Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel)

by D. L. McDermott

  There were dozens of other gates like this one in the world, mostly in Europe and the British Isles, some so weathered or overgrown, obscured by the changing landscape, as to be unrecognizable. Some were too damaged to function at all, but many remained practicable.

  Up to last year they had posed little threat, because there were no Druids left to open them and the only Fae sorcerer aboveground powerful enough to do so was Miach—and he did not want the Queen and her Court back.

  Then Beth Carter had come along, with her Druid heritage and self-taught, novice skills. And with her had come Conn of the Hundred Battles, the Betrayer, whose mythic sword also had the power to open the gates, although he was bound through a terrible curse, by the threat of living entombment, to protect the sword and keep them all closed.

  Solstice gates, of course, were almost always part of a Druid temple mound, although a few were built into the sides of natural hills or mountains. But they could be anywhere, as long as they were sited along ley lines—the mystical vectors that crisscrossed the earth and could be realigned to form a bridge between this world and the next, between the world of men and the prison plane of the Fae.

  Miach didn’t doubt for a second that this one was aligned on such a path and that the material to complete it was at hand. The forklift parked in the alcove and the stack of crates lined neatly up beside it strongly suggested as much.

  Helene joined him in the staging areas. She was breathing easier now, the open space of the vault with its soaring ceiling less challenging to her than the crammed aisles they had traveled earlier. She put her hand on one of the stones and traced one of the graven whorls.

  “Did your people make these?” she asked.

  “No. They are Druid work,” Miach said. “The stones form a door, usually the entrance to a temple mound.” Like the one in which the Druids had imprisoned him. So long ago, yet he still bore the scars.

  She scrutinized him. “You’re the one who looks pale now,” she said. “Paler.”

  “They are not happy memories,” said Miach. “And I doubt that your assailant is putting this gate together out of archaeological interest. If it’s correctly sited, and I’ll wager it is, then the application of the right magic will open a gate and free the imprisoned Fae.”

  There were few beings alive who could apply the right magic, of course, but one of them, Beth Carter, worked in this building. Only a few months ago, the Prince Consort had kidnapped Beth and tried to force her to open one of the gates. The clever little Druid had turned the tables on the Queen’s lover by opening the gate in one direction only—and hurling him through.

  And the Prince Consort had only managed to abduct Beth because she had become separated from Conn—and because Miach had been trying to kill her, not protect her. Now things were different. It would be next to impossible to spirit Beth Carter away, to drag her to a temple mound and force her to use her magic. She was learning to use her own power, and even if she lacked complete control of it, she had allies like Conn and Miach to protect her while she mastered the craft.

  But it would be all too easy to ambush her here, in this remote chamber.

  “I’m afraid that your Fae antagonist has been preparing a surprise for Beth Carter. Clever, really. It would be difficult for any common Fae to kidnap her and bring her to a solstice gate in situ before Conn ran them to ground. Few can carry a human with them when they pass, like the Prince Consort. But this Fae, he was planning to lie in wait for her down here, a place she would presume was safe.”

  • • •

  Helene felt a flash of white-hot anger. It obliterated, for a second, the helplessness she had been feeling for weeks. This creature who had been tormenting her, stealing hours of her life, had been plotting to ambush her best friend.

  There had to be something she could do about it.

  “These stones must have been down here for decades,” she said. “The crates are marked with the old catalog system. We haven’t used that since the twenties. How did this Fae even find out they were here?”

  “Your museum has an online catalog now, does it not?” Miach asked.

  “Yes.” She had secured the funding for it herself, two years ago.

  “So anyone,” said Miach, “anywhere in the world, could search your collections by keyword. Beth Carter has been drawn to Fae relics her whole life. It’s part of her Druid heritage. It’s why she studied our remains, how she chose her profession, and even how she ended up working in this museum. You have one of the best Celtic collections in the world. One sure to contain at least a few objects of power. And a Fae who was looking for something powerful, for a weapon to use against Beth Carter, would soon discover that you owned not just a few ensorcelled blades or trinkets but a complete—or near enough to work—solstice gate.”

  “Would it still work,” she asked, “if that stone”—she pointed to the lintel, with its frenzy of geometric carvings—“was broken?”

  “No,” said Miach.

  “Good.”

  She knew how to run the forklift, because it was all hands on deck when an exhibit was running behind and an opening date loomed. She swung herself up into the cab, found the keys, got the engine running, and raised the platform to the height of the lintel slab. She drove the lift forward, until the fork was touching the lintel stone, and then she stepped on the gas pedal. The stone groaned as the lift pushed it forward, grinding against the blocks below. Then it fell, a good eight feet, to the concrete floor below.

  The lintel struck with a loud crash, but it didn’t break or explode into dust. Frustrated, Helene backed the lift into its original position and turned the engine off. She leaped down from the cab to find Miach standing over the lintel waiting for her.

  “Remind me not to make you angry,” he said.

  “Why didn’t it break?” Helene asked.

  “They are more than stones. They’re magical constructs. They can’t be destroyed, only scattered.”

  And it would be the work of an hour, maybe less, to put it back together again.

  “Beth shouldn’t come back, should she?” said Helene. She wanted her best friend here with her, to help navigate this strange world and its terrors, but not at the price of her safety.

  “No. She shouldn’t. Not until we find out who planned this little surprise for her. And remove you from his power. But Beth is already on her way. Our only choice is to find out who is doing this before she gets here.”

  “You want to search my body for the geis,” she guessed. And it was no longer just her own safety at issue. Her attacker was after Beth, too.

  “Yes. I’m afraid I do. If he has used that kind of magic on you, a geis, I should be able to discover his identity. Gaesa are like handwriting. They are distinctive. Even if I don’t know who this Fae is, Finn or Deirdre might.”

  “Who are Finn and Deirdre?” she asked. Knowing Conn, Miach, and Elada was enough. She wasn’t certain she wanted any other Fae in her life.

  “Finn controls Charlestown. We are in a state of uneasy truce at the moment.”

  “And Deirdre?”

  Miach hesitated. And completely irrationally, she felt a pang, then a slow burn of jealousy. Finally Miach said, “Deirdre is a friend.”

  “You mean she is your lover.”

  Miach shrugged. “The Fae are long lived. Humans are like mayflies. Yes, Deirdre has been my lover, at times. You will understand why should you ever meet her. She will be my lover again in the future. The Tuatha Dé Danann are not made for monogamy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For reminding me of all the reasons I don’t want you.” She turned her back on him and walked away, up the wide aisle they had traveled earlier.

  “Helene,” he called out.

  She stopped and turned.

  “We’re not done here. I can feel other items on the shelves, things that could be used by this Fae. I need to find and remove them.”

  “Do it,” she said. “I’l
l be in my office.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’ll put a chair under the doorknob.”

  “And if this Fae summons you?” he asked. “If he’s worked the kind of spell I fear, you’ll remove the chair yourself. Like a good little drone. You’ll probably speak and act normally, so that no one will notice what you are doing. But you won’t let anyone or anything stop you from obeying his summons.”

  “Then mark me,” she said. Helene didn’t want to spend another minute in his presence. Didn’t want to be reminded of her own stupidity and weakness. She had almost been taken in by him. His charisma, his magnetism, was difficult to resist, and the intensity of his interest had drawn her close, made her feel special. But it was the interest of a child in a new toy: selfish, and transient.

  If wearing one of his scribbles would allow her to enjoy some privacy in relative safety, she could put up with some magical graffiti for a few hours.

  “Are you certain?” he asked. He took a step back even as his features took on a feral, hungry cast.

  “Mark me like you did at Beth’s apartment. So you can find me again. That way I can spend some time in my office. Alone.”

  He nodded. “That would be acceptable.”

  She took him to her office. She doubted after seeing his home in South Boston that he would like the spare, modern space she had designed for herself in the museum’s newest wing, an extension of gleaming steel and glass finished in shades of white and pale blue.

  Her office itself was visually simple, decorated in textures that were meant to engage the senses: embossed Japanese paper panels on the wall, a medley of cotton and silk fibers, the velvet nap of the sheared pile carpet, the soft, white leather of the low-slung chairs.

  Miach took it all in with one glance and then smiled when he saw the window: a single plate of glass that made up one whole wall of the room. A marriage of art and technology, with a fine view of the garden below. It made the space, even on the second floor, feel open to the outside world. The antithesis of the claustrophobic storage vaults beneath the old galleries. In here, she could breathe.

  She opened the desk drawer that was filled with pens and markers. Miach searched them, then playfully held up a novelty marker, bright pink, with a fuzzy cap on the end.

  He was trying to charm her, to worm his way back into her good graces. “No,” she said, to both the novelty marker and the effort it represented.

  “I didn’t think so. This one suits, though.”

  A silver pen. Another novelty. One she used on party invitations. Her favorite writing instrument in the drawer, actually. An indulgence of sorts, a flourish that made light work of the tediousness of addressing envelopes. And he had picked it out unerringly.

  He reached for her hand, intending to draw the mark on her arm.

  “Not so visible,” she said. “Most of my summer work dresses are sleeveless.” And the thought of walking across campus in a jacket during an August heat wave was deeply unappealing.

  “Where, then?” he asked. “Where I placed it before?”

  To her annoyance she felt the very spot, high on her inner thigh where Miach’s mark had been, tingle and flush again with warmth. This time she willed that warmth, with mixed success, not to travel.

  “Are there certain places that work best? Like the ley lines?”

  “I’d very much like to say yes. But, no. Not really.” His little smile, and wistful tone, were exasperating.

  “Then lets skip the sexy-time option, shall we? Put it over the one that bastard gave me, the one your wards burned off.” Obliterating it.

  She turned and presented her back to Miach.

  He stepped behind her, and hesitated. Then he lifted her hair and draped it over her left shoulder, the movement more sensual than she expected. He looped a finger under her tank top strap and pulled it down slowly, almost reverently. She found herself anticipating the kiss of the pen against her skin, the glide of it over her back.

  Which was wrong. She needed to remember what he was. Ancient, jaded, inhuman. If she let him, he would use her.

  But the minute the ink-slick tip of the pen touched her back, she knew that she would enjoy it, enjoy having his mark on her. Knew that it was disingenuous to pretend that sex was something he would take and she would give. Acknowledged, even if only to herself, that there were things she would like to use him for.

  Images flooded her mind, and her body heated in response. Miach straining over her. Helene arching her lower back to meet him. A frenzy of thrusting and sweating, her heels digging into his muscular buttocks.

  The pen flew over her back, fast as a signature, and then it was over, and the images faded. He pulled the strap back over her shoulder. She took a moment before turning to get her breathing back under control. He would know anyway how much the contact had affected her, would suspect how much she wished she could have him, free of consequences.

  But he was Fae, and there was nothing safe about him.

  • • •

  Miach knew he should not have mentioned Deirdre. Human women wanted promises and permanence. The first he could give them. He promised them pleasure, his fullest attention while it lasted, support for any children they might conceive, comfort, even luxury.

  Permanence though . . . that was impossible. The Fae lived in the moment. He would enjoy Helene’s company while it lasted—indeed, he felt certain, enjoy it immensely—but she was mortal, and there would be others after her. It was the rare Fae who tied himself to a human, who contented himself with the few hundred years a mortal and he might live when bound together, and gave up the millennia of life and of loves he might otherwise enjoy.

  Because that was the fate of any Fae who could not bear to part with a mortal lover, to follow their beloved to the grave. Vows made by the Aes Sídhe had consequence. If Miach bound himself to a human woman, he would share his life—and his life force—with her in every way. She would gain longevity and prolonged youth, but her span would still be brief compared to that of a Fae. And when she died, Miach would die with her.

  He could not bind himself to Helene Whitney, but when she had arrived on his doorstep with the reek of another Fae’s magic upon her, Miach had felt white-hot rage, jealousy, possessiveness. Helene was his. Or would be his, eventually. He had always intended to circumvent his promise to Beth Carter, to take Helene to his bed. But Helene was young, and the Fae were long-lived, and he had thought he could afford to take his time.

  He had asked Liam and Nial, who spent more time outside of South Boston, to keep an eye on her, and he had used his own contacts among the wealthy and well-placed to find out more about her job and status at the museum.

  He had discovered that she dated academics from the university and occasionally donors to the museum. That she rebuffed married men, who often thought that writing a check to the charity fund bought them Helene Whitney’s favors as well.

  Miach had been forced to chastise one of these importunate, married swains. Liam had reported on the man’s antics and called Miach the night the situation had escalated, when the man had waited for Helene at her car several blocks from the museum where she was forced to park at night.

  Helene, as director of development, was placed in an impossible position. To reject him was to lose his support of the institution. She had outmaneuvered him twice. The third time, Liam had called Miach and Miach had addressed the problem, discouraging the man from returning, and at the same time making certain that he would continue his support for the museum.

  She had not known about that, but she had clearly suspected his involvement, as well as the source of new windows, the parking space, and the raise, even before today. Most people didn’t recognize Fae influence when they saw it, but once a mortal’s eyes were open to the world of the Sídhe, it was sometimes difficult to miss.

  He had been planning on wooing Helene once Beth returned. For one thing, he wanted the little Druid to remove the geis. Beth had placed it on him becaus
e she thought Miach’s attentions were unwanted. But if they had become welcome, he was certain she would remove it. And once he had a chance to show Helene that he was what she was looking for—and not finding, could never find—on all those mind-numbing dates, he knew that his attentions would be welcome.

  He’d intended to approach Beth with a donation. His own collection of art was large and varied. And there were paintings, American Pre-Raphaelites mostly, that he had enjoyed for decades but now wished to change out in his home. They were outside Beth Carter’s expertise, which would mean involving other departments and, inevitably, Helene as director of development.

  Helene would have been forced to speak with him, to work out the donation terms, the tax implications—he did pay taxes on some portion of his income—the legal niceties of the transfer. Because she took her job seriously, she would also have been forced to entertain him, to wine and dine him and add him to her invitation lists. She would need to spend time with him. And he would be side-stepping the terms of Beth’s geis. He could seduce Helene Whitney on her own ground, where she was most comfortable. And he would make her want him so badly that she would beg her friend to remove the geis.

  It had been an excellent plan, he thought wistfully. And it had fallen apart the moment Helene Whitney had crossed his threshold with another Fae’s magic on her shoulder, because to save her life he must place freeing her from this unknown Sídhe’s control ahead of seducing her.

  The episode in her office, though, had suggested the two might not be mutually exclusive. If he could rein in his Fae nature and resist exerting compulsion on her while she was reliant on him for her safety, she might come to see him in a new light. It was a different kind of seduction. Instead of showering her with gifts and sensual pleasure, he could perhaps earn her trust.

  It had taken an act of will not to cup her breast as he drew his mark on her shoulder. She was not curvaceous like Beth, but lean and athletic. The first time he had seen her, he had fantasized about having her long tanned legs wrapped around his waist.

  The same fantasy now made light work of his search through the storage vault. He’d felt a few objects of Fae and Druid power hidden in the shelves, and he uncovered them now. There were three silver brooches, Fae jewels that radiated subtle protective spells. He pocketed them to investigate more closely later. There was a sword with a mild enchantment. The workmanship was undistinguished and the magic faded, so he bled off the last of its power and left it, inert now, in its box.