Ian Doyle ruled over the Black Shamrock much the way he ruled over the village: with an iron fist. It was just an unspoken truth in the village that he was the one in charge and no one was all that keen on challenging him.
It was rather unusual for a member of the Fae to amass such power, but Ian simply wasn't like other Faeries. The myth and the truth of his rise to power had become tangled and interwoven until it was no longer clear which was which, but the one thing that everyone could agree upon was that no one who crossed him lived to tell about it...
Unfortunately, their world was a very small place and word travelled quickly between villages which meant that his reputation preceded him and people willing to challenge him were few and far between. His life had quickly become dull, the only thrill remaining that of hunting rare and mythical creatures to mount upon his wall.
It was late in the evening, but the tavern was packed with villagers as it often was. Ian sat with his back to the crowd, staring into the fireplace as if waiting for the flames to reveal some deep-seated truth to him. No one dared approach and interrupt his thoughtful fugue, lest they bring his ire down upon themselves.
The tavern was noisy with boisterous laughter and slurred drinking songs when suddenly a hush fell over the crowd. The only sound was the distinctive clicking of heels across the wooden floorboards as the cloaked newcomer approached Ian. The patrons seemed to be waiting with bated breath to see what he would do to the intruder.
He didn't need to turn around to know who had come. "Your Majesty," he greeted as the footsteps came to a stop next to his wingbacked chair. "How very kind of you to deign us with your presence..." His tone was full of sarcasm as he gestured for her to sit in the chair across from him.
For a moment, the Queen studied the chair with disdain on her face as if it had personally wronged her. Eventually, she dusted off the cushion with one lace gloved hand before positioning herself on the very edge of the seat.
Ian watched her obvious discomfort and disgust with mirth playing about his lips. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable back at your palace," he suggested airily, "I have always wanted an invitation..."
The Queen's expression was unamused. "Your kind isn't welcome at the Palace," she said matter-of-factly. Whether she meant Faeries or just him in particular was unclear. "And what I wish to discuss is better suited to your...rustic locale." She said the words like she'd had to invent an entirely new descriptor to express how extremely unpalatable she found his tavern.
"Then, by all means, continue," he said with a sweeping gesture of his hands.
"Thank you," Elizabeth replied, though she appeared none too pleased with his lack of deference. "I'd very much like to get as far from here as quickly as possible."
"FAHEY!" Ian barked across the tavern before she could continue. "Get the lady an ale!"
Elizabeth's brows furrowed in consternation as Ian's lackey plunked two pints of ale down on the table between them with enough force to slosh the liquid over the sides of the mugs.
"Cheers," Ian declared, taking a greedy swig of his ale.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "If the layer of filth covering every surface in sight is any sort of indictment, I have no intention of inviting upon myself some kind of peasant ailment," she said, pushing the pint away from her as if it might bite.
"Careful," Ian warned, "Or I might think you've come to pass judgement and I tend not to help those who look down their nose at me..." He leaned back in his chair, resting his feet upon the table, his arms coming to rest behind his head as he waited expectantly.
Elizabeth pulled from her gown's pocket a black velvet bag, tossing it to Ian who nearly lost his balance as he snatched it out of the air, the distinctive tinkling of coins ringing out as he caught it.
"What's this?" he asked, weighing the bag in his hand.
"Consider it an advance," the Queen said. "Half now, half upon delivery."
"And what exactly is it I'll be delivering?" he enquired.
"The head of the Beast."
His brows shot up his forehead. "Would this be the Beast that kidnapped your daughter?"
"She wasn't kidnapped," she corrected with a roll of her eyes, "She went willingly in exchange for the freedom of my fool of a husband..."
"So, what's the problem?" he asked, pocketing the coins. "She's happy and you're finally rid of her as you've always wanted."
She narrowed her eyes and said, tone warning, "I suggest it's you that had best watch your tongue – I am, afterall, your regent and I can have you hanged should it please me."
"Aye, your highness," he said, voice once again dripping with sarcasm.
"I fear she's started to develop feelings for the Beast..." she continued, well aware he was being disingenuous, but still in need of his help.
A sly grin crossed his lips then. "There are other much more pleasurable ways for me to rescue your daughter..."
Ian was a Gancanagh – unlike other Fae, he could produce a toxin in his skin that made him irresistible to any woman upon which he set his sights, making her little more than a puppet in his hands to do with as he pleased until such a time as he grew tired of her. He hadn't ensnared a woman in years, though, as he'd grown tired of getting everything he wanted so easily. But Emily, though... He liked a challenge and Emily was more strong-willed, more tenacious, more independent than any Princess he'd yet heard of. And, if she'd already started to fall for someone else...all the sweeter the victory.
"Don't be a fool," Elizabeth snapped. "I won't have you tarnishing her reputation with your abilities. Simply kill the Beast."