TWENTY
The cold breeze hit Aly the moment she stepped out the door.
She raised her shoulders against the damp chill weaving between the thick woollen layers of her clothing.
Snowflakes swirled around her, melting in the flames from the torches bolted to the walls on either side of the street.
Grant had berated her for a solid half an hour, with more hostility than usual, the undercurrent of their last argument still lingering beneath the surface as he criticised her for everything from her clumsiness to her combativeness.
She’d argued back, because she always did, but the more he criticised her the more relief flowed through her, because he didn’t suspect her of anything more than idiocy.
She hadn’t expected Calum to hang around, but she found him in a nearby close, leaning against the wall with his hands stuck in his pockets.
“Sorry it took me so long,” she said when she reached him.
“I had to sit and listen to Grant whinge about how long repairs are going to take and how the place is supposed to attract a ‘respectable’ clientele—whatever that means when it’s a place to get pissed—and how next time some drunkard walks into me in the taproom I should just apologi― Are you okay?
” He was pale, his eyes wide and fearful.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low. “Not here.” His eyes darted from side to side. “Somewhere private.”
Aly stared at him, taking in the fear on his face. He’d lost his cravat at some point, and the sight of his bare Adam’s apple, when his clothing was usually immaculate, sent fear slithering down her spine. “Okay.” Her voice was taut and unnatural.
Calum scrubbed a hand over his short hair. “There’s my house, but my sister might be there. She wouldn’t tell anyone she saw you, but . . .” He didn’t need to elaborate. Anyone who could connect Aly to Calum put her at risk.
The only place she had was her flat, and Grant owned that.
He’d said he was busy with work and would stay at his own house that evening, but even so, she didn’t want to show Calum the flat Grant kept for her.
She’d seen the look on his face when Grant had kissed her; she didn’t want to see how he reacted to a further reminder of her relationship with Grant.
In anyone else, she’d have thought it jealousy, but Calum was too upright, too moral to be jealous over a crime lord’s deputy.
More likely, he was just horrified she’d been so foolish.
That realisation made her heart constrict. She brushed the feeling aside.
“Can your sister keep a secret?” she said, her fingers fraying the curls in the tassel of her braid.
“If I tell her to leave the house and forget she ever saw you, she’ll take it to her grave.”
Aly shoved a lock of hair out of her face, lifting her chin. “We’ll go there, then.”
After they walked in silence for a while, Calum said, “Aly Muir, eh? Not Cooper?” The corner of his mouth tilted up in the ghost of a smile.
Aly straightened her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full height—which was still considerably shorter than Calum.
“Aly Muir is the respectable daughter of a doctor. She attended the best schools and then, after a short period of wild teenage rebellion—the shoplifting thing—started appearing on the arm of one of the city’s most famous philanthropists at charity events and political fundraisers.
” She grinned at Calum, who was staring at her, nonplussed.
“I use my real name when I’m not doing anything illegal.
” She shrugged. “It’s easier to avoid getting caught out in a lie when you tell as few lies as possible. ”
“And if anyone were to look more closely at your background, they wouldn’t find a web of lies that would reflect poorly on Grant.”
“Exactly.” They crossed a bridge, arcing over the black canal below. “At worst, it looks like he helped reform me after—as my mother would tell it—I stormed out of her house in a huff and started shoplifting for the fun of it.”
Calum let out a sound that was almost like a laugh, the sound warming Aly to the bones. It always felt like a victory, making him laugh, like she’d found a key that unlocked a side of him she didn’t imagine he showed very often.
They turned onto a stone path that led alongside a narrow canal.
Three- and four-storey terraced houses rose up on either side of the canal, forestairs zigzagging along them.
Calum led Aly up the stairs of one house.
The house was dark inside, though a candle in a sconce next to the door kindled as Calum pulled out his keys.
Lights sprang to life as Calum pushed open the door, filling the air with their honey-sweet aroma. At the same time a fire roared into existence in the hearth.
His house was—there was no other word for it—cosy.
A brightly patterned rug in the Rizh style covered the floorboards, the thick wool muffling the sound of Calum’s footsteps as he stepped into the parlour.
Heavy shutters on the front wall, secured with iron bolts, blocked out the winter night.
A pair of wooden chairs and a tea table sat in front of the hearth, swathed in markers of domesticity, from the tartan blanket thrown over the back of a chair to the pile of books and teapot on the table.
The walls were white plaster, unadorned save for brass sconces and a pair of axes that gave off an unusual golden-brown sheen.
Aly stepped towards the axes, peering at them more closely. They were beautifully crafted, with vines swirling up the handles and blooming into leaves at the blades. “Are these made of bronze?”
“Aye.” Calum stood next to her, his arms folded and his expression grave. “Listen, Aly . . .” He broke off, wetting his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Cold slithered down Aly’s back, horror gripping her. His expression was grave, and she had the sudden, overwhelming fear that he was going to end their agreement. She’d stolen what he needed; he could arrest the Wulver’s deputy and carry on with his life.
Calum let out a quivering breath. “Have you ever noticed anything . . . off about Grant?” he finally said.
Relief melted through Aly’s limbs. “Off? The man’s a sadist who charms people into doing his bidding and then bullies them into continuing when the mask slips.” She frowned. “Why? Did something happen before I came downstairs?”
“Grant’s not human.” Calum’s jaw clenched, as though he was forcing the words out.
Aly snorted. “He’s inhumane, certainly, but you’ve a rather rosy view of humanity if you think that means he’s not human.”
Calum gripped her shoulders, his expression intense, almost pleading. “No, I mean he’s fae.”
Aly’s stomach turned to ice. “Are―are you okay?” She’d think he was joking, but his expression was so sombre.
“I’m serious, Aly.” His eyes were wide, like they’d been in the close, wide and afraid.
Aly covered his hand with her own. His fingers were freezing. “I know you are. But the fae? They don’t exist.”
Calum released her, turning away from her as he tugged the collar of his shirt away from his neck.
Aly’s pulse pounded in her throat. “Calum, you’re scaring me.”
Calum rounded on her. “You should be scared. You should be fucking terrified. But not of me. Of him.”
Aly’s gaze fell on the bronze axes. Bronze. “Why do you have bronze weapons?”
“I got them from a fae.”
Aly couldn’t tell if he was joking or fae-touched.
She inhaled slowly. He wasn’t joking—the fear on his face was too real for that.
He came from the Highlands, though, she’d heard it in his voice, and she knew the myths were still widely held to be true there, even amongst educated, rational folk like Calum.
It was absurd, of course, and there had to be a rational explanation, but something about Grant had scared Calum so badly he now thought the other man was fae. “Because fae can’t touch iron, right?”
Some of the tension eased on Calum’s face, the lines around his eyes fading. “You believe me.” His voice came out a rasp.
“Grant can’t be fae, then.” She latched onto the detail. “I’ve seen him use my sgian dubh.”
Calum’s face was pale. “Have you seen him touch the blade? Or only the wooden hilt?”
“Only the hilt, of course. But that doesn’t prove he’s fae.”
“And it doesn’t prove he isn’t.” He reached towards her, then let his hand fall to his side. “Please, Aly. You have to believe me.” His expression was drawn, pleading.
Aly cast her mind back, trying to come up with a time she’d seen Grant touch iron.
Her skin was going cold and clammy. The idea of fae existing was preposterous, and yet here Calum stood, next to a pair of axes—bronze axes, even—telling her that the man she’d worked for for years was fae. And he was terrified.
She paced back and forth alongside the leaded windows, her ghostly reflection shadowing her movements.
“No, I’ve seen him touch iron, I’m sure of it.
” But she wasn’t. She’d never seen him pick up the iron rushlight holders in her flat—he had no use for them when he always turned the magical lighting on.
The doorknobs in all his buildings were brass, not iron, even in the brewery, where cheaper iron would have been more likely.
“Have you?” Calum said quietly. “Or does he avoid it as much as possible, maybe flinch away if he does touch it, like he’s been scalded?”
Aly shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t know.
” She ran her hands through her hair, catching them in the base of her plait.
This was all absurd. It couldn’t be true.
And yet when she looked at Calum’s face, at the tightness around his lips and the fear in his eyes, she doubted.
She gestured to the chairs in front of the fireplace.
“Okay, let’s sit down, and you can tell me why you think Grant is fae. ”
Calum heeded her words and sat, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flames. “He was glamoured.”