A Treason of Magic (A Treason of Magic #1)

Chapter 1

“The Irish word for ‘fairy’ is ‘sheehogue’ [sidheóg], a diminutive of ‘shee’ in ‘banshee.’ Fairies are deenee shee [daoine sidhe] (fairy people).”

When I start the day, it feels like hundreds of others as the Hunter-in-Training.

Alongside my father, I ride out of the stable as the mist lifts from the damp ground.

A steady drizzle threatens in the heavy-bellied clouds overhead, but the air is no longer streaked with the rain that woke me last night.

The dampness lingers, but already the morning sun seems to be trying to warm the earth.

“The boy said the body was near the Maudite side of the forest.” Father’s voice is rougher on damp mornings like this, another reminder that he’s older than most Hunters ever live to be. I’m grateful for that; I am not ready to take up the duty.

As we cross from our estate into the mouth of Brimmond Wood, the sounds of the forest fill the air.

If I didn’t know what creatures lurked inside the gloom, I’d be charmed by nature’s symphony, but I know better.

My destiny is to hunt the monsters that lurk between the evening’s gloaming and daylight.

I was, quite literally, born to fill this role.

At my hip, my sword bumps along a few times as I shift, uncomfortable and itchy in the wet fabric clinging to me; in my pockets, the soft clatter and clank of glass vials and steel tools sound more comforting than nature’s songs today.

“Probably the traveler Girard was expecting at the Dancing Goose,” Father muses as we ride. “What do we know about him?”

“Solitary traveler, according to the note sent from the village. Comes through Fleuriste regularly. The killer is someone or something that lives in the woods, but that doesn’t limit the parameters much. Did the boy have any details?”

“Dismemberment.” Father glances at me briefly. “First body like this.”

I watch the rustles within the hedges along the path.

Most of what we hunt will be abed now, but the twilight hours are still hunting time for some dangerous faery creatures, though none are in sight.

A few mundane squirrels chatter angrily.

One squat creature not of this world stops and spits at us, but the Hunter only eliminates those that cause problems. A spitting, furred mammal isn’t worth the time.

We ride in silence until we reach a clearing filled with wild lettuce, bogland, and not much else. The horses can’t safely cross here, so we dismount. I check to be sure my long braids are tucked up inside my hat. I’m already wet enough without them soaking up more of the dampness.

Leaving the horses to graze at the edge of the clearing, we walk deeper into the forest, away from the riding path, now following muddy trails and slipping between narrow openings.

As we go, my dress feels like it collects all the water, debris, and flower petals from the shrubs I brush against. The skirt pulls heavily under the accumulated mud that clumps on my hem.

The worst of it is the way the fabric draws the wet upward.

I can feel the cling of moisture above my knee-high boots already.

Father, of course, has breeches tucked into his boots. Over them, he wears a loose tunic and a jacket that ends at his hips. He is no more encumbered now than when we left the manor. Someday when I am the Hunter, I shall dress in trousers, I swear to myself yet again.

“This way.” Father pushes a thorn-covered branch aside and holds it only long enough for me to catch it. He never treats me as if I am a woman, much less a lady or his daughter, although I am all those things.

I am the next Hunter. That is all I’ll ever be in his eyes, and sometimes that is enough. He would never bring Rylan here. My sister is a gentle lady, a delicate angel of the house. I am beyond not a lady in his eyes, which comes with privilege many women likely would envy—if they knew.

“This way,” he repeats, as if it could be any other direction. The scent of death is already nauseating.

I step around an insect-riddled stump. In one hand, I lift a mint-soaked rag and press it to my nose. Even with that aid, the noxious fragrances of death gather in my throat, squat on my tongue, and threaten a revolt. “I never get used to that smell.”

Father grunts in agreement.

As we reach the copse of trees where the man died, I push back the gagging sensation that wants to slip from my tongue to summon my morning meal.

If I were a proper lady, I’d be less concerned with the stench of rotting death and more upset about the poor dead man who is flopped onto the leafy ground.

Monsters have little regard for mortal priority.

The dead man has flies circling his already bloating body and crawling over every exposed space. The discordant buzz, not unlike some of the violin performances I’ve had to endure in the social season, is the only noticeable sound. Brimmond Wood has gone silent.

“He’s too far into the forest to drag home,” Father pronounces, peering down at the scattered remains and corpse with its oddly folded legs. “And in too many pieces. Even if we divide him between the horses, I’m not sure there’s any need to carry him home.”

I peel off my long gloves; no sense ruining yet another pair if I can spare them.

Although the man has no visible blood to stain the cotton, the scent of death doesn’t launder out gracefully.

I tuck my gloves into a pocket my sister has sewn into all our coats.

Then I squat down beside the dead man and withdraw a thin steel rod I carry for this exact reason.

“A long enough cut that it took significant force,” I pronounce, concentrating on the biggest visible detail rather than the detached hand and partially severed leg.

Father stares down at the man. They’re of an age, maybe six decades of living.

The dead man isn’t nobility, though, whereas Father was born titled.

The corpse has thickened skin on his hands from laboring, and his teeth show evidence of a poor diet.

I don’t bother noting them; Father undoubtedly notices.

I nudge the man’s chin so the wound is easier to see. The head lolls back, and I realize that the only thing keeping it attached to the body is a bit of skin at the base of the man’s skull. The hand and foot were not so lucky. “Clean edges on the wound.”

“Which means?”

Although I want to roll my eyes that Father would ask such a simplistic question by now, I resist. “The killer used an extremely sharp blade, not a hacking tool.”

The Hunter’s next questions are less easy. “What else? What are we not seeing?”

I use the steel rod to part the tattered remains of the man’s clothing.

Bite marks from small creatures and at least one larger animal mar the skin, but no secondary or tertiary injuries indicate the dead man has recently been in a fight.

His hands—both the one still attached and the one nearby—show no fight injuries, and his face is unbruised.

“No fight bruises or human-made marks,” I offer.

The man on the ground was killed with what looks like one singular wound to the throat. Although animals have scattered parts of his remains, making it harder to discern the extent of his injuries, I’ve seen enough dead bodies to confidently state, “Single killing blow. Powerful one.”

“By man or beast?”

“Beast.” I don’t need to hesitate. The gash on the dead man’s throat is wide and deep, edges clean and angled. “No man is strong enough to do this with one strike, and this is not from multiple cuts.”

Again I prod the wound, pointing out that there are no start and stop marks. One singular cut ended his life.

“Nothing that’s allowed on this side of the barrier can do that,” Father mutters.

That is, of course, the problem before us.

Some faery beasts come here, and they really aren’t worth the headache of hunting.

Minor things that tumble through, chasing berries or frolicking.

We don’t need to capture or kill them as long as they aren’t causing problems. The only ones we hunt are the dangerous ones.

The killer is one we must hunt.

“Whatever did this isn’t meant to be over here.” I sigh. The list of possible creatures banned from our world is long, and I have faith in our ability—Father’s ability mostly, as he is the actual Hunter, augmented by magic.

“Does he have any identification?” Father’s tone isn’t hopeful. Few people carry identifying papers. He knows soldiers and nobility. He knows residents in the village on our property, but this man is unfamiliar.

“Only whatever they know at the Goose. One of us can go talk to Girard later,” I suggest, hoping my father chooses to go. My relationship with Girard is fraught of late.

Father and I catalog any other details that might prove useful later.

The dead man has no jewelry, identifying birthmarks or scars, or papers on him.

There are no marks on the nearby ground indicating he was on horseback, although the rain might have washed them away.

The rain might also have washed away other evidence, as the ground shows only a small pool of blood and the body itself is void of it.

The wounds, the area around them that gravity would’ve pulled blood toward—it’s all clean.

That is, perhaps, the most unusual thing.

I poke at the skin of his belly. Plenty of beasts like to eat the soft meat of organs, but the man’s stomach skin is intact. “He’s not been mauled by anything, but he has no blood.”

I gently roll the remains, and aside from a small puddling, there’s none there either. “Perhaps he was killed elsewhere?”

Father frowns. “That or something drank most of the blood.”

“Nothing in the journals drinks the full of a man’s blood.” I watch a fly crawl into the dead man’s nostril as I picture the lists in the journals, beast after beast I have studied. “A few sips perhaps . . . but he’s missing at least a gallon.”

“Could there be something new? Recently come to our world?” Father asks.