Rosemary and Rue

The Luidaeg pushed past, heading for the kitchen. “By the root and fucking branch, pick that thing up. It’ll start squalling like a baby if you don’t.”


I knelt, scooping the goblin into my arms. It made a cheeping noise and subsided, clinging. “How did you . . . ?”

“I’ve dealt with the little bastards before. They were an accident on the part of a niece of mine.” She reappeared in the kitchen door, a Diet Coke in one hand. “They’re all predictable—goblins and Oberon’s bastards. What do you want?”

“What?” I wasn’t keeping up. This whole thing had me off my guard.

“Want. What do you want? I mean, I’ve been expecting you, I just didn’t expect to see you so soon.” She popped the can open and took a swig. “It’s cool if you don’t want to say. I just hope you like my company, since we’re stuck here until you spill it.”

“How do you know I want something? Maybe I’m here because I’m grateful for the way you saved my life.” That was dangerously close to saying thank you—but she’d thanked me earlier. Maybe she was old enough that the restrictions didn’t apply.

Her laugh was bitter. “Like hell. The last time one of you thin-blooded bastards was grateful, I wound up getting chased halfway across the Summerlands by jerks with torches who said I’d enchanted the kid to make him serve me. I don’t need that shit. I don’t look for gratitude, and I don’t get it. If you’re here, you want something. What is it?”

The goblin in my arms whined. I resisted the urge to do the same. She laughed again. “Let me guess. I’m not what you were expecting, am I?”

“You’re a little more normal than I thought you’d be,” I admitted. I don’t lie to the Queen. Somehow, I thought the Luidaeg deserved the same courtesy.

“Of course I am.” She walked toward me until we were nearly nose-to-nose. “You came here looking for a monster, right? Well, I hate to disappoint. You’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you?” I nodded, and she smirked. “You’re more like your mama than she wanted you to be, and I bet you can roll the balance of the blood on your tongue like wine. Well, go ahead, baby doll. Give me a taste.”

Her eyes widened to fill the world, pupils expanding into endless darkness. Almost against my will I did as she commanded, looking deep to see what she was and what roads her blood had traveled. Deep, so deep . . .

. . . water and fire, blood and burning. She and her sisters were goddesses then, she and Black Annis and Gentle Annie, tending the younger children, roaming the bogs and rivers of the world. Maeve’s Firstborn, pulled from her in blood and screaming while Oberon walked far, far away. But they died one by one at the hands of men and fae, by iron and ash and rowan and fire they died, until the Luidaeg was the last, running, always running, called monster and demon because her blood was so much older and wilder than their own . . .

I ripped myself free of her eyes with a gasp, staggering backward. A final thought lashed across my vision, burning: . . . did we lose it all for the roses? Oh, Mother, you fool . . .

My grip tightened on the goblin, and it hissed, raising its thorns just enough to prick my skin. Shuddering, I forced myself to calm down and relax my hold, still staring at the Luidaeg.

She looked at me, one brow arched. “Well?” she asked. “Know what I am yet?”

“I . . . you . . .” The answer was there, written in blood and ashes and Maeve’s despairing cries as she knelt on the graves of her daughters.The legends said the Luidaeg was a monster. They hadn’t warned me about why.