breathing, scavenging on the soft tissue as the man lay unconscious.

Sonder lifted his mask and withdrew a vial.

“Be careful,” Atta warned when he reached out a gloved hand and plucked one of the hornets from Mr Whelan’s eye socket with tweezers. It wriggled and buzzed between the metal prongs holding it captive, and Atta leaned in to inspect it. “It’s almost iridescent,” she mused.

“Is it from there, do you think? The Faerie Wood?”

They exchanged a look before their attention was pulled back to the patient regaining consciousness. Atta jumped to his side as Sonder stowed away the hornet. She slipped her hand under the bedsheet, grasping onto the man’s ankle. Her head fell back, and she just caught sight of Sonder jumping to her side to hold her up before her knees buckled and her eyes rolled back into her skull.

Atta was instantly in the Faerie Wood. Lush, magnificent, wild. There was an ornate looking glass danging from a willow tree and in it, Atta saw a man. Mr Whelan, young, whole and smiling, his little brother by his side. They sat beside a babbling brook, their trouser legs pulled up to their knees, feet in the cool water and fishing poles in their hands. Mr Whelan took a bite of apple, catching his brother looking at it longingly. He smiled at the lad and relinquished the entire thing to him without fuss.

Atta’s heart warmed at this fraternal show of love. But the scene was interrupted by an infernal buzzing. She only had time to register the sound before the hornets were on the younger brother, drawn in by the sweet, crisp scent of the apple. They attacked with a vengeance until Mr Whelan yanked the apple away, shoved it between his teeth and pushed his little brother into the water. The hornets immediately turned on him. Young Mr Whelan threw the apple as far into the woodlands as he could, then dove into the water to haul his brother out. There on the muddy bank, he rocked him, smoothing down his wet, downy hair.

The scene faded, turning to Mr Whelan and his brother as they were now, older but still inseparable, the younger trying to feed the prone Inhabited man soup, his hands trembling, his eyes watery. “Please, Brother. Please eat. You have to.”

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