The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (7 page)

Kiaran and I have little connection beyond our names. We battle, bleed and hunt together almost every night. He teaches me how to slaughter in the most effective, brutal ways possible. But I’ve never told Kiaran why I hunt, and he has never told me why he kills his own kind. This is our ritual, our dance. The only one that matters.

So I’m not certain what compels me to whisper, ‘I don’t feel anything.’

Kiaran doesn’t respond. The air around me feels still, despite the rain. I jump when his warm, invisible fingers touch my hair and he pulls a damp tendril from my cheek.

‘If that were true,’ he murmurs, ‘you wouldn’t be here.’

I shudder as Kiaran’s power glides across my skin in a single inviting stroke.

‘I thought we were fighting.’ I arch my neck to his touch without meaning to.

Faery power shouldn’t feel this seductive. The strong taste of wildness that has been with me since our chase from the High Street strengthens as his aura surrounds me. I want to lose myself in it. Something about it makes me want to run barefoot through the forest, through thick ocean waves, and—

Kiaran drops my hair. ‘You lose.’

I know it the moment he steps away. The warmth from his body is gone and cold seeps through my rain-damp clothes. Suddenly his tall, lithe frame appears in front of me.

‘You cheated.’

His lips curve into a smile that promises so many things I’d rather not contemplate. ‘Are you really going to try that argument?’

‘You used your powers.’

I swear that I was nearly faestruck, an awful thing that happens to humans when they’re in the presence of one of the
daoine sìth
. They become bewitched, lulled by power, and compliant enough to do anything a faery wants. I’d rather die than have that happen to me.

‘Even so, I didn’t manipulate you, Kam. You yielded.’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Or did I misinterpret that neck arch?’

Confound it, my face is burning. How humiliating.

‘Again.’ I raise my chin. ‘I challenge you again, MacKay.’ I’ll beat him without the thistle. I’ll fight until I’m too tired to move if I have to.

Kiaran stares at me for the longest time. He says, ‘Your lip is bleeding.’ Then he turns and strides towards the other end of the close.

Damnation!
‘Wait!’ I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and start after him, but he doesn’t slow. ‘MacKay, we’re not finished.’

He leans down and plucks the
seilgflùr
necklace from the ground. I hear his sharp intake of breath as he hands it to me. ‘Here.’ When I don’t take it immediately, he frowns. ‘You’re sulking.’

‘I’m
not
sulking.’ Although that’s exactly what I’m doing.

‘Kam, take the bloody thistle before it burns a hole through my hand.’

I snatch the thistle from him. The seared skin of his palm is visible only for an instant before he stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets.

‘If I were a cruel woman, I would have wrapped the thistle around your neck when I leaped on you.’

Kiaran’s mouth twitches into an almost-smile. ‘If you had, you might have won.’

We exit the close in silence and walk back to the High Street. I suppress a shiver. Now that the excitement has worn off, the winter breeze pierces my damp clothes.

The street is entirely desolate now, silent. A few of the gas lamps have been extinguished and the road in front of us is shadowed. A baleful howl of wind gusts through the cathedral as we slip down the stairs to the Cowgate.

‘I don’t like it when you do that,’ I say quietly.

‘What?’

‘Take away the
seilgflùr
.’

He doesn’t spare me a glance. ‘I know.’

‘Especially when I came close to winning.’

‘On the contrary,’ he says smoothly. ‘That’s exactly when you need it taken.’

I clench my jaw. I hate that without the necklace, I’m just as vulnerable as Lord Hepburn. Kiaran proved that back in the alley.

‘You certainly enjoy reminding me that I can’t see you without it, don’t you?’

‘Enjoyment has little to do with it. The day will come when you have to fight without the thistle,’ he says. He looks at me with that ancient, alien gaze. ‘And you shouldn’t expect any mercy.’

Chapter 9

W
ith his faery powers of mental influence, Kiaran could live anywhere he wants – even in a house in New Town, one more extravagant than mine. Instead, he chooses to live in the Cowgate, one of the worst areas of the city.

We walk between the cramped, tiny tenements. Nearly every home is filled to the brim with large, impoverished families. They must have so little breathing room.

The old buildings are in such disrepair that some are beginning to crumble. I’ll never become accustomed to the ever-present stench of human excrement here. A few residences are still illuminated, even at this late hour. Inside one of them, a group bursts into laughter. A door slams in the distance. The sound of glass breaking echoes through the street, followed by a harsh scream. I wince.

Kiaran guides me up the narrow stairway to his dwelling. His place is clean, albeit barren. The only furniture in the room, aside from a few cabinets, is a small table and two wooden chairs. It’s dark despite the candlelight, and so very cold. The winter air settles in these stone walls and never leaves.

I shiver, unable to help myself. My skin prickles beneath my coat.

Sometimes I’m tempted to ask Kiaran why he took up residence among humans, but I never do. I’ve decided I don’t want to know.

‘Your coat is wet. You should take off your coat if you’re cold,’ Kiaran says, lighting what remains of a candle in the centre of the table.

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘You’re shivering.’

It would be foolish to interpret his words as concern. Kiaran is
daoine sìth
, the most powerful breed of faery in existence, and they are not known for their empathy. Rather, they are infamous for being cruel, unfeeling, destructive creatures who crave power above all else.

I remember the stories from my childhood that tell of the
daoine sìth
slaughtering and enslaving humans for hundreds of years before they were finally trapped underground. Kiaran confirmed the truth of that. Many of our first lessons consisted of him describing and having me write down each species of faery, detailing their abilities, separating facts about the fae from centuries of lore passed down by humans.

Kiaran is the only
daoine sìth
left. The others lost a war many years ago and were trapped beneath what is now Edinburgh, along with the faeries who aided them. The breeds who fought in the battle were the strongest of the fae, all ruled by the
daoine sìth
.

The faeries I kill every night possess little power in comparison. They are the solitary fae unwilling to join the battle that entrapped the rest. So they’ve remained above ground, breeding and living on, free to feed on humans.

‘I’m fine,’ I say again. ‘Just let me have a fresh bundle of
seilgflùr
and we’ll go.’

His shoulders tense when he reaches into a small cabinet and I try not to stare at him. In such a dark, enclosed space, it’s difficult not to.

Kiaran’s skin glows softly in the candlelight, smooth and pale. His inky-black hair sweeps forward to rest on his high cheekbones. His eyes are the colour of spring lavender, except not at all gentle. They are shrewd, fierce and unearthly. Fae or not, Kiaran MacKay is damnably beautiful. I rather loathe that quality in him.

He tosses me a raploch bundle tied with twine. ‘This is your third bunch in a fortnight.’

Blast. Of course he’s noticed. ‘It’s useless once it dries,’ I say.
And you’ve refused me a plant to cultivate, you cad
.

Seilgflùr
stays fresh for only about thirteen days in the wintertime. Longer if I keep my supply outside. Past that, it’s no longer effective. Another lesson I learned the hard way – that’s how I received my third scar.

I’ve tried to grow it myself, but all of my attempts were unsuccessful. I’ve even tried preserving and pressing it between airtight pieces of glass, but that doesn’t work either. So now I’m dependent upon Kiaran to supply it, and I’m still not certain where he finds it. He won’t tell me.

‘I’m not a fool,’ he says. ‘Don’t treat me like one.’

‘I shall endeavour not to.’

His expression hardens. ‘You don’t need as much as you use. Are you giving it to someone?’

I don’t even dignify that question with a response. I might have broken his rule about not hunting on my own, but this is one rule I’ve kept. No one should have to see faeries, or what they do to their victims. The Sight is a burden, and I pity anyone who has the natural ability.

‘Kam,’ he says, with exaggerated patience.

‘All you need to know,’ I say, ‘is that it’s for my protection.’

I open the wool bundle. Nestled in the centre are small stocks of thistle tipped with vivid blue flowers. The common thistle natural to Scotland is spiny, with sharp leaves and woolly hairs. This is different. It looks the same as other thistles – so untouchable, aggressive – but
seilgflùr
is silken. The hair along the stem is soft as down.

And if it hadn’t been so soft and strong and lovely, maybe my mother would have used something different to plait into my hair when I debuted last year. I still don’t know where she managed to find some. I wore white and the thistle was the only colour on me that night, just a pretty little adornment then. If my mother had chosen lavender, roses, or heather, I would never have seen my first faery.

The first faery
. The
baobhan sìth
’s voice rises up from my memories, cheerful and musical as a spring bird at first, then edged with the sharp notes of malice.
Crimson suits you best
.

I suck in a breath and shove the wool bundle into my pocket. That memory is always there, always lingering, triggered by the slightest thing. I can’t get rid of it no matter how hard I try.

‘
Ciod a dh’ fhairich thu
?’ Kiaran asks. He pulls his chair to settle across from me.

‘You know I can’t understand you.’

‘What’s wrong?’

I smile slightly. Sometimes he almost manages to sound like he means it when he asks me that. ‘Do you care?’

Kiaran shrugs. The closest he comes to betraying emotion is when he stabs something. He reclines in his chair and crosses his long legs in front of him. I try not to admire how magnificent he looks, how uncanny. I avert my gaze and focus on the shadows cast on the far wall by the flickering candlelight.

How inhuman
, I remind myself.

‘I don’t, really,’ he replies. ‘But you looked like you were about to cry.’

‘I don’t cry, MacKay.’

I’m such a mess today. First that blasted moment when I almost gave in to his temptation during our fight, and now this. Where is a good ditch to crawl into when I need one?

‘If you say so,’ he says, uncrossing his legs. ‘A bit of advice, Kam. Until you can admit your weaknesses, you’ll never beat me without that damn thistle.’

I glare at him. ‘Shall we hunt, or would you prefer to waste time haranguing me?’

My words trigger something violent in that usually cold, detached gaze. If I weren’t a killer myself it might frighten me. This time, his smile isn’t wicked. It’s feral, maybe even a bit ferocious. ‘I’ll get my weapons,’ he says.

We leave Cowgate, and as we walk along South Bridge, Kiaran strides slightly ahead of me. ‘There’s a
caoineag
hunting in the waters near Dean Village,’ he says. ‘She’s already killed one woman since she arrived.’ He maintains his brisk pace as he speaks. ‘Try to keep up, Kam.’

Try to keep up
. His legs are far longer than mine and he insists we walk everywhere during our hunts, even to places as removed from the city centre as Dean Village.

I jog a few steps and still end up behind him. The rain has dampened the hair that clings to the back of his neck and his shirt hugs his lean, muscular body as he moves. Sometimes, I wish he’d put on a bloody coat.

‘You’re staring.’ He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

‘Haven’t you considered wearing a coat? It
is
winter.’

‘No.’

We continue in silence. The rain slows to a soft mist that tickles my cheeks. Fog thickens between the old stone buildings. I hear faint laughter from one of the lit tenements at the far end of the street, then there’s silence again. I breathe in the damp air and decide to stop ignoring the ever-lingering taste of Kiaran’s power. I take this moment to savour it.

As we reach North Bridge, I study the waning moon that peeks through the clouds. It’s surrounded by a halo of bright red, the colour of oxygenated blood.

Blood. My need for vengeance exists because of the night I was baptised in it. I’ve always considered that to be my night of lasts – the last time I saw my mother alive, the last time I was a girl who had never seen violence.

Now the darkness inside me wants little else than to kill again. I can’t help but wonder if this is all I have left: the nightly hunt, all for that singular moment of intoxicating, all-consuming joy at the end.

In my weakest moments after a kill, I want desperately to feel the way I used to. Happiness that came effortlessly and – sometimes – hope.

I break from our brisk journey to Dean Village to approach the bridge’s balustrade. ‘Do you ever think about your future, MacKay?’

Kiaran looks surprised by the question. He stops next to me, leaning his back against a stone column. ‘No,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Never?’

‘I’m immortal.’ He turns and rests his elbows on the balustrade. ‘You consider the future because one day you’ll die.’ He looks up at the moon, a pensive, almost sad expression on his face. ‘I don’t have that uncertainty. I’ll be exactly the same as I am now, for ever.’

He says it so mechanically, not a hint of emotion. ‘Exactly the same?’ I ask. ‘Hasn’t anything unexpected ever happened to you?’

‘Once in three thousand years.’ His smile is small, perhaps a little bitter. ‘Maybe twice.’