Page 52 of The Falconer

‘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 thecù 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 fromcù sìthpower 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 nearestcù 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 acù sìthyelps.

I reach towards the sound, palm out, and flick my wrist. The mixture of alcohol andseilgflùrflowing 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 ofcù 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 ofseilgflùr-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?’

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