Page 14 of Tempting the Fae Lord
“You, you want the baby?”
The temptation to roll my eyes comes and goes. “You did request my aid, did you not?”
“The town council has done so on my behalf, yes.”
“Then shall I take her off your hands?”
She hesitates, gaze darting between the crying infant and me. The reality of their request always frightens them when confronted. This scene has played out before me in a similar fashion many times over the years.
The young maid can’t bring herself to answer.
“I will not harm the child.”
She’s desperate to believe me—hope tangles with worry in her eyes. She doesn’t want to be saddled with this babe not of her creation. “You’ll care for her?”
“While she’s under my protection, yes. Then it’s my duty to find her a family that will love her as their own.”
She works to convince herself I’m telling the truth, but she can’t be sure. Rumors about me have persisted and grown teeth over the ages. She’s heard them. They all have.
Cursed vampire. Ravenous blood drinker. Baby thief.
“The decision is yours.” I keep my voice gentle, though I grow weary with this part.
She wrings her hands.
Meanwhile, the infant’s cries grow more persistent. “Have you anything to feed her?”
“I do.”
“Prepare it, then.” Fae babes with a dormant mother and no wet nurse require pap, a bland mixture of water, flour, and goat’s milk. That and a bit of my magic will do the child well.
This sparks life in the maid, who busies herself with the task while I return crib side. I stroke her red little cheek and wish her goodwill, which settles her until the pap arrives. “Shall I?”
The maid hands over the clay bottle, and I offer it to the babe. She quiets and sups.
“Will she have a wet nurse with you?”
“Better. She will have a mother on the other side.”
She shifts from one foot to the other. “Then take her.”
And that is permission granted. I swaddle the wee thing in a woolen blanket and scoop her into my arms. “Worry not. She will be safe.”
I leave without looking back. Another little soul destined to be an earth-side changeling. I wonder what her name will be.
When I return,it’s near to sunrise and freezing out, as it almost always is in the northernmost lands of my bloodline.
As I swoop down to land, I spot a suspiciously Gale-sized lump tucked tight in brown wool, a shock of messy curls peaking over the top. What in the flesh flies is he doing outside in this weather?
My feet land upon the icy steps silently. I close my wings and glamour them away, then kneel to get a closer look.
Gale is slumped sideways, fast asleep, cloak pulled tightly around him, propped against the decorative stones of the front entryway. His lips are a bit blue, not alarmingly so, but not the healthy pink I’m used to either.
Silly, feckless mortal, courting death at every turn.
I take the liberty of brushing his soft hair behind the shell of his ear before grasping his shoulder to nudge him awake.
He mumbles and curls tighter in on himself.
