Blade Dance (A Cold Iron Novel Book 4) (8 page)

“No one has come in or out,” said Iobáth. “Where is the sorcerer?”

“On his way,” said Finn. “About the girl . . . ” he began, but he didn’t know how to go on.

“She was pretty enough,” said Iobáth, “but nothing to warrant the interest of Sean Silver Blade and friends. Why did he take her?”

“Ann Phillips is little Davin McTeer’s teacher. She discovered the Druid tattoos on the boy and threatened to call child services. I persuaded her not to.”

“Then why did they abduct her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she made trouble at the school. Maybe Sean blames her for the boy’s artistic tendencies.”

Iobáth raised one pale eyebrow. “If the boy has an artistic nature, he likely inherited it from his father. Sean was a notable poet before the fall.”

“I know,” said Finn. The Druids had made Sean a killer. Or perhaps the Fianna—perhaps
he
—had helped with that. It made no matter now.

“I have an interest in the girl. I have had an interest for some time now. We met under trying circumstances, but I was planning on renewing our acquaintance once Garrett and I were reconciled, and my own house was in order.” Literally and figuratively.

Iobáth looked at him, gray eyes unreadable in the flickering street light. “If you come between the Fianna and an interfering human woman, you may never get your house in order.”

He knew it, and yet he found that he didn’t care as much as he thought he might. “I’m going to save the girl,” said Finn.

“That is just,” said Iobáth. “But it may also be wrong. The Fianna are the only truly organized band of fighting Fae left this side of the wall. Fragmented, many will flock to the Queen’s banner when she returns, and half-bloods like your grandchild will be at her mercy.”

“You believe that it’s inevitable? That the wall will come down?”

“I pray to Dana that it doesn’t happen, but I prepare each day for the possibility. If you love this girl, this Ann, then consider carefully your options here tonight. If the Queen comes back, she will want vengeance on all the Fae who fought to keep her imprisoned, all those who did not actively, single-mindedly labor for her release. She will take that vengeance out not just on you, but on your children and consorts as well. On their own families and friends. Ann will suffer even as Conn’s daughter suffered, and if the Fianna are broken, splintered, scattered to the four winds, you will be
powerless
to stop the Queen from taking, from tormenting and destroying, everything you love.”

Iobáth was probably right, but Finn would not,
could
not allow himself to care, not at this moment.

“The Queen is on the other side of the wall, and Ann Phillips is in danger now. I won’t sacrifice her to keep the Fianna together for the remote possibility that they are necessary to stop the Queen.”

“And no doubt this woman’s touching gratitude will allow you to bed her,” said Iobáth. “For a celebrated warlord, you were ever one for short-term strategies, Finn MacUmhaill. Do whatever it takes to win a promising Fae to your banner today, and Morrigan mind the consequences tomorrow.”

“So you think I should let
you
go in there and save the girl?” asked Finn. The thought set his teeth on edge as he pictured Ann rushing into Iobáth’s cold embrace.

“That would be the politic choice,” said the Penitent Fae.

“Fuck ‘politic.’ ” He was going to save Ann Phillips himself. He could win the Fianna back later if he had to.

A little silver BMW rounded the corner and disgorged a passenger. Garrett. The car sped off, but not before Finn glimpsed the curly black hair of his daughter-in-law, Nieve, in the passenger seat and the long blond tresses of Miach’s human lover, Helene, in the driver’s seat. Miach would not come himself because to set foot in Finn’s territory uninvited was an act of aggression, but the sorcerer’s granddaughter had some claim to being part of the Fianna by marriage, and Helene . . . well, Finn had possessed Miach’s woman for a short while, even had her inked with his own mark, though he had never truly wanted her. She had been a pawn in the game between them. Some enmities died hard.

Iobáth grasped the well-worn hilt of his sword. Finn had only a short blade strapped to his hip. He hoped he wasn’t going to need it. If there was a fight, Ann might get hurt. He had to do what he did best: win Sean over. It was something he’d always been good at, very good at. Or at least he was good at convincing Fae to take up arms. He had less experience convincing people to set them down.

Finn and Iobáth
passed
to Garrett on the street. “This is Iobáth,” said Finn, by way of introduction.

“I know who he is,” said Finn’s son, sounding more and more like Miach every day. “The question is: What is he doing here?”

“My penance,” said Iobáth.

“It’s been two
thousand
years since the fall,” said Garrett. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It will never be enough,” said Iobáth.

“All because you turned one half-blood girl over to the Queen?”

“Garrett
,
”
warned Finn. If his son alienated Iobáth, there would be no hope of making this Fae his right hand. And there were his son’s life and limbs to worry about as well: Finn recognized suddenly that the only thing he understood about Iobáth—really understood about him—was that he was very,
very
deadly with a blade.

“He was born after the fall,” said Iobáth. “His curiosity is natural. And his suspicion is justified, though he is the first I’ve allowed to question my motives in two thousand years.”

“I apologize on my son’s behalf,” said Finn. “This rudeness is Miach’s influence.”

“Certain, the MacCechts were always great questioners,” mused Iobáth. “If more Fae had possessed questioning minds, our history might be very different. And so I’ll honor your inquisitiveness with an answer, young MacUmhaill. I
should
be penitent because I handed over one half-blood girl to the Queen. That alone was sin enough, but the truth is that Conn’s daughter was not the first, and I had no way of knowing that she would be the last, or that Conn’s vengeance would lead to the old world’s destruction. But to my shame, my everlasting remorse is not over one half-blood girl. It is over
that particular
half-blood girl. Now I’ve made my answer: make of it what you like.”

Iobáth unsheathed his sword and strode, his long white-blond braids swinging, as to an unheard drumbeat, toward the warehouse.

Garrett stared after him, mouth agape.

“I summoned Iobáth here to be your right hand,” said Finn, “and the first words you speak to him are an insult.”

“I can’t have a right hand,” said Garrett. “I’m married. To Nieve. That’s not going to change.”

“You need a swordsman to protect you while you cast. Even if Iobáth won’t take vows and become your right hand, in the old way, he could help make sure that you don’t get yourself killed in Miach’s crusade to stop the Queen.”

Garrett sighed. “We’ve been over this before. I love Nieve. I knew the risks when I married her. I knew then that I would never be allowed a right hand.” He nodded toward the warehouse, where Iobáth stood beside the door, listening, then said, “Do we have a plan?”

“I expect we might have
made
one, if you hadn’t antagonized our only ally.”

“So what’s the plan now?”

“Go in. Get Ann out. Cast a silence charm if the Druid is there. Heal anyone left alive if there isn’t.”

“And when the Fianna take Sean’s side against you tomorrow?”

“We’ll leave tomorrow for tomorrow.”

Chapter 7

A
nn was scared. Heart-pounding, gut-churning scared. The Fae who could only be Davin’s father, Sean, had tossed her into the van like a rag doll. He’d wrenched her arms behind her back and bound her wrists, then thrust a gag into her mouth before she’d even had a chance to scream. His speed and strength had been terrifying—and decidedly inhuman. There was another Fae driving whom she thought she recognized from her visit to Finn’s old house so many months ago. And with them was Nancy McTeer, who alternately sobbed for her missing child and screamed abuse at Ann.

Sean ripped the gag out of her mouth. “Where is my son?” he snarled. He had the face of a handsome young scholar or cleric—almost pretty—so at odds with his dress and demeanor. He wore a skin-tight cotton shirt with long sleeves that picked out every muscle in his chest and frayed blue jeans of the same expensive indigo denim as his girlfriend’s. There were sheath knives strapped to his biceps and thighs and a leaf-bladed sword across his back.

“I don’t know,” said Ann. “He didn’t come to school today.”

The Fae at the wheel turned and said, “She’s lying.”

“How can she lie when a Fae questions her, Patrick?” asked Nancy.

“She visited the house a few months ago,” said Patrick. “Finn was fascinated with her because his voice didn’t work on her. He thought she might be a thin-blood or something.”

That was news to Ann, and unwelcome news, because if they believed she was lying to them . . .

Sean smiled slowly. It wasn’t a nice expression, despite his pretty face. “I’ll just have to beat it out of her, then.”

“Finn won’t like that,” warned Patrick.

“Finn would do the same if it were his own son in the mix,” Sean shot back.

“He would,” agreed Patrick. “Yes, he would. But he wants the girl, so I doubt he’ll appreciate you rearranging her lovely face.”

Ann felt light-headed and cold. The van turned a corner, throwing her against one wall and knocking her nearly senseless. A second later it lurched to a halt. Patrick killed the motor.

“Finn is one Fae,” said Sean, smiling again. “The Fianna follow him at their will and pleasure. They won’t back him against me in this, and he’s only a single blade against the two of us.”

“His son is a sorcerer,” said Patrick.

“His son is more interested in fucking Miach’s pretty granddaughter than casting wards for the Fianna. He’s not likely to put himself out to help his old dad protect some ginger slut.”

“Maybe not,” conceded Patrick. “But he’s summoned the Penitent to Boston.”

Sean’s eyes turned hard. “Then I guess we’d best break the bitch,
fast
.”

They reached for her and she screamed, but as they dragged her out of the van, she saw why the Fae didn’t bother to silence her. They were in a desolate neighborhood of shuttered warehouses hard by the water, with nary a soul in sight. The lights of Boston twinkled across the water, too far away for anyone to hear or help her.

She screamed anyway, until Sean struck her a blow across the face that left her momentarily stunned. A taste, she realized with growing terror, of what was to come.

Inside, the warehouse was stuffed with flat cardboard boxes, row upon row, stacked to the ceiling, muffling sound. Patrick flipped a single bank of fluorescents on as Sean threw Ann to the ground beneath the flickering lights.

“Where is my son?” barked Sean.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. He struck her another blow across the face, and this time Ann tasted the hot, coppery bloom of blood. And all the years she had spent practicing calm and avoiding conflict came back to bite her on the ass. Her anger didn’t rise. She felt weak and small and she
hated
that.

“I don’t know,” she said. Her lips were numb and her jaw ached, but she spoke anyway. “I told your wife—I told Nancy. I promised Finn that I wouldn’t call child services. I haven’t seen Davin at all since he left school yesterday.”

Sean shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? I am going to
hurt
you. And I am going to keep on hurting you until you give me my son.”

She’d always been tough. Skinned knees and banged elbows had never slowed her down as a child. If Sean had gone on beating her in silence, she might have gone on taking it, but his words fanned the sleeping coals of her anger. His assumption, that he had the right to hurt others to get what he wanted, that no one would stop him, snapped something fragile inside Ann. “I don’t know where he is,” she snarled.

It was like a dog warning an abusive owner to back off. She was showing her teeth. Fool that he was, he didn’t see them.

Sean struck her again, knocking her to the ground. She heard a buzzing in her ears. Horrible, maddening. It grew louder, instead of quieter, as she got back to her feet, and in that moment she remembered that this was what it always felt like right before—

F
inn allowed Iobáth through the
door first. He didn’t entirely like it, but Iobáth had the best sword arm, and Garrett would otherwise be all the more vulnerable if the Druid was present and he needed to cast a silence. Finn himself followed closely.

There was no Druid in the warehouse, thank Dana, only Patrick and Nancy watching Sean Silver Blade, who was standing over Ann. Ann was crouched on the ground, her red hair a tangled veil covering her face.

“Get away from the girl,” snarled Finn. He had planned a more diplomatic salvo but could not keep the concern, the anger, pent any longer.

Sean didn’t bother to turn. He just shook his head and swung.

His fist connected with Ann’s jaw, knocking the young teacher to her knees.

Finn darted forward and seized Sean’s curled fist before he could strike another blow. “The girl is mine,” he said.

“This bitch stole my
son
,” Sean screamed. He rammed an elbow into Finn’s stomach and broke free, raising his fist to hit Ann again.

And lovely, brave fool that she was, Ann was already back on her feet. She pushed the hair out of her face. When Finn saw her eyes, he froze. They were glowing red.

Finn stepped back. She had never looked more beautiful. It took his breath away. And cast him back two thousand years. He had not seen her kind since . . . before the fall.

He knew, then, that she didn’t need him to defend her now.

Sean didn’t see it yet. He was looking straight at her, but he didn’t see her eyes. Or maybe he saw, but it had been so long since any Fae had encountered one of her kind that he didn’t truly understand.

Finn both saw and understood. He removed his hand from Sean’s shoulder and took another step back.

Ann Phillips—or the power inside her, ancient and magical—gave a tinkling, silvery laugh and sprang.

She knocked Sean clear off his feet and smashed the flat of her small hand into his face. She took hold of his right arm and wrenched it up and to the side with a pop and a crunch that announced that Garrett’s services would be required tonight after all. Not for a charm of silence but because soon joints would need to be returned to sockets and broken bones would need to be mended.

Ann tilted her head slightly, surveying the room like a dancer searching for a new partner. Her eyes, glowing red like coals, lighted for an instant on Patrick. She only sneered and continued scanning the room for prey. Her gaze fell on Iobáth and lingered. A worthy adversary, but the Penitent was not the Fae for her.

Finn MacUmhaill was.

He stepped into her line of vision.

She blinked at him, doe-eyed, cocked her head, and circled him, licking her lips.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Nancy McTeer, as Finn fell into step with Ann, partners in a dance.

“Get out,” Finn said to his friends and followers. Ann was his now, and his alone.

Patrick took hold of Sean and started dragging him away. Smart man.

“Are you sure?” Iobáth asked. “She has the blood, Finn. I can see it in her eyes. A match for many of us Fae, if she’s been trained.”

“I know,” said Finn. “But I don’t think they train berserkers in the elementary schools.” At least he sincerely hoped not. He didn’t fancy a broken nose and dislocated shoulder, but they were risks he was willing to take to dance with a berserker. She was beautiful, splendid, with the power coursing through her. He’d wanted her when he’d thought she was just a human woman with a temper.

He burned for her now that he knew what she really was.

“I want my son,” slurred Sean, through what was more than likely a broken jaw.

“She doesn’t have your son,” said Finn. They were going to have to find the boy, as soon as Ann’s eyes returned to their normal color and they didn’t have the first berserker in two thousand years—angry and spoiling for a fight—on their hands.

“
Pretty
man
,” rasped the creature Ann became when anger ruled her. She rolled the syllables over her tongue like honey, slow and sweet. “You think you can hurt me?”

The warehouse emptied out behind him.

“I know that I can’t,” said Finn, taking a step toward her, breaking the circle and taking their dance in a new direction. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”

She swung at him, and he twisted and dodged. She sprang toward him, and he braced himself, taking the impact and allowing it to carry him to the ground. Then he rolled with her, pinning her under him. She snarled and twisted. He expected the first kick . . . but failed to anticipate the second. She flipped them over so she was straddling him and, with her uncanny berserker strength, she pinned his hands above his head.

He hadn’t been so turned on in two thousand years. She twitched her hips and ground herself against him, sighing with pleasure, because berserkers lived
entirely
in the vexed space between sex and violence,
thrived
on it.

“My lovely, lovely Ann,” he said. “It’s my mouth you want beneath that swollen cunny, that I promise you.”

Her lips curled into an expression—almost a caricature—of carnal intent. Suiting actions with words, she replaced her hands on his wrists with her knees, keeping him pinned fast to the ground. He might struggle free, of course—perhaps—but he didn’t want to. She wrenched her little velvet pencil skirt up, revealing white cotton panties with a spreading bead of moisture dotting the gusset. She wrenched them aside and lowered her dainty pink center to his waiting mouth.

He flicked his tongue out to swipe her bud. She tasted honey sweet and lemon tart, and her little nub grew tauter, transmuting in arousal from flesh to iron. He flicked again, swiped and swiveled and picked up the pace when she began to growl and whimper.

Her movements were uninhibited. She was using him to get off. It was pure and selfish, and the most erotic thing he had ever experienced. She screamed once at her climax, then slid forward onto her elbows, spent.

Finn turned her over and pulled her into his lap. She looked up at him, her eyes now brown again and dazed, but indisputably oh-so-satisfied.

“My lovely, lovely Ann,” he said again. “Just what the hell are we going to
do
with you?”

—
right before one of her
fugue states. Only this time, the curtain didn’t fall over sight or sound or memory. She lived it. All of it. Breaking Sean’s nose and his arm. Sparring with Finn. Briefly. And then . . .