Page 105 of The Vanishing Throne

‘You’re making this far too easy for me,’ I say. ‘First I’m supposed to charm you. Then ensnare you when you least suspect.’ In a swift move, I roll on top of him, trapping him beneath me. Our bodies are perfectly lined up, pressed close. I pin his wrists with a triumphant grin. ‘Ha! There now. You’re mine, Kiaran MacKay.’

The way he looks at me steals my breath. He’s gazing up at me like I’m powerful. Like I’m magnificent. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more beautiful.

Then he breaks my hold and he’s whispering against my lips. ‘I am,’ he tells me. ‘I’m yours.’

I wake to find Kiaran standingby the window, his back to me. The moon outside frames him in a halo of light. I study the span of his back, the length of his spine, the designs etched into his skin there that must have been burned by fae metal.

I rise from the bed and move to stand behind him. He doesn’t say anything as I slide my fingertips up to the skin at his shoulder to explore the pattern there. Some of the swirls are tiny, some larger. It’s the most beautiful work of art I’ve ever seen.

‘What does it mean?’ I ask him. I follow the lines over and over, feelinghow the skin is upraised in tiny, intricate patterns.

‘When asìthichemakes a vow, their skin is marked with it. It’s a reminder we wear for eternity, a penance,’ he says. ‘That one is my promise to Catríona.’

There’s an ache in my chest, a dull throbbing. ‘Your penance?’

Kiaran closes his eyes and reaches for my hand, as if he craves the comfort of touch. As if I’m about to disappear. ‘Each sign represents a human I’ve killed.’

I hold my breath, my eyes roving the length of the design. Oh, god. If I tried to count them, I would lose my place. There are so many swirls, so many. I can’t help it, I rise onto my tiptoes and slide my hand up the design, from his wrist to the underside of his arm.

Kiaran lets me continue my exploration across the span of his back, over his shoulders, to his other arm. Thousands of swirls.Thousands.

I can’t even breathe once I reach his other wrist, where the design finally ends. I recall his endless dark and hopeless gaze when I saw him in the past.

Kadamach was not made to love. His gift is death.

Kiaran wears his marks just like I do. They’re memories and shame and hurt all at once. If anyone should ever ask me whathappens when chaos and death meet, I should tell them that together we bear the scars of our gifts. They’re a reminder of what happens when we try to choose our own fate.

‘Kam,’ he whispers.

And that’s it. Only my name, as if he’s saying:Do you understand?

‘You chose a human name,’I say softly. I hadn’t even realised it until I said it. ‘Kiaran MacKay is a human name.’

‘Aye,’ he says.

‘Why?’I follow the marks up his spine and feel him shiver beneath my touch.

‘I wanted something of my own,’ he says. ‘So I chose my name.’

Kiaran’s entire life was planned for him from the moment he was born until his death– a pattern, just like the Cailleach described. It’s remarkable how something so small and simple can become so important. Something that saysThis is mine. I chose this. I own this.

A name. Just a name. If I had to start all over, maybe I wouldn’t choose to be Lady Aileana Kameron, daughter of the Marquess of Douglas. Or even Falconer, the girl whose gift is chaos. Maybe I’d just be Kam, the girl who endured.

I find a branch of his design that is smaller and more intricate and I touch my fingertips to each swirl. One after the other.

‘What made you hunt your own kind?’ I ask. ‘I’ve always wondered.’

Kiaran almost turns, but I stop him. I run my hands over his shoulders, over the lives he took. I’m memorizing his marks, just as he did mine. It’s my turn.

‘I saw the part of me I tried to destroy in them.’ The words rolling off his tongue, his accent thicker with emotion. ‘So I killed them all.’

I go still.Isn’t that what I did? The fae I killed were all substitutes for Sorcha. Whenever I looked at them – without fail – Isawher. Each time I killed one of them, in my mind I was killing Sorchaand avenging my mother’s death.

I lean my forehead against his back. I feel the puckered skin against mine and wonder who they all were.

His gift is death.

Wherever she goes, death follows.

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