. 05

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Author's note

Part Eight picks up where Part Seven left off, in Spring. It is not necessary for you to have read the first six parts of the story, but this may be hard to follow if you haven't read Part Seven.

This is primarily an incest story, but it is also sci-fi/fantasy, and supernatural elements are not incidental to the plot. Additionally, many chapters will feature elements of other categories, particularly group sex and anal.

All sexual acts are consensual and involve parties who are at least eighteen years of age.

As ever, if you have questions feel free to email me or leave a comment. Either way, I'll try to respond in a timely manner.

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The bed of grass didn't look comfortable enough. Cahill channeled some energy into the ground, spurring the growth of some additional vegetation. He was tempted to conjure up a proper bed, but he knew that his grandmother would prefer to feel the forest beneath her. The fey lost all interest in mortal furnishings shortly after leaving the Dreaming.

"When she wakes up," his mother said from over his shoulder, "she'll have needs."

"I know," Cahill said.

She wasn't referring to anything as mundane as food and water, though his grandmother would need those things as well. But Caronwyn obviously wasn't crazy about what her son would have to do, though didn't she want him to think she was anything but fully supportive of him doing so. In short, he was walking through a conversational minefield.

"You'll see to them," she added, unnecessarily.

"Of course," he said without so much as looking at her.

He wanted to. Wanted to look her in the eyes and tell her that it was okay. That he understood both how she felt and that she wished she didn't feel that way. But if he did, he'd only prove to her that she'd done a poor job of hiding her emotions. Give her the impression that he thought she was being jealous. Which, of course, she was, though no more so than anyone in her position would be.

On the other hand, his refusal to make eye contact coupled with his monosyllabic responses just might do the trick anyway. He wished he knew what she wanted from him.

A soft touch on his shoulder almost made him reconsider. Almost.

Her Libido appeared to be as still as a frozen pond, though he very much doubted that it was. She hadn't quite taught him everything she knew about illusions and glamour, but she'd taught him enough to know not to trust his senses. To know that he might not be seeing anything more than that which she wanted him to see. And if that was the case, there'd be no sense in offering the comfort she didn't want him to think she needed.

So he kept his focus on the woman lying on the bed of moss beneath him. Aeife Walker, former Queen of Faerie, and the only woman alive feared by the current queen.

How could anyone fear this woman? Or feel

anything

negative towards her?

She looked like...a grandmother. Not old and wrinkly, of course. This wasn't the Dreaming. No, like all the fey, she was young and beautiful, and would forever be. But if anyone had ever asked Cahill what he thought a grandmother should look like here in Faerie, he'd have described someone very much like her.

Titania was technically also his grandmother, but she fit his mental image of one about as well as his freaking father did. And since Faerie society was matrilineal, she'd not claim him as her grandson either.

The woman lying before him was everything Titania was not. Where the queen was slight, colorful, energetic, and whimsical in the extreme, Aeife embodied a simplistic elegance and a profound serenity. Her mere presence filled him with calm, and he didn't think that was just because of her current state. It was almost as though she'd wrapped herself in a soothing glamour, though he doubted anything so deliberate was involved. Now that he thought about it, there was a similar air about Titania. But it was the polar opposite. No man could stand before the Faerie Queen without feeling agitated.

If Titania was the inspiration for Hollywood's Manic Pixie Dream Girl character type, and she probably was, her onetime replacement was likely the reason people believed in fairy godmothers. His paternal grandmother was the sort of fey who pranced through the woods looking for men she could lure into chasing her, while his maternal one had no doubt often appeared to men in their hour of need.

"What's she like?" Cahill asked his mother.

She didn't reply at first. "You'll enjoy yourself, I should think."

"That's not what I meant," he said, turning to look over his shoulder at her.

Words could not describe how beautiful his red goddess was. Everything about her was perfect, from her porcelain skin to her pouty lips, her brown eyes and her button nose, her lustrous hair and her voluptuous figure. No woman could ever rival her. Not her mother, nor her daughters, nor anyone else. Didn't she realize that?

Apparently not.

She hid it well, but there was pain writ subtly upon that gorgeous face, and he was the cause of it. That cut him to the bone.

Without rising from his knees, he took her hand in his. A trickle of energy passed through his palm into hers. Not much, though. Just enough to soothe her nerves. To tell her that he cared. That he wanted her to be at ease. If that came across as an accusation, so be it. He had to at least try. He couldn't bear knowing that she was suffering, even a little.

A smile spread across her lips. "Sorry, baby," she said. "Pretend I didn't say that."

"Done," he replied.

"To answer your question, she's...everything I hope to one day be."

Cahill almost told his mother that she had no need to look to another woman as a role model. But he thought better of it. She'd not want her son to think that she'd been fishing for compliments any more than she'd want him to know that she was uncomfortable with what was about to happen. Besides, he suspected that she didn't

really

envy her mother as much as her words implied. No, she was just trying to be gracious.

He nodded, because that was all that needed to be said.

A gentle moan drifted up from the ground.

"Be good to her," she said. Then she laid a hand on his chest, smiled, and departed.

A mix of emotions swept over Cahill. Sadness, he always felt when seeing her go. But he also felt something close to contentment. Caronwyn had left him with a smile, after all, and there was nothing in all the world quite like her smile. With a little twitch of her lips, she could kill pain, melt glaciers, and bring peace to warring nations.

"Caron?" a voice squeaked. "Is that you?"

Cahill turned back around to see his grandmother trying to push herself up off the grass.

"She just left, Grandma," he said helping her to sit up. One hand on her back, he offered her the other. She grabbed it with both of hers, her grip weak.

Green eyes blinked at him. "Gallech? Or Seamus?"

"Third time's the charm," he said with a grin.

"Cahill? You've finally come home?"

"I have," he said.

"Well how about that," she replied, sounding a little more vivacious. "I finally get to meet you, and I'm an absolute mess," she added. "Don't take this wrong way, kiddo, but your timing leaves something to be desired."

It wasn't that she needed to make a good impression on him. There was no concern for herself in those words. Rather, she felt bad for making him suffer the indignity of seeing his grandmother in her present state. Because of course she did. Had he worried about how she might feel? What nonsense. Who would let a little thing like several years of torture get them down? The important thing was that she not disappoint her grandson.

"You're absolutely beautiful," he told her.

And she was.

He could have just as easily been referring to her inner beauty. But he wasn't. It was her outward appearance she was worried about, and her outward appearance he was complimenting. Sure, her raven tresses resembled a bird's nest at the moment, and a bruise she hadn't yet had a chance to heal marred one of her cheeks. None of the glamours fey women wore in lieu of makeup darkened her lips or accentuated her eyes. And though she probably looked lovely in white, the stains on her dress made for an awful sight. But none of that mattered. Cahill was still stunned by his grandmother's beauty.

Cahill could picture exactly what she'd look like at her most glamorous, because he'd seen pieces of it countless times in her progeny. She was, unquestionably, the source of their good looks. That thick black hair had been passed on to Oona and Brittany. Her eyes were the same forest green as Fiona's. The shape of her face was both distinctive and familiar since all the Walker women had delicate chins, cute little button noses, and soft cheekbones. Her full lips had the slightest little cupid's bow to them, like Caronwyn's. Titania and her brood tended to have blonde hair, sharp, pointy features, and very pronounced cupid's bows.

"You're a flatterer, aren't you?" his grandmother said.

Her bruise cleared up and her long hair straightened out, forming perfect dark curtains around her lovely face. Her lips turned dark red and she acquired the smokey eyes that had started driving everyone crazy in the Dreaming. The blood-stains disappeared from her dress, which grew a few sizes too tight and acquired a rather immodest neckline. Then she began to glow, emitting a soft white light. Finally, a pair of diaphanous wings shot through with silver and metallic green sprouted from her back.

Cahill took quick note of his grandmother's epic cleavage before forcing his eyes to climb upward. He didn't think he'd ever seen a pair of breasts that big.

"Tell me you haven't got the music," she added in a tone that suggested she already knew that she wasn't going to like the answer to that question.

Cahill almost laughed. He managed to stop himself from doing so, but he gave no other response either. His fey nature prevented him from offering the only one she sought.

"Oh, dear," his grandmother said. "Musicians are trouble, with or without the gifts of the fey." A wistful smile spread across her face. "Though they do make the

best

lovers."

He cleared his throat.

"No need to be shy about it," she said, pressing a soft palm to his cheek. "Your great-grandfather had the music. So did two of his five children. It's in our blood."

Strange. He'd assumed he'd gotten it from his father. One of Arawn's titles was the Piper of Dawn, after all. He'd styled himself after the Greek god Pan. Or perhaps Pan was the name by which the Greeks knew his father. Cahill wasn't even sure.

One time, Cahill had tried to piece together a time-line. To make sense of the tales he'd learned growing up. He'd failed miserably. Some of humanity's oldest beliefs about the fey could be traced back to figures who'd dwelled in Faerie for as long as anyone here could remember, but in other cases the obvious inspiration had only arrived on the scene relatively recently. And though much of what he'd been taught as a child had at least a grain of truth to it, some of it was just flat-out wrong.

"The horned god," his grandmother whispered to herself. She had the cutest voice, as high-pitched as Oona's had been. Only it sounded better coming from her. Which was strange, because it also sounded off. A woman as experienced and wise as Aeife should have a deeper voice, like Fiona's. Only little girls and grown women who behaved like little girls spoke with so high a pitch. Or so he'd thought. "We were afraid you might never wake up, you know. How long have you been with us?"

"Not long enough," he said.

Aeife smiled at that. "How'd she finally get through to you?"

The simple answer was that she hadn't. One of Titania's daughters had. But even Caronwyn didn't know that, or much of anything else about his relationship with Liadan. He certainly wasn't about to tell his grandmother.

"Nevermind," Aeife said. "We can talk about that later." She put her hands on the soft ground beside her and pushed. Nothing happened. "Be a sweetie and help me up," she said. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

Cahill laughed as he pulled his grandmother to her feet. Then he handed her a skin of water and a heel of bread.

"Thank you," she said, accepting his offering.

Considering how long she'd been deprived of basic necessities, she showed considerable restraint. He'd expected her to drain the skin in one gulp and then tear into the bread. Instead, she took a few small sips from the skin before ripping a chunk of bread off and taking the tiniest bite out of it.

After she finished chewing, she let the bread and water fade away. Then she held an arm out for him to loop his through and said, "Walk with me."

That hadn't been quite what he'd expected to come next, but Cahill was happy to oblige. He made himself a little shorter then slipped his arm between hers and her body.

"How did your mother defeat her?" Aeife asked as they set down the nearest path.

"She didn't," Cahill replied.

"Ah. You were her champion, then?"

He nodded.

"And the contest involved music?"

"It did," he said sheepishly, though he still wasn't quite sure why his gift was a bad thing. "But I don't think that's why I prevailed. Or, not the only reason. Seems you made something of an impression on Prince Oberon."

"What makes you say that?" she asked with a telling hint of amusement.

The forest grew denser and the canopy overhead allowed less light through. A mortal might have had trouble avoiding roots and stones, but his fey eyes adjusted quickly.

"Oh, nothing," Cahill said. "Just that he let me win."

"Did he now?" his grandmother asked. "Suppose he told you that himself?"

"Well, no," he replied. "But I'm still sure of it."

Aeife nodded as though there was no reason anyone would doubt his conclusion. As though she hadn't expressed a bit of skepticism herself only a few moments earlier.

"Oh, to have seen the look on her face," she mused.

"She...didn't take it well," Cahill said.

"I should think not."

His grandmother passed her hand through a large cobweb hanging before them. It turned to smoke, hanging in the air as they passed, then took form as a web again after they were on the other side. Cahill wondered who else would take care not to disturb any of Faerie's inhabitants, even a spider. Perhaps Fiona.

"I wonder who she'll give the Ruby Court to next. Has Liadan got one yet?"

"Sapphire," he confirmed. "You think she'll take it from him? Isn't he her favorite?"

His grandmother shrugged. "Titania hates me like no woman has ever hated anything."

"But why?" Cahill asked.

"Because I remind her that she's vulnerable."

That hardly sounded like a reason. "Aren't we all?"

"You're cute, you know that?" Aeife said. "You must have broken more hearts than a man can count, dwelling as long as you did in the Dreaming."

He'd rarely been the one to break things off, but she was probably right. He'd never thought of it that way back then. He'd been too busy seeing himself as the injured party. But it wasn't hard to see now, looking back, that they'd all been injured parties.

"Of course we are," his grandmother continued. "But spend enough time ruling over Faerie, your every word instantly obeyed by beings who are themselves still spoken of in awe by mortals, and you might start to forget that."

Didn't seem like something one

could

forget. Especially if one had been killed multiple times and lived to tell the tales. But she'd know the queen's mind better than him.

"So," he said, taking in the forest with a sweeping gesture, "everything as you remember?"

"More or less," she said. "Your mother's mark is clear, though."

"Meaning?"

She pointed a little ways off the trail, where a three-tailed fox emerged from a bush. It gave them a blank look then slowly padded over to a hole in the ground and proceeded to climb inside, all without any hurry.

"So?" Cahill asked.

The creatures of Faerie were strange. Some wore thick spectacles and plaid vests, others leather breeches or top hats. The birds weren't the only ones that flew, and extra tails were less common than third eyes. Many of them spoke perfect English. Often with British accents. Some sang and danced. Especially the bears. Dancing queens, the lot of them. Was she suggesting it had once been otherwise?

"Did he look friendly to you?" his grandmother asked.

"Oh, they're harmless," he replied.

"That's not what I asked."

True enough, but Cahill had no idea what she was getting at. That the creatures of Faerie quietly hoped for his mother's demise?

"Have you ever spoken to any of them?" Aeife asked.

Cahill shook his head. "Fiona has. She speaks to them all the time, though she rarely talks about it. The others have too, I think. But I haven't yet. They always act like they don't know what I'm saying, then go back to speaking to one another in plain English before I'm even out of earshot. One of these days, though, they'll warm up to me."

That last part came out almost as a question. But his grandmother said nothing to indicate that she doubted they would.

"Have you ever gotten lost?" she asked.

What did that have to do with anything?

"Of course," he said. This was Faerie after all. Even his mother got lost from time to time. No matter how much time one spent here, it was impossible to truly know the forest. But it was just as easy to get unlost. Though the lay of the land was always changing, certain configurations were more common than others. Wait long enough, and the path you thought you knew would appear again. "So?"

"So you'd characterize the forest and its inhabitants as somewhat less than warm and welcoming," she said, as though that said everything.

Cahill shrugged. "Are deserts lush or oceans dry?"

He sensed that he'd made her point for her somehow or other, but exactly

what

point that was, he hadn't the foggiest. All the old stories described Faerie as mysterious. Dangerous, even. Those it invited in, it often didn't release. At least not until the poor soul had gone mad or aged a hundred years. True, those tales referred to how Faerie treated mortals, not its own kind. But if there was anything about this place that didn't live up expectations, it wasn't the standoffish nature of its inhabitants and mercurial topography. That Faerie was divided into Emerald, Sapphire, and Ruby courts rather than Seelie and Unseelie, perhaps, but not that.

"Would you describe your mother as extroverted?" his grandmother asked. "Or does she maybe...tend to keep things to herself?"

It was like she was speaking to a child. "See that jug there that's lying on its side?" she might as well have said. "Could that have something to do with the spilled milk? Perhaps?"

But she had a point.

"She's always been more in tune with the mystical aspect of our nature," his grandmother continued. "The wild part, the one that links us most strongly to our furry brothers and sisters, has always been something of a mystery to her."

Since when did his mother have any interest in transcending her inner animal? Nothing turned her on more than getting a little wild. Granted, she didn't always transform. Sometimes, it was enough for her sons to do so. But she was hardly ill at ease with animality.

"Oh, it

appeals

to her," his grandmother said, as if reading his mind. "As it does all of us. But she doesn't understand it. In fact, she's tried her best to transcend it."

Cahill mulled that over.

For the longest time, his mother had kept her distance from him. Only later had he discovered that she'd been denying her urges. That by doing so, she'd hoped to give him a reason to commit more fully to Faerie. To leave the Dreaming behind. Badly as she'd wanted him, she'd known that he wanted her even more, and she'd dangled herself in front of him like a donkey's carrot. Forever just out of reach.