The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 20

20

I slip away between dances to meet Gavin. Derrick is still riding on my shoulder as I walk down the hall of Kilmartin House to the study, and he’s still not quite sober after getting into the honey. He’s somehow snagged several ginger ringlets framing my face and is braiding them together to form...Christ Almighty, is that a tiny noose?

I glance sidelong at the bloody menace. “Wait in the garden for me. We’re leaving after this. And stop fashioning macabre accessories out of my hair, you lunatic.”

Derrick gives the strands an aggrieved little tug. “But I’m bored to the brink of madness. Why do I have to loiter outside in the damp while you saunter off to illicit rendezvous with strapping young lords? I thought I was here to keep an eye out for trouble.”

“It’s not an illicit rendezvous,” I say, glaring at him. “And I doubt I’ll get into trouble in the five minutes I take to speak with him in a study.”

“Well, if you insist on being boring. I’ll be outside, slowly perishing from melancholy and neglect. Don’t bother mourning over my poor frozen corpse when you trip over it later.”

He flutters down the hall in a flurry of wings, muttering under his breath.

I roll my eyes and continue on to the study. The enthusiastic strains of the orchestra fade the farther I get from the grand ballrooms reserved for entertaining. Lively chatter gives way to hushed silence. Pausing outside the thick oak door, I take a bracing breath before turning the handle and cracking it open.

Gavin glances up from the leather couch, swirling amber liquor in his glass. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, cravat hanging loose, and his hair is rumpled like he’s been raking his fingers through it in frustration. He looks on edge. Not like himself at all.

“Shut the door,” he says flatly.

I do as he says, sealing out the faint strains of music drifting down the hallway. My feet sink into the plush carpet, muffling each step as I drift farther into the room, hyper-aware of the charged isolation. The heavy silence seems to press down on me. I trail my fingers over the ornate wall tapestry, tracing the curves and swirls embroidered into the thistle pattern, needing to occupy my restless hands. I haven’t set foot in here since Gavin’s father passed years before.

Shadows dominate the dim space, the air tinged with the lingering aroma of stale cigars that conjures memories of the former Viscount Kilmartin holding court in this room. The dark wood furnishings and wine-coloured leather give the space an old, stuffy feel, reeking of old money and aristocratic privilege. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the back wall, stuffed with antique collections and decorative spines that have likely never been opened. Three stained glass windows filter fractured moonlight across the floor in shifting kaleidoscopes of colour.

“You’ll have to pardon my state of undress,” Gavin says, raking a hand through his mussed hair. “I needed a reprieve from the masses. I hope I can depend on you not to have a sudden attack of vapours?”

“Please, don’t adjust your bohemian squalor on my account.” I aim for a teasing tone, but tension still thrums through me. “But I suspect you didn’t request the pleasure of my company for idle chat over whisky.”

“No.” Gavin knocks back the rest of his drink in one smooth motion. He rises to refill his glass from the liquor cabinet along the wall, movements jerky. The crystal decanter clinks as he pours himself another few fingers of whisky.

“So,” he says, turning to face me again. “You brought a pixie to a ball. Never seen you do that before.”

I force a smile. “For obvious reasons. The effects of celebratory honey are predictably disastrous, as you witnessed firsthand.”

Gavin shakes his head, leaning against the cabinet and swirling the amber liquid. His hands tremble faintly. “With an impressive set of lungs on the bloody nuisance. Nearly punctured my eardrums earlier.”

“Be grateful you’ve never experienced him at full volume.”

I notice Gavin’s usually steady hands trembling as he brings the glass to his lips. His motions seem unsteady.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“The pixie gave me a scare,” he says. “I don’t like being that close to them, and I’d appreciate a warning next time.”

I turn my face away, giving him a moment to gather the ragged threads of his composure. The silence pools between us, broken only by the crack of burning logs. The fireplace emits a cosy glow, at odds with the tension thickening the air.

“Did you always have the Sight?” I ask. “Or did it...come later?”

“Later,” he says so softly I almost miss it. “You?”

I give him a wry half-smile. “Always.”

Something shifts in his face as he looks at me, as if seeing me clearly for the first time. I wonder what he glimpses of the parts I’ve hidden away. The glamour shielding my scars, the life I’ve concealed from him.

When the weighted silence becomes deafening, I prompt gently, “When did you realise?”

Gavin is quiet for so long that I think he won’t answer. “After I came back from Oxford. When I fell ill.”

My fingernails curl into my palm. Catherine had said it was a near brush with death. Such brushes can awaken the Sight in those with latent abilities. Like sinking one foot through the veil into the world of the fae, whether they wish to cross over or not.

“I understand it was a close call,” I say carefully.

Gavin’s voice drops to barely a whisper. “Too damn close.” He takes a bracing swig of whisky. “Woke up afterwards and realised I could see...people, creatures, that no one else could.”

I purse my lips. “Including the Fade?”

Gavin stares into the dying embers in the fireplace. His profile is limned in amber and gold. “Yes, I’ve seen the Fade. They’ve tried to lure me into the bloodhouses. And some of them don’t fancy the word ‘no’.”

My gaze snaps to him. “If any of them ever won’t take no for an answer, you come to me, understand?”

“Why would I do that?”

I stare into the fire, clenching my jaw. I don’t reply.

“Don’t think you can avoid this conversation,” Gavin says, voice hard. “I want answers. Why are you consorting with the fae at all? Why are you in my house with a pixie on your shoulder?”

“Derrick’s my friend.”

Gavin snorts. “The fae don’t have friends. Not in their nature. That pixie will sell you out the moment it suits him. And while I’m on the subject...” His eyes meet mine. “Where does he feed?”

My fingernails bite into my palms. “Would you like me to answer, or have you already judged me for it?”

Gavin sets his glass down hard enough to slosh amber liquid over the rim. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Or do you genuinely not grasp how fantastically stupid it is to treat the fae like pets? Taking them out in society, letting them feed—” he breaks off, face paling. “ Jesus , tell me you’re not letting them drink from you in one of the bloodhouses.”

Anger sparks through me. “Well, it’s been lovely. But I think I’ll be going—”

“Wait.” Gavin captures my hand in his, regret softening his features. “I apologise. I didn’t mean that.”

I exhale slowly. “I don’t visit the bloodhouses. But I’ll thank you not to judge those who do.” I give him a sad half-smile. “Not everyone can be a rich viscount’s firstborn son. Some trade their blood for food or shelter when needs must.”

He nods once, releasing my hand. I watch him trace aimless patterns around his glass rim over and over.

“Either way, you shouldn’t be involving yourself with them. Not the pixie, not the others. They’ll use you for their ends.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a choice in the matter,” I say softly. I’ll have to carry on with this bloody duty until the fae eventually send me to an early grave. Sensing the conversation veering toward treacherous territory, I gesture at his glass. “Planning to drink straight through until dawn? Can’t say it seems to be helping your mood.”

Gavin lifts his tumbler in a mocking salute. “Doesn’t seem to be doing the trick so far. But I’m nothing if not tenaciously committed to the attempt.” He arches an eyebrow. “Care to join me for a glass, or have you decided to rejoin the festivities?”

“God, no. I’ve more than fulfilled any social obligations for one evening.” The biting burn of whisky actually sounds perfect right about now.

Gavin fills a fresh tumbler and passes it over. I take a bracing gulp, the liquor scalding a molten path down my throat.

“Nice,” I say.

“Liquid courage for facing Catherine’s wrath later after abandoning her in the middle of a ball.” Gavin’s eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your clever effort to redirect the conversation just now. You still owe me answers. Why do you claim to have no choice about associating with the fae?”

I stare into my drink, not sure where to begin.

A sudden shrill, unearthly howl pierces the stillness. Gavin and I freeze, every sense straining toward the muffled sound.

The delicate hairs at my nape prickle in instinctive alarm. Another chilling howl splits the air, closer this time. And now I feel it—the cloying caress of fae power over my skin. My heart stutters as unease spikes my blood.

I open my mouth to warn Gavin but can only manage a strangled rasp around the tightness seizing my throat.

Then something explodes through the study window in a spray of glass.