The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (3 page)

‘Regardless,’ Lady Cassilis says, ‘a lady ought never to leave a ballroom unescorted. As you well know, Aileana. Need I remind you that this is yet another breach in etiquette, being alone in an empty corridor?’ She sniffs. ‘I fear your mother would be quite aggrieved, were she still with us.’

Catherine sucks in a sharp breath. I clench my fists and gasp. Grief rises briefly inside me, quickly replaced by rage and the overwhelming desire for vengeance. For just one kill to bury the painful memory of my mother’s death once more. Even my careful control has its limits – I must find that faery before my need consumes me.

‘Mother,’ Catherine says deliberately, ‘if you could wait for me in the ballroom, I shall be there directly.’ When Lady Cassilis opens her mouth to protest, Catherine adds, ‘I won’t be long. Just let me see Aileana safely to the parlour.’

The viscountess studies me briefly, lifts her chin a notch and strides to the ballroom.

Catherine sighs. ‘She didn’t mean that.’

‘She did.’

‘Aileana, whatever you’re planning – be quick, or I may be unable to visit for elevenhours on Wednesday. Mother—’

‘I know. She thinks I’m a bad influence.’

She winces. ‘Perhaps not the best.’

I smile. ‘I appreciate you lying for me.’

‘I never lie. I merely embellish information if the situation calls for it. For example, I intend to tell Mother that this
headache
of yours is severe enough that you may miss a few dances.’

‘How very tactful of you.’ I pass Catherine my reticule. ‘Would you hold onto this for me?’

Catherine stares at it. ‘I do believe the ladies parlour allows reticules.’

‘Aye, but carrying the reticule might make my
headache
worse.’ I press the purse into her palm.

‘Hmm. You know, someday, I’m going to ask questions. You might even answer them.’

‘Someday,’ I agree, grateful for her trust.

She flashes a smile and says, ‘Very well. Go off on your mysterious adventure. But at least think of our luncheon. Your cook is the only one who knows how to make proper shortbread.’

‘Is that really the only reason you visit? The blasted shortbread?’

‘The company is also quite agreeable . . . when she isn’t having “headaches”.’

She departs with an unladylike wink and saunters through the double doors into the ballroom.

Freed at last, I advance down the corridor again. My skirt rustles, its deep flounces fluffed by three stiff petticoats. Since I began training a year ago, I’ve become keenly aware of how limiting a lady’s wardrobe is. The adornments are all beautiful – and absolutely useless in battle.

As I round the corner, the faery power returns in force. I let the burning tang wash over my tongue; I thrive on the anticipation. This is one of my favourite parts of the hunt, second only to the kill itself. I imagine myself shooting it again, feeling the calm release at its death . . .

Then, all at once, the taste tears out of my throat so fast, I bend over and gag.

‘Damnation,’ I whisper. The abrasive absence of its power means the revenant has found its victim and is drawing in human energy.

With another muttered oath, I gather my bulky skirts and petticoats, slip the stole off my shoulders to tie around my waist – propriety be damned – and bolt up the stairs. I glance about in dismay when I reach the top. So many doors. Now that the power has gone, I have no way to tell which room the faery is in.

I walk quickly down the hallway. The corridor is quiet.
Too
quiet. I’m painfully aware of every swish the fabric of my dress makes, every floorboard creak beneath my satin slippers.

I press my ear to the nearest door. Nothing. I open it to be certain, but the room is empty. I try another door. Still nothing.

As I palm the next handle, I hear a low gasp. The kind of breath someone takes with only scant moments of life remaining.

I consider my options carefully. I have but a single chance to save the revenant’s victim. If I charge in, the faery might kill the person before I shoot.

Quietly pushing my petticoats aside, I draw the lightning pistol from my thigh holster. I grip the handle of the weapon as I nudge the door open to peek inside.

Next to the four-poster bed in the corner of the room, the revenant’s behemoth form is bent over its victim. At nearly seven feet tall, the muscled faery resembles a rotting troll. Stringy, limp dark hair hangs in patches around its scalp. The creature’s skin is the pallid shade of dead flesh, speckled with decay in some places and peeling off in others. One cheek is open and gaping, exposing a jawbone and row of teeth. Faeries can heal most injuries in less than a minute, but this is the natural state of revenants. They are utterly disgusting and corpselike.

The faery’s fingertips are sunk deep into the chest of a gentleman I immediately recognise as the elderly Lord Hepburn. His waistcoat is soaked through with blood, and his skin has a bluish cast.

When a faery feeds from a human’s energy, they are both enveloped an astonishing white light. Lord Hepburn isn’t that far gone yet, but almost.

I hold my breath and ease up the lightning pistol until the sight is level with the revenant’s pectoral, just over its thoracic opening. My grip tightens, my thumb tracing the ornate carvings on the handle of the pistol in a soft caress.

Move
, I think to the revenant.
Just a bit, so I don’t injure my gracious host
.

The faery doesn’t move and I don’t have a clean shot. Time to intervene.

I lower the pistol and step into the room, shutting the door behind me with a loud click.

The revenant’s head snaps up. It bares two rows of long pointed teeth and gives a low, rumbling growl that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand straight up.

I smile sweetly. ‘Hello there.’

I detect some small movement from Lord Hepburn and I relax slightly. Still alive, thank goodness. The revenant’s black gaze tracks me as I move to stand near the velvet settee, but it stays where it is, still greedily drinking the poor man’s energy.

I need to force its attention to me again. ‘Drop him, you ghastly thing.’ The beast hisses and I step forward. ‘I said drop him.
Now
.’

My grip on the pistol tightens again as the creature releases Lord Hepburn and rises to its full height. Now that the faery has stopped feeding, the ammonia and sulphur flavour is back, scorching. The creature towers over me, muscled and dripping with some repulsive clear substance I would rather not inspect closely.

I’m filled with a familiar rush of excitement as the faery snarls again. My heart pumps faster. My blood rushes and my cheeks burn.

‘Aye, that’s it,’ I whisper. ‘Take me instead.’

The faery leaps forward.

Chapter 3

I
aim the pistol, but the faery is much faster than I expect, a blur of movement. It knocks the weapon from my hand before I can shoot and slams me into the wall. Wallpaper tears. A vase on the shelf next to us falls. Over the sound of shattering glass, I hear the pistol skid along the floor somewhere.
Hell and blast
.

The creature opens its mouth. Its saliva drips onto my silk bodice. The rancid stench of decay, with a hint of bare earth, invades my nostrils. I can’t help but gag.

Snarling, the faery pins me against the wall. My legs dangle. Claws scrape my middle and fabric shreds. I struggle.

I have to free myself before the revenant can take my energy, but I’m caught between the wall and its massive chest. The faery’s muscles bulge as it tries to keep me still, slicing through my dress and undergarments into my skin, leaving small cuts that burn as though they’ve been cauterised. Then it sinks its claws into me.

The faery breathes in and rips energy from me. Pain blossoms within my chest and fans outwards like needle pricks. Thousands upon thousands of tiny, agonising jabs all over my body.

‘Falconer,’ the revenant growls, and those dripping teeth widen into a hideous grin. ‘Falconer.’ The word is guttural; I only just understand it. Blood scorches under my skin. The pain is almost unbearable.

The faery’s eyes are shut, its body growing ever more still as my strength leaves me.

Stop struggling
, I tell myself sternly.
Focus
.

I let myself slacken in the faery’s arms. It drags me closer until my forehead rests against its slick neck. I pretend to give myself over, to appear close to death as I desperately slither an arm from between us, a fraction at a time. It falls to my side, a dead weight. My body has become rock where it should be bones and flesh.

In that moment, my blood goes from hot to the most numbing kind of cold. My teeth chatter. In shock, I realise my breath is visible, as though the temperature in the room has dropped.

I clench my numb hands into fists. If I’m going to die, I’ll die fighting. Never at the mercy of any faery – not like my mother.

Strength resurging, I let out a fierce scream and slam a fist into the revenant’s soft spot, its abdomen.

The creature howls and staggers.

I drop to the floor and crawl to put some distance between us. I try to stand, but stars dot my vision. My dress – the blasted, impractical, smothering dress – catches under my toe and I stumble.

I look up just as the faery recovers. It launches itself at me again, and I manage to roll beneath its body.

My temples are pounding, but I ignore the headache. I shove my petticoats aside to grip the handle of the
sgian dubh
snug in its sheath along my other thigh just as the faery rears back on its haunches, then jumps. I spin low to the ground, and have but a moment to aim for its soft spot again.

I won’t have another chance to surprise it. I sink my blade into the front of its massive torso.

The faery screeches and flails, knocking over what must have been an exceedingly expensive mahogany chair.

The
sgian dubh
will only distract the revenant for seconds before its wound heals. Where in the blazes is that lightning pistol? My eyes dart around the room in search of it, ranging across carpet and furniture and—

There!
I spot the steel glint of my pistol underneath the dresser.

Beside me, the faery rises and gropes for the knife thrust in its stomach. I dive for the pistol, grabbing it as I roll onto my back to take aim. The pistol’s generator hums as conductor spines rise along the top of the barrel. At the pistol’s mouth, bluntly pointed core rods open like flower petals.

The faery yanks the blade out of its flesh with a yelp. It drops the
sgian dubh
to the floor and pulls back its lips, baring sharp teeth. A low, reverberating snarl escapes its throat and it rushes me again.

I aim for its pectoral and pull the trigger.

The capsule of
seilgflùr
in the pistol releases first, a split second before a strong bolt of electricity is pushed through the core rod. Both hit the creature square in its muscular, oozing chest.

The revenant claws at the wound. A fernlike Lichtenberg figure forms rapidly at the point of entry. I watch it bloom as the
seilgflùr
is released into the creature’s body.

The massive faery crumples to the floor at my feet, gasping.

Breathing hard, I wait for the moment I treasure most. For the faery to take its last breath.

When it does, its power slides into me, smooth and hot and soft like silk across skin. I shiver as the ammonia and sulphur taste in my mouth ebbs, leaving the heat of power around me.

I feel. I
feel
. Strong and untouchable and capable. An exquisite glow of joy fills me up and extinguishes my anger. For this instant, I am whole again. I am not broken or empty. The shadow-self inside me that compels me to kill is silent. I am unburdened. I am complete.

All too soon the power fades and so does the relief. And as always, I’m left with the familiar ache of rage.

Chapter 4

‘
L
ord Hepburn?’ I pat his cheek once. ‘Wake up.’

His injuries are worrisome. A younger person might survive them, but Lord Hepburn is two and seventy. He could handle the small amount of energy he lost, but the cuts on his chest are so deep that he’s bleeding all over the place. I must attend to them quickly.

Lord Hepburn mumbles something. I take this as an encouraging sign.

‘My lord,’ I say deliberately, trying to keep my voice down. ‘Do you have a stitcher kit?’

He groans.

‘Confound it,’ I mutter. ‘Wake up!’

His eyes flutter open. ‘Miss Gordon?’ His eyes are glazed with pain as he squints at me.

Oh dear.
Gordon
is his wife’s maiden name. Some faeries have mental abilities that can make people see things, deceive them into believing whatever the faery wants. It wouldn’t surprise me if the revenant made Lord Hepburn think he was sometime years in the past, meeting his future wife here. ‘Aye,’ I say gently. ‘It’s Miss Gordon. And I would like to know if you have a stitcher kit.’

‘At my bedside.’ His voice is barely audible.

Thank heavens. Many wealthier families don’t bother to keep one – they call a doctor to bring it for them.

I rush to the table beside the bed. Next to the lamp is a small octagonal gold box. I kneel by Lord Hepburn again and place the box flat against his chest, just over his injuries.

He gropes for my wrist and winces. ‘I couldn’t see . . .’

‘Your attacker,’ I finish for him, softly. ‘I know. Now, this might hurt a bit.’ I twist the brass key at the base of the box and sit back.

Panels at the top of the box slide apart and stitchers deploy from the small opening. The wee mechanical spiders crawl atop his chest, spinning fine threads of human tendon through his injuries. I watch as his flesh is stitched back together again in perfectly straight sutures.

It’s not entirely painless. Lord Hepburn gasps and his thin body shudders, his hand clutching mine. ‘Almost done,’ I reassure him. I don’t know why I say it; it’s not as if he’ll recall me being here.