Page 75 of The Falconer

‘Better?’ he asks.

I look up at him. I feel lethargic, as though I’ve taken a good dose of laudanum. I take a deep breath and whisper, ‘May I tell you something?’

Kiaran shifts me in his arms, which only draws me closer. He seems unsure what to do with me. ‘All right.’

I press my cheek against his rough raploch shirt. My sense of decency is lost. Warmer, I need to be warmer, to feel something through the numbness. ‘Sometimes I almost forget you’re fae.’

‘Do you?’ He sounds genuinely curious, maybe even a bit surprised.

‘Aye.’ I close my eyes. ‘When you decide to be kind. Like you telling me that you would never faestrike me.’

‘What about everything else?’

‘I’m reminded of why I should never let myself forget.’

He places me gently into bed and eases the counterpane over my legs. ‘Take your own advice, Kam. You’ll find nothing human in me. Always remember that.’

Even with the counterpane covering me, the cold is unrelenting. I shudder under the silk sheets. Or at least I think I do. My body is hollow, numb. The only thing that tethers me to it is Kiaran’s voice, our conversation.

I rub my cheek against the pillow to feel the fabric. Nothing. There are only my words. ‘Are we agreeing with each other? This is a rare occurrence.’

Kiaran pulls my wooden work chair over to the bedside. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go right back to fighting.’

‘A cherished pastime,’ I murmur. My tongue is too heavy to speak properly.

His eyes meet mine, and for a brief second, I feel that connection to him again. An innate understanding. A likeness that I can’t begin to describe or comprehend.

Tell me, I will him.Tell me something, too. I’m compelled to understand those parts of him that he keeps closed off and untouchable. Those brief glimpses into his soul that show how emotions have moved him somewhere in his vast lifetime.

Kiaran tears his gaze from mine and reaches for something beside the bed. He pulls up a brown leather bag and plucks out three small bottles, thread, and a curved needle.

I tense. ‘What are those?’

‘I have to stitch you up,’ he says, as if it should be obvious.

My eyes widen. ‘Are you mad? I have stitchers in my dressing room that could do a far better job, with less pain, than that thing you’re wielding. Put it away.’

Kiaran regards me patiently. ‘It’s this, or you die. You choose.’

I suppose Kiaran wouldn’t stitch me up by hand if he didn’t have to. He’d consider it a waste of time. ‘Fine,’ I grumble. ‘What’s in the vials?’

He opens one bottle and holds it out to me. ‘Drink this one.’

Inside is a milky blue liquid with what looks like thin slivers of glass floating in it. Surely he doesn’t mean for me to drink glass. ‘Am I going to regret consuming its contents?’

‘No. But I imagine you’ll still call me every expletive you can possibly think of.’ He presses it into my palm.

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ I sniff the vial and scrunch up my nose at a sharp tang that burns my nostrils. Like something that might come out of my chemistry set. ‘Ugh! What’s in this? It smells vile.’

‘I knew a human girl once. She was stubborn, like you. Refused to drink the paltry contents of that bottle, like you . . .’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘And she died a horrible, painful death – torturous, really – because she wouldn’t take my advice.’

I scrutinise him. ‘There was no girl who died, was there?’

‘There will be if you don’t drink what’s in that damned bottle.’

I prop myself up and scowl at him. Then I gulp in a breath, hold it and drain the contents.

The liquid burns, like potent whisky. It scorches my throat and races through my body much faster than I expected. I claw at the pillow and gasp pathetically. Intense, agonising pain follows almost instantly. I can’t concentrate on anything else but how much it hurts, and I can’t even say all the profanities that flash across my mind. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, rendered immobile.

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