Blood Faerie - Contemporary Urban Fantasy (Caledonia Fae, Book 1) Read online

  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 décor 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 cornersto
ne. 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.”

  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 c
urling 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.