Chapter 16
“I saw the gentry on the strand (at Lower Rosses Point) about forty years ago. It was afternoon. I first saw one of them like an officer pointing at me what seemed a sword; and when I got on the Greenlands I saw a great company of gentry, like soldiers, in red, laughing and shouting.”
Once Isabeau has gone, I pull my scarf around the lower half of my face and over my head—hiding my hair—and resume patrolling.
As I stalk through the park, I think about the creature that attacked me.
Did it leave a clue? I was shaken by the way it spoke, but now I am haunted that I failed the memory of the already dead men when I did not scour the earth for evidence.
I know only that this is an unknown faery, not how to kill it or where to find it.
And I know that it travels so quickly that it was able to come here to Regina Centrum and attack me within a few short hours of dealing my father a death blow. Knowing what it has done still gives me no idea where to find it or how it travels so quickly.
My attention falls to the river.
Did it travel from here to Brimmond by way of rushing water?
I follow the walking path through the park, intending to check there again. Only a few minutes pass before I see the two women from the W?chter finishing a patrol in the same place I am headed.
“Fleuriste,” the shorter woman says.
“Anders. Lowell. Can I help you?” Even with my face hidden, I scan the area for anyone who might overhear us.
All I see are manicured paths, carefully kept shrubs and flower beds, and expanses of grass upon which young families can picnic safely.
On the far side, the river burbles with flashes of reflected sunlight.
And monsters. I cannot see them just now, but all of Alveus knows they lurk in wait.
Under the surface of every river are monsters.
Even if they aren’t the ones I seek, I cannot forget that they lie in wait.
I look at the two women. Anders is pretty in the way that says that she likely has dates awaiting her at every chance.
Lowell is more sedate, and I suspect that she is quietly judging everything she sees.
It’s a skill that will serve her well if she hopes to survive as a soldier.
“Where would you like us quartered when we arrive?” Anders asks, pulling my mind to practical and immediate questions. She explains, “We depart soon; our contingent of soldiers is assembled. Where are we to bunk down? In Fleuriste? Nearer the Maudite estate?”
I smother a sigh at the increasing need to update Isabeau about my sacred duty. One more day, maybe two; surely I can have that! I blurt out, “Not Maudite.”
“Fine,” Anders agrees. “Where, then?”
My eyes catch on a flash of a tail in the river as I say, “There is an unused barracks near the Dancing Goose in the village of Fleuriste. When you arrive in the village, tell the innkeeper—Girard—that the Hunter sent you. Girard will walk you over with the key to the building, and he will provide provisions until you have the larder stocked. He’s trustworthy. ”
It seems a small word, but the feeling behind it is deep.
I do trust him. I trust him with my secret, trusted him with my body, and I have no doubt he’ll provide for the soldiers.
A part of me wishes I could’ve trusted him with my heart, that I was made differently, but he will make a fine husband for someone else.
“We’ll reach the village before nightfall, and we can start patrols by morning.” Lowell pitches her voice lower as a couple walks past us. “Does the duke not know . . . ?”
“Who I am? No. I have not yet told the new duke that I’m the Hunter.” I don’t add that I think she ought to have at least guessed it, but the thought crosses my mind. Again. Isabeau sees only the person who is a noblewoman, not the killer of monsters. She seems to have no idea of my duty to Alveus.
“Not that we’re questioning your choices, Hunter,” Anders hurriedly adds. “I don’t want to misstep and speak a truth that will result in losing my tongue.”
“Understandable. You can speak freely in the village. Everyone there knows, and Maudite will know. Soon, I expect. However, her father recently passed.” I watch a young couple lean their heads together as they stroll.
They are oblivious of the dangers that lurk in the water near them, and I wonder if the gleaming tail I saw a few moments ago is that of a long-gone threat, or if it lurks still.
Most citizens will never see a faery, or if they do, it’ll be the small faery animals that pose no threat.
“Maudite needs time to mourn,” I tell the soldiers.
“Your father passed more recently, but you’re here.” Lowell glances at her companion before hurriedly adding, “Respectfully.”
“I am the Hunter. The expectations are different. I am allowing the duke time to grieve before she must contemplate vile deeds and dead men in the woods.” I glance over at a splash in the water. “I promised her father.”
“Yes, m’lord . . . m’lady . . . Hunter. Sir.” Anders bows. “I don’t know the right term for you. The last Hunter was a man.”
“They’ve all been men, haven’t they?” I muse.
Though I intend to make changes, this change is not one I chose.
Not really. It simply is a reality. “I am not sure of the terms to address me either. We don’t need the whole of the peerage to know that the Hunter is a woman, do we?
We’ll figure it out as we go. I’m less interested in titles and more interested in finding the faery murdering men in the Brimmond Wood. ”
“Fair enough.” Lowell nods. She glances at the couple, who instinctively move away from the water when the tail breaks the surface again. I suspect some people are more attuned to threats than others are. “Should the queen ask for an emissary to go talk to the evil queen, I’ll go with you.”
I startle at the thought. Going to Faery? The idea sounds terrifying—and extremely unnecessary. I can think of no reason to go there, to surround myself with the monsters banned from our world.
“Plenty of us would volunteer to go with you,” Anders adds.
“I don’t imagine it’ll come to that,” I say with a slight grimace they can’t see behind my face covering. “Nor do I think the faery queen is rightly evil. No good can come of dealing with faeries.”
A cry startles all of us before I can add that the faeries aren’t properly evil, simply not used to the same ideas of right and wrong. They can’t be, although the temptation to think that is there. If they were evil, I’d have no guilt when I must end their lives.
Anders and Lowell are already in motion toward the cry.
I follow, passing them in a heartbeat. Now that I’m the Hunter, I am faster than them, but there is comfort in having them follow me.
This is one of the things I will change as Hunter—why should it be one person against the monsters?
Why not permanently station soldiers nearby to aid me?
Why not train them in Brimmond Wood and send them to the city with more experience?
A second wavering scream rings out.
I speed up, racing through the park until I see Emma Iversson crumpled on the ground, unbloodied.
“Lady Emma,” I say hesitantly, peering around in expectation of seeing a body or at the least a severed head.
All I see is her, breathing too rapidly, chest heaving like an agitated animal’s with each inhalation.
Her blush-hued gown gives her cheeks a rosy shade, and her golden hair is lovely in the watery sunlight.
Her hair is slightly mussed, and her breathing is irregular, but she looks otherwise unharmed.
No faery blood marks her person or the ground.
I cannot fathom why she screamed so loudly.
Could it have been a serpent? A turned ankle?
The tips of an Aughiska’s mane flashing in the current? The creature whose tail I saw?
Emma stares at me, hand covering her décolletage. “Why are you here?”
“You screamed.” My hand goes to my face covering to be sure I’m hidden as well as can be, although she seems not to recognize me.
“I did scream.” She dabs at the corners of her seemingly dry eyes. “I was horrified.”
I still cannot see any threat, even as my mind continues to list a catalog of dangers. The mundane does not vanish simply because I hunt a killer of men. I debate telling her that I need to know what she saw, but do I want to reveal my identity to her?
Anders catches up then and, without a word, extends a hand to Emma. As Emma ripples to her feet like some half-dressed Bird of Paradise leaving her abbey, I notice the furrows in her gown. Three diagonal cuts mar the pale-pink fabric. I grab her gown and drop to my knees to stare at the marks.
The edges are jagged, hesitant cut patterns, and I tilt it to check for any blood.
“Get up,” she orders. “People will think you are being inappropriate, or worse, proposing.”
“That’s worse?” Lowell says from where she now stands side by side with Anders. “Nobs are weird.”
I withdraw a knife and sever the silk, leaving Emma in her petticoat and chemise. “Cloak.”
Lowell pulls hers off and drapes it over Emma’s shoulders.
“You can’t just slice my dress! My modiste can—”
“What attacked you?” Anders interrupts. “Visual details? Scent? Anything?”
“Are you a soldier?” Emma asks me. “I thought you were a noble with her lovers, but . . . you’re a soldier? How ghastly!”
I want to apologize for Emma’s words, but Anders and Lowell both look like they may start laughing. “Ghastly,” Lowell mouths.
I take the section of dress and hold it up to the light. “The claw marks are different in fabric than in flesh. See how they are uneven here?” I fold the material to carry away and order, “Hold out your hands.”
Emma does so, and I dump finely ground salt crystals over her hands and wrists.
“Did it touch you anywhere else?” I prompt.
“What?”
“Shoulder? Limbs? Belly?” I glance at the two soldiers. “Back to her, please.”
They turn, and I shove Emma’s borrowed cloak aside. “No faery blood anywhere. The inner layers aren’t torn. This is unlikely to be the Beast of Brimmond.”
“It most certainly was,” Emma huffs at me. “That beast. I need the Hunter.”
“I am the Hunter,” I snap.
“She’s too old to be snatched for a changeling,” Ander muses, back still to us. “What is the plan here?”
Emma gapes, her mouth open like a suffocating animal, glaring at me.
“I am not old,” Emma finally says, snatching my scarf away in an unexpected burst of rage. “You! Fleuriste! You’re just jealous because the duke will be marrying me soon after you tried to lure her away. You’ll regret this when—”
“Escort her to the physician in case there are injuries,” I say, stepping away from her.
“Of course, m’lady,” Anders says.
I pause, feeling a burst of regret that this moment is happening. “Emma, I need you to understand that the penalty for naming me as Hunter is the loss of your tongue. Whether or not you are the next duchess, that is the Queen’s Law.”
“You . . . you’re actually the Hunter?” Her gaze darts at Anders and then at Lowell. “They know, so—”
“Yes. The W?chter know.” I tug my scarf over my mouth and nose again. “Telling anyone else will cost your tongue. I’ve seen it, Emma. The screams, the pain, the scent of burning flesh . . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“Maudite would protect me.” Emma’s voice wavers, though.
“Not even a duke overrules the laws around the Hunter,” I point out more harshly than I’d like. I take a steadying breath and tell the soldiers, “Give us a moment.”
I wait until the two W?chter soldiers move away. Then I hold Emma’s gaze. “Were you actually attacked, Emma? Or was this a ruse?”
Her chin lifts, and she insists, “I was attacked.”
I still have my doubts. Faeries don’t attack during the day. The monster has not attacked anyone other than men—and me. I try again. “Did you think Isabeau was the Hunter?”
Emma looks away. “Her curse is a lie. Hardly anyone gets cursed since the treaty. Her ‘curse’ is a ruse. She’s hunting monsters. Why else would she suddenly become cursed when her father dies?”
“Except Isabeau is not the Hunter,” I say softly, although I have more questions about the curse than I want to admit.
Isabeau’s curse raises a lot of questions for me, but I know that she’s not the Hunter.
I am. So what’s the real explanation for her curse?
Is it even an actual curse? The stray thought crosses my mind that the dowager duchess is drugging Isabeau to keep her from carousing or otherwise behaving in ways that upset the older woman.
That’s not a discussion to have with Emma. “Maudite is not the Hunter. I am.”
“But . . .” Emma’s lovely face crinkles into a frown. “I had planned to be a duchess, but I guess I could be a countess.” Her gaze turns assessing, sweeping over me like she’s trying to guess the depth of my coffers. “You are the earl now, I presume?”
“I am, but—”
“You’re pretty enough with some guidance.” Emma nods. “You may court me.”
This time, I’m the one who’s speechless. I manage to say, “Anders? Lowell? Lady Iversson is ready to . . . She needs an escort to the physician.”
Then I turn and all but flee. As I march off, I shove away Emma’s absurd remarks on courting and focus on what this attack means for the monster I hunt. If she was actually attacked, when the Beast of Brimmond attacks women, it does not kill them; however, it brutally attacks and drains men. Why?
Or this is something else? logic asks.
Or she lies, my doubts whisper.
I need to find the Beast of Brimmond and stop it, and possibly a second monster here in the park.
I need more information on Isabeau’s curse.
I see no way that she could’ve been cursed by the beast, but perhaps there are things I do not yet know.
The pieces are adding up to a less clear image the more I gather.
I need clarity, and this latest event is the opposite.