Page 16 of The Falconer

I only slow to a stroll when I reach Princes Street, crossing to the side closest to the park. Rain drips onto my face as I gaze at the southern part of the city.

The castle is visible from here, although thick clouds obscure the keep and the rocky ledge that forms its foundations. To me, the castle has always seemed carved from the very crag that looms over the Nor’ Loch.

Though the loch has been drained and turned into gardens, I’ve only ever heard it referred to by its former name. Now flowers, grass and trees separate the Old Town from the New. In the dark, the green space looks vast, empty, so far below street level that the lights miss it entirely.

Beyond the park, the Old Town is scantly lit. Thick clouds surround the tall, cramped buildings clinging to the rocky crag. Flickering light spills from scattered open windows, from crude candles made of livestock fat. It’s all those in Old Town can afford to illuminate their homes. They don’t have electricity there – gaslights line the main streets, their glow dimmed by a thickening, dewy mist that wafts over the ground.

Faeries frequent Old Town more than any other place in Edinburgh. There are so many hidden and cramped closes between the buildings into which they can lure their victims. When the bodies are finally discovered, the authorities think nothing of it. Many people here die of illness. Faery killings are almost always attributed to a plague, spread easily through Old Town’s dirty, crowded quarters. Authorities ignore the residents’ talk of vengeful spirits and faeries and curses, believing them to be backwards and superstitious. I know better.

I cross North Bridge, which connects New Town to Old Town. An occasional exuberant scream echoes from somewhere within the Old Town labyrinth. On High Street, a few people meander drunkenly across the cobblestones. A gentleman wearing an oversized coat is sitting under a gaslight, singing.

I edge along the side of a building to avoid them and continue towards the High Kirk. Rain clouds have settled low enough to obscure the top of the cathedral and the buildings in front of me. The thud of my boots echoes across the empty street with each step.

Then I taste it – a stark fae power I can’t yet identify. I smile. My first victim of the night. I only wish it were thebaobhan sìth.

The faery will follow me until it finds the perfect place to attack. Faeries love the hunt, which is all about power, control and dominance. Everything builds to that moment when they realise I’m not the prey after all. I’m the predator.

I’m about to double back to the gardens when the full taste of the faery’s power hits me. My head snaps up and I briefly savour the sensation.

Honey and dirt and pure nature, a thousand flavours that are difficult to describe. The taste of the wild – running through trees with wind in my hair as my feet pound soft dirt. The sea on a misty morning with sand and water swirling around my legs. A taste that conjures images that look real and significant.

There is only one faery I’ve ever met with that signature.

Before the taste gets any stronger, I break into a run towards the castle. My breath rushes in strong, quick pants. The faery is silent behind me, but he matches my pace.

I grin and duck into a tight wynd. The walls enclose me and heighten the musty scent of earth and stone. I can’t see or hear anything except my heartbeat, my rapid footfalls, but that matters little. I’ve memorised the endless steps and curves and passageways of the Old Town.

Another cramped wynd, this one in the vaults underground, beneath the buildings. My shoulders brush against the walls, but I don’t slow. I count until I reach the stairs ahead –one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five– then I bound down the stone steps. Two more sharp turns and I explode from the underground. Gaslights illuminate the dark road as I sprint to another small close.

It’s narrow enough to place each foot on either wall and climb up the passageway easily until I reach the top.

And I wait.

A dozen rapid heartbeats later, a tall figure dashes through the entrance. The faery pauses beneath me, his body still. His breathing is silent; he is not at all winded from our chase. He starts forward, slow, quiet.

Supporting my weight on my hands, I drop from the walls and launch myself at him.Got you, Kiaran MacKay.

Chapter 8

Kiaran jerks, startled, as I slide my forearm under his chin, pressing it hard into his neck, the only vulnerable place on his body.

‘Yield,’ I say.

But Kiaran twists, lightning fast, and flips me onto the ground. I land hard and the air whooshes out of my lungs.Bloody hell that hurt.

‘Bastard.’ I lift my boot and slam the bottom of my foot into his knee. It makes a hard crack, but not even a hiss of pain escapes his lips. He smiles.

Aye, he enjoys this as much as I do. I’m not about to lose or yield to him if I can avoid it. Some nights we fight until I bleed. Until I’m aching and heaving, and still haven’t left a bruise on his fae skin. I haven’t beaten Kiaran in combat yet, but that just makes me more determined.

I jump into a crouch and reach for thesgian dubhat my waist. I leap at him with the blade high. He blocks my attack easily, grabbing the scruff of my coat to shove me face first into the wall.

‘That was clumsy.’ His voice is like a feline purr, beautiful and melodic.

I grit my teeth. Ihateit when he starts to critique me while we’re fighting. I whirl and strike again – and slice nothing but air.

‘Still clumsy.’ He sounds annoyed. ‘You know where I’m vulnerable to a mortal weapon, so what the hell are you doing?’

‘Would you kindly stop talking?’ I snap.

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