would be like his father to hide a failure. Or maybe he feared her azuri magic.
It was enough to give Cridhe pause. Oh, he would have her. With Eilidh feeding his talents, he could challenge the throne, make her the new Faerie Queen. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it had been his destiny all along.
He waited long enough for Eilidh to be well away from the footbridge, but not so long that he would have to swim ashore if she returned. Yes, she would be his, but not quite yet. Tonight he had more important business, something that would take him a step closer to the Halls of Mist.
***
Munro lay on his couch, stared at the ceiling, and ignored the inane babble on the telly. The day at the hospital had felt like a week. At least they hadn’t insisted on keeping him overnight. Sergeant Hallward had called and ordered Munro to do whatever the doctors told him. They would not, however, clear him to go back to work yet. A killer was out walking free—at the very least, a sick bastard, and at worst, a serial killer—and Munro had to stay home. There was nothing bloody wrong with him, and he had half a mind to tell Hallward that. Fortunately for him, the other half of his mind was reasonably sane. All he had to do was lie low for a couple of days while waiting for a few more useless lab results. Then, when nothing else happened, he could convince the occupational health advisor he was better off at work.
With a flick of the remote, he silenced the noise. He had to get moving. He’d never been the kind to enjoy lying around the house. It always sounded great, the idea of sleeping in, watching crap on the box, having nothing to do. But he just wasn’t the type. When it came right down to it, Munro couldn’t stand doing nothing.
Hauling himself up, he went to his exercise room. It had been intended by the builders, no doubt, to serve as a child’s bedroom. It contained precisely three objects: a table, a stereo, and a treadmill. Munro wasn’t a big collector of junk, and he kept the decor sparse. He liked things to serve a purpose, so he didn’t fill his house with throw pillows and knick-knacks. His mum had loved her ornaments, as she called them, but when she died, his dad waited about a week before boxing them up and giving them to a charity shop. “I loved your mum, Quinton,” he’d said, “but I hate them fuckin’ porcelain cats.”
When his dad died of cancer many years later, Munro found the old man had already taken care of just about everything a person could. Considerate to the last, not wanting to be a burden to his only child. The old man’s house sold quickly, leaving Munro enough cash to buy this place. It had three bedrooms, only one of which served as such. The second bedroom contained a desk, a dusty computer, and his camping gear.
Munro’s feet pounded against the treadmill. He checked his watch and took his pulse. His heart rate was perfectly in the zone. He stared out the window and tried not to think about her . But trying not to think about her meant a keen awareness of avoiding her, which led him in mental circles until he gave up.
She’d known his name, he’d noticed, but hadn’t thought to ask how. He felt drawn to her, yet something told him to be careful. It wasn’t because she was foreign either. Not really foreign, but a different race. And he wasn’t racist. His dad taught him to judge a man by his actions, not his words and not the colour of his skin or the way he talked. His dad also hadn’t been one of those Scots who hated the English on principle. James Munro said not many people could stand up to the scrutiny of their ancestors, and if some English bastards bought out some Scottish lords several hundred years before, those Scots bore the blame for being for sale.
Munro wasn’t sure if his dad’s tolerance would have extended to twisted ears, but he couldn’t see why not. He had to judge Eilidh by her actions, not her appearance,
It was enough to give Cridhe pause. Oh, he would have her. With Eilidh feeding his talents, he could challenge the throne, make her the new Faerie Queen. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it had been his destiny all along.
He waited long enough for Eilidh to be well away from the footbridge, but not so long that he would have to swim ashore if she returned. Yes, she would be his, but not quite yet. Tonight he had more important business, something that would take him a step closer to the Halls of Mist.
***
Munro lay on his couch, stared at the ceiling, and ignored the inane babble on the telly. The day at the hospital had felt like a week. At least they hadn’t insisted on keeping him overnight. Sergeant Hallward had called and ordered Munro to do whatever the doctors told him. They would not, however, clear him to go back to work yet. A killer was out walking free—at the very least, a sick bastard, and at worst, a serial killer—and Munro had to stay home. There was nothing bloody wrong with him, and he had half a mind to tell Hallward that. Fortunately for him, the other half of his mind was reasonably sane. All he had to do was lie low for a couple of days while waiting for a few more useless lab results. Then, when nothing else happened, he could convince the occupational health advisor he was better off at work.
With a flick of the remote, he silenced the noise. He had to get moving. He’d never been the kind to enjoy lying around the house. It always sounded great, the idea of sleeping in, watching crap on the box, having nothing to do. But he just wasn’t the type. When it came right down to it, Munro couldn’t stand doing nothing.
Hauling himself up, he went to his exercise room. It had been intended by the builders, no doubt, to serve as a child’s bedroom. It contained precisely three objects: a table, a stereo, and a treadmill. Munro wasn’t a big collector of junk, and he kept the decor sparse. He liked things to serve a purpose, so he didn’t fill his house with throw pillows and knick-knacks. His mum had loved her ornaments, as she called them, but when she died, his dad waited about a week before boxing them up and giving them to a charity shop. “I loved your mum, Quinton,” he’d said, “but I hate them fuckin’ porcelain cats.”
When his dad died of cancer many years later, Munro found the old man had already taken care of just about everything a person could. Considerate to the last, not wanting to be a burden to his only child. The old man’s house sold quickly, leaving Munro enough cash to buy this place. It had three bedrooms, only one of which served as such. The second bedroom contained a desk, a dusty computer, and his camping gear.
Munro’s feet pounded against the treadmill. He checked his watch and took his pulse. His heart rate was perfectly in the zone. He stared out the window and tried not to think about her . But trying not to think about her meant a keen awareness of avoiding her, which led him in mental circles until he gave up.
She’d known his name, he’d noticed, but hadn’t thought to ask how. He felt drawn to her, yet something told him to be careful. It wasn’t because she was foreign either. Not really foreign, but a different race. And he wasn’t racist. His dad taught him to judge a man by his actions, not his words and not the colour of his skin or the way he talked. His dad also hadn’t been one of those Scots who hated the English on principle. James Munro said not many people could stand up to the scrutiny of their ancestors, and if some English bastards bought out some Scottish lords several hundred years before, those Scots bore the blame for being for sale.
Munro wasn’t sure if his dad’s tolerance would have extended to twisted ears, but he couldn’t see why not. He had to judge Eilidh by her actions, not her appearance,
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