Blood and Iron (18 page)

“I'm aware of that,” Keith answered. “You've heard the expression that no man should be King who wishes it?”

Vanya smiled. “I would follow Fyodor Stephanovich whether he were my cousin or not, Elder Brother.”

“And what of the Scottish wolves? And our French and American brethren? The Russian wolves have not been known for their attention to politics—”

“No, nor our interest in the outside world,” Vanya answered. “That has always been a very Slavic failing. But Fyodor is—”

“A leader?” Keith could see that for himself; the black wolf had charisma.

“A visionary,” Vanya answered. “And I could wish you would not call us Russian. We're not, all, any more than you are Irish.”

Keith sipped his tea. It smelled of smoke and summer. He rolled it over his tongue while he thought. “Is there anything more frightening? Than a visionary, I mean.”

Fionnghuala cleared her throat, sliding one hand forward across the dark, waxed tabletop. “Keith,” she said. “If you do not wish to be King for any reason but your father's legacy . . .”

Keith smiled, the question hanging on the air between them. “There is another reason,” he said.

“And that is?” Vanya, leaning forward now, an interested negotiator. No lead wolf, Ivan Ilyich, but perhaps that made him the better at compromise.

“I have promised the Mebd that I would bring about an alliance between her folk and the pack.”

“You'd draw us into an outside war?”

“It's too early to be certain there will be war, Vanya.”

Fionnghuala leaned back on her bench, stretching her legs. Her expression showed incomprehension, but Keith suspected she understood more than she revealed. “War, Keith?”

“There is a human faction that is not fond of the Fae Folk, Nuala. And never has been: they are largely responsible for the reduced circumstances in which the Faerie court finds itself. I spoke with the Mebd, and her word is that the Prometheus Club, as they call themselves—”

“An odd name.”

“They date from an era where such names were de rigueur, for occult societies.” Keith's lips twitched.

“Like the Hellfire Club?” she asked. “The Order of the Golden Dawn? That sort of thing?”

“Older. Think the School of Night,” Keith answered, the chuckle finally escaping. “They are Elizabethan, at the least. And rumor has it there once was a Prometheus, or an individual bearing that name, but the Mebd defeated him or won him away sometime in James the Sixth's reign.”

“And they exist to protect the mortal realm from Faerie?”

“They existed, then, to exalt God,” Vanya interjected, leaning forward. “And through the exaltation of God, to attract power to themselves: to claim Him. In recent years, they have become interested in the magical power of the material world—iron and steel. Computers and aeroplanes. They are no friends to Faerie. But. They have presented no threat to wolves.”

“Because the wolves present no threat to anyone,” Keith answered. “We live quietly and apart, and have for centuries. ”

“And you would bring us into this fight between the Fae, who do not love us, and the mortal men, who love us less?”

No.
“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For the sake of my son,” Keith said, fiddling his mug with his fingertips. “Surely a wolf can understand so much?”

Silence, until Vanya pushed Keith's tea back three careful inches. “I will speak to Fyodor Stephanovich,” he said, his hair falling across his forehead as he tilted his head. “It is possible indeed that a wolf can understand that much.”

Whiskey still seemed well pleased with himself when a knock sounded against the door. Seeker crossed the carpet-scattered flagstones and dragged the wedged chair aside. She opened the portal and peered through it.

Hope stood beyond, dressed in trews and a white muslin shirt. A patchwork vest, gaudy in brown and orange, hung over her shoulders. “I brought wine,” she said, holding up two bottles and a pair of goblets.

Seeker stood back and let her come into the room. “We'll need another glass,” she said, and Hope noticed Whiskey sitting by the fire and blushed.

“Sorry.”

“Not at all.” He stood gallantly and offered her the chair.

Seeker found another goblet on the clothespress, although the crystal pattern didn't match, and brought it over while Whiskey retrieved the second chair. Hope caught Seeker's eye as she arranged bottles and glasses on the little table before the fire.
Is it safe to talk in front of him?
she mouthed.

“My life is his life,” Seeker answered.

Hope considered while Seeker fetched the stool from her vanity, claiming it for herself even when Whiskey tried to gesture her into the more comfortable chair. When the three of them were situated, Hope made a little ceremony out of pouring wine and handing it around.

Whiskey tasted his suspiciously. “Surprisingly nice.”

“I've learned a few things,” Hope said. “Like what you would have done with me if I had gone with you, that night.”

Whiskey inclined his head. “I make no apologies for what I am,” he said. “The sea does not change its coat because the world changes around it.”

“No,” Hope answered. “The sea never changes. And yet, it never stops changing. Shall I sing you the song?”

“No,” Whiskey said. But he seemed unaccountably unsettled.

“As well.”

Seeker marveled at the girl's self-possession.
It has been years,
she reminded herself.
A few days, and half a lifetime.

Hope sipped her wine and flicked the edge of the glass to make the crystal sing. “Seeker, the rumor you've missed while you were away is that the Mebd will name an heir.”

Seeker sat up straighter. She'd taken the odd glass, with its pattern of forget-me-nots. She ran a thumb over engraved petals. “I heard. She fears for her life? Or plans to abdicate?”

“I only know rumors.”

“What sparked them?”

Hope shrugged. “Cairbre. She asked my master to find all the links and branches of her family. To run down the descendants of Manannan mac Llyr, through all his children. ”

Whiskey shifted forward. “What did he discover?”

“I was not made privy. But the lineage as I know it— there are no others of her father's blood remaining, they say, except Morgan and the sister Queens. Findabair was barren. Mordred left no get. And she'll not name Morgan to the throne.”

“Indeed. It would have to be someone the Mebd had a hold over. Even if she has—I am sure she has—reasons and subtleties of her own. She'll want to own whoever she names. But unless Cairbre found a lost blood relative . . .” Seeker let her right hand fall open, sifting ashes to the wind.

“It must be a blood relative?”

“Aye.”

Whiskey cleared his throat and finished his wine. “Your knowledge is incomplete.”

Seeker spun her glass between her fingers. “What?”

He smiled mysteriously and reached for the bottle, refilling his glass.

“Tell me,” she said, levelly.

He sighed and sipped his wine. “There's no playing mystery with you. I too am the son of Manannan mac Llyr, and born in wedlock, although he denied it and punished my mother Rhiannon for an adultery she never committed. Perhaps the Mebd intends to name me to her throne.”

“Perhaps,” Seeker said, and did not dispute when Hope raised the bottle and refilled glasses. “Are there no others?”

“My father had a sister.” The Kelpie shrugged. “And Morgan had a younger son, named Murchaud. But they both went to the teind.”

Carel watched him with the wariness you'd give someone you expected to crumble into hysteria. Disconcerting, especially as she matched his stride easily, all the while wide-eyed and watchful as a cat. Matthew wondered if he looked as fragile as her regard made him feel.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Where else?” Matthew answered. “I did say I had Circle tonight.”

“You hold Circle in the city?” The Merlin pursed her lips, intrigued. Glass beads clattered as she slid a hand under her braids and lifted them away from her neck and over her shoulder. “Most witches I know try to get as far out in the country—”

“Ah,” Matthew said, pausing in an ebb of foot traffic, “we are not witches.” He gestured Carel into the lee of a mailbox and raised his hands slowly, fingers open, palms flat, as if offering a sniff to a potentially unfriendly dog. Her hand snapped shut, and she stripped his shirtsleeve back to show the stark patterns that ran down to the bones of his wrist.

“Nice ink.”

“Thanks.” Kelly had them too, but Kelly's were faded now.

“Have you got those all over?” A quirk of a smile. From another woman, the comment might have been flirtatious. From Carel, it came with level appraisal and a touch of a frown.

“More or less.”

“That must have hurt.” She touched his ten iron rings with a curious fingertip, brushed his hair aside and tilted his cheek to examine the ones in his ear. “To keep the Faeries at bay.”

This time he smiled, to soften the conversation if she wouldn't. “More or less.”
They might even have helped Kelly, if he hadn't been so eager to hand away consent.

“So afraid of the wilderness, Matthew?”

If it's anything like what's in your eyes, my lady Merlin—
“Is that what I'm scared of?”

“It's what mortal men have always been scared of,” she answered. “It's what drove the very first one to pick up a smoldering stick from a lightning scar and learn to cultivate fire. Fear of the wolves in the dark.” She smiled, and released his wrist. “Do you wear your underwear inside out?”

“Is it any of your business if I do?”

“ ‘More or less,' ” she mocked, and Matthew felt for a moment as if the shadow of something larger fell across his face. He glanced up; there was nothing there.

“You've seen the price,” he answered, with a shrug. “What's Fae is not safe for mortal men.”

“Ah.” She leaned back, ample hip against the letter box, and swung her braids. “Do you think if you gave Dylan Thomas a plain choice of his poetry or his life, he would have chosen differently than he did?”

It wasn't a new question for Matthew; rather, it was the sort of thing that students and Magi stayed up late to argue over. “You're asking me who I am to decide.”

“We are all the ones who decide. But there will be always those who choose forest and forge over hearth and home, Matthew. Try not to look too surprised when the time comes.”

Simple words. Things he knew, and they shouldn't have troubled him. “Come on,” he said, and dug in his pocket for a green velour scrunchie, which he handed over.

She took it dubiously and sniffed the cloth.

“Put it on.”

“Because?”

He was pulling his own hair back into a ponytail, twisting a yellow-wrapped steel-bound elastic around it. “Because it's the only way past the bindings, and your braids won't be enough.”

She obeyed him, elbows akimbo as she yanked her braids through the elastic, her head ducking and then rising again on a long, powerful neck. “We're going in?”

“We are.”

“Nice address.”

“Nothing but the best.”

The doorman recognized him, nodding slightly as they passed. Matthew kept a hand lightly on Carel's sleeve as they stepped into the private penthouse elevator, wondering if she too felt the tingle of the wards against her skin. From the way she glanced over her shoulder and frowned, she did. “Down the rabbit hole again.”

“You're taking it well.”

She chuckled, rich crumbling chocolate, and rocked forward on the balls of her feet to watch as he touched the heat-sensitive elevator button. It lit up dark gold around the black-and-silver numeral. “Taking things well is a trademark, apparently; I'm not what any of you expected.”

“Any of us?” He turned his back to the walnut paneling and folded his arms. The iron rings pinched his fingers when he tucked them into the creases of his elbows.

“You, the Fae. All you people who want something from me.” She swallowed, just as Matthew's own ears popped. “You expected someone . . . naive. More easily impressed. Less worldly.”

His lips twitched. “Almost everyone is less worldly than you, I imagine. And no, you're not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

He shrugged as the elevator slowed. “Not you. I'm not sure if I expected a wise old master calling me
grasshopper,
or a guileless innocent, but—”

“You didn't expect someone powerful.” She nodded. “I've picked up on that. Everyone I've spoken to since the Seeker found me has an agenda, and seems to think I can be bent to fit that agenda.”

“You're a prize,” Matthew said as the doors scrolled open.

Carel shot him a look as she fell into step. “Oh, Matthew,” she said, a wry twist to her tone. “That ain't what it's about at all, my friend.”

They emerged from the elevator into the foyer of the Prometheus Club's penthouse suite. Jane stood from a plush chair beside tall arched windows and smoothed her skirt over her thighs, her tailored navy suit contrasting with Carel's flowing velvet as if it had been chosen to do so. Carel strode toward her, soft brown boots scuffing on the marble floor, and settled on her heels a measured four feet away.

Jane drew herself up, chin high and shoulders back, and extended her hand. It was half the gesture of a Queen to a Queen, and half an offering to a wild animal, and Matthew bit his lip on a smile when he noticed. Carel eyed the hand as though she were in point of fact some wild, too-cautious thing, then glided a step closer and extended her own. “Carel Bierce.”