TWENTY-SIX
“Does the name Philip Hardcastle mean anything to you?” Calum asked, as they crossed a high bridge, the moonlight reflected in the water below.
Aly frowned, shaking her head. “Should it?”
“He’s been reported missing.” Calum told her how Philip had been caring for his orphaned siblings and looking for money.
Aly tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “That does sound like a salch. I can ask around.”
“There’s something else you should know about salchs.” Calum’s face was ashen. “They’re all demi-fae.”
“What?” Aly’s head snapped around so fast her plait hit her in the face. “All of them?” Surely they couldn’t all be demi-fae. She couldn’t be demi-fae. “What makes you say that?” He was wrong. Of course he was wrong.
“The scars. They’re iron scars.”
Aly shook her head, her chest loosening.
“It’s not possible.” If her salching scars looked—and felt—the way they did because of the iron, then the same would hold true for the cuts she’d got from kitchen knives and from her own daggers.
But those had all healed normally, fine white lines on her hands that faded into obscurity with time.
“I’m afraid it’s true.” Calum ducked his head to look at her.
“It’s not,” Aly bit out. “I know a lot more salchs than you do, and I promise you, if they were fae they wouldn’t be letting anyone slice open their veins to drag their power out.
We’re talking about salching, for fuck’s sake.
It’s excruciating, it’s dangerous, and it makes you a pariah.
No one does it if they have any other choice. ”
“I didn’t say they did, but—”
“Have you seen any salching scars?” Aly grabbed his arm, turning him to face her.
“No, I—”
“Then you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Calum looked like he wanted to argue further, but all he said was, “Do I want to know how you arranged a meeting with an assassin?”
Aly cut a glance at him as they began walking again. “I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shrugged. “I just sent her a note and said Grant might have a job for her.”
A muscle pulsed in Calum’s jaw and Aly could almost hear his teeth gritting together. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve hired her in the past on Grant’s orders?”
Aly bit her lower lip, glancing away. “Once. But trust me when I say that the target was no loss to society.” She shuddered, pushing back the swell of memories on the outskirts of her mind.
Calum frowned. “And you’re confident she’ll be there, and this isn’t some kind of trap?”
Aly fussed with the tassel on her plait.
“I know she’s done other jobs for him. Most of the time he’d go to her directly or send someone with fewer scruples.
He knew it was a line I was unwilling to cross, and he didn’t ask me to.
” And that made all the things she had done on his behalf worse.
If he was willing to respect her refusal to hire an assassin to take out a difficult merchant, then what did it say about her when she let him threaten her into torturing a spy, or bully her into giving over her magic to him?
Maybe Calum was right, and she’d done all that because she was part-monster.
The thought made her feel like her bones would split out of her skin.
It wasn’t possible. She had too many ordinary scars from iron for her salching scars to be a reaction to the metal.
He’d said himself he’d never seen salching scars; he’d just made an assumption from her description.
“He does that deliberately, you know.”
Aly whipped her head round to look at Calum, slowing to a stop. “Does what deliberately?”
The orange glow of the torches overhead turned the white streak in Calum’s hair a fiery copper as he turned to face her. “Lets you think he’s respecting your limits by not pushing you to do this one particularly heinous thing, so you blame yourself for all the other things he forces you to do.”
“How did you know—” Aly started, then broke off.
Calum’s expression softened. “It’s all over your face. But tell me, what happens when you refuse him?”
Aly slid her fingertips inside the cuff of her left sleeve, tracing the newest scar, still raw and tender.
Cold threaded through her veins at the memory and she gave an involuntary shudder.
“He punishes me for it,” she whispered. Whether that had been a test of loyalty after his suspicions about Calum or a penalty for her reluctance to torture the Redcap’s deputy, she didn’t know, and in the end it didn’t matter; either way, he knew he could cause her pain and terror on a whim.
“We all make choices, Aly.” He said her name gently, drawing out the two short syllables. “Take responsibility for your own. Don’t torture yourself with guilt over someone else’s.”
Aly’s fingertips stilled on her scars. Calum stood close enough that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. Close enough she could feel the warmth of his breath cascading over the shell of her ear the next time he spoke.
“Maybe there are times you should have taken on his anger rather than carried out his bidding. And you have to live with that. But live with it knowing that you might not be here, working with me to take him down for good, if you had stood up to him earlier. And I think that would be a great shame.”
The words hung between them, suspended in the air like droplets of mist. Aly’s lips parted, a list of her transgressions on the tip of her tongue.
She bit them back. She didn’t want to know if he’d still feel the same way if he knew what she’d done.
Instead she said, “Come on, we don’t want to be late. ”
Calum let out a huff of air that was almost a chuckle. “Aye, it wouldn’t do to keep an assassin waiting, would it?”
He gestured for her to lead on, and the sight tightened Aly’s ribs around her heart. How had they got to this point, where a copper trusted a crime lord’s deputy to take him to an assassin? She squared her shoulders as she walked on. She wouldn’t give him cause to regret the trust he placed in her.
Calum ducked under a low lintel, following Aly down a flagstone corridor that reeked of burning tallow. The stench was enough for Calum to breathe through his mouth, nausea rising in his throat.
His hands hung loose at his sides, his muscles twitching at the scrape of the wooden door on the flagstones and the spluttering of the candles as he listened for the rustle of clothing, the pad of footsteps behind them.
As they made their way down the corridor, a tall, broad figure emerged outside a door, the dirks at their belt glinting in the candlelight. Calum found himself wondering how many weapons they had that weren’t visible. As Aly and Calum approached, the guard stepped forwards, hand outstretched.
“We’ve an appointment with the Cailleach,” Aly said.
“Then you know the rules,” the guard said, flicking a mousy brown plait over his shoulder.
With a sigh, Aly lifted her arms from her sides, allowing the guard to check for weapons. Calum did the same, his muscles tightening unbidden at every tap of the guard’s palm. His throwing knives were hidden beneath his coat, six bronze blades humming against his magic.
The guard’s fingers brushed the hilt of one of the knives. He peeled Calum’s coat open, revealing the polished bronze knives.
“I told you not to bring any weapons,” Aly hissed.
“I’ll need you to hand those over,” the guard said, his jaw tight.
Calum pulled each knife out of its sheath, passing them to the guard one by one. Six threads of magic stretched between his fingertips and the weapons as they landed in the guard’s hands. He kept the bandolier on; he’d lose the thrum of the knives’ power against his own when he removed it.
The guard set the blades on a scrubbed half-moon table, far enough from the door that Calum wouldn’t be able to reach them from the room. Or rather, far enough from the door for ordinary weapons.
Calum had never fully tested the limits of the range at which he could feel his knives. He’d retrieved one from nearly a kilometre away once before, but it had been difficult to reach, and he’d had a clear view across the plain to where he knew it had fallen.
Of course, if the guard shut the door then the question was moot. His knives couldn’t fly through wood.
Calum expected to be allowed through the door the guard was standing in front of, but instead they were shown into the room next to it, the guard closing the door behind them and muffling the pulse of magic from Calum’s knives.
His ribcage constricted over his heart, sweat forming on his upper lip.
No weapons, then. Not unless Aly had something hidden, and from the look she was giving him, she hadn’t been that reckless.
He’d have to hope she was right, and they weren’t going to be needed.
A fire blazed into life in the hearth as they entered, a pair of red velvet and oak sofas on either side.
Aly glowered at Calum as she threw herself onto one of the sofas, crossing her arms. “That was stupid. You don’t show up to a meeting with an assassin armed if you want to get on their good side.”
Calum lowered himself gingerly next to her, keeping his distance as though she were a feral cat. “I forgot I was wearing them.” It was true; he had got so used to the feel of them he hadn’t noticed them until the guard had begun to pat him down.
“I managed to remember not to bring mine.” Aly scowled at him. “I thought it was illegal to walk around with weapons.” The words came out in a snarl.
Calum clasped his hands between his knees.
“It is.” But he hadn’t removed the bandolier since he’d learnt he was dealing with a demi-fae.
He took in a trembling breath, staring at the red and blue tufted rug beneath his feet rather than at Aly.
“I’m scared, Aly. Of Grant.” He flicked his gaze to her. “He’s dangerous.”
Aly’s thumb slid up her opposite sleeve, rubbing the inside of her wrist. She often did that when they spoke of Grant and the danger he posed. Calum’s heart tightened as he wondered what scars were hidden under her clothes.
“I know,” she said, her voice soft. “But bringing knives here? That was stupid.” Her eyelashes fluttered over her cheeks as she worried at her lower lip. “And what about me? If you get yourself killed by an assassin, I’m screwed.”
Guilt squeezed Calum’s insides. “I won’t get myself killed. Or arrested.” If he lost his job, she’d have collaborated with the police with nothing to show for it.
“Oh, I’m not concerned about that one.” Aly’s lip curled. “As long as you’ve got that warrant card nobody’s going to care if you’re walking around swinging a claymore.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached for her without thinking, the urge to comfort his friend after he’d upset her as natural as breathing.
He curled his hand into a fist, letting it fall to the velvet between them.
She wasn’t his friend. She was his informant.
She didn’t need his comfort, or his apology; she needed his protection.
A door clicked open, making Calum’s head snap up.
A woman with cropped steel-grey hair entered, barely visible in the dim light.
She was tall and lean, her trousers fitted close over her muscular thighs.
Her eyes narrowed when she saw Calum, the look she gave Aly as sharp as the knives tucked into her boots.
“Who’s this?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“An associate of mine,” Aly said, her tone firm. “I vouch for him. The Wulver vouches for him.”
The other woman—the Cailleach, Calum presumed—nodded in Aly’s direction, sitting on the sofa across from them both. She picked up a crystal decanter and poured three glasses of whisky, the amber liquid glowing red in the firelight.
Calum took the glass she offered, but didn’t drink. The upraised crystal bit into his palm as his fingers tightened around it.
“What brings you here?” the Cailleach asked. “The Wulver’s business, I presume?”
Aly took a long sip of whisky, swallowing and setting the glass down with a thud before she replied. “As I’m sure you’re aware, there’s recently been a high-profile death in East End. A burgess, left in the street with his throat slit.”
The Cailleach’s expression betrayed nothing as she said, “Go on.”
Aly leant forwards, resting her elbows on her knees. “My employer would like to know who paid you to dump a dead body in his territory.”
The Cailleach set her glass down with a dull clink and leant forwards, mirroring Aly’s posture. “Don’t lie to me.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it carried a chill with it, so cold it drained the warmth from the fire. “Why are you really here?”
Aly blinked. Calum’s heart beat faster behind his sternum. Aly’s throat bobbed. “I told you, my employer—”
The Cailleach raised a hand, cutting her off. “You and I both know your employer didn’t send you. Now answer my question.”
The hair rose on the back of Calum’s neck.
Beside him, Aly’s jaw slackened, her face going pale beneath her freckles.
She pressed her lips together, closing her eyes a moment to compose herself.
“You’re right, the Wulver didn’t send me.
I am, however, here on his behalf, as his deputy.
A corpse was left in his territory, and you’re the only crime lord I know of who is willing to leave a body somewhere it will be found.
And I would like to know why someone hired you and your crew to leave a dead body in that part of town. ”
The Cailleach leant closer, her cheekbones turning wraith-like in the firelight. “You’ll have to ask your employer. Those were, after all, his explicit instructions.”
Aly blinked again. Calum’s stomach knotted as the meaning of the Cailleach’s words sunk in.
“You mean . . .” Aly started, her voice cracking.
The Cailleach nodded. “The murder of Craig Gibson was commissioned by none other than the Wulver.”