Page 66 of The Falconer

‘Ibegyour pardon?’ My cheeks burn, from either the fever or embarrassment – it’s hard to tell. Thank goodness he can’t see my expression. ‘You must be joking.’

‘My powers do not extend to seeing through a lady’s clothing.’

I say a mental prayer, hoping that this ends quickly. ‘Fine,’ I relent. ‘If you must.’

When he unfastens the first button, I begin to shake. This is too intimate. Just when I think I have myself under control, that my façade is impenetrable, he does something new to shatter it. To remind me that I’m still human, and that no man has ever touched me like this.

But he’s not a man, I remind myself.

Another button, another, then another. I try to slow my racing heart but I’m unsuccessful. I have always been taught to keep a strict, physical separation from men. Even while dancing, gloves and clothing are a shield.

Hell and blast, I should have worn a corset and chemise, but the wound had scabbed over and the fabric made it itch. Without Dona to help me dress, I was too tired to bother with the necessities.

I hold my breath as he spreads the fabric apart. His smooth, warm fingers brush my skin and I close my eyes. I hope he doesn’t notice how his touch makes me shiver. God, but I want to lean into him, to have his hands press against me. A small relief amid the pain.

He’s not a man.He’s not a man. He’s not a—Damnation, he certainlyfeelslike a man.

‘Does it hurt?’ His voice startles me. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. ‘Then you’re not immune to the poison.’

‘Thewhat?’

‘Hold still.’

I try not to let myself become overwhelmed by his touch. Is this what it’s like to be faestruck? To experience one moment of intimacy, no matter how inconsequential, and want more? I can’t forget what he is. That even if he feels like a man, he isn’t one.

Time to distract myself. ‘MacKay?’

‘Hmm?’ He sounds indifferent. Impersonal, as usual.

‘Tell me about the Falconers. Why are they called that?’

His fingers are picking at something on my skin, but I can only just feel it. The area around the wound is too numb. ‘They had the ability to connect with falcons,’ he says. ‘Each woman had one, her personal companion, and could see through her falcon’s eyes during a hunt.’

‘Why falcons?’

Kiaran strokes my skin, leaving a damp trail of what I guess to be blood. ‘You may see them as mere birds, but they are capable of travelling between our worlds, because they belong to both – just as a Falconer does. They are the only animals capable of seeing past our glamours, and are impervious to mental influence. It made them the perfect spy for your kind.’ He clears his throat. ‘And when Falconers began using them, thesìthicheanattempted to slaughter them along with their owners.’

Under his formal tone is a hint of sadness. I wonder what memories haunt Kiaran, what could possibly have affected him so much that he should show any emotion at all. I would give anything for him to tell me.

‘And where were you when all this happened?’

When his hand pauses against my skin it’s no longer warm. It’s freezing, cold enough to burn. The strong taste of earth and honey, so pleasant before, now coats my tongue so strong. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is not what you truly desire to ask.’

I keep myself still. Sometimes it’s best to treat Kiaran as a feral animal, a creature I’ve accidentally encountered in the wild. One mistake, a single sudden movement, and he’ll respond as if I’m prey. I must never forget that.

‘Is it not?’ I say carefully.

‘Don’t play games with me.’

I say, very carefully, ‘I want to know what manner of man I’m about to die beside on the battlefield.’

Only then do I realise my mistake. I called him a man again.

Kiaran leans in closer to me, the palm of his hand pressing into my shoulder blade. So cold. ‘And there again, you make the human error of so foolishly valuing honour,’ he breathes in my ear. ‘Do you not remember what I told you the night we met?’

The night we met. What I recall from that night, the night after my mother’s death, is my vivid, blood-pounding need for vengeance. I went into the city with theseilgflùrstill woven through my hair – still believing it to be nothing but a pretty little adornment, the last thing my mother ever gave me. I carried an iron blade and went out to hunt for the faery who killed her.

When I couldn’t find her, I tried to kill the first faery I met. It was aneach uisge, the most dangerous breed of water-horse in Scotland.

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