Chapter 2
“[F]airies are . . . as real for some persons as any other fact in life in this last decade of the nineteenth century.”
Deep in my thoughts, I stand, mint-soaked cloth covering my nose and mouth and breathing deeply, as my father stares at the circle where only bones now remain. He takes a moment, watching them smolder. Then he finally gestures me near.
My work here is not yet done. As he watches, I use the steel rod to sift through the gray ash and charred bone, trying to tell myself that this is not a man, not a person with a family somewhere. The distance is a lie, and not even a very good one.
“Faery teeth?”
“None.”
“Claws?”
“No.”
“Faery blood?” He sounds hopeful, voice louder as he peers over my shoulder. I wonder whether he once did this part, when I was too young to assist, when his knees weren’t swollen, when his bones didn’t crackle if he squatted.
I shift all the remaining bones, trying to tell myself that the dead man’s teeth are merely stones resting under burned leaves.
My lies do little to hide reality. Still, there’s no green anywhere.
No hardened faery blood hides in the ashes.
If there were a single speck of the green goop, it would stand out like an emerald in the gray, white, and black debris.
“Nothing.”
We peer into the places where blood had pooled on the ground near the body. That, too, is burned away. No hardened emerald tears rest there either. We find not even a sliver of faery blood.
“Maybe the killer is a man,” Father says. He waits for an affirmation I cannot offer, sighs heavily, and admits, “We both know this is one of them.”
“I believe so. The lack of faery blood confirms the fight was elsewhere, perhaps.”
“Or there was no fight, no injury to the beast that did this.”
Seeing fear in his eyes does not inspire much hope in me. If a seasoned Hunter is afraid, I am useless. Father will find it. He will hunt and kill it. He is the Hunter. I hate myself a little for fearing that I’m wrong.
“I will do everything I can to help,” I promise.
He grunts again. I think it’s a sound of assent, but his assent sounds a lot like his doubt.
He holds out the salt bag again, and I straighten. He pours the crystals over my hands and then his own.
Then he turns and stomps off. “Come.”
I do as I’m bidden, but I have to pause when we reach the horses. He’s standing still and staring at me. “Father?”
“I must tell His Grace in case there are more bodies found. This is not like most deaths. That bodes ill.”
The thought of going there, to Maudite Castle, sends a shiver of a different sort over me.
I simply don’t go there, not for almost a decade.
“Safe ride, Hunter,” I say as mildly as I can manage.
“I will take these samples to Fleuriste Manor and see if the microscopy reveals anything. I’ll meet you at home and—”
“No.” Father’s voice holds a finality that makes his horse freeze and glance at him, awaiting commands from his master.
Father meets my gaze and bluntly says, “I am not certain to be in this world many more years. It is time Maudite and Her Majesty both are more accustomed to dealing with you, and if this murder is as dreadful as I fear, I will need you more than usual.”
“My lord, you’re still young enough and—”
“You will accompany me to Maudite Castle, and in the future, you will go in my stead to this or to the palace.” He tromps through the woods like some elegant beast; I know not how he moves so stealthily. For all my training, I am never silent or graceful. Not like him.
I am not ready to be Hunter. My prey will hear me and flee.
“I would rather not see her,” I whisper.
When he says nothing for almost a full minute, I think I spoke too softly. I repeat, “I would rather—”
“That wretched woman lives in Regina Centrum now, and you need to behave like someone of your standing, rather than cower in front of that reprobate. You’re going to patrol to kill beasts, but you cannot face a trollop in trousers?
Hmph.” The sound of disapproval is more akin to a growl than a word, and I flinch away from the harshness of his continued judgment.
“I don’t cower before Isabeau, and she’s not a reprobate.” I feel my face burn with embarrassment, but I can’t stop my words. “She’s the next duke.”
“Hmph. Duke or not, she beds every widow and maiden who—”
“That is irrelevant,” I say too loudly. Tales of Isabeau’s exploits have never been gossip I want to hear, but my heart assures me that it is anything but irrelevant.
Father has no patience for my tender feelings, though, so I concentrate on the other part.
“You would not let me hit her when we were children, Father. That is not cowering.”
“Hmph. Certainly didn’t look like you were considering hitting her when I last saw the two of you together.” He has no mercy in him. He never has.
My cheeks burn as hot as Hunter’s Fire—not at the memory but at the sudden rush of longing that rises like a living thing inside me.
Despite her abandonment, my heart and body still feel like they belong to Isabeau in some unfathomable way.
If I saw her name etched on the bones of my body, I would be unsurprised.
“There was nothing wrong with her kissing me. I chose that. I chose to let her seduce—”
“And I chose to stop it.” Father stares ahead as he speaks. “Something in that one is dark and dangerous. She’s not worthy of a Hunter.”
The conversation dies at that. In my father’s way, he sounds almost as if he cares.
He does, of course, but about the mission, not the daughter who will fulfill it.
What else is there to say about her? I loved Isabeau, and I thought she loved me, and no one in society has failed to notice that I now avoid seeing Isabeau at all costs.
The gossip stings, but not as much as knowing that every word the debauched future duke said to me was apparently a lie.
I wonder, not rarely, if she says those same words to all the other women in her bed since me.
“Does she know?” I ask after the silence extends too long. “That you are the Hunter?”
He scoffs.
“No. Not her. Not the duchess. Not the queen’s son or consort.
Being a Hunter means safeguarding the secret of your duty,” Father finally says, pulling my mind away from mistakes and back to murder.
“His Grace only knows what I am—what you will be—because his estate is near the faery’s veil.
The queen thought telling her half brother would be wise. ”
“May I tell Isabeau then? She is the queen’s niece and the next duke, and by that definition, she will one day need to—”
“Rules, girl. There are rules. It’s what separates us from the monsters. Until Isaac dies, you cannot tell her. When she is the duke, so be it . . . though I cannot imagine she’ll be much use to you as a duke.” Father makes a snorting noise that sounds more horse than man.
I don’t point out that Isaac, Duke of Maudite, is not in the woods with Father. I know that Father consults with him, but that is not enough to be “of use.” I don’t need Isabeau’s help either. When I am Hunter, my sister will assist me. That, too, I do not mention. Father adores Rylan.
“I have been weighing the matter of the Hunter succession, incidentally. Your mother suggested that perhaps if you marry a man, the role of the Hunter will pass to your husband upon my death. There’s never been a girl who’s carried the mantle.
Then you would never have to tell the Maudite menace.
You could stay home and be a proper wife.
” He pauses and then adds, “Girard would be a good choice for a husband. He’s strong.
Aware of the Hunter’s duties because of his role in the village.
I spoke to him about taking you as a wife. ”
“You what?” I gape at him. The notion that my fate would pass to a spouse is insulting to all women. The Hunter has always been a Fleuriste. Like noble titles, it is inherited.
“Girard is willing. You have only to accept.” Father continues to stare straight ahead. “When you were born, I gave your mother my vow that I would allow you to choose your spouse, as she did. So I cannot order you.”
“You thought your promise to her wouldn’t matter. That you’d have a son.”
“Fleuristes always have sons. I had sons.” His jaw clenches. “My sons died, but if you were to marry, he would be my son by law and perhaps . . .”
“I am not looking to shirk my duty.” Mimicking his posture, I stare straight ahead, trusting that Father will warn me of danger. His hearing is superior to mine. All his senses are. “I . . . tried to become interested in Girard. When you suggested that I . . . that we . . . I tried.”
The memory of awkward kisses and coupling that was wholly unsatisfying leaves me at a loss for words.
Talking about that sort of intimacy is not a thing a proper lady does, and if she does, it is only with one’s physician or closest confidante—certainly not with one’s father.
The silence grows long enough that I am excited when I see the tip of Maudite Castle come into view over the tops of the trees.
The looming dark stone castle is a fitting home for the rakish future duke.
“I will not be marrying Girard,” I say. I may be filled with more doubts about my own ability than I can express, but on this I am certain. “I will do my duty, but I will not marry any man.”
“Many families treat marriage as a business contract and—”
“I will marry for love or not at all,” I say, voice unwavering.
“Being the Hunter is a gift bestowed upon our family by the grace of the crown and God above. You cannot let these emotions get in the way.” Father nudges his horse, Imp, to race forward, leaving me behind.
I pause for a moment, grateful that I won’t have to face Isabeau today, and especially not in a mud-spattered old gown. At least she’s in Regina Centrum, debauching another noblewoman, while I have been in the forest gathering up samples from the throat and eye of a dead man.