FORTY-FIVE
It was still dark when Aly left the house the next morning, the sun barely a bruise on the horizon.
Calum had behaved as usual the previous evening, mending the cut in the sleeve of Aly’s coat so well it was near invisible and saying goodnight with that gentle smile of his that made Aly feel cherished.
He’d been in shock, and he’d believed she knew the truth—if she had known she was fae, and hidden it from him, knowing his history with them, she would have deserved every last iota of his fury.
But that didn’t change that he’d tried to evict her when he’d found out.
His words when she’d denied her heritage came back to her.
You’re fae. And that makes you my enemy.
He cared for her, she knew, and he trusted her, but he could change his mind about allowing her to stay at any time, as he’d proven yesterday.
And so she had set out that morning, walking through streets that progressively narrowed into closes, the bright white magical lamps lining them replaced with sparsely set torches and the cries of fish sellers and shouts from the dockyards blotting out the quiet haze of Calum’s comfortable neighbourhood emerging from sleep.
She had no solid destination, but she needed money, enough to let her move out of Calum’s house, and she couldn’t burgle a rich merchant’s house without a fence to sell to.
She’d always fenced to Yvaani—even when their relationship was at its worst, she’d trusted Yvaani’s discretion and willingness to give a fair price—but no doubt any remotely trustworthy fence in the city knew not to trade with Aly now.
Her aimless steps took her to the Caoineag’s market.
She stood in the close outside, one foot on the stone threshold.
The Caoineag paid fairly; one shilling from each customer went to her, and one went to the salch.
A shilling would pay rent on a small flat for a week.
The Caoineag’s rage the last time Aly had been here filled her mind and she flexed her fingers, fighting the urge to massage her throat where the Caoineag’s arm had been pressed against it, pinning her to the wall.
It was absurd to even entertain the idea that the Caoineag would let her work there.
But Cameron might. It only took ten minutes.
If the Caoineag was out, and she could convince Cameron to let her in, she could be in and out before the crime lord returned, and a shilling better off for her troubles.
And how long, she wondered, could she continue doing that?
Before the Caoineag found out, or she reached the limit of her power.
She squared her shoulders. A shilling was a shilling, and it was more than she had in her pocket at the moment. Besides, if Cameron was in, she might be able to learn how far news of her betrayal had spread.
Aly pushed the door open, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the potpourri that the Caoineag had put out to combat the stench of blood. An unfamiliar woman stood at the door, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Aly. “What are you doing here?”
“Is Cameron in?”
The woman shook her head. Her long dark hair was bound in dozens of thin plaits that swayed with the motion. “I can fetch the Caoineag.”
Aly opened her mouth to refuse, then reconsidered.
The Caoineag hated her, yes, but she loathed Grant.
Perhaps she’d be interested in a similar deal to what Aly had given Yvaani.
Aly wasn’t even sure if the Caoineag knew Grant’s real name, or if she simply knew him as the Wulver—after all, Aly didn’t know her as anything other than the Caoineag.
Aly gave a sharp nod. “Thanks.”
The woman disappeared down the hallway, returning moments later with the Caoineag in tow. The Caoineag’s dishevelled crown plait seemed to crackle with fury. “You’re still barred for life,” she snarled.
Aly held up her hands before the Caoineag attacked her again. “I’ve come with a deal.”
“From you, or from the Leannan sìth?” The Caoineag gave her a wary look. Aly suppressed a wince, her stomach tightening into a knot. After all she’d done, Yvaani had still kept her secret. “From me.”
The Caoineag started to turn away, shaking her head.
“Wait. I can give you information on the Wulver,” Aly said. She wet her lips. “I know his real name. And where he works.”
The Caoineag crossed her arms. “Why would you do that?”
Aly took a shaking breath. “Because I hate him as much as you do. Surely you’ve heard by now he’s trying to kill me. And I need money. Let me sell here thrice a week, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Have you got enough skin left on your arms for thrice a week?”
That wasn’t an outright rejection. The knot in Aly’s stomach loosened. “Well, I haven’t got any more options, so I’ll have to hope I do,” Aly said.
The Caoineag stared at her a long moment. “Twice a week, if you tell me what you know first and I decide it’s worth it.”
Relief spread through Aly, her shoulders sagging. “Deal.” She rubbed her clammy palms on her skirt. “There’s something else you should know. Don’t use steel knives.”
The Caoineag’s eyebrows drew together.
“They make the scarring worse. Don’t ask me how I know, just trust me.” Her cheeks flushed at the absurdity of asking the Caoineag of all people to trust her. “Try something else, something that’s not iron, and you’ll see.”
The Caoineag turned to the woman who had let Aly in.
“Fetch the glass knives from the kitchen, would you?” She turned to Aly and beckoned, but before Aly could follow her the door slammed open, banging against the wall with a thud that shook Aly’s bones.
She spun round to see a pair of guards standing on the doorstep, the insignia on their caps glinting in the dawn light.
The shorter of the two, a dark-haired woman whose badge said she was a sergeant, clutched a rolled-up piece of paper in one hand.
Aly drew herself up to her full height, channelling her mother. “What”—she shifted her accent until the T was sharp enough to cut diamond—“is the meaning of this?”
The taller copper, a man with a long blond plait, gave her a nervous look, while the woman said, “We’ve a warrant to search this place for evidence of salching.”
Aly sniffed. “Don’t be absurd. You’ll find nothing.” She held out a hand. “Let me see the warrant.”
“And who might you be?” the sergeant asked, keeping the warrant clasped tightly in her hand.
“Someone with good lawyers. Have you heard of Forbes, Reid they were looking for salchs specifically. She lifted her chin. “I shall do no such thing, not without seeing the warrant.”
The man—a constable—bowed his head to whisper in the sergeant’s ear. “Look at her, do you really think she’s here to sell?”
The sergeant narrowed her eyes at Aly. “Fine. Just get her out of here then. We’re not interested in the customers.”
Aly gritted her teeth. They never were. She crossed her arms, keeping her feet planted on the threshold. She wasn’t going to hold the police off indefinitely, but perhaps long enough for the Caoineag and the door guard to get people out a back door or window. “What do you want with salchs?”
The sergeant and constable exchanged a glance. “They’re criminals. We’re police. Figure it out.”
“The police don’t normally bother coming to this part of town for anything less than a murder,” Aly pressed.
“And what would you know about that?” the sergeant countered. “You don’t sound like you come here often.”
Aly gripped her upper arms to keep her hands from trembling. “I have business interests in the area.”
“Business interests, eh?” The sergeant’s gaze flicked into the vestibule behind Aly. “You like getting high off someone else’s magic then?”
Aly fought to keep her disgust off her face.
She straightened her shoulders. “So what if I do?” They wouldn’t arrest her for it.
They never did. Aly had known plenty of folk to be prosecuted for salching in the last few years, and plenty of police raids directed at smugglers’ operations and unlicensed taverns, but never before a raid on a salching market.
Better to arrest the poor and desperate whose crime was seared across their very skin than to raid a salching market where they might find members of the Council or wealthy merchants.
This was more than cracking down on crime in the dodgy part of town, and the coiling dread in her gut told her it had to do with Grant’s efforts to reinstate transportation for criminals.
Salchs were the perfect victims—easy to convict and without the money for lawyers.
Understanding lanced through her with such ferocity her knees threatened to buckle.
Grant was pushing for transportation of salchs.
For the last nine months salchs had been disappearing, and only yesterday she’d been confronted by a man convinced his friend had been taken by the Wulver.
Flora had disappeared shortly before Samhain, and it was now just two days until Imbolc.
Days the fae reserved for signing contracts.
Grant was sending the salchs to Faerie.
She didn’t know how he was doing it—how did one implement a punishment that people didn’t believe existed?
But she was certain that was what he was doing.
He’d been abducting salchs and, when that didn’t provide enough demi-fae for whatever self-centred agreement he had with the fae, he’d started agitating for a law that would allow him to send dozens of salchs at a time.