The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (6 page)

Derrick looks up from his mending. ‘What weapon are you making this time?’

I smile. ‘Oh, you’ll see. It’s going to be magnificent.’

When the
baobhan sìth
returns, I’ll be ready for her. I’ll make her regret all one hundred and eighty-four of her kills.

Chapter 7

T
he following night, I prepare for my hunt.

I dress myself in wool trousers and a white lawn shirt tucked in at the waist. My leather knife sheath is buckled and slung low across my hips. Boots reach to mid-calf, laced all the way up and secured with three buckles. I tuck my trousers into the boots to prevent them from catching on anything, and don a long, grey raploch coat to complete my ensemble.

‘You’re only taking the dirk with you?’ Derrick says from the chimneypiece, above the cooling coals in the fireplace. Gold flecks fall from the halo around him and disappear before they reach the ground.

‘Of course not,’ I say.

‘Good. Shouldn’t bother taking it out at all, I say.’

I smirk. Derrick told me once the blade was useless because I couldn’t even kill him with an iron weapon.

‘It works best for distracting my victims.’ I carefully pick up the altered watch fob from the table. ‘And I’ll be testing out this little beauty after I see Kiaran.’

A test to see whether the fob is the weapon I want to use to kill the
baobhan sìth
. I’ll only have one chance to get that right, to make it meaningful, and I have plenty of other devices to choose from if this one isn’t quite right.

Derrick snarls some fae curse that ends with, ‘Vicious bastard.’

He has never told me why he hates Kiaran, not even after Kiaran saved my life and trained me to kill the kind of faeries Derrick would see dead. I doubt he ever will. If I so much as mention Kiaran, Derrick responds with the kind of vitriol that would make the workers down by the Leith quay blush. Already his light has turned a deep crimson and sparks sizzle around him.

I place the fob in my pocket. ‘Indeed, he is that,’ I say. ‘But I still have to go.’

Derrick crosses his arms. ‘Fine. I’ll take the bowl of honey in exchange for mending your dress now.’

‘Half,’ I say. He’s being unreasonable and he knows it.

His halo begins to lighten. Faeries enjoy bargaining. And for Derrick, honey is the greatest reward he could receive. The only problem with giving him any is his intoxicated behaviour afterwards: him flitting about, shining and cleaning my belongings repeatedly, and then lying about, declaring hand movements to be fascinating.

‘Full,’ he says again.

‘Half.’ Since this could go on for ever, I add, ‘And I won’t release Dona from her duties, so you can continue your strange obsession with her cleaning product.’

‘Deal,’ he replies and flutters his wings.

‘When I return, then,’ I say.

I push the wooden panel next to the fireplace. It springs open to reveal a series of small steel levers. I pull one and, with a soft whoosh, a large, rectangular portion of the wall detaches and descends slowly into the garden. Gears tick quietly as the ramp lowers and finally settles into the grass below. This was an addition to the room I built while my father was away on one of his many trips – a perfect, silent escape route from the house.

As I descend into the garden, Derrick says, ‘Do give Kiaran a message for me.’

‘Let me guess – “I shall hurt you if anything happens to the lady whose dressing room I reside in. Also you’re a nasty seven-letter insult that begins with the letter ‘B’.” Close enough?’

‘And I plan one day to eat his heart.’

‘Right. Wonderful. I’ll tell him.’

I shove the lever hidden behind the tall hedges and the wall closes behind me. Then I lean down, spin the dial to activate the locking mechanism and slip through my house’s private garden into Charlotte Square.

The streets of New Town are always empty past midnight. Every house is dark, my surroundings silent save for the patter of my footfalls as I dart across the road. The street lights cast long shadows over the grass as I cross the garden in the centre of the square. Soft rain dampens my hair and soil squishes beneath the soles of my boots.

I spare a longing glance at the flying machines parked in the garden square, one of them mine. The design I came up with and eventually built was an ornithopter inspired by a few of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches, his fascination with the physiology of bats. The spacious oblong interior and wingspan are meant to imitate the body and motion of a bat in flight. In its resting position, the wings are tucked in at the sides.

Of all my inventions, it remains my most prized. If I weren’t meeting Kiaran, I would take it out and soar over the city, slicing through the misty clouds above Edinburgh.

But tonight, I run. I breathe in the chilly air and feel so alive with it that I could roar. The darkness inside me unfurls and takes me over, a consuming thing that pounds the simple desires for vengeance and blood together in a constant beat.

This is what I live for now. Not the tea parties or assemblies or picnics at the Nor’ Loch, or the spine-straight, chin-up, shoulders-back polite conversation accompanied by fake smiles. Now I live for the chase, and for the kill.

Rain-slicked cobblestones shine in the lamplight ahead of me. I race down the street and my boots pound through puddles that soak the hem of my coat.

Electricity hums from within the clock tower as I sprint past it. Translucent glass lines the sides of the building, blazing gold from a system that lights the whole of New Town. I slide my fingers along the slick glass, watching the pulsing bulbs within. They’re so bright I can see through the flesh of my palm to the metacarpal bones outlined beneath.

I only slow to a stroll when I reach Princes Street, crossing to the side closest to the park. Rain drips onto my face as I gaze at the southern part of the city.

The castle is visible from here, although thick clouds obscure the keep and the rocky ledge that forms its foundations. To me, the castle has always seemed carved from the very crag that looms over the Nor’ Loch.

Though the loch has been drained and turned into gardens, I’ve only ever heard it referred to by its former name. Now flowers, grass and trees separate the Old Town from the New. In the dark, the green space looks vast, empty, so far below street level that the lights miss it entirely.

Beyond the park, the Old Town is scantly lit. Thick clouds surround the tall, cramped buildings clinging to the rocky crag. Flickering light spills from scattered open windows, from crude candles made of livestock fat. It’s all those in Old Town can afford to illuminate their homes. They don’t have electricity there – gaslights line the main streets, their glow dimmed by a thickening, dewy mist that wafts over the ground.

Faeries frequent Old Town more than any other place in Edinburgh. There are so many hidden and cramped closes between the buildings into which they can lure their victims. When the bodies are finally discovered, the authorities think nothing of it. Many people here die of illness. Faery killings are almost always attributed to a plague, spread easily through Old Town’s dirty, crowded quarters. Authorities ignore the residents’ talk of vengeful spirits and faeries and curses, believing them to be backwards and superstitious. I know better.

I cross North Bridge, which connects New Town to Old Town. An occasional exuberant scream echoes from somewhere within the Old Town labyrinth. On High Street, a few people meander drunkenly across the cobblestones. A gentleman wearing an oversized coat is sitting under a gaslight, singing.

I edge along the side of a building to avoid them and continue towards the High Kirk. Rain clouds have settled low enough to obscure the top of the cathedral and the buildings in front of me. The thud of my boots echoes across the empty street with each step.

Then I taste it – a stark fae power I can’t yet identify. I smile. My first victim of the night. I only wish it were the
baobhan sìth
.

The faery will follow me until it finds the perfect place to attack. Faeries love the hunt, which is all about power, control and dominance. Everything builds to that moment when they realise I’m not the prey after all. I’m the predator.

I’m about to double back to the gardens when the full taste of the faery’s power hits me. My head snaps up and I briefly savour the sensation.

Honey and dirt and pure nature, a thousand flavours that are difficult to describe. The taste of the wild – running through trees with wind in my hair as my feet pound soft dirt. The sea on a misty morning with sand and water swirling around my legs. A taste that conjures images that look real and significant.

There is only one faery I’ve ever met with that signature.

Before the taste gets any stronger, I break into a run towards the castle. My breath rushes in strong, quick pants. The faery is silent behind me, but he matches my pace.

I grin and duck into a tight wynd. The walls enclose me and heighten the musty scent of earth and stone. I can’t see or hear anything except my heartbeat, my rapid footfalls, but that matters little. I’ve memorised the endless steps and curves and passageways of the Old Town.

Another cramped wynd, this one in the vaults underground, beneath the buildings. My shoulders brush against the walls, but I don’t slow. I count until I reach the stairs ahead –
one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five
– then I bound down the stone steps. Two more sharp turns and I explode from the underground. Gaslights illuminate the dark road as I sprint to another small close.

It’s narrow enough to place each foot on either wall and climb up the passageway easily until I reach the top.

And I wait.

A dozen rapid heartbeats later, a tall figure dashes through the entrance. The faery pauses beneath me, his body still. His breathing is silent; he is not at all winded from our chase. He starts forward, slow, quiet.

Supporting my weight on my hands, I drop from the walls and launch myself at him.
Got you, Kiaran MacKay
.

Chapter 8

K
iaran jerks, startled, as I slide my forearm under his chin, pressing it hard into his neck, the only vulnerable place on his body.

‘Yield,’ I say.

But Kiaran twists, lightning fast, and flips me onto the ground. I land hard and the air whooshes out of my lungs.
Bloody hell that hurt
.

‘Bastard.’ I lift my boot and slam the bottom of my foot into his knee. It makes a hard crack, but not even a hiss of pain escapes his lips. He smiles.

Aye, he enjoys this as much as I do. I’m not about to lose or yield to him if I can avoid it. Some nights we fight until I bleed. Until I’m aching and heaving, and still haven’t left a bruise on his fae skin. I haven’t beaten Kiaran in combat yet, but that just makes me more determined.

I jump into a crouch and reach for the
sgian dubh
at my waist. I leap at him with the blade high. He blocks my attack easily, grabbing the scruff of my coat to shove me face first into the wall.

‘That was clumsy.’ His voice is like a feline purr, beautiful and melodic.

I grit my teeth. I
hate
it when he starts to critique me while we’re fighting. I whirl and strike again – and slice nothing but air.

‘Still clumsy.’ He sounds annoyed. ‘You know where I’m vulnerable to a mortal weapon, so what the hell are you doing?’

‘Would you kindly stop talking?’ I snap.

I pretend I’m about to aim high again and lash out my foot to distract him. With a quick swing, I arc downwards and swipe him across the throat – the one place on his body an iron blade will puncture his fae skin, even if it could never kill him. A thin line of blood spreads across his smooth, pale neck.

‘Clumsy now?’ I grin.

He rips the
seilgflùr
necklace off me and throws it away. I hear it fall somewhere at the other end of the close. I gasp and stare where he’d been standing. I can’t see him without the thistle, not unless he wants me to.

‘Now do it again.’ His words echo around me. ‘Without the thistle.’

‘MacKay,’ I say calmly. ‘Don’t be unreasonable.’

Of all my lessons, this one is the worst. I hate knowing my lack of Sight is my biggest weakness. If Kiaran wanted to, he could exploit it and murder me. I’d be dead before I could open my mouth to scream.

‘I don’t give a damn about being reasonable,’ Kiaran whispers. His breath is soft on my neck, there for an instant and gone. I shove my hand out and find only empty air. ‘Cut me again,’ he says. ‘If you can.’

‘MacKay—’

His invisible hands grab me and slam me into the wall. My grip on the
sgian dubh
loosens and it clatters to the ground. Warm blood trickles from my mouth. I clench my jaw against the pain. I won’t give in to it. That’s a lesson of his I’ve actually come to appreciate.

I retrieve my knife, then spin to confront the empty close. The still lingering taste of his power indicates his nearness, but I can’t tell where. How can I win a fight with Kiaran if I can’t see him?

Silence. Kiaran moves with a sly agility, skilful and quick; he makes hunting an art. Not even his breathing betrays him. Experimentally, I strike with the blade and hit nothing.

‘What do you feel?’ He’s behind me.

I whirl, blade raised, but he grabs my arm and shoves me again. When I swipe at where he was, he’s already gone. ‘Annoyed.’

‘Wrong answer,’ he says in that disembodied echo. ‘Tell me what you
feel
, Kam.’

The shortened version of my surname is supposed to be practical, a quick single-syllable thing to call me when we’re in the throes of a fight – a name he has come to always use. Now it rolls off his tongue in a single breath, almost a whisper. A dare.

I search for some sign of his location but find nothing. I could be alone with only the rain pattering on the rooftops for company.

‘
Tell me
.’

How can I tell him I feel little else but rage? That it allows me to live day to day and hunt nightly for the faery I want to kill most? Without it I’m a void, a bottomless crevasse. Empty.