Blood Faerie (4 page)

“What time was this?” Munro asked.

“Oh, must have been just before ten. I usually go to bed around then, see, and I had just cleaned my teeth.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Well, I went to the window to see what the matter was. He was lying down there all alone. Sad, really, to die alone.”

“You could see him from here?” Munro put his teacup on the coffee table and went to the window. He had to lean close to make out the church steps. The position of the building made it awkward.

“I couldn’t see the body exactly, but I knew he had to be dead.”

Munro turned back toward Mrs Pentworth and waited.

“Because of the angel, you see.”

“Angel?” Munro and Getty glanced at each other.

“Yes, floated down from heaven. Just right after he died.” She shook her head again.

Munro turned back to the window and peered up. He saw nothing but the church and the buildings opposite. St Paul’s Street, the tiny, crowded road that curved behind the church, barely had room for a car to park. “Are you saying someone jumped down from one of those apartments?”

Her teacup rattled on the saucer when she set it down. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’d have broken their neck. And no, they didn’t come from the apartments.” She narrowed her eyes. “It was an angel from heaven, come to take that poor Mr Dewer away. It didn’t jump. Angels don’t jump. It floated. And second, it came from heaven. I saw it descend from the sky.”

“Yeah,” Getty said with a glance to Munro. “If you think of anything more, give us a call.” He handed her a card with the relevant phone numbers.

“Thank you,” Munro said, and they left Mrs Pentworth to undoubtedly call her friends and report on the excitement.

After they made their way to the ground floor Getty said, “Nice old crackpot. Good bread. Shame she’s such a loon.”

“Maybe not,” Munro said.

Getty stopped at the street exit. “I’m all for believing in the Good Lord when it comes to weddings and football, but don’t tell me you believe she saw an angel.”

Munro shook his head. “She saw something.” Once on the street again, he glanced up at the grey sky. “I saw our witness this morning.” He hadn’t mentioned that he’d seen the girl, or that it
was
a girl. Her appearance left him unsettled, and he didn’t want to admit that.

“The kid?”

“Short light hair, hazel eyes, maybe fifteen or sixteen? Foreign, I think. Hard to tell. Had some sort of medical condition. Collapsed on the steps. I only turned away for a second, and he stood up and ran off.” Why was he still deceiving Getty? Munro could always claim later he hadn’t realised. The girl certainly didn’t seem ordinary. It would be an easy mistake for anyone to make.

“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.

“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.

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.