Page 19 of The Falconer

‘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 isdaoine 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 thedaoine sìthslaughtering 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 onlydaoine sìthleft. 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 thedaoine 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 ofseilgflùrand 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.

Seilgflùrstays 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 – butseilgflùris 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. Thebaobhan 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.

---