Blood and Iron (23 page)

The unicorn swung around, lining its body behind that deadly horn. Matthew felt it like a pressure on his skin, how easily the fine-honed point could pierce cloth and flesh and slide past bone. He wondered if he would feel anything at all.

The unicorn pawed the path, hoof glancing off concrete. Matthew raised his hands reflexively, aware of the futility.
Don't flinch. Don't show fear.
Ridiculous to treat a unicorn like a wild animal, of course, but how else? Even if it was no bigger than a whitetail doe. Which wasn't big for a horselike creature, but more than big enough for something with a horn leveled at one's breast.

It snorted, slow coils of steam in the fragile crispness of autumn, and lowered its head. A mane tangled with crumbling willow leaves fell across its eyes; it was white enough to silhouette against the concrete, white enough that even in dusk it was hard to see except in outline.

“The Fae are sending assassins now?” Another jogger swept past him with a curious look and ran right through the body of the unicorn. The unicorn ignored him, rolling both steely eyes at Matthew. “A logical development.”
Pity I won't get a chance to warn Jane about it. Of course, my body might be enough to do the trick.
He backed away slowly, one hand outstretched, the other feeling for his phone. At least Jane was on speed dial . . .

The unicorn tossed its mane again, lifted its horn in a gesture like a cat sheathing its claws, ears forward, hooves clattering on the walk. He held his breath and fumbled the zipper on his phone case, failed to get it unfastened before the animal was close enough to touch. The narrow neck came up; he saw the line of its throttle clearly delineated under softly whorled white hair. Its breath smelled of apples and bruised roses, a sharper scent over the goatiness of its skin. The horn
was
steel, not just the color of steel, down to the fine dark tracery of rust like dried blood inside the curve of its spiral. Matthew dropped his hands and clenched his fingers against his rings.

It paused eye to eye with him, only the length of its muzzle away. Its nose was silver, freckled in pink, its ears more deer than horse, and in addition to the snarled beard it had quivering whiskers like a mare's. Matthew held himself still as it brushed them across his face, inquisitive.
It's not a Fae thing, with a horn like that.
A horn that didn't even touch his skin as the unicorn nudged him, gently first and then harder, its nose soft but the shove as hard as if he were straight-armed by a man twice his size. A demand as unsubtle as a dog pushing its nose under its master's hand.

Matthew let his breath trickle between his teeth, realizing only then by the ache that he had been holding it in. “I suppose you would know, at that,” he said quietly, and reached up to scratch behind its ear.

It didn't move away.

The flesh was warm and yielded softly over bone. The hair felt coarse and soft and a bit gritty, as if there were sand caught in it. Warm, yes. Solid, and startlingly real where he had expected stuffed-animal softness, or perhaps for his hand to pass through it as had the other jogger. Instead, the unicorn whuffed like a horse, moaned a little, and leaned into his touch, white lashes closing over flat blue eyes.

Matthew swallowed in disbelief, remembering what Carel had asked him about sacrifices. Thinking perhaps a moment like this made everything worthwhile. He stroked its neck with his other hand, leaning closer to breathe the thick animal smell.

A siren cut the moment, and the unicorn startled and shuddered, jumped back, eyes wide now and black in the failing light. It stared at Matthew, snorted, shifting its weight as if it meant to whirl and kick, or lunge forward as it had failed to do before. Footsteps behind him; another runner, he assumed, but didn't turn to check. “Don't go—”

As if his voice were the last straw, it broke, bolted off the path, and was gone. Matthew stood, blinking, the smell of the unicorn on his gritty fingertips. He could have searched for it, stepped off the path and followed.

He finished his run and went home.

The Mebd wore white, a diaphanous gown shot through with strands of silver. She met with Seeker alone in the Queen's offices—and Seeker, laced into court dress, felt bulky and awkward in comparison. She curtsied, but the Queen gestured her upright in irritation.

“We are pleased with your progress.” She paused, and studied Seeker's face. “Is not your son handsome and well made?”

Seeker could not raise her eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Stop.” The Mebd held up her bone-china hand, palm flat. “If you're to be a member of our family, you will comport yourself as one.”

The threads of the binding spun spider-tight around the Seeker, drawing her upright, lifting her chin. She glared at the Mebd, and the Mebd laughed.

“Excellent.” The Queen lowered her arm, and the translucent samite drifted across her wrist. “We mean what we say. In addition to all the others you've returned to our court, you've brought us the Merlin and identified the Dragon Prince. And gifted us as well with a claim on him by blood. Even your grandmother could have done no better.”

Seeker took a breath, the question burning in her. As much as she hated to ask the Mebd for anything . . . “How are you certain she is my grandmother? My mother—”

The Mebd tossed back the golden ropes of her hair. “Many an otherwise virtuous woman is seduced by an Elf-knight, and your father did not hide his conquests from me. And my husband was a knight among knights. He is much missed; the Devil has cost us dear these many years.”

Some more than others,
Seeker almost said, but gave it no voice.
And the tithe comes due again.
“Morgan knew all along.”

“Why do you think she agreed to teach you?”

“And said nothing.”

“She too was a Queen, was Morgan of Cornwall. She understands these things, and knew you came to us unwilling. Knew also the necessity of raising you to strength. To which the Daoine Sidhe have in no small measure contributed. What you are, we made you.”

“Then you must need me.” The words left Seeker wondering at her own arrogance. Was this what the Mebd had commanded her to, in correcting her deportment?

The Mebd offered an angled smile, proffered like a chocolate. “Faerie is dying.”

“I know.”

“Faster than you imagine. Faerie is being killed. The Prometheus Club wishes more than to contain us. They wish to eradicate us.”

“I . . . Matthew,” Seeker said.

“The apostle?”

“The Mage,” Seeker answered, “who tried to stop me from taking Hope. And who has been pursuing our Merlin. ”

The Mebd inclined a graceful head. “The tithe does not protect us as it once did,” she said. “Even Hell is beset. Men do not believe in the Devil anymore. The Dragon Prince . . . Seeker, I believe the Dragon Prince is here for us. For Faerie. And you must bring him to heel, or our kingdom is foredoomed.”

“Your Majesty. Would you return to the days when humans lived in fear of us, and marked their houses with salt and iron to keep us at bay?”

“It would be nice, wouldn't it? To come and go as we pleased, to take what we wished when we wished it?” The Mebd's eyes twinkled. She turned away in dismissal. “Sadly, that's unlikely. Go. You know your task. You know the stakes. Go to it, and do not forget you are the granddaughter of a Queen who made men do her bidding whether they willed it or no.”

When Seeker returned to her chambers Keith had gone, and she was torn between anger and gratitude to be able to strip off her gown in peace and anticipate the waiting tub. She didn't know who had drawn it, or scented it with rose petals and peppermint, and she didn't care. The lavishly embroidered gown lay slick on the flagstones; Seeker threw her shift and shoes on top before sliding into the steaming water, her neck relaxing against the scrolled headpiece.

Exhaustion buoyed her like the water, numbing her arms. Her flesh felt wooden. The water was dizzyingly hot, speeding her heartbeat until blood rang in her ears. She slipped lower. Something danced in the shadows, some
otherwise
trace of unease and warning. She reached after it, but it slipped beyond her fingertips, something she could brush but not grasp, slippery as a wet marble—and heat lulled her, pulling the tension from her shoulders. The water on her lips tasted of bath salts and roses. Her head drifted to the side. She sighed; it trailed into a whisper. Almost, Seeker slipped into sleep.

She blinked against exhaustion and gripped the sides of the tub, pulling herself forward on the second try. There was Carel to attend to. She reached blindly for the soap and the rag.

She yelped in shock when a hand brushed hers, dropping the verbena-scented soap into her palm. Her head jerked up and she met Whiskey's crystalline eyes.

“I almost had you that time.”

She threw the soap in his face, sinking lower in the water. He caught it before it touched him, and laughed. “It was a good trap, you have to admit. People drown in bathtubs every day.”

“Where have you been?”

“Wandering the halls.” He set the scented bar on the rack again and began unbuttoning his collar. “You didn't summon me, so after I carried out your instructions I entertained myself. I did see Ian hurrying to the Mebd's quarters halfway through the night, amid mysterious comings and goings. But of course, you were watching
otherwise
and you know that.”

She hadn't been. Had been too caught up in Keith and Ian to extend her power.
Careless.
“You're not getting in this tub,” she said. He dropped his shirt atop the tangle of her clothing.

“I already am.” He splashed the water with his fingertips, a boiled-looking rose petal clinging to his skin. “I thought I'd wash your back, if you permit. Since we're already so intimate.”

Hot water swirled between her thighs, over her belly like a hand. She gasped and struck out at him. “Stop that!”

“As you wish. Mistress.” Whiskey tossed his head in horsey laughter and picked up the soap. “Lean forward, please.”

“I want an oath,” she said.

“If you'd waited until my hands were on your throat, you could have claimed it my third attempt.”

“If I'd waited, I'd be dead.”

A great snort of warm air blew his nostrils wide. He dipped his hands into the bathwater, which shone like black pearls on his skin. “No harm will come to you by my hand today, mistress.”

It might have been the leaden weariness deadening her limbs or the released grief deadening her soul, but Seeker nodded and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees and laying down her face. His hands were big and warm, but they seemed cool after the water and they were slick with lather as they worked the length of her back. Some of the pain fled before his touch, and more of it vanished when he ran his thumbs along the length of her spine. She let him wash her back and then her hair, clean hot water flowing from his hands to rinse the soapy strands and rewarm what filled the tub. He passed her the soap and she washed her arms while he rinsed the lather from her shoulders. It seemed natural that his hands would slip below the water, brush her waist and encircle her torso. “Whiskey.”

“What harm is in it?” he whispered against the wet skin of her neck as he palmed her floating breasts. “Women have come back to me, you know. Ones I let escape. I could show you.”

“Why would you let one escape?” she muttered, but her face fell forward as he stroked her with soft palms, rough fingers.

“For the joy in a brave girl.” He nuzzled her hair aside and lipped the nape of her neck, pressing against the unyielding wood of the tub. “How long
has
it been, mistress? Just think: I offer what another cannot. I am what I am, and no apologies. I will not lie to you, promise to protect you, take my use of you and leave. I cannot, and you will always have control of me.”

The softness of his voice hypnotized. The water caressed her with myriad immaterial fingers, tingling on her skin.

She stifled a whimper.
I could make him stop with half a word.
“Until you kill me.”

“Doesn't that make it better?” He drew her back against the tub, his hands still gentle on her breasts. She started to pull away, but she didn't command him to stop, and her breath came faster when he resisted her movement, his touches coaxing and soft. “If I'm to serve you,” he said, “let me serve you.”

What does it harm?
she wondered. She leaned back against the unyielding curve of the wood separating his chest from her shoulders. He took up the soap again and lathered her hair a second time, massaging her scalp and letting his fingers trace the outline of her ears.
I'll never have Keith back. Never find a lover I could care about. Not in Annwn. They cannot care for me, none of them, and the one I want I cannot have.

Whiskey sang in her ear, his voice whiskery and thoughtful, that dangerous tune, “Tam Lin.” Seeker basked in his laughter as he sang it, and when he came to the verse about the roses of Carterhaugh, he scooped the limp petals from the tub and stroked them by handfuls along the skin of her neck.

Despite the heat of the water and the caress of Whiskey's hands, Seeker followed the thread of the song. The water-horse's voice was a baritone, breathy and soft, and did not hold a note well, but Seeker relaxed into his touch as he told her of Tam Lin's seduction of young Janet. And his plea that she save him from his service to the Queen of Faeries, and his inevitable fate as a part of the seven-year's tithe to Hell.