Blood Faerie (8 page)

His name popped into Munro’s head. PC Gordon.
But what was his first name?
Munro couldn’t remember. The kid was that new. “I’m all right. Be back as soon as I get word I’m cleared. Tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”

Gordon eyed him suspiciously. Maybe the young PC thought he was skiving. Munro wouldn’t blame him. He looked fine, and more to the point, he felt fine.

“Aye. We’ll probably have it wrapped up by then.”

Munro wanted to laugh. The kid didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. “Oh yeah? You on the case?”

The kid straightened his uniform shirt. “I’m doing my bit.” Pointedly. As though Munro wasn’t doing his.

“Aye, I’ll sleep better knowing that,” Munro said. He glanced up at the steeple where he knew Eilidh perched. Could she hear him? He slapped his palm against the old stone wall one more time. It was warm to the touch. Alive. It stopped him in his tracks. He could feel its density and age and was suddenly aware of the shifts in the earth that had first formed it, the water that had sluiced over it, the chisel that had hewn it from its resting place. A slight glow wove through invisible faults deep in the rock.

“Hey, you all right?”

Munro removed his hand from the wall and turned to the PC. Concern had replaced suspicion on the kid’s face. “I’m fine,” Munro said. “Just forgot to eat this morning. I’ll go grab something.” He gave the kid a wave and headed off without another word. Munro didn’t trust his balance, and he knew this would already come back to haunt him. He could make an excuse, but suddenly he wasn’t as worried about getting back to work. Something was messing with his head. He had to talk to Eilidh. She’d passed out too, in that very spot. She’d have to know what was going on, and he hoped she could tell him how to make it stop.

He headed toward the South Inch, relieved to feel her follow. By the time she caught up with him, he had sat on a wall near the green, just off one of the park’s paths. Far enough from public view that he probably wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, but close enough that she wouldn’t have to hunt for him.

While he waited, Munro worked out exactly what he’d say. He’d pin her down about what she saw the night of Dewer’s murder. Knowing what he did, he figured she had to be the “angel” Mrs Pentworth saw at the church. That meant Eilidh had to have seen the murder, or at least the killer. He’d get the information and then find a way to make sure Getty and Hallward got it, while at the same time leaving Eilidh out of it.

The more he considered, the more Munro realised two things. First, his gut believed her, no matter what his rational brain said. She wasn’t human. Anyone who looked at her for more than five minutes would realise that. If the ears didn’t give her away, those eyes would at least raise a few questions. Second, nothing good would come of exposing her to the rest of the world. At best, they’d think her some kind of illegal immigrant. Although she hadn’t said so specifically, he couldn’t imagine she had papers. Could a faerie even be a British citizen?

Just as he’d sorted out exactly what to say, Eilidh walked up. She slouched and covered most of her face with her hood, but he couldn’t mistake her walk or her presence. She lifted her swirling eyes to meet his. As he opened his mouth to speak, she said, “What manner of magic do you have, Munro?” Her voice pierced his mind, and its haunting clarity carried an accusation.

The word
magic
struck him as funny, and the concept threw him off his stride. His planned questions fled. He went from amused to confused. “What?” He’d heard her well enough, but his brain didn’t want to process her meaning.

“You cast your voice into the stone. I heard it.” Again, the accusation.

“I…” Munro was suddenly bereft of words.

“You can sense the flows, yes?” Impatient now.

“I…” He wished he could say something intelligent. But in thinking about her question, some of it did make sense. If he could accept that she was different, could he accept he might be too? He’d felt a flow between them. He hadn’t seen it with his eyes, but when he touched the cornerstone, something happened. Munro was so caught up in the memory that he hadn’t noticed how close Eilidh had come or how intently she stared into his eyes.

“You do not have faerie blood,” she said, but a question lurked in the back of her voice.

That made him laugh. “No,” he said. “I’m one hundred per cent human.”

Finally, she took a half-step back. “I’ve heard stories of humans who used to aid our people. Their magic was different, but it is said they could wield the Ways of Earth. Is stone your primary element then?”

She was speaking English, but none of her words made sense. He wanted to deny it, but some strange things had happened during the past few days.

When he didn’t answer, she looked around at the ground and bent to pick a stone from the path. “Does it speak to you?” She pressed it into his hand. The stone grew warm and amplified the pull he felt from her presence. When she withdrew her hand, he locked his gaze on hers. The silver swirls in her eyes danced. She must have felt it.

He closed his hand around the stone, but it had gone quiet. He rubbed it with his fingers, but it did not seem alive as the stone at St Paul’s.

“Eilidh.” He stopped and swallowed. Her name filled his head, and he had to focus to keep talking. “Tell me about the night Robert Dewer was killed.”

“The man below the church?”

Munro resisted asking her how many dead men he could possibly mean. He nodded and waited. Part of being a cop was knowing when to shut up and let people talk.

“Do you know, then, who killed him?” she asked.

Something in her tone set off alarms in his head. “Are you saying you do?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Munro licked his lips. He’d figured she’d seen
something
but hadn’t really expected her to know the killer’s name. He held perfectly still, not wanting to do anything to distract or discourage her, but inside his mind raced. He couldn’t keep her name out of things if she’d seen the crime or knew the killer. He’d have to tell Hallward. He had no clue how he’d manage that, but first things first.

Eilidh sat for a long time without speaking.

Munro waited. Finally, he said, “Eilidh?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Her expression had grown distant, and she stared vaguely into the trees. “You must leave this to me, Munro. You cannot stop one who casts blood shadows.”

“Eilidh,” he said, more sternly this time.

She looked up. “I do not think even I can stop him. He must be an outcast like me, but I do not know his name or what kingdom exiled him. He is not of my own people, I believe.” Then she went on, as though speaking to herself. “The conclave will not help, and you humans are not equipped.” Again she looked at him, her tone sad. “This blood faerie will kill again, Munro. I must find him first.”

A faerie did this?
Munro’s heart sank. He could definitely
not
take this to Hallward. The sergeant would have him on permanent disability leave so fast Munro would never know what hit him. It was all a bit much to take in, but Munro couldn’t let her slip away. He didn’t want her story to be the truth, but he believed her. He didn’t know what kingdom or conclave she was talking about, but he could tell the news was bad. “I’ll help you, Eilidh. We humans might surprise you.”

He thought she might laugh, but instead she just gave a sharp nod. “You have surprised me very much, Munro. That is true.”

Munro glanced down at his hands. He continued worrying the small stone in his fingers while they talked. The plain grey stone had been shaped into a smooth, arched teardrop with a curling claw at the top. He hadn’t even felt himself doing it. The shape was simple, yet an elegant curve. Without knowing why, he put the stone into Eilidh’s hand.

She looked intently into his eyes. “You surprise me very much indeed, Munro.”

“Quinton,” he said.

Confusion clouded her face. “I do not know that word.”

He grinned, even though he felt the weight of the world. “It’s my first name. Munro is my family name. You can call me Quinton.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. It wasn’t exactly professional. He was a cop and she was a witness. A psycho faerie was killing humans. Yet here he stood, chatting her up in the park.

“Quinton,” she repeated. It sounded rich, as her strange accent pulled a harmony of sounds from the word. “It is a name we will share between us then.”

Munro didn’t know what that meant, but Eilidh seemed more relaxed than she had since she arrived. Whatever bond of friendship they were forming, he had to get back to the important matter at hand. “Tell me about the murderer, Eilidh. I know you want to stop him. I do too. I can help.” If he’d said those words a week ago, it would have sounded patronizing. After all, he was the cop. She was just a witness. But seeing what he’d seen in the past few days, well, maybe she knew more about this than he did. At the very least, he needed her. Without her, they’d probably never find the guy—until he killed again. Munro didn’t want that to happen. He’d seen Robert Dewer’s face and the gaping bloody hole in his chest, and he never wanted to see anything like it again.

Eilidh hesitated. He sensed her discomfort. Was it because of him specifically or simply because of his race? He waited patiently. It didn’t seem like she was about to bolt, so the least he could do was give her a minute. Despite the sense of urgency, he found the silence between them comfortable.

Finally, she said, “I have decided to tell you of this blood faerie, Quinton. If I am going to be Watcher for this city, I will need help. It is not easy, you understand, to ask for the help of a human, but you are something more.” She paused. “And I like you. You know how to be silent.”

Munro started to smile, but his smile faded as Eilidh told him what she knew of the murder.

Cridhe sat in the darkness of the craggy cave, staring at the twin hearts in the recess above. They beat in the slow time that human hearts did, and their matched pace made his faerie blood calm to meet their rhythm.

Robert Dewer’s heart had veins of icy blue, indicating his impressive talents in winter magic. Cridhe had kept the small, wooden whistle Robert used to call the wind. He had not been close to Robert. But now, seeing Robert’s heart as it beat on the cold stone shelf, Cridhe said a prayer to the Father of the Azure to honour the sacrifice. Cridhe did not usually care for such things, but Dudlach would have insisted on the show of respect.

The other heart, Jon Anderson’s, had the golden glow of rare fire magic coursing through it, pulsing in each chamber, imprisoned in the fleshy organ. Cridhe had kept nothing of Jon’s, but he hadn’t been the one to harvest Jon’s heart.

Dudlach said they needed one of each of the four elements of earth to feed the source stone and finish the ritual. It had to be Jon first then. Among their faithful were already plenty of air and water druids. But another fire? No, unlikely. And best to do it before it became too
difficult
, Dudlach said with that knowing look.

Cridhe knew the real reason was that Dudlach hadn’t liked Cridhe and Jon becoming…friends. Jon had understood Cridhe’s needs at all levels. But Cridhe hadn’t been able to refuse Dudlach’s demand. To confess an attachment demonstrated weakness.

So Jon had to die. Cridhe stared at the heart, disturbed that he couldn’t feel Jon’s presence. He’d hoped that in preserving Jon’s magic, he would preserve some of his soul. It hadn’t worked, but still Cridhe sat and watched the beating heart. It dismayed him that Dudlach, the one whose voice he least wanted to hear, was the ghost who’d attached itself to him.

Cridhe told the humans, the other faithful, that Jon betrayed them. He’d shown them his still beating heart and secured their loyalty. If Cridhe could kill him, the obvious favourite among the group, they all had reason to fear. Cridhe hated the lie, but he could not deny it had done wonders. They had seen the faerie’s magic, but this was so much more. Some were sickened and afraid, but two had shown a promising ruthless hunger when they’d seen Jon’s sacrifice. It was those two Cridhe went to speak with now.

Cridhe had warded the cave so humans would have an aversion to entering it or even wanting to think too much about it, so he made his way to a nearby clearing where Aaron and Jay waited. They stood and bowed their heads when he approached. They were flawlessly subservient, and Cridhe enjoyed it. Not in the same way Jon had been, but he doubted he would again find someone so perfectly suited to him. Jon’s fire magic had flowed so effortlessly with Cridhe’s blood shadows. It created something—

“Master?” Jay said, keeping his eyes lowered.

Cridhe scowled at the interruption to his reverie. Stupid humans were always in such a hurry. He raised a haughty eyebrow.

“You seem angry. Have we done something wrong?”

Cridhe waved his hand, dismissing the thought. “Today you will find Craig Laughlin. Make sure he drinks no spirits and eats no meat.”

Jay and Aaron exchanged a glance. “But—” Aaron began.