Page 49 of The Falconer

‘When you said you weren’t running, I assumed you had a plan. I did not realise that plan was a fight to the death.’

‘What else is there?’ I hiss in pain as Gavin pulls me to my feet.

‘You’re hurt,’ he says, drawing my forearm towards him to inspect my injuries. His fingers graze the spot where thecù sìth’s teeth scraped. These wounds will become my newest badges.

I scan the room and wince at the damage. ‘Sorry about your study. I’m shocked no one came running with all the noise we must have made.’

Nearly every piece of furniture is broken. Splintered wood lies all over the floor, mixed with broken glass from the windows. Almost the entire collection of nature volumes is now strewn about the room. The only thing unaffected is the fireplace; logs are still aflame and glowing. I consider it a victory that I didn’t end up getting burned.

‘You can’t hear much of what goes on in this part of the house,’ he says, ‘and I’m sure the music helped. I’ve never been so relieved that Mother insisted on hiring an orchestra.’ He looks at our feet, where the dead hound would be if I could see it. ‘At least they couldn’t hearhim– I was certain the damn howl would burst my ears.’

As Gavin inspects my injury more closely, I say, ‘It’s not really a howl – that’s its power. Our human ears just interpret it as sound—Ow!’ He’d poked at my blasted cut.

‘Sorry. This looks deep.’

‘Well, don’t poke at it,’ I tell him. ‘It hurts like the devil. Do you have any stitchers?’

‘Mother doesn’t keep them.’

I sigh. ‘Of course not.’

‘Aren’t you the least bit concerned that some random faery attacked us, or that you’re bleeding all over my study?’

‘Not the least bit. And these are not the first scrapes I’ve endured, I assure you, nor are they the worst.’

He blinks. ‘You know, I don’t find that particularly comforting.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ I pull out of his grasp and wobble to an upturned settee to perch there.

‘I told you my secret,’ he said, ‘but you kept yours from me. What else are you hiding?’

‘You were gone two years and you returned yesterday. Why should I tell you anything?’

Gavin stalks over and grasps my gloved arm. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, because the bites hurt so badly. He reaches into a trouser pocket and produces a kerchief.

He regards me silently as he wraps the injury on my arm and ties the cloth. ‘Isn’t it a burden?’ he asks. ‘It was for me.’

He and I both have to play parts, to pretend to be the people we once were. Both of us might be broken in some way, but the difference is that I’m a killer. I have darkness to yield to that he doesn’t possess.

‘I can’t think about it,’ I say. ‘If I—’

Gavin turns his head sharply towards the window. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You.’

The faint taste of gingerbread and sweetness tickles my tongue. ‘Derrick,’ I say.

‘I can’t understand a damned thing you’re saying,’ Gavin says to thin air. He looks at me. ‘He’s your pixie. You speak to him.’

‘Derrick, show yourself. I can’t see you.’

Derrick appears at the same time as Gavin says, ‘What?’

The pixie flies to me. ‘I was waiting in the garden and I thought I heardcù sìth, so I flew up and checked, and—’

He starts blathering rapidly in his own language, as if he’s entirely forgotten he should be speaking in English. His wings whir, each word punctuated by heavy buzzing.

‘Repeat that last part in English,’ I say.

‘There’s an army of them,’ he bursts out. ‘And they’re almost here.’

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