Faery Realms: Ten Magical Titles: Multi-Author Bundle of Novels & Novellas

by Rachel Morgan

  She was speaking English, but none of her words made sense. He wanted to deny it, but some strange things had happened during the past few days.

  When he didn’t answer, she looked around at the ground and bent to pick a stone from the path. “Does it speak to you?” She pressed it into his hand. The stone grew warm and amplified the pull he felt from her presence. When she withdrew her hand, he locked his gaze on hers. The silver swirls in her eyes danced. She must have felt it.

  He closed his hand around the stone, but it had gone quiet. He rubbed it with his fingers, but it did not seem alive as the stone at St Paul’s.

  “Eilidh.” He stopped and swallowed. Her name filled his head, and he had to focus to keep talking. “Tell me about the night Robert Dewer was killed.”

  “The man below the church?”

  Munro resisted asking her how many dead men he could possibly mean. He nodded and waited. Part of being a cop was knowing when to shut up and let people talk.

  “Do you know, then, who killed him?” she asked.

  Something in her tone set off alarms in his head. “Are you saying you do?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Munro licked his lips. He’d figured she’d seen something but hadn’t really expected her to know the killer’s name. He held perfectly still, not wanting to do anything to distract or discourage her, but inside his mind raced. He couldn’t keep her name out of things if she’d seen the crime or knew the killer. He’d have to tell Hallward. He had no clue how he’d manage that, but first things first.

  Eilidh sat for a long time without speaking.

  Munro waited. Finally, he said, “Eilidh?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. Her expression had grown distant, and she stared vaguely into the trees. “You must leave this to me, Munro. You cannot stop one who casts blood shadows.”

  “Eilidh,” he said, more sternly this time.

  She looked up. “I do not think even I can stop him. He must be an outcast like me, but I do not know his name or what kingdom exiled him. He is not of my own people, I believe.” Then she went on, as though speaking to herself. “The conclave will not help, and you humans are not equipped.” Again she looked at him, her tone sad. “This blood faerie will kill again, Munro. I must find him first.”

  A faerie did this? Munro’s heart sank. He could definitely not take this to Hallward. The sergeant would have him on permanent disability leave so fast Munro would never know what hit him. It was all a bit much to take in, but Munro couldn’t let her slip away. He didn’t want her story to be the truth, but he believed her. He didn’t know what kingdom or conclave she was talking about, but he could tell the news was bad. “I’ll help you, Eilidh. We humans might surprise you.”

  He thought she might laugh, but instead she just gave a sharp nod. “You have surprised me very much, Munro. That is true.”

  Munro glanced down at his hands. He continued worrying the small stone in his fingers while they talked. The plain grey stone had been shaped into a smooth, arched teardrop with a curling claw at the top. He hadn’t even felt himself doing it. The shape was simple, yet an elegant curve. Without knowing why, he put the stone into Eilidh’s hand.

  She looked intently into his eyes. “You surprise me very much indeed, Munro.”

  “Quinton,” he said.

  Confusion clouded her face. “I do not know that word.”

  He grinned, even though he felt the weight of the world. “It’s my first name. Munro is my family name. You can call me Quinton.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. It wasn’t exactly professional. He was a cop and she was a witness. A psycho faerie was killing humans. Yet here he stood, chatting her up in the park.

  “Quinton,” she repeated. It sounded rich, as her strange accent pulled a harmony of sounds from the word. “It is a name we will share between us then.”

  Munro didn’t know what that meant, but Eilidh seemed more relaxed than she had since she arrived. Whatever bond of friendship they were forming, he had to get back to the important matter at hand. “Tell me about the murderer, Eilidh. I know you want to stop him. I do too. I can help.” If he’d said those words a week ago, it would have sounded patronizing. After all, he was the cop. She was just a witness. But seeing what he’d seen in the past few days, well, maybe she knew more about this than he did. At the very least, he needed her. Without her, they’d probably never find the guy—until he killed again. Munro didn’t want that to happen. He’d seen Robert Dewer’s face and the gaping bloody hole in his chest, and he never wanted to see anything like it again.

  Eilidh hesitated. He sensed her discomfort. Was it because of him specifically or simply because of his race? He waited patiently. It didn’t seem like she was about to bolt, so the least he could do was give her a minute. Despite the sense of urgency, he found the silence between them comfortable.

  Finally, she said, “I have decided to tell you of this blood faerie, Quinton. If I am going to be Watcher for this city, I will need help. It is not easy, you understand, to ask for the help of a human, but you are something more.” She paused. “And I like you. You know how to be silent.”

  Munro started to smile, but his smile faded as Eilidh told him what she knew of the murder.

  Chapter 8

  Cridhe sat in the darkness of the craggy cave, staring at the twin hearts in the recess above. They beat in the slow time that human hearts did, and their matched pace made his faerie blood calm to meet their rhythm.

  Robert Dewer’s heart had veins of icy blue, indicating his impressive talents in winter magic. Cridhe had kept the small, wooden whistle Robert used to call the wind. He had not been close to Robert. But now, seeing Robert’s heart as it beat on the cold stone shelf, Cridhe said a prayer to the Father of the Azure to honour the sacrifice. Cridhe did not usually care for such things, but Dudlach would have insisted on the show of respect.

  The other heart, Jon Anderson’s, had the golden glow of rare fire magic coursing through it, pulsing in each chamber, imprisoned in the fleshy organ. Cridhe had kept nothing of Jon’s, but he hadn’t been the one to harvest Jon’s heart.

  Dudlach said they needed one of each of the four elements of earth to feed the source stone and finish the ritual. It had to be Jon first then. Among their faithful were already plenty of air and water druids. But another fire? No, unlikely. And best to do it before it became too difficult, Dudlach said with that knowing look.

  Cridhe knew the real reason was that Dudlach hadn’t liked Cridhe and Jon becoming…friends. Jon had understood Cridhe’s needs at all levels. But Cridhe hadn’t been able to refuse Dudlach’s demand. To confess an attachment demonstrated weakness.

  So Jon had to die. Cridhe stared at the heart, disturbed that he couldn’t feel Jon’s presence. He’d hoped that in preserving Jon’s magic, he would preserve some of his soul. It hadn’t worked, but still Cridhe sat and watched the beating heart. It dismayed him that Dudlach, the one whose voice he least wanted to hear, was the ghost who’d attached itself to him.

  Cridhe told the humans, the other faithful, that Jon betrayed them. He’d shown them his still beating heart and secured their loyalty. If Cridhe could kill him, the obvious favourite among the group, they all had reason to fear. Cridhe hated the lie, but he could not deny it had done wonders. They had seen the faerie’s magic, but this was so much more. Some were sickened and afraid, but two had shown a promising ruthless hunger when they’d seen Jon’s sacrifice. It was those two Cridhe went to speak with now.

  Cridhe had warded the cave so humans would have an aversion to entering it or even wanting to think too much about it, so he made his way to a nearby clearing where Aaron and Jay waited. They stood and bowed their heads when he approached. They were flawlessly subservient, and Cridhe enjoyed it. Not in the same way Jon had been, but he doubted he would again find someone so perfectly suited to him. Jon’s fire magic had flowed so effortlessly with Cridhe’s blood shadows. It created something—

  “M
aster?” Jay said, keeping his eyes lowered.

  Cridhe scowled at the interruption to his reverie. Stupid humans were always in such a hurry. He raised a haughty eyebrow.

  “You seem angry. Have we done something wrong?”

  Cridhe waved his hand, dismissing the thought. “Today you will find Craig Laughlin. Make sure he drinks no spirits and eats no meat.”

  Jay and Aaron exchanged a glance. “But—” Aaron began.

  Jay cut him off, keeping his eyes on Cridhe and displaying the right amount of fear. “Yes, Master,” he said, giving Aaron a firm shake of his head. “Where should we meet you?”

  Cridhe smiled. At least one of them seemed to understand. He considered the question. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was outside the sphere of kingdom influence, so it had to be an area populated by humans. He liked the idea of going back to Perth, to lay this third sacrifice at Eilidh’s feet, so to speak. He wanted to impress her, but he couldn’t let himself get too close again. Not until he was sure she was ready for him.

  “Where do you live, Aaron?”

  “Over at Muirton,” the man said, his face plainly showing he didn’t like the direction Cridhe was taking.

  “Isn’t there a school nearby?”

  “The Grammar is just down the way. Off Gowans.”

  Cridhe nodded. “That’s the one. Bring him there. I’ll meet you two hours past dark.” He did not intend to pay any mind to human timekeeping. He would come when he was ready, and they would wait. He knew that, and so did they.

  ∞

  Breaking about the hundredth rule that day, Munro opened his front door and stood aside so Eilidh could enter. By this time, he figured he was in so deep that one more thing wasn’t going to tip the scales. When darkness started to fall in the park, he’d felt hungry, tired, and exposed. The only problem was that Eilidh had insisted they walk to his house rather than taking the bus or catching a cab. He watched her as they walked together and saw how warily she kept an eye on the cars. She seemed more concerned about them than any of the people they passed.

  He also noticed that she tended to watch and assess like a cop. She would take it all in, categorise, weigh, and filter, as though constantly calculating threats. When she told him about the murder, she’d also had to explain quite a bit about herself and her past. He knew she’d been the faerie equivalent of a cop or maybe military was closer to the mark. She called herself a Watcher, and he thought that was a pretty good description of what he did as well.

  What he didn’t understand was her exile. She glossed over it and said it didn’t concern him. Now wasn’t the time to press, but he wanted answers. He didn’t know what kind of crime a faerie could commit that would merit exile, but from the solemn frown on her face, he knew she hadn’t been caught crossing against a red light.

  He stood for a long moment, holding the front door open. Eilidh peered into the darkened entryway from the front step. She glanced up and down the street, obviously uncomfortable ever since they’d entered his neighbourhood. She didn’t seem to like the feel of the houses. Finally, she met his eyes. “You enter first, Quinton.”

  He loved the way she said his name like a secret. Slipping his keys into his pocket, he stepped inside and flicked on the lights. When she didn’t come in right away, he said, “In your own time.” He left the front door open and went to see if he had anything in the kitchen to offer a guest. He never really had company. He’d dated some in recent years, but rarely, if ever, brought anyone home.

  When he turned, Eilidh had come in, hugging her arms as though certain the place might collapse around her. Considering that he’d found her in a crumbling old church, he didn’t understand her fear. “Everything okay?” He’d never seen her so vulnerable.

  She nodded and then suddenly seemed flustered. “I have no hearth gift to offer.”

  He tilted his head and smiled at her, hoping to put her at ease. She wasn’t human. Every little comment or look gave him more evidence, and his belief became more solid, even though he didn’t know what to make of it. “A gift is not traditional for us. Would you like a drink? I have beer, orange juice, or I can put the kettle on.”

  “Put it on what?”

  Munro stifled a grin. “I mean I can make tea or coffee, if you prefer.”

  Her gaze continued to roam around his house, taking in the kitchen, with special note of the appliances. She glanced toward the living area. Her unease made him want to comfort her.

  “Would you like me to show you around first?”

  She nodded and followed him into the living room. He took her from room to room. She touched everything, noticing the thin layer of dust around the place. When they were in his exercise room, she asked him about the treadmill. “What does this machine do?”

  “You’ve really never been inside a house before?”

  Eilidh shook her head. “I’ve seen things through windows, but it is different being inside, touching it. There is much I’ve never understood and had no one to ask.”

  He nodded, wondering what it would be like to be so completely alone in the world. Gesturing to the treadmill he said, “It’s for exercise. Want to see?” Munro pushed a button on the front panel and stepped onto it, keeping it at the lowest, and therefore quietest, setting. He began to walk, holding the bars at the side.

  Eilidh grinned. “It lets you walk and go nowhere?”

  “I usually run,” he said, “But, yes.”

  She started to laugh. The sound was earthy and rich. It made him aware of how much he wanted her. The intensity of his reaction caught him by surprise.

  Munro turned off the treadmill and stepped down. Suddenly afraid of what would happen if he stood still, he continued the tour. Along the way, she investigated all the closets, asked him about the water heater and radiators, and wanted to see how to turn the lamps on and off. She remarked how many more devices people owned than they used to and how she observed the way people’s pockets buzzed and jingled and beeped constantly these days.

  When they came to his bedroom, she walked right in, not seeming to notice he hesitated at the doorway. She smiled as though she discovered something important. “You have no machines in here, Quinton.”

  He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he didn’t like to watch TV in bed, and he used the alarm on his smartphone. He hated the glow of digital alarm clocks. His bedroom, like the rest of his house, was furnished simply. He had a bed, a dresser covered in framed family pictures, a wide, comfortable chair, and a bookcase.

  Eilidh went to the bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines. “You are a scholar?”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, those are mostly fiction.” You wouldn’t think a cop would like to read about fictional detectives, but he did. Peter James, Ian Rankin, even some old Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. It did drive him a little crazy how easy they made it all seem, like the toughest of cases could be wrapped up in a few days or that the countryside was crawling with serial killers, but he found them an enjoyable read. He also liked biographies and books about history, particularly of Scotland.

  Munro found himself wondering if Eilidh could read, but he thought it would be impolite to ask. She could speak English well enough, although it was obviously not her first language. But she certainly hadn’t gone to the local high school. He had trouble imagining a forest full of faerie kids learning their ABCs. Did faeries have schools of some sort? Just when he’d decided to ask, she opened the door to the master bathroom and flicked on the light.

  “You have two other rooms like this, but smaller.”

  “Yeah, this place has three loos, although the first one is just a toilet and sink. We call the smallest one a cloakroom.”

  Eilidh looked him up and down as though noting his lack of a cloak, but she made no comment. Instead, she stepped forward and peered into the toilet. “This is for drinking? It’s very low.”

  “Uh, no. It’s for…” He was completely at a loss. What could he say? She watche
d him closely, and he could feel her analysing his discomfort. It hadn’t occurred to him until just then that she’d likely never seen a toilet. If she hadn’t been inside a home and avoided public places, she wouldn’t have had an opportunity. The church she lived in didn’t have any fixtures left. It was an empty husk of a building. He couldn’t help but wonder what facilities she used. That thought only made the conversation more awkward.

  “For what?”

  “Shitting,” he finally said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but he also didn’t want to find her drinking out of a toilet because he’d been too embarrassed to explain things.

  She didn’t appear offended. Instead, she nodded and went to the sink. “For washing?”

  Munro stepped next to her and turned one of the faucets. “Right side for cold water. Left side for hot water. See? The red dot on the top means hot. But sometimes it takes a few seconds for the water to warm up, so you have to be careful.”

  She turned both faucets on and off a couple times, then nodded. “And this is the same?” she asked, gesturing to the shower.

  He turned the taps and pulled the stopper to divert the tub water to the showerhead. “The sink is for washing your hands and face. This is for washing all of you.”

  Eilidh’s eyes lit up. “It’s like rain inside your house.”

  Before he could say another word, she’d peeled off her sweatshirt and thin t-shirt, kicked off her shoes, and wiggled out of her jeans. The first thing he noticed was that she didn’t wear any underwear, top nor bottom. The second thing he noticed was the beautiful pale sheen of her skin. It was like smooth, pinkish pearls and nearly hairless. Her nipples were like delicate cherries on her small round breasts.

  He caught his breath and realised he was staring. With a jerk, he turned away and stepped out of the bathroom. “I’ll get you a towel.” He stepped into the hallway where he kept linens and found a large, fluffy blue towel in his mismatched collection.