“Maybe the killer is a man,” Father says. He waits for an affirmation I cannot offer, sighs heavily, and admits, “We both know this is one ofthem.”
“I believe so. The lack of faery blood confirms the fight was elsewhere, perhaps.”
“Or there was no fight, no injury to the beast that did this.”
Seeing fear in his eyes does not inspire much hope in me. If a seasoned Hunter is afraid, I am useless.Father will find it. He will hunt and kill it. He is the Hunter.I hate myself a little for fearing that I’m wrong.
“I will do everything I can to help,” I promise.
He grunts again. I think it’s a sound of assent, but his assent sounds a lot like his doubt.
He holds out the salt bag again, and I straighten. He pours the crystals over my hands and then his own.
Then he turns and stomps off. “Come.”
I do as I’m bidden, but I have to pause when we reach the horses. He’s standing still and staring at me. “Father?”
“I must tell His Grace in case there are more bodies found. This is not like most deaths. That bodes ill.”
The thought of going there, to Maudite Castle, sends a shiver of a different sort over me. I simply don’t go there, not for almost a decade. “Safe ride, Hunter,” I say as mildly as I can manage. “I will take these samples to Fleuriste Manor and see if the microscopy reveals anything. I’ll meet you at home and—”
“No.” Father’s voice holds a finality that makes his horse freeze and glance at him, awaiting commands from his master.
Father meets my gaze and bluntly says, “I am not certain to be in this world many more years. It is time Maudite and Her Majesty both are more accustomed to dealing with you, and if this murder is as dreadful as I fear, I will need you more than usual.”
“My lord, you’re still young enough and—”
“You will accompany me to Maudite Castle, and in the future, you will go in my stead to this or to the palace.” He tromps through the woods like some elegant beast; I know not how he moves so stealthily. For all my training, I am never silent or graceful. Not like him.
I am not ready to be Hunter. My prey will hear me and flee.
“I would rather not see her,” I whisper.
When he says nothing for almost a full minute, I think I spoke too softly. I repeat, “I would rather—”
“That wretched woman lives in Regina Centrum now, and you need to behave like someone of your standing, rather than cower in front of that reprobate. You’re going to patrol to kill beasts, but you cannot face a trollop in trousers? Hmph.” The sound of disapproval is more akin to a growl than a word, and I flinch away from the harshness of his continued judgment.
“I don’t cower before Isabeau, and she’s not areprobate.” I feel my face burn with embarrassment, but I can’t stop my words. “She’s the nextduke.”
“Hmph. Duke or not, she beds every widow and maiden who—”
“That is irrelevant,” I say too loudly. Tales of Isabeau’s exploits have never been gossip I want to hear, but my heart assures me that it is anything but irrelevant. Father has no patience for my tender feelings, though, so I concentrate on the other part. “You would not let me hit her when we were children, Father. That is notcowering.”
“Hmph. Certainly didn’t look like you were consideringhittingher when I last saw the two of you together.” He has no mercy in him. He never has.
My cheeks burn as hot as Hunter’s Fire—not at the memory but at the sudden rush of longing that rises like a living thing inside me.Despite her abandonment, my heart and body still feel like they belong to Isabeau in some unfathomable way. If I saw her name etched on the bones of my body, I would be unsurprised.
“There was nothing wrong with her kissing me. Ichosethat. I chose to let her seduce—”
“And I chose to stop it.” Father stares ahead as he speaks. “Something in that one is dark and dangerous. She’s not worthy of a Hunter.”
The conversation dies at that. In my father’s way, he sounds almost as if he cares. He does, of course, but about the mission, not the daughter who will fulfill it. What else is there to say about her? I loved Isabeau, and I thought she loved me, and no one in society has failed to notice that I now avoid seeing Isabeau at all costs. The gossip stings, but not as much as knowing that every word the debauched future duke said to me was apparently a lie. I wonder, not rarely, if she says those same words to all the other women in her bed since me.
“Does she know?” I ask after the silence extends too long. “That you are the Hunter?”
He scoffs.
“No. Not her. Not the duchess. Not the queen’s son or consort. Being a Hunter means safeguarding the secret of your duty,” Father finally says, pulling my mind away from mistakes and back to murder. “His Grace only knows what I am—what you will be—because his estate is near the faery’s veil. The queen thought telling her half brother would be wise.”
