Page 6 of The Falconer

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 thisheadacheof 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 myheadacheworse.’ 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.Tooquiet. 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.

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