Chapter 6
“The night-washers (eur tunnerez noz) are evil spirits who appear at night on the banks of streams and call on the passersby to assist them to wash the linen of the dead. If they are refused, they seize upon the person who denies them, drag him into the water, and break his arms. These beings are obviously the same as the Bean Nighe, ‘the Washing Woman’ of the Scottish Highlands, who is seen in lonely places beside a pool or stream, washing the linen of those who will shortly die.”
For the next three days, I have nothing to do but pore over the Hunter journals.
My microscopes sit unused. Faery blood is faery blood, and there are no samples from Hugh’s death in my box.
I think the question of who or what stole them is as much of a weight as the possibility that we are facing something unknown.
The purple fluid on my wound is a clue, I think, although it was not at the site of Hugh’s death. It’s also not something I recognize, and I failed to collect a sample before salting it.
I write out possibilities of names of faeries that might be strong enough, but that are not typically in our world. I list each creature type’s name, and then I start to search for any details on those creatures in my lists.
Bean Nighe.
Phynnodderee.
Ankou.
Pooka.
Aughiska.
Far Darrig.
Mourioche.
I sleep with notes nearby in case epiphany strikes in the wee hours, and in a circle at the top of the page is the other question:
Who took the samples?
Tonight, I sleep fitfully, waking to read my notes, dozing, and repeating the process. Three days with no answers. Three days with no return by the Hunter. The waiting is always worse than the fighting.
If whatever struck me took the samples, that makes it a faery who can endure steel.
If it was a person who struck me and stole the samples, why was there faery blood?
Further, the only person I saw in the woods was Isabeau.
Although Father would like to find her guilty of something, I see no explanation of why she would steal from me—or injure me. She certainly wouldn’t bleed green.
Breaking my heart is far different from assailing me.
The lack of any answers to share with my father upon his eventual return is frustrating.
All I have that is solid is what I have gleaned about the victim, Hugh, and a few new injuries.
Faeries are bold creatures, so the strike to the back of my head seems more likely to have been made by a man.
Or a woman. I can think of no reason Isabeau would have done so, but I also cannot fathom a beast clever enough to think to steal the evidence or strong enough to overcome the feel of steel.
Without the samples, I am left with nothing to do but think—and wait for another victim.
“Gabri? Wake, child.” Mother’s voice interrupts my half-sleeping musings.
“Are you safe?” I ask, already fumbling in my sheets for a weapon. Sleeping next to sharpened blades is likely not the normal thing to do, but I am not concerned with abnormalities that help me do my duty.
“The manor is unbreached.” The countess drops boots and a plain dress beside me. “Your father is back. He needs you.”
I rub the lingering sleep from my eyes. Nothing but trouble walks in these hours.
Leaning heavily on her cane, Mother opens the drapes over the window, letting moonlight illuminate the worry I see etched on her brow. In the moment, my mother looks far older than her years. “He’s returned. Out by the stables.”
“Is he injured?” I blink my eyes to focus.
“Not yet. There’s a body. In our courtyard.” She strides across the room and shuts the door behind her.
Eyes still blurred with not enough sleep, I glance out the window at the waxing gibbous moon glowing like a silvered lantern in the sky. Brimmond Wood is outlined like an ink painting, shades of shadows.
“Past middle of night, but before dawn.” I shove my feet into the boots, thankful I slept with long woolen tights still covering my legs. Even with my tights, the chill wakes me quickly.
I pull on a heavy dress and cloak and pin my long braid into a tight roll on the back of my head. In a few scant moments, I’ve left the warmth of my room and descended the stairs.
By the time I approach the door, Mother is nowhere to be seen. Father undoubtedly told her to stay inside Fleuriste Manor. Wisely so. Trouble walks in the wood.
Being near our home is a direct threat. An insult.
My boots crunch in the remains of the snow, even as I follow the trail of footprints Father has left.
“Well?” The Hunter’s breath comes out in a cloud visible in the icy air.
“Preserved by the cold,” I note, squatting down by the corpse. I sniff. “No scents that say he was killed here. Clean.”
Father nods but says nothing.
“Claws.” I tilt the dead man’s head to better see the throat. “Long. Single stroke would’ve been enough. Not a pack kill. He is like the last one.”
The wound is seemingly bloodless. Dark traces are still obvious on the throat, but the cuts themselves are dry.
“Frozen? Or bled out?”
“Both.” I study the corpse. Any clue I find is more we’ll have to determine how to hunt the monster—especially as all our original evidence is gone.
After several moments of examining the bloodless man, I admit, “Again, I cannot tell what did this. Do you know anything more after seeing the queen?”
He shakes his head. “I visited the archive. I spoke to Her Majesty.” He pauses before adding, “She only spoke briefly, though. Isaac has gone.”
Worry for Isabeau flashes over me. She was always her father’s shadow. I glance at my father. “I am sorry for your loss, Father. I know the queen is not the only one mourning him.”
“He was a good man.” Father’s shoulders slope, as if the burdens of our world are bearing down on him. “Did your microscopy reveal anything?”
“No.” I pause before confessing, “I was attacked in the forest. Whatever attacked me took all the evidence.”
He looks me over. “Any contamination?”
“No. I saw Maria after.” I don’t mention Isabeau.
Perhaps that’s wrong, but my father dislikes her, and I know she’s not the one who attacked me.
For one, she was uninjured when I saw her, and there was bloodshed.
Moreover, she would not harm me. I am not sure of much, but I know this to be true.
Instead of mentioning her, I point at the dead man.
“The purple on the man’s face is unusual, but I think it’s the same as was on my head wound. ”
“I’ve not seen it before. Collect it.” He seems about to say more, but a sound makes us both tense.
I glance up to see my mother trudging over the ground.
“Obstinate woman.” Father smiles at the sight of her. I suspect he could use her determination to coddle him tonight. To me, he says, “Find what you can from the remains. Drag the body to disposal. Take samples first. I need to rest.” Then he straightens and adds, “I am glad you are not dead.”
Hastily he wipes his hands on a cloth that he then tosses to me. After he salts his hands, he strides forward with his arms out wide and says, “It is far too cold out here for you, my flower.”
“Something followed you home.”
“Honora . . .” He tries to block the sight of the corpse with his body, stepping in front of Mother, but she steps around him and walks over to stand near the dead man. The wind is biting, as if knives’ edges are trying to take shape in the air, but she is never easily daunted.
“Like something a cat brought in,” Mother murmurs. “Is it an offering to the household or a warning?”
“Either way, I will find the beast, Honora.” He looks back at me and orders, “When I go out on the morrow, you will keep them safe.”
“Always,” I swear.
He does not add “until I return.” Once, when I was a child, he added those words, but he is older now, nearing fifty-eight years. With so many healed bones and repaired organs, he is unlikely to survive a truly vicious creature. A human body—even the Hunter’s body—wears down with time.
And we can see already that this is a vicious enemy.
Silently, he lends his support to Mother’s weaker side and leads her back inside. Tears glisten at the edges of Mother’s eyes, but she only cries in private. I have stood in the dark listening to those tears for as long as I can recall.
It is a burden to love a Hunter.
I try not to think of Isabeau yet again, but her father has just died, and I want to go to her and comfort her. Now. Before she learns what I am. Now. When I ought to be trying to stop the beast so she doesn’t have to begin her tenure as the Duke of Maudite with murders plaguing her territory.
I take hold of the dead man’s ankles and tug him through the light dusting of snow toward a pair of metal doors in the ground. “Please don’t let his head come off.”
Typically we would examine him outside, but my father must be exhausted if he’s ordered me to do it myself.
At the edge of the laboratory, I let the corpse’s legs drop with a small thump. I unlock the door and grab the handles; the metal is cold enough to burn my hands as I jerk the doors open. On one side is a chute. On the other is weathered stairs.
I drag the dead man toward the chute and watch him slide down to a slump on a wheeled table below.
I can’t send him for a burial unless I want to risk contagion from whatever killed him.
I can’t leave him here, unprocessed, in case there’s something lying in wait within the corpse.
A few creatures can burrow inside, and there’s no way to know if a corpse holds such surprises. Not without an examination.
It’s the same that killed Hugh, logic insists.
I take the lantern from the top step, light it, and walk down the stairs. At the bottom, I flip the lever that pulls the doors closed with a loud slam. I no longer flinch at the sound. I used to, but that was several years ago.
Silently, I don a thick leather apron with sleeves. There’s no help for the smell of death, but here, I can keep the mess from my clothing. I slip on muck boots with a solid heel. Ladies’ slippers or boots with a nice curve aren’t made for wading in death.
I open the creaking steel door of what looks like a barrel.
Father can summon fire, but I cannot. I need the firebox—a metal barrel bigger than two full-grown men—that keeps the flames contained.
It has a long brick and metal pipe that carries the smoke far away.
In the edge of the wood, there is a place where smoke pours from the ground into the night.
No magic words here. I strike my flint to create a spark, light a small oil-soaked length of rope, and toss it into the firebox with a mix of herbs to aid in turning the body to ashes and bones when I finish the examination.
The herbs and rope start to spark on the tinder that’s stacked there in preparation for such times.
Unlike in the forest, here I have time. So I undress the dead man and steadily catalog his items, along with the date, weather, and phase of the moon, in a notepad we keep for this purpose.
Shirt.
Trousers.
Boots.
Pocket watch.
Ring.
With no small measure of discomfort, I remove his undershirt and drawers. Again, each item is notated, and each flammable item is then shoved into the thick metal belly of the firebox. The jewelry will go into another steel box, to be salted and heated against magic or possession.
As in Hugh’s case, I collect samples. Skin near the wound to check for saliva. Blood from the wound and several injuries. Saliva from the mouth. Fluid from the eye. Mucus from the nose.
I scrape purple goop from his face and put it in a bottle.
Tending the corpse is always a slow, unsettling process, and when I first had to do it, I thought overmuch about the family who would never know the fate of the deceased. Now, I realize that this is better than the risk of sending contagion to an unsuspecting family.
I annotate a basic human drawing with the wound types and depths. I feel bile rise in my stomach at having to manipulate his bits to check for injury, scarring, or tattoos—not that peering in his mouth or opening his eyes is much better.
I will be the one who stands between the people and the monsters. That alone is beautiful. I will shield them.
Finally, I roll the table to the firebox and shove the body into the fire now roaring in the metal belly. I seal the steel firebox. Then I carry the small steel box with the dead man’s ring and watch to a lead-and-salt-lined safe and lock them inside.
Tomorrow, I will study the samples, but tonight, I strip off the apron, gloves, and boots.
Rather than open the door that leads into the research area, I need to feel the clean air of morning.
I carry the lantern outside as dawn spills over the sky, lighting the world.
I exhale at the comfort of knowing that the monsters are hidden away for the next hours.
I always sleep better when the sun is high in the sky.
Once I rest, I will start examining the samples. An exhausted mind misses details.
“I will find an answer to stop this beast,” I tell both myself and the silent morning.