The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (17 page)

I try to pull myself from his grip, but he only tightens his hold. ‘I never said I could.’

‘You implied it.’

‘I’m un-implying it now.’ I grin. ‘I have other means.’

Gavin studies me intently. ‘Did you choose this?’

Leaning in close, I press my cheek against his, a touch that goes against every social rule I’ve ever been taught. It’s the excitement of the hunt that courses through me, a savage hum. I’m beyond propriety, beyond etiquette.

‘I revel in it.’

I jump to the soft soil below. My slippers sink in and rainwater pools around my feet. The garden is misty, even darker than before now that the storm clouds have gathered thicker. Rain slicks my bare shoulders and the breeze only makes it more frigid. My heart slams in my chest and I want to run again, to give chase.

I’m about to sprint across the grass when I hear a thump behind me. Gavin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He straightens, tall and elegant. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I pivot on my heel and stalk in the direction of my hidden weapons.

He catches up to me and says, ‘It’s not ridiculous at all. You said yourself that you can’t see them.’

‘So?’

‘Let me see for you.’ His features are shadowed, his breathing ragged.

‘No,’ I say sharply. ‘I won’t involve you. I’m sorry I already did.’

‘This is my choice, Aileana.’

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why would you do that for me?’

He looks away from me, frowning, as if remembering something he’s tried so hard to forget. ‘I tried to help once,’ he says. ‘One of the people from my visions. The faery was so fast, it broke six bones in my body before I reached her.’

‘Gavin, I—’

‘I think you’re foolish,’ he says harshly. ‘I think this is an exceedingly terrible idea that will probably end with both of us being killed. But if I’m to die, I’d rather do it knowing that I tried to help and didn’t run.’

There’s nothing I can say to that. I know that Gavin should go back inside where it’s safer, where he isn’t with someone being hunted by the fae. They’ll hunt him too once they figure out he’s a Seer in the company of a Falconer. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I sigh. ‘Fine.’

God, I hope I don’t regret taking him with me. As we round the house to the side garden, I listen for any indication of a faery nearby, but hear nothing. Instinctively, I reach for the reassuring thistle necklace but find it gone – then I remember in a rush that I can’t see or hear them.

Swearing softly, I ask, ‘Do you hear any howls?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Good.’

I crouch next to the hedges and pull my satchel out from its depths, reaching inside for my boots. I yank the blasted slippers off my feet and shove them inside in the bag, then lace the boots up. It’s always best to be prepared in case I’m forced to run. If only I had thought to bring some spare thistle with me.

Next, the holster and my lightning pistol, two items I will never be without again. I slide the leather strap around my waist and pull the buckle tight.

‘Do you always hoard your weapons in other people’s gardens?’ Gavin asks.

‘Only when I don’t want to be killed,’ I say brightly.

The remains of my wet silk gloves stick to my skin as I tug them off and toss them into the bag. The crossbow comes out next. Then the fire-starter, which is now attached to a gauntlet of my own design. I slip it on and buckle the straps around my wrist and upper arm, where the fuel reserve rests.

I pick up the crossbow and check its interior chamber. It holds twelve slender quarrels, their tips dipped in a tincture distilled from
seilgflùr
. Designed to break on impact, the tips contain small wads of the thistle, enough to kill a faery almost instantly. The cranequin’s reloading design loads and draws the quarrels automatically after each one is fired.

‘Well,’ Gavin says. ‘You’ve certainly been busy.’

‘A lady has to find something to do between painting landscapes.’

‘You know, I’ll never look at a woman in the same way again. I’ll wonder if she’s hiding weapons under the hedges.’

I grin. We edge around the bushes to the side gate, which opens with a squeak. I duck my head out and check the dark street for any people. Empty but for pools of light from the street lamps and a lone parked carriage. Gavin looks out with me and nods once to indicate it’s clear of faeries, too.

The only noise filters from Gavin’s house, where laughter and chatter and fiddles playing the Highland schottische drift through the open windows.

This is the first dance after the refreshment break, the one I had promised to return for. I’ve given away this dance, and the ones that would have followed. There will be no way to repair my reputation after this. Come tomorrow, it’ll be in tatters. I’ll be lucky if my father doesn’t take the first offer he gets for me. This is my last chance to go back before that happens.

Gavin touches my shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

I make my choice. The same one I’ll always make. I choose survival. I choose the hunt. Because Father would tell me,
duty first
, and
this
is my duty.

Gavin scans the road. ‘Aileana. I hear them now.’

I reach for his arm and pull him along as I sprint past his neighbours’ houses, shoving a low-hanging branch out of my way. I dodge through the gate into the public garden, which shuts behind me with a sharp clang as loud as a gunshot. We rush along the path between the trees inside. My boots slip and sink into deep mud.

‘Where are we going?’ Gavin asks.

‘If we’re quick enough, we might be able to bypass them on the way to Charlotte Square.’

Out of the garden and into the street. Our feet pound through puddles, our swift steps clack on the cobbles. As I enter St Andrew Square between the dim light of two street lamps, the rhythm of my breathing is strong, swift. I grip Gavin’s hand, our fingers slippery from the rain.

He skids to a halt and I almost pitch forward onto the ground. ‘Gavin?’ I ask. ‘What is it?’

‘Something’s wrong,’ he says. ‘I don’t hear them any more—’ He sucks in a breath and turns, his eyes focused on something behind me.

I spin around but see only cobblestones, wet and gleaming. Then a smoky taste settles thick in my mouth.
It’s here
.

Gavin shifts his grip to my wrist. I hold the crossbow tighter as he draws me in towards him. ‘Steady,’ he breathes. ‘It hasn’t seen us yet.’ He moves to stand behind me, eyes level with the weapon’s sight, and lifts my arm to aim it.

I tuck the stock of the crossbow against my shoulder and let him direct me. As he does, the abrasive aridity of the
cù sìth
’s power settles on my tongue, so potent that I can’t gulp it down. So I inhale deeply through my nose, my focus on holding the crossbow so intent that the taste is but a mere niggling thing.

Gavin whispers a single word. ‘
Now
.’

I pull the trigger. A sharp yelp startles me enough that I barely notice the faery power coursing through me.

I heard it
. I stare at the street and watch as blood pools on the cobbles.

Kiaran’s soft voice echoes in my mind.
You’re the only one who could do this
.

Seabhagair. Falconer.

Gavin tightens his grasp on my arm and rips me from my thoughts. ‘Come on!’

I follow his lead and we race by the white stone residences in St Andrew Square, all of them dark save for a few lights in the windows below street level where the servants will still be working. Gavin pulls me through a break in the bushes that leads to the garden in the centre of the square. Branches tug and snap. My skirts rip even more. We race past the fluted column of Melville’s Monument and back into the street.

Gavin stops again and I almost smack into him. He pulls me in front of him and repositions my arm to shoot. ‘There,’ he whispers. He’s so close his breath tickles my ear.

I pull the trigger. A high wail resounds in the square and faery power crashes into me. I relax against Gavin. My chest expands and I arch my back. This time the sheer rapture of the kill is almost enough to overwhelm me. Almost.

Gavin wraps an arm about my waist and whirls me around, keeping his other hand tight on my wrist to direct the crossbow. ‘Now!’

I don’t hesitate, and the quarrel has hardly been released before Gavin turns me again. His foot slips between mine and he holds me firmly against him to direct me with more ease.

With his palm pressed against my stomach, he repositions me. ‘Again.’ I shoot.

We continue like this, Gavin indicating where to shoot and me pulling the trigger. Blood and rain glisten on the street. Street lamps illuminate the gory scene in an orange haze, obscured by thick mist. My damp hair falls into my face as Gavin aims my arm again and I fire. I’m breathless with exhilaration, with the power filling my lungs, my chest. We spin again and again – our killing dance. Our feet occasionally falter on the uneven cobbles, but my aim remains true.

Gavin’s breath is soft against my neck. I can feel his every inhalation and exhalation. We move together even better than we did in the waltz. Our steps become cohesive and unified, smoother after each shot. Every kill moves us faster, hones my awareness of the fae. Soon I’m able to shoot before Gavin speaks, sensing exactly when he needs me to.

The overwhelming taste of smoke from
cù sìth
power dries my mouth, but I’m too sated to care. I feel light as air, invincible and strong . . .

Until the moment Gavin positions me once more and I hear a telltale click when I pull the trigger. I’m out of quarrels.

‘Your pistol?’ Gavin asks.

I step out of his embrace to sling the crossbow over my shoulder. ‘I need that to defend us on the way to Charlotte Square.’ Smiling, I tell him, ‘Don’t worry – I have a surprise.’

I twist the button to activate the fire-starter and reach into the satchel for a glass bottle. I shove it into his hands. ‘Here. A distraction. Toss it at the nearest
cù sìth
.’

For a moment, I think he almost smiles. Then he lobs the bottle three feet from where we’re standing. The glass breaks on impact and a
cù sìth
yelps.

I reach towards the sound, palm out, and flick my wrist. The mixture of alcohol and
seilgflùr
flowing from the fuel reservoir ignites in an instant and fire explodes from the centre of my glove.

All around us, I hear the desperate baying of
cù sìth
. Their thin, high wails ring in my skull.

Gavin reaches into my bag and grabs for another bottle, but the howls shatter it before he can throw it. Damn! I hadn’t expected that when I packed these. The stench of
seilgflùr
-laced alcohol and scorched fur stings my nostrils. My ears are ringing, bleeding from their cries. I don’t think I can stand it much longer.

I push Gavin in front of me. ‘Run!’ I scream, though I know he can’t hear me – his ears are bleeding too. Blood and rainwater stream down the sides of his face and stain the collar of his shirt red.

We run again, and the air is so cold, my breath exhales misty-white. The howls die down behind us. We race down George Street, occasionally skidding and stumbling on the slick cobblestones. My head aches so acutely that I’m struggling to see. As we flee, my wet, torn dress clings to my thighs, and each movement is stiff. My muscles burn with the effort.

‘Are they close?’

Gavin grimaces and I know he must be hurting, too. ‘Keep running,’ he says.

New Town is laid out in a symmetrical, grid design. Easy for travel, but there are no narrow closes to hide in, no underground passageways, nor dark wynds to cloak us from view. That makes it exceedingly impractical for escape. The street is too long and straight to outrun them.

‘We need to split up,’ I gasp between breaths.

‘What?’ Gavin glances at me in surprise. ‘No. That’s—’

‘Go down Young Street,’ I say. ‘Meet me at my ornithopter in the centre of Charlotte Square. They’ll follow me.’ I have to draw them away from Gavin before they surround us again. My lightning pistol only holds eight capsules – not nearly enough to defend us if that happens.

One glass jar in my bag was thick enough to survive the howls. I pour its contents in a line as far as it’ll go across the road. Fire bursts from my palm to ignite it.

‘That buys us a minute,’ I say. ‘Now go!’

I barrel off towards Rose Street.

‘Damn it, Aileana!’ Gavin calls after me. ‘You can’t see them!’

I don’t need to. Kiaran told me that the
seilgflùr
would be a hindrance, that I needed to learn to fight without it. Now is the perfect time to test that.

But as I race down the street in the direction of my home, the dull smoky taste of faery power saturates the inside of my mouth and constricts my breath to a wheeze. They’re close. And I’m not fast enough to outrun them.

That’s when I see the clock tower, the electrical heart of New Town. In the absence of any narrow closes to duck into to slow them down, and without any
seilgflùr
on me to defend myself, it’s the only way I can reach Charlotte Square alive. I hurtle towards the door and crash my foot through the wood, sending splinters of oak and dust flying.

I bolt inside and dash up the stairs. Each step is punctuated by the click of the rotating metal gears that generate New Town’s power. Electricity buzzes around me, like millions of agitated bees.

Think!

Up, and up, and up another flight of creaky wooden stairs towards the clock’s illuminated face. I run through a plan in my mind, as quickly as I can. The clock tower has only two entrances – the one I already came through, and another on the side of the building that faces Princes Street at the bottom of the tower’s shaft. If I can reach it, that’ll split up the faeries and force them to take the long route around the road to find me. It might buy me a few minutes to run, and that’s the best chance I have to make it to the ornithopter.

Over buzzing electricity, the clock’s
tick tick tick
only makes me move quicker, more frantically. I shove through a door, over the bridge that connects the two sides of the tower. I have no idea how quickly
cù sìth
can run, but I’m sure I haven’t bought myself much time.