The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 4

4

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks in a slow heartbeat, trying to lull me to sleep. But sleep and I aren’t friends. We haven’t been for a long time.

I’m curled in the window seat, watching dusk bleed across Charlotte Square. Shadows seep between the elegant townhouses, staining the pale stone shades of grey. The lamplighters will be out soon. I’m biding my time until the New Town sleeps, and I can begin the hunt again.

Another night, another tally I’ll carve into my bones. My eyes drift closed as I focus on the rhythmic noise of the clock, a hypnotic pulse. I steal this small moment of rest before the ghosts and memories rise. They’ll come when darkness falls, seeping up from beneath the surface. I’ve learned to fear the quiet and the things that creep in to fill it.

“Milady?”

The timid query drags me back from the brink of restless oblivion. I peel open my eyes to find my maid, Dona, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. She worries the edge of her apron between her nervous fingers.

“Yes?” My voice scrapes raw against my throat.

“Beg pardon, but Miss Kilmartin is here. I tried to send her away, seeing as you’re unwell—”

“It’s all right.” I force myself upright, stifling a groan as everything ignites into fresh agony. I’m one big bruise beneath the muslin. “Tell her to come up.”

Dona nods and vanishes into the hall. Doesn’t matter that I must look like something freshly clawed out of a bog. Let the servants gossip if they want. Wouldn’t be the first time.

A moment later, the door creaks open again, and my friend Catherine sweeps inside in a froth of expensive silks. “Good Lord, look at you. When was the last time you slept?”

I swallow a sigh, wishing I could melt into the upholstery. “The dawn of time, I suspect.”

Meanwhile, Catherine looks as polished and lovely as ever—golden curls perfectly pinned, blue eyes bright, an angelic face that every unmarried young man of good breeding in Edinburgh would murder his own grandmother to wake up next to. Dressed in the latest silks from Paris, she’s the perfect viscount’s daughter.

A far cry from my dishevelled state. I suppose that’s the benefit of not spending nights fighting for one’s life in filthy back alleys.

She’s the one bright spot of normalcy I’ve clung to since girlhood.

Catherine crosses the room to sink beside me on the window seat. “Here,” she murmurs, reaching out to smooth my hair. “Let me try to fix this mess.”

My lids drift closed again as her gentle hands work to tidy the curls, smoothing back escaped pins and coaxing order from chaos. Bit by bit, she makes progress, her fingers combing through the strands in long, soothing strokes.

I open my eyes to find Catherine watching me with a tiny furrow between her brows. Last night’s bath washed away the stains—now there’s just the lingering hollowness that stays no matter how hard I scrub. A void carved out inside me that’s lingered since I earned my worst scars on Calton Hill—age twenty-one, the most damage.

“Better,” Catherine murmurs once she finishes, leaning back to survey her work. “Still a little worse for wear, though.”

Too bloody perceptive by half. She’s forever trying to unravel my secrets, worrying at the knots with gentle patience.

“Just insomnia,” I say with a brittle smile, the lie settling bitter on my tongue. “Truly, I’m fine.”

She makes a face. “You’re a terrible liar.”

If only she knew how gifted a liar I’ve become. My secrets would horrify her.

Her fingers grasp my chin, angling my face into the fading light as she studies the bruises beneath my eyes. “We need you looking alive for tonight.”

I blink in confusion. “What’s tonight?”

“The season opener.” She lets out an irritated breath. “Please don’t tell me you forgot.”

Oh damn.

I open my mouth to make excuses, but Catherine interrupts, “Don’t even think of trying to get out of this. You promised to offer moral support for my coming out, remember?” At my blank look, she prompts, “To my mother. Before she left for Sussex.”

I must have acquiesced to Lady Kilmartin in a fit of drunken madness. It would hardly be the first rash promise I’ve made under the influence of whisky and lived to regret.

Catherine fixes me with a resolute stare. “I already told everyone the Marchioness of Douglas would be there. You’re obligated now.”

I groan. “Lovely. So they’ll all be gawping at the eccentric recluse making a rare public appearance.”

“Of course.” A faint smile touches Catherine’s lips. “It’s not every day a peeress in her own right deigns to attend a ball. You’ll probably have more suitors than me by the end of the night.”

Somehow, I rather doubt that. While I possess passable looks, wealth, and a title held suo jure , most gentlemen are understandably reluctant to attach their name to my particular brand of scandal. Which leaves only the desperate and the fortune hunters.

I slump back against the cushions, eyeing the twilight gloom gathering outside.

Catherine grasps my wrist as if she thinks I’ll slip away. “You gave your word, and I intend to make you honour it. What else could you possibly have planned for tonight, anyway? Sitting here brooding into your tea? Moping about the townhouse like some deranged spectre?”

She’s right, of course. I’d likely spend the evening perched in this window until Kiaran crept round to verify I haven’t died. Hardly an exciting alternative.

I flounder for a response before saying, “I don’t mope. I brood with style and panache.”

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Stop being stubborn and call Dona.” She smooths her skirts and rises to her feet in a cascade of lace and silk. “We have to get you dressed for your triumphant return to society. I assume you have a few unused dresses at the back of your wardrobe from last season.”

With a resigned sigh, I haul myself to my feet, joints creaking in protest. “Give me a moment. I’ll return shortly.”

I make my way down the shadowed hall to the chamber my resident pixie has claimed as his own. Without bothering to knock, I shoulder the door open, prepared to wrestle him into assisting me whether he likes it or not. But I pull up short, momentarily speechless at the sight that greets me.

“Are those my sheets?” My voice comes out strangled.

Derrick glances up lazily from where he’s sprawled on what appears to be every sheet in the entire bloody household. My fine silks, I realise with dawning horror. The pixie’s diminutive form radiates utter contentment, his handsome face in rapture, iridescent wings fanning gently as he reclines amidst the piles of fabric.

“You never told me how divine silk was,” he says, snuggling deeper into the nest. “It’s like having a thousand soft hands caressing every inch of my body.”

My eyes narrow. “What else are you hiding in that nest?”

He blinks, the picture of innocence. “Who says I’m hiding anything?”

“Don’t play coy. Out with it.” I level a finger at him in a warning.

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a distinctly guilty smirk. “Oh ... just the silver.”

“And?”

“The whisky.”

“Christ alive.” I drag a hand down my face. “You thieving little shit.”

His grin widens, utterly unrepentant. “Was there something you needed? Or did you stop by to shower me with compliments?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I need you to cast a glamour. Catherine’s insisting I attend some society ball, and I can’t very well show up looking like I’ve been dragged backwards through hell. I’d give the matrons apoplexy.”

“Just tell Catherine you’d rather stick pins in your eyes and send her on her way.”

“While that holds some appeal, I made a drunken promise to her mother that my past self is now honour-bound to keep.”

Derrick makes a thoughtful noise. “Ah. Well, I don’t know. This doesn’t sound much like asking. And you did barge in here and call me a little shit.”

I scowl. “Cast the damn glamour or I’ll toss your stolen hoard into the mews and banish you to the Fade to live with the rest of the fae.”

That threat seems to do the trick. He finally stirs, extricating himself from the silken nest in a shimmer of luminous wings. “Just the scars, or should I also tidy up that bird’s nest masquerading as your hair?”

I smooth a self-conscious hand over the copper locks Catherine had just tidied, trying not to look as disgruntled as I feel.

“The scars. My dresses leave little to the imagination de′colletage-wise, so I need them hidden before Dona stuffs me into one. She can deal with the bird’s nest.”

Derrick rises gracefully into the air in a glimmer of gilded wings as I ease the sleeve of my dress off one shoulder, baring the gnarled patchwork of scars I usually keep hidden under the fabric. He makes a thoughtful noise, surveying the mess—reminders of how close I came to dying just months before. How easily the fae could have ended me that night.

He alights on my bare shoulder, weaving his magic over my marred skin. “I don’t know why you bother hiding these,” he murmurs as he works, uncharacteristically solemn. “They’re badges of honour. Proof you survived when they tried to murder you.”

“I doubt society would view them so kindly,” I murmur.

“Well, humans are idiots.”

I stand motionless at the gentle brush of his power, feeling the glamour take hold. Slowly masking everything with a flawless illusion until no sign lingers of the violence once etched into my flesh.

Finished, he hovers before me again, appraising his handiwork. “Your chest is passable now. Not much I can do about the cadaverous pallor though.” But his voice holds a note of concern at odds with his teasing words. “You look tired, darling.”

“Part of the duty.” I force a brittle smile, hoping it will be enough to ease the worry lurking in his luminous gaze. “Just make me presentable for a few hours.”

Derrick makes a sympathetic noise before weaving another layer of magic over me—this one intended to brighten my eyes and bring a touch of colour to my wan cheeks. I can tell it’s costing him, the effort leaving him breathless. He’s only the size of my palm, after all. Magic always exacts its price.

At last, he pulls back, chest heaving slightly. “There. You look almost human now instead of freshly risen from the grave. My condolences to the gentlemen who hoped for a peaceful evening.”

“Why do I put up with your cheek again?”

“Because under all that dour brooding, you adore me, obviously,” he says.

I roll my eyes and lift my wrist. “Take a bit of blood and energy. I might need you to influence the servants later if I come home looking like I’ve just stabbed someone.”

This is part of our exchange—I’d never let one of the predatory fae feed from me, but Derrick is different. Harmless. His bite is negligible, his appetite easily sated.

I barely feel the prick of his tiny fangs before he retreats, lips stained crimson. Already, the wound is closing.

“How do I taste today?” I ask drily, well-versed in this familiar dance between us.

Derrick smirks, licking the last beads of blood from his mouth as he contemplates. “Oh, the usual. Bitterness and regret with melancholic undertones. Now, off you go. I’ll whisper in Dona’s ear and command her to help with the bird’s nest on your head.”

An hour later, I’m trussed up in a corset cinched so tight my ribs creak in protest with every shift or breath.

God forbid I sneeze. That would end in catastrophe.

Catherine insisted on an emerald velvet gown with gold filigree, paired with elbow-length white gloves and enough petticoats to tent a small circus. Between the corset, the petticoats and the crinolines, I can scarcely walk a straight line, let alone fight. One wrong move and the whole construction will collapse.

Hardly ideal for someone who skulks in dark alleys. But tonight, I’m trading blades for champagne flutes.

I smooth my hands over the embroidered velvet, watching myself in the mirror. “I look like I was set upon by a deranged upholsterer,” I tell Catherine. “Or robbed my grandmother’s wardrobe. Are you sure you didn’t find this in a dusty trunk somewhere in another bedchamber?”

She tuts, carefully arranging her blonde curls with deft fingers. “You’re being absurd. You look alive for once instead of half-dead. Or perhaps recently deceased rather than some sad, shambling corpse.”

I shoot her a baleful look. “Only recently deceased?” I repeat, affronted. “Your flattery knows no bounds.”

“I do aim to please. Now, come along. Gavin said he would meet us there.”

I tug at the bodice. “I’m afraid I’ll breathe wrong, and my entire bosom will pop out.”

Catherine waves a dismissive hand. “Explain it away as one of the many eccentricities you’ve cultivated in your absence from society. I’ll shield my brother’s eyes from any wardrobe malfunctions.”

I manage a wisp of a smile at the thought of Gavin being scandalised by a glimpse of bosom. The man was a notorious rake.

“You may need to revive him if he faints at the sight,” I reply, letting Catherine steer me toward the door. I hesitate when I notice her fidgeting. “Are you anxious about tonight?”

“A bit nervous,” she admits.

My voice softens with sympathy. “It will be fine. Mine wasn’t so terrible, at least until—”

Until everything changed. Until my mother never came home from the hunt. Until I was nearly murdered by fae, and my world cracked and split wide open.

Emotion closes my throat. I spent so long adrift in my grief, trying to drown myself in whisky. But Catherine refused to let me drift too far.

Catherine’s expression gentles. “Chin up,” she murmurs. “Shoulders back. You’re a marchioness, not a mollusc.”

“Any other advice?” I ask dryly.

Her grin widens. “If they whisper about you, just glower at them and remember you have more money than God.”