Seelie (The Falcon Grey Files Book 1)

by Sarah Luddington

  SEELIE

  THE FALCON GREY FILES

  Also available through Mirador Publishing:

  The Prophecy

  Vampire

  The Knights of Camelot Series:

  Lancelot and the Wolf

  Lancelot and the Sword

  Lancelot and the Grail

  Lancelot’s Challenge

  Lancelot’s Burden

  Lancelot’s Curse

  Betrayal Of Lancelot

  Passion Of Lancelot

  Coming Soon:

  Revenge Of Lancelot

  And volume two in the Falcon Grey Files

  For more information about the author you can visit www.theknightsofcamelot.com and www.darkfiction.eu

  Facebook as Sarah Luddington – Author

  Twitter is @BlakWulf

  Seelie

  Volume One in the

  Falcon Grey Files

  By

  Sarah Luddington

  First Published in Great Britain 2013 by Mirador Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Luddington

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  First edition: 2013

  Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.

  A copy of this work is available through the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-909220-92-8

  Mirador Publishing

  Mirador

  Wearne Lane

  Langport

  Somerset

  TA10 9HB

  And see not ye that bonnie road,

  Which winds about the fernie brae?

  That is the road to fair Elfland,

  Where you and I this night maun gae.

  Thomas Rymer and the Queen of Elfland

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’ll need these,” a small white marshmallow said. I took the offered bundle of protective clothes and stared at the marshmallow.

  “I can’t just wear the booties?” I asked. White clouds of steam accompanied my words, huffing out into the frosty air.

  “Trust me, you want to make sure nothing touches your clothes,” she said and I heard an unusual strangled tone.

  “You alright, Claire?” I asked, touching her shoulder. She cursed, pushed back her white hood and pulled off the white mask covering her mouth. Her steel grey hair stuck out in short spikes, wet from sweat.

  She turned her sharp blue eyes up to mine. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Falcon, and she was so young. Just starting her life and now...”

  I’d never seen our forensic expert become flustered by a body before. “Is it like the others?” I asked quietly.

  “Worse, this killer is degenerating, the frenzy is worse every time. It’s almost as if he’s looking for something,” Claire said.

  I gazed at the white tent covering the frozen ground and the blue police tape fluttering in the light breeze. I had a horrible feeling I knew exactly what this creature sought and why it took its rage out on the bodies.

  “Sir?”

  I turned to the new voice, blinking slightly as the stropping blue lights caught my sensitive eyes. “Detective Constable, good of you to join us,” I said, her lateness worrying me.

  She looked at up me - most people look up at me - and grimaced. “It’s the countryside, Sir. I don’t understand how it works and the roads are full of green.” She pulled a face.

  I laughed. “Bethan, the countryside isn’t your enemy.”

  She blinked slowly. “Tell that to the cows,” she said wisely.

  She flicked her long dark hair back over her shoulder and pulled a band off her wrist, gathering it up into a ponytail. My guts twisted slightly looking at her, the Indian heritage from her father very obvious this morning. She’d clearly been out the previous night because her dark eye makeup still coloured her dramatic eyes.

  “I think you should sit this one out,” I said.

  She frowned and huffed, clouds of white surrounding her head. “I don’t think so, Sir. I’ve not puked at a crime scene yet, I don’t plan on starting now.”

  “I know that, DC Dar, but I don’t see the point in both of us looking in there if we don’t have to,” I said firmly.

  “Forever the gallant fool,” she muttered. “Some would say you are a chauvinist.”

  “Some don’t know me as well as you do,” I said.

  “I’m not going to win, am I?” she asked.

  She didn’t win and she helped me into the largest size of white baggies the Met owned. Claire had already returned to the body, reporting to the local detectives about my presence.

  Bethan opted to steal my heavy leather flying jacket and slipped it over her own coat. The sleeves drowned her arms and she looked like a child trying on her father’s coat. I zipped up the front of the forensic uniform and tried to make sure my shoulders didn’t pop the seams. My ankles and wrists poked out the ends, the heavy boots and jeans making me look even more daft than before.

  My DC grinned at me. “Wonderful look on you, Sir,” she commented. “I think Claire just likes to have you in them, it’s a fetish.”

  “Shut up, Detective,” I growled. “I can have you busted back to a beat bobby.” Besides I had enough fetishes of my own to control.

  She laughed. “No you can’t, you wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

  I smiled to myself, turning away from her. She might be right. Detective Constable Bethan Dar and I were close and I really wanted to make sure I kept her safe.

  I walked toward the white tent nodding to various people on the way, all looking pale and pinched from the horror under the tent and the intense cold. My senses registered everything around me; the sound of the frosted earth crunching under my boots, the grass bending and the dirt hard. The birds, distant because of the noise and lights of the crime scene, sang to the bright blue sky, dawn now a memory on the horizon. The cows that Bethan hated so much, her city blood uncomfortable in the countryside, mournfully called for whatever cows wanted. The cold air smelt of the frost, of field dirt, of animals and the scent of human blood, human bodies. There were times I really hated my heritage; it left me vulnerable to the worst parts of scenes like the one I walked into when I lifted the flap to the white tent.

  The first thing I noticed – the quiet. A terrible stillness between colleagues, much quieter than other crime scenes. The quieter the scene, the worse the carnage.

  “Hello, DI Grey.”

  “Sir,” I nodded to my immediate superior, Chief Inspector Hoggart. He wore the white baggies and they fitted him perfectly, the slight sag they usually had around the belly nicely rounded out.

  “Thank you for coming down on your day off,” he said.

  “Days off don’t really count at the moment,” I said. “Not until this stops.” If my worse fears were confirmed we wouldn’t be stopping this until the perpetrator lay dead.

  “We’ll catch him,” Hoggart said with confidence.

  I merely grunted. He introduced me to the local police and I nodded in acknowledgement. None of us shook hands, partly because of the blue gloves and partly because you don’t touch anything at a crime scene unless you have to, which includes the people around you.

  “I’m glad this one is yours,” the local inspector said. “I’m not certain I’d want to deal with this.”

  “It’s been confirmed as a Slasher kill?” I asked, surprised that they’d made the connecti
on so fast.

  “It’s number six alright,” Hoggart said. “There is no doubt about it.”

  “At least the pattern’s been confirmed,” someone else said as I knelt beside the large blue plastic sheet. “Full moon last night, right?”

  “It came full just after dusk,” I said without thinking.

  “That fits with T.O.D.,” Claire said quietly. She knelt beside me and lifted the plastic off the body.

  “Why’s he moved out of the city suddenly?” the same someone asked.

  “He hasn’t, the victim did, he tracked her here,” I said. “Do we know why?”

  “She’s a local girl, come back for the weekend,” Hoggart said. “Lisa Tembury, seventeen years old. Reported missing last night when she didn’t come home from the local pub. Found this morning around five am by a local farmer collecting his cows for milking.”

  Hoggart’s words washed over me as I stared at the body. The face lay whole; their faces were always whole. The eyes were now cloudy but they must have been blue once and the hair a rich blonde, bottle blonde but nicely done. Much of it now contained blood and lumps I didn’t want to identify. A slight trick of the light made her mouth smile at me; I swallowed the urge to scream. From the base of her neck to her upper thighs long narrow gouges opened up her chest cavity and abdomen. Long scratches also covered her upper arms. They’d been right, this time was worse. The perpetrator had clearly lost his temper. The ribcage was shattered, the organs torn, the liver looked as if it had been half eaten and intestines shone wetly, still covered in frost.

  She’d died soon after leaving the pub, the night cooling her body quickly.

  I needed to check something I’d seen at the last crime scene and one other thing. I wanted privacy for both but crime scenes like this were never private. The dead were allowed no dignity or peace. One thing at a time – I closed my eyes to block out the other distractions, most of which were rich red, and inhaled slowly with my mouth open slightly.

  I drew in the scent of blood, faeces and guts. Rich and raw, the smell of the dead, carrion. I also drew in the scent of the girl and it touched me deeply. Cheap perfume, probably from one of the London markets, and her own personal smell, almost the same as my Detective Constable Dar. My own blood ran cold at the thought and I bowed my head, trying to understand why this was happening now.

  “Can I move the body?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Claire said quietly. “We’ve taken all the photos we need to for the moment.”

  I leaned forward slightly and lifted the girl’s left shoulder. Carved into the skin was a strange series of marks. They would be random to anyone else. To me they were marking the corpse as a confirmed kill but a failed attempt at the target.

  “Other than the phase of the moon, does the perp have a type?” someone asked.

  “No,” Hoggart replied. “We’ve had Asian and Caucasian brunettes, this is the first blonde.”

  I covered the girl’s dignity and rose slowly. “I need some air,” I said. I walked past the others and made it outside, breathing in the scent of anything other than the poor corpse. Misery over misery, something hunted someone I cared about and it meant my whole world was changing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stared out over the Surrey fields and looked to the crest of a low hill protruding rudely from the flatlands surrounding it. My eyes pulled the summit of that hill close to me and I wondered if anyone would notice if I ran to the top. While I pondered the possibility of escape I caught a movement, something fast, quicker than a deer, racing from the tree line to the bald crown and down the other side.

  I blinked. I’d seen it clearly but couldn’t believe what I’d registered. I hurriedly pulled off the too tight baggies.

  “Falcon?” my young DC called from the sidelines.

  “Later,” I said, absentmindedly. I walked with long strides away from the crime scene and vaulted effortlessly over a gate. My heavy boots, forever practical, made light work of the hard soil and I soon found myself hidden from view. The walk became a lopping run and from there I changed up a gear and began to race uphill, through the trees. I relaxed into the run, everything moving past so fast the human eye would see only a blur, but each footfall hit the ground silently as I constantly adjusted my movements. I so rarely left the city and when I did the urge to release at least a little of myself always overwhelmed commonsense.

  I reached the edge of the tree line in moments and slowed to a walk. The air brushed past my nose and I opened my mouth just a little to taste it; if I could have touched it I would have done. People rely on their sight too much, I preferred more subtle senses.

  A scent, weak on the wind but there, drew me toward the naked crown of the hill. I breathed in deeply. “You were here, weren’t you?” I asked quietly. I knew I’d find no tracks but he couldn’t hide his scent, not from me, even after so many years apart. “Why?” I asked. “Why are you here?” The familiar smell filled my mind with memories and my neglected lust flared in response.

  So did darker desires. My knees grew weak with the thought of him being close to me. What did he want? Had he finally consented to join me in this world? The thought of that filled me with a dark joy. I rubbed my face vigorously trying to suppress the rising flood of memories, it didn’t work.

  It was the control I missed most. My complex sexuality didn’t just involve fucking; I needed something else, something I didn’t really understand no matter how many books I read. I stood at six foot four, was strong enough to lift a car off a body, and I was a handsome man but... But I needed to be controlled. A horrific darkness within me, deriving from my heritage, drove me to seek its opposite. I needed the peace found when I surrendered to another strong person. To knee before someone and call them – Master – it drove a spear of peace through me. Another part of me, the intelligent, strong and capable man, hated the submission but the quiet joy of calm after the trigger was uttered always stilled the defiant man. After a session, something I’d not endured for years, I found my mind suspended in a bubble of quiet which made the world far more endurable.

  Some men relied on affairs. Some bought a fast motorbike. Some did drugs or drank too much; I needed the humiliation and pain of sexual submission. Like a dog who can rip his master’s throat out in a heartbeat but chooses to sit obediently at his feet from a single command. My deviant nature became a carefully maintained secret in this judgemental world.

  I turned back toward the mass of cars, vans and people surrounding the corpse on the flatlands below. A perfect spot to view the organised chaos and I could see the sleek shape of my black Audi parked in the lane.

  “A perfect view point,” I muttered. “But this isn’t your kill so why are you here, my love?” To smell his familiar scent after years, decades apart burned me deep inside, hot and bright. The emotions, so long repressed, tore a hole through me and pain followed. The pain of loss and loneliness.

  I didn’t bother looking for him, or for the murderer, there wouldn’t be any point. The best thing I could do was return to the crime scene and then the city. I needed to be in my office, adding this poor creature’s details to the other five victims. If I didn’t find this monster before the next dark moon I’d be placing another girl on the list.

  When I sauntered up to my DC, who stood chatting to a handsome young uniformed policeman, she almost choked on her coffee. “Where have you been?” she spluttered, wiping coffee off her chin. “Hoggart’s going nuts looking for you.”

  “I wanted a better view,” I said and pointed to the hill.

  “Well, you’ve missed him now. He said he’d see us tomorrow in the office,” she said.

  “Fine, well, I’m going back there now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She grunted and I left her to flirt with the blonde. We’d tumbled into bed together once or twice because I’m crap at separating work from play but fortunately it never grew into anything other than a drunken fumble. Bethan liked her men straight and, although I looked the part, m
y equal opportunities attitude to sexual partners confused her. When she caught me flirting with a man in a club we’d ended up in after solving a nasty murder case, she surrendered me happily. I tried hard to suppress my desire for male company and the other aspects to my sexuality because my life in London didn’t forgive deviation from the normal but life in my homeland was anything other than normal. Despite all the legislation, to be successful in the modern police force you still needed to be a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant man and straight. In fact, the same had been true when I’d been a paratrooper and when I’d been part of the SAS. For fifty years I’d hidden more than just my supposed eternal youth.

  I strode to the Audi and pinged the car alarm. The leather interior felt warm after the cold of the outdoors and I realised I’d left my coat on my DC. “Shit,” I muttered, gunning the engine. I tried very hard to pass as normal and not wearing a heavy coat in such cold weather marked me as different to anyone who cared to think about it. Muttering to myself about lack of concentration, I drove out of the mess of cars and people. I knew why I’d dropped the pretence of being normal, I’d done it because I had my mind on other things, namely the body in the field, the scent of my lover on the wind and the creature hunting my DC.

  Driving into London on a Sunday morning proved just testing enough to distract me from all the shit gathering in my tired mind. I drove straight to the office, the familiar grey triangle spinning slowly at the front entrance. It didn’t really matter where the offices were, so long as that famous sign kept spinning. My registration plate gave me instant access to the rear car park, thanks to the CCTV, and I turned into a space easily. I trudged up the stairs to my office and let myself in, the bull-pen empty of my co-worker bees on a Sunday lunchtime.