and no matter how many times his mother told him, he couldn’t stay away. Knocks couldn’t help himself. He skulked near the pair as they hunted rabbits out on the outer fringes of the kingdom. And when he heard them talk of the night’s plans, he giggled silently, giddy at the prospect. Ewan would be given the chance to prove himself in front of a pack of watching adults. Knocks could not let an opening like that pass without incident.
It would be glorious. He would humiliate him, lay in wait for just the right moment to spring a trap that would prove once and for all that while Ewan was the prettier, Knocks was by far the craftier, the more dedicated, the most worthy of celebration. Ewan might be the shining star of the day, but the night belonged to Knocks. And as he thought about his chance, a familiar fire sparked, smoldered, and finally blazed within his belly. Tonight he would satisfy that blaze; tonight Knocks would feel the last of the lingering pity that belittled him in front of the others. Tonight.
There was only one way it could be any better.
Mallaidh.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
COURTING YOUNG MALLAIDH
At eight years of age, Mallaidh (pronounced Molly), had endeared herself to the whole of the fairy court through her hoydenish charm and unearthly grace. Her eyes were pools of childhood; the golden wisps of her hair were ever in motion, always caught in some light breeze, even when there was no wind, glinting, even when there was no sun; and she had a way of wrinkling her nose just so as to make the freckles across the bridge of it dance. She was delightful. Were she not preceded by her own mother, the title of “fairest of them all” would have been hers.
Not that she cared; had she concerned herself with such things, she would not have been half as captivating. Instead she had this way about her that never included attending to her own looks or fashion; rather, she appeared desperately in love with whomever and whatever she was with at the time. Her moods were infectious. Blithe and untamed, she was a free spirit, untethered from routine or convention. Hers was an essence that pined for adventure and longed for a life sprinkled with magic.
A life like her mother’s.
Cassidy Crane (a surname she’d picked up in the hole-in-the-wall bars of the Austin club scene) was something of a legend. A slender, raven-haired punk-rock goddess, she was a demure boot-wearing, butt-kicking beauty with specially inked tattoos that, if you looked closely enough, you could watch move and change color with her mood. She didn’t tolerate lovesick fools and was always at the hip of the brightest and the best up-and-coming talent. Artists, musicians, and writers all found time with Cassidy—if they had the gift. But it wasn’t until her steadiest beau—an incredibly talented actor—overdosed and died in her arms that she secured her immortality: Mallaidh. That name was the last thing Cassidy left her daughter before vanishing back into the ether of the rock scene.
When Cassidy walked the foothills and trails of the Limestone Kingdom, she ruled the roost—so when she left the swaddling-wrapped Mallaidh at the foot of Meinrad’s cave, it was thought by all that her daughter would follow in her footsteps. Thus far, she had. Mallaidh was the highlight of the hills, the glowing talk of whomever she graced with her time.
And to Nixie Knocks the Changeling, she was the center of the very universe.
Mallaidh was neither unusually cruel nor given to any sort of boorishness, so whenever Knocks came around to call there was no reason to be unduly rude. She flirted; it was in her nature. Her eyes grew big and brown and she smiled in a way that dislodged his stomach from its moorings, sinking it a solid foot. He had no choice but to fall madly, deeply in love with her. Though she did not return his affection, she did enjoy the attention, and she devoured it when—time and again—he would pay her a visit in the vain hope that she might see him differently once and for all. Times like today.
“Hello, Mallaidh,” he said, his eyes making indirect contact while his foot nervously drew semicircles in the dirt. His arm was concealed poorly behind him, fresh-picked, dying wildflowers clutched hopefully in his grimy little fingers. He was eager, nervous, unsure of himself. As far as Mallaidh knew, this was his natural state. His upturned cockeye