Blood Faerie

To my snark sisters

There is one person that without his help, this book truly would not have happened: Inspector Dorian Marshall of the Tayside Police. I always wanted to create a main character who was a police officer, but feared that by error or omission I would insult every cop in Scotland by getting it wrong. Inspector Marshall kept that from happening. His patient and thorough advice made this book stronger. Any errors in fact or procedure are completely my own, although I did my best to do him proud.

In addition, I’m certain there’s a special place in heaven for my family, friends, and beta readers, who give me the support and confidence to keep writing one story after another.

Fae Name Pronunciation Guide

In order of appearance:

Eilidh:
AY-lee

Cridhe:
CREED

Imire:
em-IRE

Saor:
SAY-or

Dudlach:
DOOD-lawk

Krostach:
CROST-ack

Beniss:
BEN-iss

Oron:
oh-RON

Galen:
GAY-len

Genoa:
GEN-oh-uh

Eilidh detected the greasy scent of evil moments before she heard the scream below. She perched in St Paul’s steeple, watching Perth’s late night pub-crawlers through rotting slats. The scurrying footfalls of humans did not hold her interest, nor did the seeping ruby blood that spread quickly over the flat, grey paving stones. Instead, her eyes turned north along Methven Street, seeking the source of that familiar smell.

Evil smelled like nothing else, worse than a rotting corpse, worse than sewage and disease, more vile than the fumes that billowed from modern machinery, more cloying than the shame of drunken whores. This particular evil was fresh, but not quite pure. It mixed with rage but was contained, refined, as though gestated in the belly of ancient hatred. This evil held promise, and for the first time in decades, Eilidh hesitated, slightly afraid.

The familiar magic that nestled in the subtle overtones of this particular wrong propelled her into action. She pulled back the shutter and leapt down to the roof below. Her feet made scarcely a sound as she landed on the mossy stone. She ensured that the black sweatshirt hood covered her short white hair and the other tell-tale signs of her race. Moving faster than any human could, she skipped down the side of the building, lightly touching window frames and door tops until she landed on the hidden south side of the dilapidated octagonal church.

The corpse at her feet stared at the full moon, glassy-eyed and empty. She crouched beside it and sniffed the air. The hole hacked in his chest left bone and organ exposed. Blood poured from it. He’d passed by the church only moments before. Eilidh had seen him with a human female who leaned against him, taking drunken steps, screeching too loudly, laughing at nothing. Eilidh had paid neither of them any attention. They were like scores of others who staggered down her street most nights.

Her senses caught the earliest whiff of decay. It began immediately upon death, as soon as the heart no longer thrust blood through mortal veins. Eilidh had to move before it masked the trace she hunted. She sprang forward and her feet carried her north just as someone behind her shouted, “Oi! You!”

The scent was not difficult to track. She darted past the small groupings of oblivious people, mostly gathering in the doorways of pubs, smoke wafting from their mouths. Various human smells: sweat, smoke, cars, and food all mingled together, but none could distract Eilidh from her quarry. She knew this smell because it was old and magical, and, like her, it was fae.

She followed the trace past the main thoroughfare, taking only minimal care not to attract attention. Habit made her duck and dodge away from people. Although she was faster, better trained, and had keener senses, human technology could render those advantages moot.

Her handmade leather shoes made no sound as she pursued the unknown faerie down dark, cobbled side streets. Once, she’d stolen human shoes, but the same day she left them near the entrance of a homeless shelter. She could not bear the feel of the strange rubber. It squeaked and smelled of oil. So she’d made shoes in the style of her own people, using the hide of a lamb she’d killed near Kinnoull Hill, a woodland area she rarely dared visit. Its cliff summit overlooked the city, but the proximity to the fae kingdom made it dangerous. The shoes, moulded over time by her weak earth magic, would be thought quaint or foreign. They were the only item she wore that was not distinctly human, but they never slipped on tile rooftops, so she took the risk of them being noticed.

Eilidh could not help but wonder about the faerie she chased. Did he too try to blend into human society? Was he exiled as she was, or born of an outcast? Had she known him in her other life? Before she was cursed to live where the ground was hard with pavement and the air polluted with fumes, the scent of foul human food, and the sound of endless, meaningless chatter?

She crossed a street, easily dodging cars that roared past. Then Eilidh stepped into the shadows, her back hugging a tall tree on the North Inch, a square mile of manicured green on the edge of the city, now cast in complete darkness. Her heart beat rapidly within her chest.

Tugging back her hood, she listened hard. A dog barked. A distant siren howled. A human ran along the circular track around the park. The water of the River Tay lapped gently against its banks. Cars crossed the Old Bridge.

Eilidh whispered to the night.
A’shalei tedrecht.
Nothing. It was risky, casting with another of her race nearby, perhaps even watching, and her ability was weak. But the scent had dissipated. It had led her this way and then disappeared. She doubted the traffic alone could have so completely obscured the scent.

Walking across the green to the water’s edge, Eilidh could not resist the pull that drew her eyes to the hills. Beyond them lay the kingdom that had cast her out. The order had been “kill on sight.” It would never be lifted. The fae did not forgive or forget. Her crime was in her blood, and there could be no restitution.

She pulled the hood to cover the long, twisted points of her ears and headed back to St Paul’s. The crumbling church had been her home for nearly a quarter of a century. Townspeople wanted it torn down. Developers wanted it turned into a wine bar or an art museum. Eilidh wanted a place where she could watch. She would have her way, and the humans would never understand why all their plans fell through. She might feel sorry for them if she cared, but she did not.

Blue lights flashed into her sensitive silver-green eyes. She cut through Mill Wynd, slithering along two-hundred-year-old stone walls to watch the commotion below. Men in bright yellow jackets stood in groups of two and three, behind a cordon they’d placed around the body. Eilidh listened to their chatter with curiosity. She caught words like “butcher”, which confused her. No meat-seller had done this. Could they not recognise evil when they saw it so plainly manifested?

She was dismayed that they could not smell what she had tracked, but at the same time, relief filled her. Whatever had done this was not of their world, and they would not have the means to deal with it. For them to try to hunt this thing would only mean many human deaths. In theory, Eilidh did not mind human deaths any more than she regretted the death of the lamb whose skin she wore on her feet, but she did not like the idea of a predator in her city, feeding on innocence, killing to nourish darkness.

It had been twenty-five years since Eilidh had borne the weight of any responsibility except to feed herself. She was no longer a Watcher. She could ignore it. Easily. The evil might move on. The dark faerie might not return. But even as the thought formed, she knew it was not true. Some twisted creature of her own kind had come into the city to hunt or to steal. The humans could not stop it. Only she could.

She cast her eyes to the north, to the half-mile back where she’d lost the scent. When her gaze returned to the human police, she saw one looking directly at her. She swore.
Faith.
Slamming her back into the stone, she felt him approach, heard the thunk of his rubber-soled shoes against the concrete as he inched closer. He was wary; she could smell sweat and uncertainty. From the darkness, she turned to face him and raised her chin enough to peer out from under the black hood. A flash of something passed over his face. Something in his expression paralysed her for an instant. Instead of being repelled by her magic, he seemed drawn to it. Worse yet, he saw her eyes.

He hesitated only a moment before he said, “Don’t be afraid, son. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

Because she was taller than the average human female and slight of frame, city people often mistook her for a teenaged boy. That she wore a hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans helped the illusion. She slipped away, skirting around the building to a small car park behind her. Rolling to the ground, she darted underneath a squat red vehicle. She hated the stench of machinery. Even after so long in the city, she couldn’t accept the smells that invaded her keen nose on a daily basis. She breathed the word,
deny
.

His shoes passed quickly, but he paused as though sensing her. Was that possible? She had been a Watcher, and she knew how to track and go unseen. No human could detect her magic, and yet, this one hesitated. His worn black shoes stopped directly in front of her. If she’d wanted to, she could have reached out and traced a finger along his laces, or lashed out and broken his ankles, depending on her mood.

She had no desire to hurt the human and knew if she did, it would only bring more police. She dismissed the idea that he might capture her. Humans were bigger, yes, and stronger, of course, but Eilidh was not defenceless. She hid only to protect her secrets.

Most fae could pass for human on cursory inspection, and depending on their colouring, some even at close range. But no human could stare deep into her eyes and not sense the Otherworld. The locals had an expression, “a fey look.” It wasn’t too far off the mark. Her white hair could be a wig or dye. But her eyes had flecks of silver that swam with the magic of her people. Her blood was pure and her lineage ancient.

The police officer’s feet turned after a few long moments. He walked up and down the car park, nearly all the way to the old mill. Eilidh didn’t move. She knew how to be patient. She’d stalked both deer and men for hours. Eventually he gave up and returned to St Paul’s Square. When he did, she followed in the shadows.

***

Cridhe trembled, his eyes fixed to the south, his blood coursing with power. The tension in his limbs relaxed as he released the darkness that hid him. When that beautiful warrior had spoken her enchantment, she’d teased the edges of his power. It had aroused him even further. Considering that his skin already tingled and every sense, both physical and magical, was heightened from the kill, it shocked him that any sight could distract him. He anticipated the delights to come later that night and recalled the unbearable pleasure of every past sacrifice. Still her memory tugged his attention.
But why?
He’d heard of the outcast, naturally. He had not expected to encounter her or to be both pursued by and drawn to her.

A siren started some miles in the distance and drew closer.
How could she stand living among them?
Under the best of circumstances, he loathed the noises humans made with their cars and trains, but tonight the wail screamed in his thrumming ears. He had to get away from the city to finish what he’d started. Cridhe had little difficulty evading the kingdom Watchers. His blood magic closed their ears and eyes to his presence.

He inhaled deeply and let the scent of fresh blood fill his nose. His fingers went to the pouch that hung across his body, and caressed the human heart that still beat through the power of his blood magic. His essence throbbed with vitality so fierce he caught his breath. Suddenly consumed with hunger, Cridhe turned and left the city behind.

Police Constable Quinton Munro stopped dead in his tracks. He could have sworn he heard tapping behind him, but when he turned, he saw no one.

“Spooked, eh?”

Munro sought out the speaker, expecting a ribbing from his partner, but even though Getty’s voice was full of bravado, his face was pale and shaken. They’d been first on the scene. “It’s a dead vicious one, that,” Munro said.