The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 2

2

I grit my teeth. Of course, he would show up now. Kiaran MacKay exists to vex me.

I turn to see the ageless fae lounging against the alley wall. Sharp cheekbones, glittering fae skin, and all that arrogance neatly wrapped in a dark coat tailored to flaunt his lean fighter’s build. An elegant predator. The wind stirs through his black hair as Kiaran surveys the scene with amusement. His violet eyes, limned in silver and lilac, drift from the wailing woman to the cooling corpse between us. The bloody bastard is enjoying this.

“Rough night?” he asks.

“No, this is how I prefer to end an evening out. Slitting throats in alleyways while bystanders shriek.”

“How unexpectedly morbid of you,” he murmurs.

As he prowls closer, power and danger roll off of him in waves, evident in every lethal, graceful step. One look at him, and I know exactly how he clawed his way to become the Fade’s ruthless leader when the Courts fell centuries ago. His brutality was honed by endless time as an immortal. Sometimes, I wonder if this polished veneer he presents now is his true self or simply a mask he’s perfected over millennia.

“Why are you here?” I ask, sliding my dagger back into its sheath. “Shouldn’t you be off pillaging villages or snatching babies from their beds?”

Kiaran arches a brow. “And what use would I have for an infant?”

“I don’t know. A light repast?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “If you’re going to stand there looking sinister, at least make yourself useful.” I nod at the hysterical woman, whose cries have reached a truly impressive volume. “Erase fifteen minutes of her memory. And do try to leave her with her wits intact.”

“I don’t recall offering my services tonight.” His tone drips ice—cold enough to numb. Kiaran aids me by choice alone; his compliance is given, never owed. “Better to request than command.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and tally breaths— one, two, three . Strangling him would solve nothing. He’s thousands of years old. He could snap my neck before I blinked.

“Please,” I say, biting off the word.

Kiaran surveys me a moment longer, gauging my sincerity perhaps, before bending down to press one hand against the woman’s forehead. She goes quiet at the contact, every shred of her focus riveted on the beautiful creature crouched before her. The visage Kiaran presents without a glamour steals voices and stops hearts. Too beautiful to be real.

Frost blooms beneath his fingertips. It skitters across the mortar, spreading outward. A visible manifestation of his power sinking into her mind. Erasing memories, smoothing over trauma.

The woman slumps against the wall, unconscious.

When he withdraws, the ground is webbed with glittering frost. “She’ll wake with a mild headache and assume she overindulged in the tavern.”

“Thank you.” I turn on my heel, calling over my shoulder, “Take care of that corpse while you’re at it.”

Before he can respond, I stride from the close out into the wider street.

This is our unspoken arrangement, after all. Kiaran handles the aftermath, tidying up the gruesome scenes I leave behind. He erases memories, disposes of bodies, and ensures no trace of my activities reaches the authorities or a frightened public.

In return, I exterminate the rogue fae who stray beyond his territory into Edinburgh’s streets, preying on mortals. My mother passed the duty on to me—and her mother before her. A line blessed by the Seelie Queen thousands of years ago to mediate conflicts between fae and humans. Falconer was an ancient title held by my ancestors, sentries guarding the border between realms. Though the monarchs have long since vanished, this grim service still binds Kiaran and me together.

The din of shouts grows louder as I near the public houses clustered in the Old Town. The press of bodies thickens, the lanes choked with people looking for escape—at the bottom of a pint or between a stranger’s thighs. This is the underbelly of the city, awash in drink, desire, and violence.

I don’t hear Kiaran approach so much as sense him there, keeping pace beside me. He moves like a whisper—a creature of air and shadow.

“Glamour me,” I say with my gaze fixed ahead.

We’re approaching a group of men loitering outside a rowdy tavern, and the spray of blood from a slit throat makes for a rather damning picture.

“Only if you ask nicely,” comes the silken reply at my ear.

I give him a simpering smile. “Kiaran MacKay, light of my life, would you please hide all this blood so I don’t send the fine people of Edinburgh shrieking in terror?” I bat my lashes for good measure.

The look he levels me should have immolated me on the spot. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. Needling Kiaran has become one of my few sources of amusement.

He reaches out, placing a hand on my shoulder. The chill of his power slides over me—a brush of winter, the tightness in my lungs—and I watch as the gruesome evidence of my deeds disappears.

My clothes are pristine once more, my flesh scrubbed clean of any hint of violence. An effective trick. One I rely on far too often these days.

“You should have worn black,” Kiaran says, dropping his hand. “It never shows the stains.”

I make a noncommittal noise, filing away his suggestion with all the other unsolicited advice he’s provided. Sharpen your blades. Aim faster. Try not to die.

Such a fount of wisdom.

“And what are your thoughts on my posture? Or perhaps you’d like to rate my knife skills? Any advice on my neck-stabbing technique?”

Kiaran cuts me a sharp glance. “I wasn’t aware I’d taken up a new occupation as your critic.”

“Honestly, you’re so stern and commanding, it’s easy to forget you’re not my employer.”

We slip into the twisting network of closes and wynds comprising Edinburgh’s Old Town. Drunken shouts echo through the night while intoxicated laughter spills from the taverns. Just another midnight in Scotland’s bustling capital when the monsters creep from the shadows, and drink flows free.

“I’ve killed over a dozen fae this month.” I keep my voice low as we thread through the crowds. “Your kind are getting restless.”

It’s meant as a rebuke. If the fae under his command are targeting humans, it’s a failure of his leadership, not mine. Bloodhouses exist to provide willing humans—seers gifted with the Sight—to sate fae appetites for warm blood and human energy.

But some are unable to resist the allure of unwilling human prey. The thrill of the hunt.

Kiaran slides me a sidelong glance. “My kind,” he repeats, as if he finds the phrase amusing.

“Yes, your kind. Ageless immortals with foul manners and poor self-restraint when it comes to sinking fangs into people’s throats.”

I’ve never seen Kiaran feed. He may prefer fae or have unnatural discipline compared to the rest. But the eyes remind me of what lurks beneath the polished exterior. I’ve been to the bloodhouses. I’ve seen the naked hunger on fae faces when they drink deep, leaving skin bruised and broken.

For all his cool detachment, Kiaran is still a predator at heart.

“I govern them in the Fade. You track them here.” He gives me an inscrutable look. “That’s the arrangement.”

I stop short, rounding on him. “Well then, perhaps we need to renegotiate. Because you seem to have no issue tracking my movements, yet locating rogue fae outside your territory is too difficult?”

The barb strikes home. I see it in the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The way his pupils constrict, silver bleeding through the violet.

One benefit of my bloodline is the ability to sense fae—tracking the unique energy thrumming beneath their skin. Yet despite the tremendous power Kiaran commands, he can’t replicate the skill beyond his sphere of influence in the portions of the city under his control.

“You wear my mark. They don’t,” he says. “I’ll always be able to find you.”

Instinctively, my fingers rest on the intricate knotwork adorning my right palm that’s hidden from human eyes except mine. Its silvery glow remains muted tonight, the elegant tracery barely visible. But I can feel it—that whisper-soft pulse like a heartbeat. A safeguard, Kiaran claimed, when he etched it into my flesh months ago after a vicious attack nearly killed me. To prevent other fae from finding me so easily.

I suspect it’s also a leash. A way to keep a Falconer tethered no matter where she strays.

When I glance up, Kiaran is watching my hand. Heat pricks my cheeks.

I tuck the marked palm behind my back. “Yes, thank you for that. I do love being magically tracked at your convenience. It’s not remotely unsettling.”

“Without that mark,” he says, “I could still find you anywhere in this city just by listening for the distant sounds of chaos.”

“A glowing character reference. I’m glad to provide entertainment for your endless, dull existence.”

The corner of Kiaran’s mouth twitches. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen to a smile on him. Something warm and dangerously bright flickers to life in my chest at the sight.

“Goodnight, Kameron,” he says softly.

The wind stirs his dark hair as Kiaran turns away, melting into the night’s shadows. He’ll retreat to the hidden corners of the Fade now while I make the long, solitary walk to the townhouse I once shared with my mother.

Before she fell victim to the monsters we hunt.

“Threaten your fae better,” I call after his retreating form, proud that my voice comes out steady. One near smile from Kiaran MacKay, and I’m reduced to a flustered mess. “Remind them to visit the bloodhouses if they want to feed. No more butchering mortals on my streets.”

I turn my feet toward home.

The night air is cool and damp against my skin as I walk. Cutpurses and thieves blend with the shadows, watching me pass with calculating gazes. I keep my head down, cap pulled low over my hair. Kiaran’s glamour might have erased the bloodstains, but I’ve no desire to invite trouble.

Around me rises the maze-like sprawl of Old Town, a tangled web of closes and wynds twisting between the towering tenements. This city bares its true face after dark, as dangerous and unpredictable as any monster lurking in the spaces between.

The cobblestones grow more smooth beneath my boots as I leave the sprawling slums behind and cross into the elegant order of New Town. Even now, deep in the midnight hour, the streets are pristine. The stately buildings shine pearl white in the moonlight, a world apart from the one I just left. This is the refuge of the wealthy, far removed from disease and despair.

I approach Charlotte Square, slipping into the mews leading to the servant’s entrance of my townhouse. I’ve no wish to add more kindling to the rumours that follow my every step. The matrons of the square have been whispering about the strange Kameron girl for years. My mother had played the role of an aristocrat well, hiding the violence beneath perfume and balls until it killed her. I lack her skill at pretty facades. Any hope I had of being a respectable lady died with her a year ago.

The side door gives way silently, well-oiled to avoid creaks that might betray my late-night returns. The servants retired hours ago, leaving the house sunk in slumber. Perfect. I move silently through the darkened corridors. Stealth was one of the first skills my mother drove into my bones, along with all her other ruthless lessons. But they’ve kept me alive. Taught me how to hide in plain sight, how to kill.

Moulded me into the weapon I’ve become.

Light on your feet, light with your fingers. Let no one hear death coming.

I freeze mid-step as something small and bright shoots past my head. I sigh. Might’ve known the pixie would be lurking about, just waiting for the opportunity to pounce and torment me.

“You look like death spat you back out,” Derrick says by way of greeting, his elfin face splitting into a wicked grin. “New perfume, Aileana? I’m scenting notes of piss and grime with a musky undertone of back-alley shite.”

His skin glitters as if dusted in gold, luminous even in the dark hallway. Delicate dragonfly wings shimmer at his back. Despite the innocent appearance, he’s a menace. Staked claim on my townhouse decades ago and has yet to leave, despite my and my mother’s best efforts to evict him.

“Keep talking, and I’ll never offer you pastries again,” I say.

“I’ll just steal them from the kitchens,” he says with a snort. “Why do you look like you’ve been dragged in the filth behind a carriage?”

“I refuse to answer that. I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

“For now.” His too-perceptive gaze tracks over the blood staining my attire, hidden from any prying human gazes by Kiaran’s power. “Sloppy work tonight, I see.”

“Says the pixie criticising me from the comfort of my home.” As he comes closer, I narrow my eyes. “Have you been in my wine cellar?”

He blinks innocently. “Of course not.”

“You’re covered in dust.”

He winces. “I might’ve sampled some of the Bordeaux. Oh, and that delightful Burgundy.” He smacks his lips. “Quite ambrosial vintages, those.”

“ Derrick . Those are worth more than this house!”

“And yet their true value is wasted on your unrefined palate,” he sniffs.

“Put them back.”

“But I require only a thimbleful to sate my thirst.” He flutters his lashes, affecting a pious look.

“Your thimblefuls are the equivalent of three full wine goblets.”

“Slanderous accusations. As though I would ever imbibe to excess.”

Right. And I’m the bloody Queen.

Though right now, I want nothing more than to crack open a bottle of something old enough to have met Shakespeare and soak in a hot bath until I fall asleep.

“Finish lecturing me later. You need to get upstairs before MacNab catches a whiff and keels over dead from the stench of you,” he says. “At this rate, I’ll be forced to wipe his memory clean back to childhood to forget your pungent presence.”

I groan. The last thing I need is for him to leave the butler an amnesiac infant. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t finished.”

Derrick pats my cheek. “Your bath’s ready. Whispered a bit of influence into the maid’s ear so the water would be piping hot. You’re welcome.”

“If you have time to compel my staff, you have time to return all the pilfered silverware to the cabinets where it belongs,” I tell him.

“It looks better in my wardrobe. It’s nice silver.”

“Put it back, you thieving wretch,” I call after him as I climb the steps.

In my room, I shed the filthy, bloodstained clothes and leave them in a pile for Derrick to burn.

Sinking into the steaming bath, I let my eyes drift shut and exhale, willing some of the lingering tension from my muscles. Heat seeps into my sore spots, loosening knots as the water envelops me.

Hunting takes a toll. It’s left its marks carved on my body. One can shed a soiled dress, but the echoes remain. Muscle and bone remembers even when the mind wants to forget. Mine recalls vicious fangs tearing flesh. The bite of metal driven deep by hostile hands. I’ve been shaped and coloured by violence.

My fingers find the patchwork of scars, both old and new, that mar my skin. Most have faded to silvery lines, but some still stand out raw and angry. I trace their jagged paths, reading their stories through touch alone.

Here, the slash of a fae blade across my ribs when I was fourteen and cocky and too slow. Lesson learned.

There, twin puncture marks on my arm, an eighteenth birthday gift from a fae with pretty lies and hungry eyes. Dead now, too.

Here’s ages nineteen and twenty, the ravages of twenty-one. My body bears the marks of my calling, oaths written in scar tissue.

My mother spared me none of it. She knew too well the cost of mercy. What it means to be the last Falconers walking the knife’s edge between two worlds. The sacrifices that demanded to be made on the altar of duty. Her lessons were cold and sometimes cruel, but they taught me how to survive.

Slip close and strike fast , she told me before my first real hunt at the age of ten. Let your blades do the work. Show no hesitation, no remorse.

I learned how easy it is to kill.

But it wasn’t three months ago that I learned how easy it is to die.

I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst across the darkness. Breathe , I tell myself. Just breathe .

I focus on the air moving slowly through my lungs until the vice around my chest eases. My fingers brush the glowing mark Kiaran had pressed into my flesh as my life bled out that night. Nearly assassinated by a group of fae trying to free the worst of their kind from their prison beneath the city.

His voice echoes across my memories, cutting through the pain. Listen closely. I can save you, but you have to accept my mark.

And I agreed.

I remember the pressure of his palm over mine. The way his power carved under my skin like the kiss of a blade. How he put the broken, bleeding pieces of me back together, and now I’m tied to him whether I like it or not.

I sink deeper into the cooling bathwater and begin scrubbing away the evidence of tonight’s hunt.

But the ghosts are patient. They’ll be waiting when I close my eyes.

Because my duty and lineage is a shackle of its own.