I will be the one who stands between the people and the monsters.That alone is beautiful. I will shield them.
Finally, I roll the table to the firebox and shove the body into the fire now roaring in the metal belly. I seal the steel firebox. Then I carry the small steel box with the dead man’s ring and watch to a lead-and-salt-lined safe and lock them inside.
Tomorrow, I will study the samples, but tonight, I strip off the apron, gloves, and boots.
Rather than open the door that leads into the research area, I need to feel the clean air of morning. I carry the lantern outside as dawn spills over the sky, lighting the world. I exhale at the comfort of knowing that the monsters are hidden away for the next hours. I always sleep better when the sun is high in the sky.
Once I rest, I will start examining the samples. An exhausted mind misses details.
“I will find an answer to stop this beast,” I tell both myself and the silent morning.
Chapter 7
“Whenthe fairies steal away a beautiful mortal child they leave an ugly, wizened little creature in its place. And these fairy changelings grow up malicious and wicked.”
—Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Irelandby Lady Francesca Speranza Wilde [1887]
Although the second victim was brought to our own step, all we can glean in the next two weeks is that the victims were all but beheaded and that both were travelers. The lack of footprints, claw marks, or hoofprints around Hugh could be attributed to the rain, but that is less the case with the body at the manor. The lack of sufficient blood at the scene was the most unusual trait—other than the severity of the blow to the necks. I look at what samples I have, but microscopy shows little of note. Without a pattern, we are left making guesses still.
The only conclusive answer is that the assailant is a faery, and that the two dead men seem to be victims of the same creature. I still know nothing about why my samples were taken, or whether the assailant in the woods that knocked me to the ground is that creature. Presuming all are connected is yet another way to make mistakes, but presuming otherwise is equally problematic.
Father believes they are the same, but we knownothingfor certain. Without useful evidence, we are left with mere speculation. He ispatrolling again, and he insists that I stay with Mother and Rylan for their safety.
Gossip wends its way to the village, and three matters are on everyone’s lips. The first, of course, is that there are murders in Brimmond Wood. The second is that Isabeau’s father has died, and she has become the rarest of nobility—a lady duke. Most surprisingly, perhaps, the third matter is that the new duke is cursed.
Curses are rarely heard of during our lifetimes. Thetypesof faeries that can lay a curse are strictly banned from our side of the veil. I wonder idly if Isabeau is not cursed butcontaminated. Did she encounter whatever toxin was on my person when aiding me? Or escorting me to the fireplace at Maudite Castle?
Despite the pressing matter of a murdering beast in the forest, Queen Morag II still insists on holding her vow ceremony.Only two dead? That is not yet a crisis,she replied in her letter.Vows are essential. Come to the palace.
I am eager to attend. I must inquire after Isabeau. As a child, the duchess made her drink foul health tonics, claiming the future duke was spindly and weak. Did the duchess know something then? Or was this not a curse at all? Was she exposed to some faery toxin?
Because he has the immunity afforded to the Hunter, Father refuses to come to the city at all, but the rest of the family has no such luxury. He hunts, and I am tasked with protecting my sister and mother in the city. I would much rather leave them safely at home while I seek out the queen and the new duke. However, as with every other aspect of my life, I do not have a choice in the matter.
We relocate the household—sans Hunter—to the city.
This morning, as the sun starts to crawl across the sky, I weigh the thoughts of beasts, possible curses, probable contamination, and obligations as I make my way along the block around the Fleuriste townhome here in Regina Centrum. I am clutching a long, thin sliver of steel held hidden in the folds of my walking dress and patrolling.
The morning sun is barely brightening, and the path is mostly walked by young couples starting the day quite early. No city or national offices were built in this area, so the only people who have reason to be here are those living in the houses. Yet in front of me is what initially seems to be a man in a tall hat and puce-colored waistcoat. He has a squirming bag over his shoulder. I glance at his clothing, only silver or gold fasteners or decorations. Yet I don’t know him, and I know every resident of the quarter.
“Sir? Wait, please.”
As I reach his side, I brush the sliver of steel over his knuckles, hoping I’m wrong. He growls as the skin there sizzles. Faeries. It’s always faeries, even here, where we are to be less plagued by them.
No words are spoken. Hecan’tbecause he isn’t a real person, and creatures can’t speak. They can mimic humanity, but that’s only in shape, not word.
Smoke rises from the quickly flaking skin; bits of it drop to the sidewalk and turn back to leaf or branch when they touch ground.
Now we both know you aren’t human.
The man-shaped creature stares at me, smiling in a way that’s more fang than anything remotely mortal, and starts loping away. If he makes it to the park around the corner, I’ll need to have a public reckoning with the beast.
So I hasten my pace and pull a fistful of salt and seeds from my skirt pocket.
“I think you dropped something!” I lift my fisted hand as if to extend a fallen coin, hoping the beast isn’t bright enough to realize who I am. Some of the faeries are not yet aware that there is a Hunter-in-Training.
Instead of pausing, the beast picks up speed, running on all fours. Bottom high and legs scrabbling, he skitters along the sidewalk with a clacking noise that has no logical source.
The bag lets out a wail that sounds human.
