Read The Falconer (Elizabeth May) for Free Online Page B

fire.
    Derrick flies to perch on the back of the pink muckle chair near the settee. ‘But they’re just sitting there, all shiny and unused.’
    ‘How about another project to keep your fingers busy?’ I hold up my ravaged ball gown. ‘See? It’s completely destroyed, just the way you like.’
    Light explodes around him. ‘What the hell happened?’ Derrick bursts out.
    ‘Revenant,’ I say. I toss him the dress and Derrick catches it easily by the sleeve. I know pixies are stronger than they look, but his effortless strength still surprises me. ‘You’re welcome to work on it.’
    I’ve finally learned never to say thank you when he mends my dresses. Faeries take heavy offence to gratitude.
    Derrick drops the dress onto the settee and inspects the damage. ‘Almost had you, didn’t he?’ he murmurs.
    ‘Almost.’
    I press my fingers against my new badges. They all tell stories, each distinct and significant. One of them – the longest scar, the one that spans the length of my spine – is the first I ever earned. It tells the tale of a girl who had just lost her mother and nearly died when she went out into the world armed with iron. The girl who was later remade into a killer.
    I sit in my work chair and pick up an old watch fob lying amongst the metal scraps. ‘I shot it, of course,’ I murmur.
    ‘Well done,’ Derrick says. He holds up my dress to inspect it and his wings flutter once. ‘Did you take its head?’
    He sounds hopeful. Small faeries truly loathe the larger fae for being so pathetic as to live off the energy of less powerful creatures. They consider it a weakness.
    ‘Of course not. What on earth am I going to do with a revenant’s head?’
    He brightens more, skin glowing golden. ‘Take it as a trophy, put it on a stake and display it in the back garden where everyone can appreciate it.’
    ‘Derrick, that’s disgusting.’ I’m amused despite myself.
    ‘Do you think so?’ He removes a needle and thread from his bag. ‘When I was young we showed off our trophies, danced around them and gorged ourselves on fruits.’
    ‘I don’t know how to respond to that.’
    Derrick merely grins and begins to sew my dress. ‘Ah, happy memories.’ I shake my head, and as I lean to pluck the turnscrew off the table, he adds, ‘I have news.’
    I go still, my breath catching in my throat. News . When Derrick has something to share, it’s always to do with the faery who killed my mother, her latest murders. He has a network of tiny faeries – brownies and will-o’-the-wisps and buachailleen , to name a few – who chatter, always willing to share information in exchange for honey. Lately, her kills have become more frequent, once every few days.
    ‘Aye?’ I try to sound calm, try to keep the ache of vengeance from rising. Every night, I hunt in the hope that the next faery I find will be her. It never is. The fae I kill are merely substitutes for the one I want most.
    ‘Stirling, this time.’
    ‘How many?’ My voice shakes.
    ‘One.’
    I rise from the chair so hastily that it wobbles and nearly falls. I stride to the back of the room and stand in front of the mounted schooner helm. Embedded in the wood is a small, barely noticeable button which I press gently, fingers shaking. A portion of the wall presses outwards and twists to show a hidden map of Scotland on the reverse side.
    Aberdeen. Oban. Lamlash. Tobermory. Dundee. Inverness. Portree. Dozens of places around the country, into the islands and the Outer Hebrides. I’ve marked each of them with a pin and tied crimson ribbons around them to count the kills at each location.
    As far as I know, she is the last baobhan sìth in existence. The murder pattern is always the same for her – no more than three victims in the same place. She never stays anywhere for too long. She finds her prey on a road at night – lured there either by her strong mental influence or her unearthly beauty. Once there, she tears open their throats and