“Except Isabeau is not the Hunter,” I say softly, although I have more questions about the curse than I want to admit. Isabeau’s curse raises a lot of questions for me, but I know that she’s not the Hunter. I am. So what’s the real explanation for her curse? Is it even an actual curse? The stray thought crosses my mind that the dowager duchess is drugging Isabeau to keep her from carousing or otherwise behaving in ways that upset the older woman. That’s not a discussion to have with Emma. “Maudite is not the Hunter. I am.”
“But ...” Emma’s lovely face crinkles into a frown. “I had planned to be a duchess, but I guess I could be a countess.” Her gaze turns assessing, sweeping over me like she’s trying to guess the depth of my coffers. “You are the earl now, I presume?”
“I am, but—”
“You’re pretty enough with some guidance.” Emma nods. “You may court me.”
This time, I’m the one who’s speechless. I manage to say, “Anders? Lowell? Lady Iversson is ready to ... She needs an escort to the physician.”
Then I turn and all but flee. As I march off, I shove away Emma’s absurd remarks on courting and focus on what this attack means for the monster I hunt. If she was actually attacked, when the Beast of Brimmond attacks women, it does notkillthem; however, it brutally attacks and drains men. Why?
Or this is something else?logic asks.
Or she lies,my doubts whisper.
I need to find the Beast of Brimmond and stop it, and possibly a second monster here in the park. I need more information on Isabeau’s curse. I see no way that she could’ve been cursed by the beast, but perhaps there are things I do not yet know. The pieces are adding up to a less clear image the more I gather. I need clarity, and this latest event is the opposite.
Chapter 17
“Among those forest-beings of whom legend speaks such malice none is more relentless than the Korrigan, who has power to enmesh the heart of the most constant swain and doom him to perish miserably for love of her.”
—Legends and Romances of Brittanyby Lewis Spence [1917]
Once the twoWächtersoldiers are on their way out of the park with Emma—who pauses to wave at me flirtatiously—I make my way to the palace. Although I have a small laboratory at the town house in the city, I need to access the archive.
I approach the gates of the palace, identify myself, and carry on. No words beyond basic exchanges pass between the palace guards and me. I welcome the silence as I make my way into the labyrinthine hallways of the palace. I need answers, and I am feeling increasingly alarmed by my inability to find any facsimile of them.
“Her Majesty is in with advisers,” an attendant in the queen’s livery says, catching up to me as I stalk toward the small door beside the main library door. Unlike the carved, elegant library doors, this entrance looks like nothing more than a panel in the wall. Now that I am the Hunter, I have the magic to press my hand there and whisper a word to make it open. In the past, I could only access the room with Father’s accompaniment or the application of an old-fashioned key that thequeen herself carries. It feels wrong to be able to open the door on my own, wrong for Father to be dead, wrong to be the person carrying the burden of this mystery—and yet it is the destiny I’ve expected my whole life.
I splay my fingers over the silken panel sewn onto the wall and mouth the word so quietly I’m unsure if there is actual sound escaping my lips. The word itself is a strange sibilant sound that, like many of the Hunter’s words, is not in the language spoken by anyone else in Alveus. Or on the continent.
The attendant steps back as the door lets out a click when the locking mechanism turns. He stares at me as if surprised that it opened for me.
“The Hunter is dead?” he asks.
Though word was passed to the nobility, I realize that news of the Earl of Fleuriste’s passing has not been sent officially to the soldiers or palace guards. Was that something I was to do? Was there an official presentation of the Hunter I failed to complete? My attention has been on the monster and my father’s death, not on formalities.
“My father has passed. I am the Hunter.” I clear my suddenly dry throat before adding, “I have matters to investigate, but I will see Her Majesty before I leave the palace.”
Then I step inside and pull the door closed behind me, leaving the gaping man outside. I am the Earl of Fleuriste now, but the title means less to me than the other weightier one I must carry.
I am the Hunter.
That title is the one that defines me, shapes my days and my future. Being the earl is a small measure, a minor thing. Being head of my family means adding to the weights I already carry, and idly I think it would be good to have a wife to share that responsibility.
How do I watch over Mother? Over Rylan?
How do I manage the family’s holdings?
Adjudicate disputes in the village?
All the tasks that were Father’s—as well as hunting—will fall to me.
I again shove my fears and thoughts aside to focus on research. My microscopy so far has revealed little, so it is past the time to consider comparisons within the archive. Failing that, I will need to ask the queen to summon a court liaison to the gate to discuss what faeries have left their land and come here to Alveus. One way or another, I’ll find the killer, and after that, I can focus on my duties as Earl of Fleuriste.
I pull out the fabric from Emma’s dress and my notes, and I start to look at the items available here for comparison. The dilemma is that I don’t think that a monster attacked Emma. Faeries don’t hunt in full daylight. If she’s lying, it misleads me. If she’s honest, there are other issues.
On the back wall are a series of weapons forged in Faerie. A bronze rapier, a silver-coated, two-handed sword, several daggers of some metal not seen in Alveus or—to the best of my knowledge—anywhere in the known world. Armor, both chest plates and pieces for arms and legs, rests on hooks. All of that is interesting, but the items I need are the casts of wounds.
