Page 77 of The Falconer

I never thought he would understand. The people who had been there after my mother’s death – the ones who still spoke to me after it happened – reassured me that things would get better, that I’d get better. And with enough time, everything would beall right. But nothing is all right, and I amnotbetter.

Time won’t fix me. Time allows me to become more skilful at hiding how much I hurt inside. Time makes me a great liar. Because when it comes to grief, we all like to pretend.

Kiaran picks up the needle and dips it in the third vial. He must have touched my wounds again because he asks, ‘Can you feel that?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

He leans over me and begins the delicate process of sewing up my injuries. As the minutes tick by, I watch him from under my eyelashes. He frowns in concentration while he sews. Eventually, my eyes grow heavy, but I fight sleep.

‘MacKay,’ I say. ‘What’s the point in stitching me up to save my life when we’re likely to die on Tuesday? Why are you on my side?’

Kiaran smirks. ‘Ah, the pervasive idea of absolutes. When did I ever say my side was yours?’

‘We hunt together,’ I say. ‘We save people. We’re about to go into a war with unfavourable odds. It certainly looks like we’re on the same side.’

We save people. I’m not even certain why I added that. It’s my delusion that our nightly slaughter spares human lives, and that makes it acceptable, somehow. In reality, I’m selfish. I’m more consumed by a need to kill than to save another person. I wish I weren’t.

Kiaran’s laugh is sharp, abrupt. ‘Tell yourself whatever you’d like, but don’t speak for me. I’m not benevolent. If I’ve done anything good, it’s because of my damned vow.’

I blink hard, trying to clear my clouding vision. ‘Yourwhat?’

His focused, patient demeanour is gone in an instant, and now his eyes burn, so exquisitely fierce that I can’t look away. I have never seen such raw violence in a mere expression before.

Then, just as quickly, the wrath is gone, replaced with apathy. ‘I killed humans every day,’ he says coldly. ‘Until I spoke a vow.’

I stare at him in surprise. A faery’s vow is immutable and everlasting. To break one results in the worst pain imaginable, long and agonising, before the faery finally dies. It is not something to be taken lightly.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘You don’t want to ask me about my past,’ he says, voice low. ‘Some things are best left buried.’

This vow, whatever it was, meant something to Kiaran. Something important. I have to know. ‘If you won’t tell me about your vow or your past,’ I say softly, ‘then tell me the real reason you hunt.’

His anger sparks again and I see something underneath it that I could identify anywhere: loss, hidden by centuries upon centuries of rage.

I know from experience what grief does. How it can transform us. That the only way to control it is by pressing it deep down inside ourselves where we hope no one will ever discover it. But it will always be there. Inevitably, something or someone will come along and dig up everything we’ve tried so hard to conceal. Kiaran did that to me. I just did that to Kiaran.

Now I’m almost certain I know the answer. Who Kiaran made his vow to and why he hunts the fae.

My eyelids finally flutter closed. I try to open them, but I can’t. My mind has already started clouding. I fight against sleep one last time. I need to ask him. ‘Did you love your human very much?’ I ask.

He sucks in a surprised breath. His whispered response is so low, I strain to hear him before sleep takes me completely. ‘I didn’t love her nearly enough.’

Chapter 25

Iwake at the sound of a chair scratching against the hardwood floor. I stir and open my eyes to see Kiaran about to leave my bedroom.

‘Skulking out with no goodbye?’ I ask.

Kiaran freezes and turns his head. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Liar.’ I shift experimentally and am relieved to find the numbness gone. I feel . . . wonderful, actually. Not at all sore. ‘How does my back look? Awful?’

Kiaran’s heavy buckled boots are silent as he approaches the bed. He sits next to me. ‘Feel for yourself.’

When I twist my arm to tentatively poke the wounds, I expect to find taut stitches lining the claw marks and flesh slick with blood. Instead, I find dry skin with smooth, upraised scars where my injuries had been but a few hours ago. New badges to accompany the many old ones that already line my back, and it feels as though they have been there for years.

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