Blade Dance (A Cold Iron Novel Book 4) (12 page)

Relatively. Ann could hear the clank and chirp of cutlery and dishes being collected downstairs. And distantly, from somewhere above, she could hear the ring of blade meeting blade. She didn’t have to see it to know what it was. Something deep inside her heard and recognized. The sound quickened her blood and drew her along the hall and up the stairs to an unexpected space.

The top floor of Finn’s three-story house was tucked under the gambrel roof, but it wasn’t the dark, cave-like nook she’d been expecting. Nor was it a warren of tiny Georgian rooms. Someone had opened up the space, making the whole of the third floor into one enormous studio with a vaulted ceiling. There were five dormers cut into the walls for sash windows that flooded the room with light, and the wide pine floors were polished to a mirror-like shine. The long walls were sloped inward following the mansard roofline, but the short walls at the ends of the house were straight and hung with a daunting collection of weaponry, some of which was being used by Finn and two Fae she didn’t recognize.

He moved fast, the leader of the Fianna. He had a short blade in each hand and he was barefoot and shirtless, countering two attackers, but there wasn’t a bead of sweat on his muscled chest.

She knew the moment he became aware of her standing at the top of the stairs. His body tensed, he threw his shoulders back and, even though he was turned away from her, he spoke as though he knew exactly where she was. “Did you sleep well?” he asked even as he parried one attack and moved to counter another.

“Yes. Thanks,” she said, blushing. She knew what the two other Fae must think, that she was sharing his bed. She knew what he was doing, too: making a public claim, as he had last night by taking her hand as they walked in the house. He was telling everyone that Ann was his. No one had ever done that before, been willing to call Ann their own in public. And the thought that this strong, masculine creature with the broad back and the fast footwork might be hers filled Ann with a giddy sense of elation. She couldn’t remember feeling anything like it since she’d had her first grade-school crush.

“Then it’s time to start your training,” he said, breaking off with his breathless opponents and turning to face Ann.

“What about Davin?” she asked.

“Garrett has been using the photographs to scry for the child all morning. It is a slow process and physically draining. There is nothing we can do until he succeeds, except ready ourselves”—he twirled the blade in his right hand and tossed her the one in his left—“for the fight.”

She surprised herself by catching it. The hilt felt heavy in her hand. She had no idea what to do with it. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“What about the Druid who abducted Davin?”

She would gladly hurt him, but the sword didn’t feel right. “Maybe I’m more of a bare-knuckle kind of gal,” she suggested.

“Bare knuckles usually lose against naked blades. The sword may not turn out to be your weapon, but it is a good place to start.”

Finn dismissed the other two Fae with a nod of his head and took up a position beside her. “Relax your knees,” he instructed. “Angle your body. You want to give your opponent as narrow a target as possible. Now, observe.”

He lunged and thrust with his sword, the point kissing a worn spot on the wall. He stepped away and indicated that she should imitate him.

It was harder than it looked. The point of her sword went wide of the mark and scratched an ugly line across the wall.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. These walls have their fair share of scars. Try to feel the blade as an extension of your arm. Aim for control and form now; worry about speed and force later.”

He hung his sword up on the wall. “I have to check on Garrett. Practice until I get back. Switch hands if your arm becomes tired.”

Her arm was already tired, but she didn’t say that, because Finn stopped her lips with a parting kiss that promised future pleasures. Then he was down the stairs and away, and Ann was alone in the sunlit chamber.

She practiced until her arm became not just tired but numb, then switched hands. When she was too fatigued to go on, she set the sword down and examined the gleaming weapons on the wall. Swords dominated, but there were also knives, sickles, and a selection of axes. All were forged from the same silver metal that gleamed too brightly to be steel. The axes, in particular, called to her, and she selected a small double-bladed model from the wall. It felt surprisingly light in her hand, unlike the sword, and the handle felt as though it had been made for her grip.

She stepped away from the wall and swung the ax. Just a little tentative swing, but somehow it took on a life of its own, moved in a graceful arc that filled with her a sense of déjà vu. Which was nonsense because she’d never swung an ax before, or even a golf club.

She reversed direction and swung again, letting the ax guide her, following the path it sliced through the air. Bringing her face-to-face with the singular Fae who stood at the top of the stairs.

She was so surprised by his sudden, silent, appearance there that she dropped her ax. It clattered to the floor, the blade ringing dully through the space like a giant bell.

“You must be the meddling teacher that I’ve been hearing so much about,” said the stranger.

He was tall, quite possibly taller than Finn, and slightly leaner. His hair was longer than Iobáth’s. It was inky black, woven with tiny silver leaves, and the ends kissed the floorboards. His eyes were the frostiest blue she had ever seen. He had the same passion for expensive indigo denim as the other Fae she had encountered, but the rest of his clothes were far more opulent. He wore a heavily embroidered peasant shirt in cream linen and gray stitchwork beneath a frock coat of black silk decorated with silver wire roses. On his feet were bargello court shoes in shades of red, ochre, and black. In short, he was dressed nothing like the other Fianna, who blended into the streets of Charlestown in their faded T-shirts and jeans.

“And who are you?” Ann asked.

“A friend.”

“Of Finn’s?”

“MacUmhaill doesn’t have friends. He has followers.”

It was similar to what Nancy McTeer had told her. And the truth was that Finn had asked her to join his band, to be one of his followers, before he had even really made her his lover.

She shoved that thought aside because, true as it might be, she did not know this exquisite creature before her, and there was something about him that put all her nerves on edge.

“If you’re not Finn’s friend, then who’s been telling you about me?”

The Fae shrugged, strolled to the wall of weapons, ran his finger over the blade of a sword. Ann saw he had his own blade strapped to his back. “Gossip,” he said. “What progress have you made toward finding the boy?”

“You mean Davin?”

“I mean the child of Sean Silver Blade.”

“Didn’t gossip tell you?”

“You’re insolent for a human consort. I would have thought a night in Finn’s bed would cure any woman of insolence.”

He wasn’t the first to hint at it. Nancy McTeer had suggested as much: that Finn was more than a little bit rough in bed. She’d meant to frighten Ann away. Ann supposed that she should have been frightened, but she wasn’t. She found the idea . . . exciting.

“Maybe I’m not just any woman,” she said, realizing her words might be true.

His eyes fell on the ax on the floor, and his perfect lips curled into a smile. “No, it seems you’re not. I confess I am surprised. We believed the berserkers had all been killed. I’ve spent decades finding latent Druids, but I never thought to search for berserker descendants because I didn’t believe that any of them had escaped the slaughter. And yet here you are.”

Then it clicked into place for Ann, who this Fae must be. “You’re the Prince Consort,” she said.

He sketched a little bow. “At your service.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“A figure of speech.”

“Why are you here?”

“In truth, I’ve misplaced one of my Druids.”

“The one who took Davin?”

The Prince cocked his head. “You’re fond of the boy, aren’t you?”

“I’m fond of all my students.”

“But you like him best.”

“Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites.”

The Prince laughed out loud. “Fae or human, the hypocrisies we perpetrate in the name of our young never change.
Of course
you have favorites. Children are not all equally bright, not all equally winsome, not all equally charming.”

“But they’re all equally deserving of my concern.”

“But concern isn’t love, and love isn’t voluntary. What is the boy like?”

“Gifted,” Ann said, honestly. “A natural born storyteller. And sensitive beyond his years. He knows how to draw out his shy classmates and how to calm down the playground bully.”

A ghost of a smile played across the Prince’s lips. “Then he is his father’s son.”

“You’ve obviously never met Sean Silver Blade.” Her hand had unconsciously risen to her cheek, but there was no bruise there, because Garrett had healed it.

“Sean is my brother,” said the Prince. “And he was not always the way he is now.”

“He’s the one who brought the Druid into his home to tattoo his son.
Your
Druid. Is that what you train your Druids to do? Abuse children?”

The Prince’s expression turned frosty. “No. This particular Druid got above himself and concocted an agenda of his own. I train
my Druids
to look for weaknesses in the wall. Some of them are very clever. One of them, eventually, will find a way. And then the wall will come down, and the Queen will come back, and creatures like you, who live on the edges of our world now, will be called to present yourselves to the Court. Some the Queen will cull. There are too many half-bloods strutting the earth, putting on the airs of the true Fae. Others, though . . . others she will make into pets, and the Queen is not a kind mistress to her pets.”

“You would know,” said Ann.

The Prince strolled closer. Ann took a step backward, and her shoulders met the sloping walls. “I do know the Queen’s cruelty firsthand and her power. She cannot be defeated or dethroned. But she loves me, in her own way, and she indulges me and all my interests. You are part of our world, little schoolteacher, and you will not be able to hide from the Court when the wall comes down. Pledge your loyalty to me, and I will protect you from her.”

“No thank you,” she said. “I’ll take my chances with Finn.” Who she hoped was coming back soon.

“A quandary, isn’t it?” he asked, sensing her dilemma. “I might be here to do some mischief, in which case you should be screaming at the top of your lungs to raise the alarm. Then again, I might be here to help, in which case you’ll look like a fool, and I might become offended and withdraw my aid, and the boy is the one who will suffer for it.”

“Well, are you here to help?” she asked.

“I think my answer will depend on the warmth of Finn’s hospitality.” His eyes raked her in an unmistakably carnal assessment.

“I’m not part of the hospitality,” she said.

“You’re not much fun for a berserker.”

“Berserking is just a sideline,” she said. “Most of the time, I’m an educator.”

The Prince cocked his head and looked at her. “Is that what you tell yourself? Is that why you pin all that fiery hair up in such a tight bun? To convince the world that you’re really just a schoolmarm?”

He reached for the clip that held her hair pinned on top of her head. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of silvery movement, and then the Prince swore and snatched back his hand—with a wicked little knife stuck straight through his palm.

He pivoted away from Ann to reveal Finn standing at the center of the room.

The Prince held his hand up and examined the blade sticking out of it. Ann was astonished to see there was no blood. None coating the gleaming blade, none trickling from the wound, not even a speckle of red on his silk cuffs. Instead, the flesh surrounding the knife had taken on a silver hue. The Prince grimaced and pulled the knife out, then threw it deftly back at Finn, who caught it in midair.

As Ann watched, the silvery wound in the Prince’s hand closed. For a moment, the place where the hole had been glimmered. Then the Prince flexed his fingers, and his hand was warm flesh once more, and whole.

“Your hospitality leaves much to be desired, MacUmhaill,” said the Prince.

“My hospitality doesn’t extend to Ann Phillips,” said Finn. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“There are no wards on the house,” said the Prince, all affronted dignity. “Imagine my surprise to be greeted with a thrown blade for accepting such an appealing invitation.” His eyes swept Ann, and she feared for a moment that Finn would think she had welcomed this creature’s advances.

Finn looked like he wanted to throw another knife at the Prince, but that wasn’t going to help anything. “The Prince is looking for the Druid who took Davin,” she said.

“How did you know about Davin’s abduction?” asked Finn sharply.

“Sean called me,” the Prince replied.

“He had no business calling you. The Fianna take care of their own.”

“The Fianna,” said the Prince, not bothering to conceal his disdain, “haven’t found the child, and he’s been missing for twenty-four hours.”

“Garrett is scrying for him now.”

“Garrett?” asked the Prince, incredulously. “Your bantling sorcerer in training? He’ll never find him.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is no ordinary Druid.”

“What kind of Druid is he, exactly?” asked Garrett. He had come up the stairs silently. Ann was astonished at the change in him since last night. Finn had told her that scrying was difficult and exhausting. That didn’t cover the half of it. Whatever Garrett had been doing, it had obviously taken a huge physical toll on him. There were dark circles under his yes. His cheeks looked sunken. His lips were cracked and dry. He looked like he had run miles through the desert or spent days adrift in an open boat.

The Prince smiled. “You haven’t been able to scry him, have you?”