The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 9

9

The susurrus of laughter and tinkling music from the ballroom guides my hurried steps. I pause before a gilded mirror to tidy my hair and pinch some colour into my cheeks. My lips curve into the perfect imitation of a carefree smile, completing the deception.

At the gleaming double doors, a liveried footman bows. “Milady.”

I release a breath. No alarm raised. No bloodstains marring the vision of perfection I present. Just a highborn lady returned from a breath of air, nothing more.

I pluck a champagne flute from a passing tray and down the contents in one long swallow, grimacing at the too-sharp bubbles dancing across my tongue. My hands still tremble, so I pass the empty glass back. The spectre of the attack hovers at the edges of my awareness, waiting to drag me back down into visceral memories.

The lively strains of a reel fill the air as I step back into the ballroom. The matrons’ speculative glances follow my progress, watching from behind fluttering fans. I have no doubt they are whispering about why I fled in such a rush, scheming over what delicious gossip might explain my abrupt departure. Their sly smiles don’t reach their eyes.

“There you are.” Catherine emerges from the crush, a vision in blue silk. “You rushed off so quickly, I feared you collapsed somewhere from corset asphyxiation or abandoned me in vengeance for nearly making you dance with Lord Hamilton.”

Beside her, Gavin shakes his head. “Diabolical of you, Marchioness. Leaving me at the mercy of these debutantes, Catherine hounded by matrons pushing their sotted heirs at her.”

“I told you I was too hot.” I force my lips into what I pray looks like a rueful smile rather than a pained grimace. “Stepping outside restored me.”

I can’t exactly tell them I was off confronting a murderous fae who tried to end me months before. That our host’s corpse is currently cooling in his bed.

“Hmmm.” Whatever suspicions lurk behind Catherine’s gentle smile, she keeps them tucked away. “People have been asking after you. I didn’t know how long I could hold them off before they sent out a search party.”

Gavin snorts into his glass. “Yes, quite the trial. Fending off curious matrons on your behalf. You owe me a stiff drink for enduring that.”

“My apologies. I’ll endeavour not to dart off again without warning.” The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, silk and heat pressing down.

“Are you all right?” Gavin frowns. “You look a bit off, truth be told.”

Catherine studies me, her delicate brows drawing together. “Yes, you look ghastly. What on earth happened to your face?”

Of course Kiaran didn’t bother prettying me up. Tonight was the first night he’d bothered to disguise anything beyond the apparent bloodstains. That makes my performance more difficult. I make a mental note to double Derrick’s usual intake of pastries later for all his careful work crafting that complex illusion Thalion ruined.

“You both know how to flatter a lady’s vanity,” I say dryly. “Did all the punch go directly to your heads tonight?”

Catherine gives me the implacable look she’s perfected over the years that says she won’t be deterred. “Which was it? Did a mob of debutantes descend on you in a jealous rage? Was it Lord Elderby’s dreadful cigar smoke that did you in? Or did the whispers finally become too much?”

I resist the urge to fidget under that piercing blue gaze.

When I remain silent, Gavin speaks up. “Shall we make wagers? I’ll put twenty pounds on sour-faced matrons. Catherine, you take the debutantes.”

“You’re both being dramatic,” I say. “No one else has commented on my ghastly state, and they’re all ready to draw blood at the smallest infraction.”

Small mercies.

“They’re soused from the punch. Someone poured half a distillery into it,” Gavin says. “But don’t try fobbing us off with some tale.”

I wave a hand. “I’ve had too much to drink and too little sleep. You know how it goes.”

Please let it go. I’m barely holding myself together.

“Hmmm,” they say in unison, twin expressions of scepticism.

“Didn’t I tell you she’s a terrible liar?” Catherine says to Gavin. “Always stubbornly evasive when something troubles her.”

Gavin nods. “That does sound like our dear marchioness. Allergic to direct answers.”

“I’m not evasive,” I protest. “I’m selective with details.”

Gavin snorts at that. “That sounds like being evasive with extra steps involved.”

I scowl at him. “Such loyal friends I have. Why don’t you both try dancing with someone instead of haranguing me?”

Catherine makes a face. “If you insist on darting off and then returning in a state of dishevelment, refusing to provide any reasonable explanation, you can’t blame us for being curious.” She waves a hand. “Anyway, I’m not dancing again. Lord Avery tried to grope me behind a column after the waltz. I stomped on his foot and told him to go drown himself in the punch bowl.”

I turn an assessing glance on Lord Avery, who is slouched against the far wall. Even from across the ballroom, it’s clear he’s deep in his cups. Cravat askew, eyes bleary, relying on the wall to remain upright. An easy target.

“Would you like me to go over there and paint his blood across the walls?” I ask Catherine lightly. “I could make it look like an unfortunate accident. A broken champagne flute to the jugular, perhaps.”

“Let’s avoid bloodshed if we can,” Gavin says. “I’d rather not have to explain to the magistrate why you vivisected a peer in the middle of a ballroom.”

Catherine nods her agreement. “They’d never let you accompany me to another ball.” She loops her arm through mine. “I’m ready to leave. Avery quite ruined the night for me.”

I sigh in relief, the tension draining from my shoulders. “Home, it is.”

We bid our farewells, and I try to ignore the phantom taste of blood on my tongue, the memory of violence.

I try to forget the corpse upstairs and the blood staining my dress under the glamour.

*

The click of the front door shutting echoes through the marble foyer. The silence that greets me in the townhouse is heavier than usual tonight, oppressive. I kick off my slippers and leave them where they fall. Any thought of maintaining appearances is forgotten now that I’m back within these walls.

My bedchamber seems to reproach my ungraceful entrance. The sheaf of invitations on the escritoire reminding me of the ball, the wardrobe of dresses gaping open with its contents spilled on the floor after Catherine perused last season’s garments.

Right now, I can’t summon the energy to care. I stagger over to the window seat and collapse onto the brocade cushions. The chilled glass soothes my flushed cheek. Below, the mews slumber beneath a fresh dusting of snow that glitters under the moonlight. Untouched. Perfect.

I startle at the polite rap at the door. “Milady? Are you in need of assistance?” Dona’s kindly voice filters through the heavy oak panels.

“No, thank you,” I call out, cringing at the hoarse croak betraying me. I try again, forcing strength into my tone. “I’ll ring if I require anything.”

A pause. “Very good, Milady.” Her footsteps retreat down the corridor.

I release a shaky exhale. The steady tick of the clock on the mantel fills the oppressive stillness. Did my mother find any comfort within these walls after her kills? She always seemed so strong, so focused. I wonder if she ever fell to pieces the way I do in the aftermath. If the violence also left her hollowed out and trembling in the dark.

The bedchamber door crashes open, bouncing off the panelled wall with a resounding crack. A tiny winged projectile zooms into the room, making straight for me—Derrick.

“Back, I see.” His nostrils flare as he draws closer, and the glow surrounding his skin flashes crimson with outrage.

He alights on the window seat beside me, sunshine-bright and vibrating with agitation. His iridescent wings shimmer as they continue fluttering, shedding pinpoints of light that dance across the brocade cushions.

Derrick’s delicate features pinch into a scowl, and he crosses his arms, glowering. “Care to explain why that bastard Kiaran’s magic is all over you?” He gives an exaggerated shiver. “Ugh. As if having him mark you wasn’t bad enough. Now I’ll have to live with his stench seeping from your pores.”

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly through my nose. Just mentioning Kiaran is enough to set off one of Derrick’s epic tirades. He harbours a burning hatred for the aloof fae, for reasons he refuses to disclose.

“There was an incident at the ball. I needed his help.”

Derrick zooms up to perch on my shoulder. His next outraged words tickle my ear. “Did he hurt you? Because I swear by all the bloody ever-loving saints, I will shred that lanky shadow-lurking bastard into so many pieces—”

“Derrick.” I cut off his furious stream of threats, lips quirking despite everything. “Another fae tore off your glamour. Kiaran had to replace it.”

At my reassurance, some of the tension leeches from Derrick’s wiry frame.

He nods, appearing mollified. “Ah. Right then. Which was it? The red-eyed one we’ve been tracking? Ugly fangs, stupid hair? Smells like rotting peat?”

I stiffen, fisting my hands in my lap to still their faint tremor. Giving voice to the name somehow makes it real. Makes the memories rise.

“Not him.” I have to pause and steady my voice, hating the vulnerability that slips through. “Thalion. The one who sang to me that night.”

Derrick’s eyes narrow. “Shame you didn’t keep his head as a trophy.” At my incredulous look, he sniffs. “What? A nice pike to mount it on, stick it in your garden. It would be cathartic.”

“That’s rather macabre, even for us.”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “Maybe. But you have to take joy where you can find it, and I say mounting your enemies’ heads is cause for celebration.” Suddenly all business, he zooms up and begins tugging at the glamour cloaking me. “Let’s have a look then. Hmph. Lank bastard really slathered this on thick as treacle.” Derrick passes one palm over my throat with a moue of concentration. “There. That’s better.”

“Thank you. I know how much you dislike masking his power.”

Derrick makes a disgusted sound. “Don’t start pitying me. I’d parade naked through the streets wearing a cow dung hat before letting that soul-sucking leech Kiaran MacKay anywhere near you.” He tilts his head, expression contemplative. “You’re sure you don’t want me to bite his toes off one by one?”

I can’t help smiling a little. “I’m sure. But I appreciate the offer.”

I rise from the window seat, dislodging Derrick from his perch. He takes to the air, wings humming with frantic energy as he trails me across the room. My fingers find the concealed button along the panelled wainscoting. A portion of the wall slides aside to reveal the hidden map.

Scotland lies before me in a sprawling spiderweb of multicoloured threads, a strange memorial built of silk and blood. Here, I track the movements of rogue fae by the bodies left in their wake, tying each atrocity to the next. A different colour assigned to every monster I intend to end.

I step closer, holding my breath. The map drinks in the scant light, shadows pooling between the crisscrossing ribbons stretched taut across the surface. So many lives reduced to points on a topography of violence. All those fragile human threads.

With trembling hands, I carefully remove each shimmering emerald ribbon marking Thalion’s butchery. One... two... three.

Every marker untangles the gruesome geography. The dozens of close calls where I tracked his footsteps through Edinburgh’s streets, always one step behind the monster. Now, one by one, I place each ribbon in a bowl to be burned later. Reducing all evidence of his existence to ash.

When it’s finished, I step back. My ragged exhale seems to echo in the ensuing stillness. Eyes closed, I trace my fingers over the remaining ribbons, following them across the map.

There, crimson silk—representing Arion. The one whose fangs tore deepest during the attack that nearly ended me.

Whose vicious bite left the knot of scars still twisting my shoulder, his fangs forever imprinted on my skin.

And there, black—the colour I chose for Sorcha. The one who almost broke me with her regret. She arrived after the others. And I saw the horror in her emerald eyes at their actions. Felt the surprising gentleness as she wrapped me in her wool coat, preserving some small shred of dignity.

Her voice carries through my memories, edged with fury.

What are you doing? I said we’d kill her, not torture her.

A hollow protest. Because she drove the blade home between my ribs in the end. The winding scar beneath my breast is Sorcha’s handiwork—the strike intended for my heart that narrowly missed its mark.

I want her dead and cold at my feet. Just like Thalion.