Blood Faerie (7 page)

Eilidh thought of Munro, of his strange, alien, pulsing magic. “They are not so different from us as we might have once thought.”

Saor did not answer. Instead, he watched Eilidh as the silence between them stretched on. Finally, he asked, “Why did you not tell me?”

It took Eilidh a long moment before she realised what he meant. Her forbidden talents. The reason behind her exile. Her tainted and twisted magical curse. “I was a child. I did not know.” The weight of the memories dragged her into sadness. “Even if I had understood, it was better you did not.”

A subtle flick of his head told her of his annoyance. “You think not?”

“If you knew I could cast the azure and said nothing, you would have been condemned alongside me.”

“Or I could have helped you stop.” He paused. “I always aided you, Eilidh.”

She smiled at him now. “You did. But could you stop hearing the stone call to you? Could you sever yourself from the Ways of Earth?”

“Of course not,” he said. “But the Ways of Earth are natural. Do you think the conclave would have forbidden the Path of the Azure without reason? Its magic is twisted and dangerous. Piedre should have been enough to prove that to you.”

“I have paid for the wrong done to him.” Eilidh avoided thinking about the young faerie whose life she nearly took with her accidental illusions. “I do not cast the azure. I told you that.”

“Yet you say you could not sever yourself from it.”

“I am what I am. My crime was being born.”

“Self-pity does not suit you. You have grown thin of heart.”

“And you are as self-congratulating as ever, Saor. Go. The Otherworld calls. I have not grown so thin that I cannot hear it.”

“Will you go south?”

“No. This is my home.
These
are my people now. Maybe I am their Watcher.” She was not certain she believed her own words, but saying them made her feel stronger. They gave her purpose after decades of mere existence.

Saor’s face was still unreadable. He stood and turned to go. “Your father sends his blessings. He hopes you are well and happy. I told him you are.”

“Thank you,” Eilidh said. All three would know it for a lie. No faerie could be well or happy outside the kingdom. Could they? “Goodbye, Saor. Thank you for delivering my warning to the conclave, even if they chose to ignore it.”

He responded with a curt nod and disappeared through the trees, heading north.

Eilidh stood and went west to the footbridge that connected the island to the city. She pulled her hood up to cover her hair and ears and walked aimlessly. She looked closely at the humans that stood at bus shelters or walked to pubs and restaurants. The night was still young. Cars with their cold, artificial eyes of light crept through the streets, carrying people to their homes. For the first time, Eilidh wondered what it would feel like to sit in the metal cage and be trundled down the road. She liked being on her feet, connected to the earth, but tonight she saw these people differently.

If they knew what she was, would they be frightened? Would they accept her? She thought of Munro. He seemed to be drawn to her. But then, he was something different too, perhaps as different from his people as she was from hers.

Eilidh stared at the stars, where her forbidden magic flowed. If she were to be the city’s only Watcher, she would need all the help she could find. The conclave had turned their back on her, and she didn’t know how to touch the magic flows above her. Always before, the astral magic flooded her without warning, overwhelming her senses. She had been taught that to touch the Path of the Azure was to tempt fate and the surest way to madness. It would mean risking death, but what was that to her now? She had no home, no family, no friends. She possessed nothing and owed no one. All she had was this place. She could let this blood faerie drive her further into the wastes, or she could take the chance to protect a city that did not even know her.

Cridhe had not dared to breathe when the Watcher called Saor approached the island. Although he knew the blood shadows were superior to the Ways of Earth, he had never tested his strength against a kingdom faerie. Dudlach raised him to fear the kingdom, while still speaking with wistful jealousy. As a child, Cridhe wanted to hear again and again about the Halls of Mist. His father indulged him for a time, but after a while, he told Cridhe to put his childish dreaming behind him. The pair lived beneath the notice of the kingdoms, but not for much longer.

A year ago, finding an exiled female who could walk the Path of the Azure would have been a gift of fate. After all, how could they seed a new kingdom without someone to bear the children? They had heard rumour of her existence, but never encountered her.

With their new plans, their need was not as urgent. Soon they would have their pick of the kingdom fae. Still, discovering her held a promise. They would take the kingdoms back, and mating with another of the Path of the Azure would increase the chances of a purer, more elite bloodline. Dudlach had explained that if two with earth magic mated, the chance of a child with higher magic was one in a thousand. If one parent had talents in the Path, the chances raised to a third. With both though? The gifts were never assured, but the chances were doubled. The magic came from the child’s own fate and manifested in a way as unique as a soul itself.

Cridhe pulled his thoughts to the present and focused his blood. He did not dare cast shadows, or the Watcher called Saor might see it. But he did envelop his own essence in pure darkness, a pocket of nothingness that would stand out only if Saor bathed the island in light.

The blood faerie listened to their conspiratorial conversation, staying perfectly still until Saor departed and Eilidh made her way into the city streets. Cridhe had learned several interesting things; foremost was the mention of the “crimes” for which Eilidh had been exiled. She had said, “I do not cast the azure.” So she had skills of the Path, as he had known, but not of the blood. Dudlach had always called their talents “casting shadows,” so hers must be astral, not of blood. The only other fae he had known followed the Path, but their talent was like his, drawing of flesh and bone. So, what could she do and how strong was she?

Cridhe had no choice. He had to ask Dudlach. He could do it subtly, so the elder faerie did not understand the meaning behind it. Something about that troubled him, but he couldn’t place what. His mind teetered on the edge of recognition, but frustratingly, it was denied him.

Of course, Dudlach would know of the exile. Cridhe remembered Dudlach talking about the few fae who survived departing the kingdom. Yet even Dudlach, with all his wisdom, would not have expected her to stay so close to her family. Cridhe had been born hundreds of miles away, across the water, and yet here stayed Eilidh, within a whisper’s breadth of her own people. If he had known, before he died, of course, Dudlach would have found her and claimed her, as he had Cridhe’s mother. Maybe he tried when she first left the kingdom and never told Cridhe. It would be like his father to hide a failure. Or maybe he feared her azuri magic.

It was enough to give Cridhe pause. Oh, he would have her. With Eilidh feeding his talents, he could challenge the throne, make her the new Faerie Queen. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it had been his destiny all along.

He waited long enough for Eilidh to be well away from the footbridge, but not so long that he would have to swim ashore if she returned. Yes, she would be his, but not quite yet. Tonight he had more important business, something that would take him a step closer to the Halls of Mist.

***

Munro lay on his couch, stared at the ceiling, and ignored the inane babble on the telly. The day at the hospital had felt like a week. At least they hadn’t insisted on keeping him overnight. Sergeant Hallward had called and ordered Munro to do whatever the doctors told him. They would not, however, clear him to go back to work yet. A killer was out walking free—at the very least, a sick bastard, and at worst, a serial killer—and Munro had to stay home. There was nothing bloody wrong with him, and he had half a mind to tell Hallward that. Fortunately for him, the
other
half of his mind was reasonably sane. All he had to do was lie low for a couple of days while waiting for a few more useless lab results. Then, when nothing else happened, he could convince the occupational health advisor he was better off at work.

With a flick of the remote, he silenced the noise. He had to get moving. He’d never been the kind to enjoy lying around the house. It always sounded great, the idea of sleeping in, watching crap on the box, having nothing to do. But he just wasn’t the type. When it came right down to it, Munro couldn’t stand doing nothing.

Hauling himself up, he went to his exercise room. It had been intended by the builders, no doubt, to serve as a child’s bedroom. It contained precisely three objects: a table, a stereo, and a treadmill. Munro wasn’t a big collector of junk, and he kept the decor sparse. He liked things to serve a purpose, so he didn’t fill his house with throw pillows and knick-knacks. His mum had loved her ornaments, as she called them, but when she died, his dad waited about a week before boxing them up and giving them to a charity shop. “I loved your mum, Quinton,” he’d said, “but I hate them fuckin’ porcelain cats.”

When his dad died of cancer many years later, Munro found the old man had already taken care of just about everything a person could. Considerate to the last, not wanting to be a burden to his only child. The old man’s house sold quickly, leaving Munro enough cash to buy this place. It had three bedrooms, only one of which served as such. The second bedroom contained a desk, a dusty computer, and his camping gear.

Munro’s feet pounded against the treadmill. He checked his watch and took his pulse. His heart rate was perfectly in the zone. He stared out the window and tried not to think about
her
. But trying not to think about her meant a keen awareness of avoiding her, which led him in mental circles until he gave up.

She’d known his name, he’d noticed, but hadn’t thought to ask how. He felt drawn to her, yet something told him to be careful. It wasn’t because she was foreign either. Not really foreign, but a different race. And he wasn’t racist. His dad taught him to judge a man by his actions, not his words and not the colour of his skin or the way he talked. His dad also hadn’t been one of those Scots who hated the English on principle. James Munro said not many people could stand up to the scrutiny of their ancestors, and if some English bastards bought out some Scottish lords several hundred years before, those Scots bore the blame for being for sale.

Munro wasn’t sure if his dad’s tolerance would have extended to twisted ears, but he couldn’t see why not. He had to judge Eilidh by her actions, not her appearance, even if he wasn’t quite sure he could wrap his head around the idea of faeries being real. But judging Eilidh by her actions meant, first and foremost, finding out what those actions had been. He’d avoided the thought because he didn’t
want
her to have been involved in Robert Dewer’s murder. But she knew more than she’d told him, and it was time to find out.

Technically, he shouldn’t go anywhere near her. She was a witness, and he wasn’t on the job until the OHA said so. But it seemed like nobody had paid much attention to Munro’s report about the witness who said she’d seen an “angel”. He needed to clear this up, one way or another, because something drew him to Eilidh. It wasn’t necessarily sexual, although she was stunning. It felt deeper than that, like he recognised her, even though he was certain he’d never laid eyes on her before. Perhaps it was that feeling that made him believe her claims about being fae.

Munro checked his pulse and started to slow his pace. He did a fifteen-minute stretching routine, then jumped in the shower. His determination only grew, now that he’d made up his mind. He dressed and grabbed his wallet and keys, making for the door. His car was still at the police station, so he walked to the bus stop to catch the next ride into the city centre. He wouldn’t have to search for her long. She was nestled in his thoughts like a pebble in his shoe. His mind pointed toward her as if she were true north.

He got off the bus in front of the city’s only cinema and headed toward the High Street. She pulled him toward her. It only took two blocks to realise where he was headed—back to St Paul’s, the scene of the crime.

For twenty-five years, it stood abandoned, growing more derelict with each passing season. Munro always liked the church with its octagonal base and three-story steeple, but it would never feel the same after finding the body, heartless and still. When he reached the church, Munro glanced up, past the boarded-up windows and doors. She was in there, somewhere around the third floor. He felt her stillness.

“Eilidh,” he said, as softly as a whisper. A small tremor reverberated through the ancient stone. He touched a cornerstone.
Knock, knock.

“What are you doing here?” The voice came from behind him. A copper Munro didn’t know very well.

He turned and met the constable’s eyes. “Just having a wee look, I suppose. Any new word?”

“I heard you were off sick or something. Too bad. CID probably would have let you in on the case, since you found the body.”