“No, Hunter.” His voice is low and rough. “No motion.”
The other soldiers one by one echo, “Same.”
In the next moments, the soldiers reorganize themselves, and Isabeau walks toward me, hand outstretched with a vial. In her other hand is a steel box. “Your sister says that you need these to collect samples?”
I pause to notice that the steel does not hurt her. That ought to be a good sign, but I am sure of nothing today.
My heart insists,She cannot be a faery.
My logic points out that she vanished, and a man is dead.
“Ocular fluid. Wound blood. Skin samples. Any hair or plant matter.” I squat in the ferns, reciting my list.
As the soldiers stare outward, I know my mother undoubtedly watches me. I begin gathering each sample, sealing the vials and dropping them into the box. I do not think about the fact that the only man I have ever taken to bed is now a brutalized corpse. I do not ponder the last words I said to him. Angry words. I do not think about the fact that once, before lovers, we were friends.
I cannot be Gabrielle Fleuriste, woman, just now. I am the Hunter. I can be nothing else right now.
“Would you like soldiers to go to the village to have his remains taken to—”
“Victims of faeries do not have burials, Maudite.” I meet the duke’s eyes and wonder if I am staring at Girard’s killer. I cannot fathom how that could be true, but the seed of doubt lingers. “I need you to take the sample box to my sister.”
Isabeau holds out a hand as if to help me to my feet.
“You cannot touch me. I am possibly contaminated.”
“Salt,” Isabeau mutters. “The soldiers must have—”
“No need. Fire cleanses, too.” I motion for her to step backward.
Once she does, I grab a fallen branch and carve a fire break around the body. It’s hasty and not as deep as I’d like, but the morning is still new enough that dew drops cling like diamonds across leaf and blossom. The moss underfoot is spongy from either recent rain or morning dew. In truth, there’s little chance of the fire spreading, and I am confident that I could smother it if the flames tried. Hunter’s magic is strange that way.
Trying not to meet Isabeau’s eyes, I hastily search Girard’s pockets for any clue I might find useful still. His pockets are empty. No jewelry marks his wrist, hand, or throat. Satisfied that I have missed nothing, I put the stick on him crossways like a sword.
“I wish you peace in the next world, my friend,” I whisper. Then I spread my fingers, palm down, and speak the word for fire so quietly that only the mist can hear me. It is enough. Flames burn like a small rosebud in my hand, spreading outward, searing hotter than any fire I’ve ever made through human means.
As I wait for him to burn, I bring my other hand forward and lock my thumbs together. The flames spread from one palm to the other, and the searing fire crawls over Girard’s body like a living thing.
No one speaks as I reduce a man to ashes.
When I stand, I walk to the carriage, where my sister pours salt water over my hands and offers me a rag. Our eyes meet, and every word that I need to hear is somehow there. I cannot break, not here, not now. The Beast of Brimmond has killed my father and my ex-lover, but I cannot weep.
I am the Hunter.
I turn and go to collect my horse. I refuse to look at Isabeau, certain I’ll find revulsion in her expression, and worried that she’ll see accusation in mine.
Did she kill him?I have no answer, and if my trust in her is responsible for his death, I think something inside me will be forever broken.
But when I turn, Isabeau pulls me into a fierce embrace, holding me tightly as if I have just fought a monster. “What do you need?”
“What?”
“How may I help you?” she asks.
“You held the sample box and—”
“Not with Hunter things. Your heart? What does it need?” Isabeau kisses my temple. “Your mind? What can I do to ease your sorrow?”
I pull back and stare up at her. “I just burned a man to ash.”
