“If he has a medical condition, he might be registered with a local GP. You think he’s involved?”
“I think he’s scared. Maybe he saw something, or maybe he’s just scared of cops in general. You know how it is.”
Getty nodded. Some families raised their kids to distrust the police. Usually it meant their mum was selling drugs out of their front room to make ends meet until dad got out of jail. One day on the outside and the old man would take up the family business again.
Munro also didn’t tell Getty the girl hadn’t been blonde. Her hair was white. Bright white, like his gran’s, but without the blue tinge. And her silver-green eyes weren’t like anything he’d seen. He couldn’t get her face out of his mind. Something about her made him uneasy. He didn’t like to think she was involved, but they had to find her, even if it was for her own protection. She seemed frail and small, but even though he’d told Getty she was a kid, he knew that wasn’t right either.
Munro couldn’t help but wonder about the angel Mrs Pentworth swore she’d seen. His hunches were stirring again, and he wished they’d just shut the hell up.
Chapter 4
“Really, Cridhe, you’re becoming quite mad.”
Cridhe inclined his head as though deferentially agreeing with his father, but inside he seethed. The fae did not go mad. Dudlach should know that. Why would he suggest something so blatantly insulting to their race? Furthermore, Cridhe wasn’t just any faerie. He was the hunter, vital to the Krostach Ritual because of his unique talents. When those with higher magic once again ruled the kingdoms, he would surely be made a lord. He was eccentric, perhaps. Driven, certainly. But never mad. “I enjoy my work,” Cridhe said finally.
Dudlach’s dark eyes flashed. “Too much, I think.”
Impatience nipped at Cridhe. “Would you prefer I were timid and weak? Or have you simply developed an affinity for the human creatures?”
“Don’t be disgusting. You always were a petulant child.”
Cridhe held himself in a perfect calm pose, ignoring the roiling voices as best he could. “My point, Dudlach, is that I do a job that must be done. I enjoy it.” Cridhe shrugged, as though the conversation bored him, but his mind ticked over every recent conversation he’d had with Dudlach, searching for signs of betrayal. “Is it wrong to find pleasure in service?”
“I have lived much longer than you,” Dudlach said.
Cridhe bit back his internal response. Simply growing old was no accomplishment. Besides, Dudlach was dead. Somewhere in his twisted mind, Cridhe knew this, even if the ghost before him didn’t. “Yes, that is so.”
Was Dudlach a ghost? Cridhe didn’t know. His mind wouldn’t let him focus on the truth. He couldn’t even ponder why he couldn’t think about it.
“The higher magic should only be touched when necessary,” his father said. “It is addictive, consuming. Blood magic even more so than the other three forms. You practice too much, draw too much.”
For a moment, Cridhe forgot his concerns about Dudlach’s state of being and launched into a familiar argument. “My drawing feeds the source stone. Without me…” Cridhe let the words trail off. They needed the sacrifices, and he alone could make them. He could not bear to be lectured by a shadow of a memory.
“Yes, what would we do without you?” Dudlach’s eyes were so dark and the pupils so large it was impossible for Cridhe to tell if Dudlach was actually looking at him—or right through him.
His father’s all-knowing air annoyed Cridhe. The old faerie was arrogant. And useless if he wouldn’t practice or teach more of what he knew of blood magic.
“Cridhe!” Dudlach’s voice made him jump. “You’re muttering to yourself again. This is what I mean. This is what worries me.”
“Was I?” A tinge of doubt crept into Cridhe’s mind. He forced a weak smile. “I’m overtired, perhaps. Nothing more.”
A cloud moved through Dudlach’s eyes. “Rest, then. Our work is vital.”
Dudlach stalked into the surrounding trees. Cridhe watched the blackness intently. When Cridhe had killed Dudlach, he’d tasted the magic, consumed it, but it had not become part of him. It ran through him, as would any meat. He’d tried to collect Dudlach’s heart the same way he now did with humans, but it hadn’t worked. The spell failed and the heart ceased its beating. In many ways, it hadn’t entirely surprised him. The fae, being superior to lower life forms, were far too complex to have the same weaknesses as humans.
A flicker of recognition threatened, but Cridhe denied the horror he should have felt at having killed his own father. Dudlach had deserved to die.
∞
Munro squinted out the window into the bright afternoon. His eyes resisted, and he had to lower them again. The light burned. He’d never had a migraine before, but he’d known plenty of people who had, so he wondered if that was what he was experiencing. Migraine sufferers never seemed to miss an opportunity to describe, in excruciating detail, why theirs was no ordinary headache.
“You all right?” Getty asked. He said it with a chuckle, as though he only asked out of social convention.
Munro never got sick, took a sick day, or so much as had a cold. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a bit of a bad head.”
Sergeant Hallward happened to be walking through the squad room. “Shake it off, cupcake. We have work to do,” he said without even breaking stride.
Munro chuckled. “Yes, boss.” But Hallward was already out of earshot by the time the words had come. He turned to ask Getty if he wanted to grab some lunch before the St Paul’s case review, but suddenly he found his face planted in the dark grey carpet.
“Jesus,” Getty said, kneeling beside his partner.
Munro felt himself being rolled over and then Getty’s cool hand touching his face. Munro tried to speak, but vomit sprayed out of his mouth, all over Getty’s black uniform and onto the shoes of nearby officers.
“We need an ambulance at Divisional Police Headquarters on Barrack Street…”
Why did they use such a strange monotone when talking to dispatch? Why did everyone sound so worried? Had the killer struck again?
Munro wasn’t surprised at the thought. The killing had been so bizarre. Someone who could do something like that to a person wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Unnecessary violence would usually indicate that a killing had been personal. In this case, it hadn’t been so much violent as just bloody wrong. Munro had heard one young idiot breathe the phrase “serial killer” when Hallward had been within earshot. It hadn’t taken very many words to shut the kid up. Serial meant more than one, a pattern, a predator. Right now, they had one dead bloke and one sick killer.
Anyone would know why you didn’t say things like that before you had to. Just the idea of a serial killer in Perth made Munro’s stomach tighten. Perth was his city. He’d been born here, gone to school here, and becoming a copper had been the most natural thing in the world. Some people dreamed of moving away, going to university in Edinburgh or Glasgow, maybe even London. One mate had gone to America, for pity’s sake. He’d gotten an athletic scholarship to a university in a state Munro couldn’t have found on a map. Ohio or Oregon or something. But Munro knew Scotland was where he belonged. He wasn’t settling; he was home.
The thoughts drifted through Munro’s mind. He felt oddly calm and removed as though he could finally think clearly, separated from his physical reality.
Someone placed a plastic mask over Munro’s face. The cool air smelled strange, as though it were too clean, too pure…the smell of nothing. Something jostled Munro. He felt movement and heard voices, calm, but no-nonsense. He used that tone sometimes himself. Cops learned quickly how to talk without leaving room for argument or negotiation. Some people needed help focusing. Usually if anyone needed a cop, there was something bad happening. He had to talk to people who were distressed, angry, grieving, or clouded by alcohol or drugs. Clear, crisp commands. That was the only thing that would get through. Step away now or get out of the vehicle, please
or I’m sorry. There’s been an accident.
Clear and calm. That’s what Getty sounded like when he said, “I’m right here, Munro. We’re almost there. Don’t worry.”
Munro wanted to take him aside. Don’t tell people what not to do. Tell them what to do. Always issue commands in the positive. If a cop says, “Don’t worry,” all they hear is the word worry.
A hard pain hit Munro’s spine as it lurched into an awkward curve, arching his back off the surface where he lay. Muscles contracted, jerking and releasing, jerking and releasing. The calm voices grew insistent and frenzied, but in a controlled, orchestrated way.
Swirling colours turned black, and all sound grew distant.
Munro floated for a while. The blackness became grey and vague. The pain had evaporated, and the voices stilled. He loved the silence. Some people filled their heads with music or flicked on the telly for company, but Munro found comfort in quiet. This particular silence was more complete than any he’d ever experienced. He felt as if he were wrapped in a cloud, miles away from even the most distant traffic or the slightest breeze.
He saw mottled green. Then he saw her. She walked through the woods, moving away from him. He recognised the spiky white hair. He couldn’t help but marvel at the economy of her movements as she navigated the dense, uneven forest. He followed, floating behind her without gaining ground. Once, she stopped. He almost felt her listening. She lifted her face, and her head twitched to the side. Was she sniffing the air? Suddenly, she whipped her head around and looked right at him. Part of him flinched, but when he saw her puzzled expression, he realised she couldn’t see him. That was when he noticed the gentle, corkscrew turn at the top of her ears. Her swirling eyes scanned the woods behind her. Her body poised with the tension of a wild animal, ready to pounce—or to flee. So beautiful, he thought. As he voiced the words, she faded away, and his world returned to blackness.
Chapter 5
The peculiar sensation of eyes prickling against her skin made Eilidh glance over her shoulder. It shouldn’t surprise her. She had been a Watcher, but it didn’t take long away from the kingdom to lose the sharpness of her skills. She had spent nearly a quarter of her life in exile. A twinge of sadness and longing threatened to surface, and she pushed it back to the recesses of her mind. Self-pity would wait. For now, she had to focus on a greater purpose. It pleased her to have one after so long of merely surviving.
“You smell like a human.” The voice floated to her as a whisper on the wind.
Her heart lurched. “Saor.” She stepped away from the tree, so she could be clearly seen from all sides, and opened her mouth slowly to show she held no incantations.
“Your life is forfeit in the kingdom,” he said, approaching her from the trees. His long golden hair hung straight around his pale face and shone in the morning light. His dark grey eyes appeared hard and unwavering—like the stone magic he favoured. Eilidh could not read them.
“Yes.” Now was the moment, she thought. He would either kill her or not. He’d loved her once, but did he love duty more?
Suddenly, he stood in front of her. It startled Eilidh. His skills had grown over the past decades while hers dulled.
“So you have come to die?” His angry, mocking tone shocked Eilidh. This was not the Saor she remembered.
“I bring news to the conclave.” She licked her lips, feeling more nervous than she had expected. When she decided to warn them of the deaths and report that one of the forbidden, higher forms had been used, it made sense at the time. Any of their kingdom would have done the same. Now, standing and facing the one who would have been her mate, she realised her folly. She wasn’t a kingdom faerie any longer. Had she been sitting in that tower all those long years waiting for an excuse to come back? Fool. She’d convinced herself she’d accepted her fate, but seeing the disgust on Saor’s beautiful face made her heart ache with renewed pain.
He stepped back and flicked his eyes to the trees as though pondering her words. His hesitation lasted only a moment. “What news?”
“Someone has cast blood shadows in the city.”
His eyes turned sharp again, cutting her with accusation.
“Not me, Saor. You know my crimes were in the astral realm, not the blood.”
His perfectly angled features froze, as though he did not even breathe. They had never once spoken of her wrongdoing. But then, he’d never come to see her after the truth became known, nor even sent word. Finally, Saor gave a barely perceptible nod.
“He killed a human.”
Saor snorted his lack of concern. “Does this bother you?”
Eilidh winced at his derisive manner. “It was brutal. Violent. And yet controlled and purposeful.” She turned her chin up to stare Saor squarely in the face. “Powerful.”
Saor narrowed his eyes, calculating again. He had not, Eilidh thought, been so stoic and hard before. Had she done this? Was he yet another casualty of her deformed magical talents? They used to laugh together, all those many years ago. Now, seeing his stony expression, she couldn’t remember what his laughter sounded like.
“Do you know who he is? Has another been exiled since my…departure?”
“Since you tried to kill your own father and ran away?”
Another blow to the heart. “He lives then?”
Saor nodded. “He told the conclave that he fell and said when he awoke, you had gone. An obvious lie.”
Eilidh did not let herself smile, but she was pleased by her father’s cleverness. If he’d told the story of her overpowering him, they might have suspected him. But since he told them the opposite, they blamed her instead.
“Too obvious,” Saor said, a warning in his tone.
He knew. And he was telling her, as clearly as any faerie would speak. Was there threat in his words? If anyone learned that her father helped her escape, he could face the same fate. “What do you want, Saor?”
He blinked at her directness. It was not their way. The fae spoke in half-nods and flicks of the eyes. “You have changed, Eilidh.”
She fought the bitterness in her throat. “The human world is ugly, Saor, and I have grown slow. I miss…” Eilidh could not say it. She would not let herself reminisce about the Halls of Mist or the Otherworld. Only the outer reaches of the fae kingdoms overlapped the human plane. Even they were forbidden to her.
The pair stood in long silence. Another thing Eilidh missed. Humans rushed everywhere, filled every moment with noise. They lacked the discipline of quiet.
Finally, Eilidh spoke again. “This blood faerie. He smells wrong, Saor. And strong. I tracked him, but the trail vanished.” She wondered if she should tell him that the faerie had touched her mind but decided that would only remind Saor of her own wrongness.
“I’ve never known you to lose a trail.”
She nodded her appreciation of the compliment. “Do you know who he is?” she asked again. Few of the fae would choose to live outside the kingdoms. The pull of the Otherworld was too strong.
Saor turned his face downward to indicate he did not, a subtle gesture that made her smile. Even with the horrible and irreparable rift between them, she had missed him. It pleased her to see she still recognised his tiniest movements.
“If he attacks again, could you best him?”
Eilidh had wondered that herself, but only briefly. “No. You know me, Saor. I’ve never been strong.”
“Not in the Ways of Earth, no.”
His admission surprised her. Earth magic was the only acceptable magic among the fae. She’d been weak, ridiculously so. Like the runt of a litter, expected to crawl away and die because the Mother Earth had rejected her. It had always been Saor who protected her, he who trained her in the skills of the Watchers. What she lacked in magical talent, he taught her tenfold in plant lore, agility, strength, and skill. And now he spoke to her of the Path of the Azure, forbidden to the fae because of its corruptive and addictive nature.
“I had no training in astral magic.”
He knew as well as she that her statement, although true, did not answer his question.
She relented. “No. I could not best him with the Path of the Azure. I resist the flows, so they are unfamiliar to me.”
“You keep the law?”
His surprise annoyed Eilidh. “I am fae,” she said.
“You are not of our kingdom,” he reminded her.
“I am fae,” she repeated, setting her jaw firmly.
A flicker of a smile passed his lips and then disappeared. “I will speak to the conclave. I doubt they will trouble themselves, but they will want to know of this…turn.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling bereft as she realised their conversation had drawn to a close. “Will you tell my father I am well?”
“Would it be true?”
“Will you tell him?”
She thought she saw a nod, but his movement was so faint and her senses so dulled from exile, she couldn’t be certain.
All trace of tenderness or friendship left Saor’s features. His eyes grew hard, as though he suddenly remembered what she had become. “Go, Eilidh. Your life is forfeit if you stay here.” In a blur, Saor touched her cheek before disappearing into the trees. The rocks at her feet vibrated as he cast his words into the stone. “Go,” they said.
No longer able to stand the memories of what she had lost forever, Eilidh turned and ran.
∞
Munro didn’t remember deciding to go into the woods. He tried not to think about it, because he didn’t remember how he got there. All he knew was that something was missing. Confused and feverish, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was missing from.
He did recall waking up in the hospital. Someone had taken off his stab-vest and utility belt, but he still wore his uniform when he woke up in A&E. He’d heard Getty telling someone that Munro had questioned a witness who’d had some kind of seizure. The doctors had instructed Getty not to worry. His partner was in good hands, they’d said.
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