Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel)

by D. L. McDermott

  They walked the entire crescent of the beach, all the way to the fort and back, talking as they went. Helene told him about her tomboy childhood in Connecticut, her career trajectory at the museum. “Sometimes,” she admitted, “I think I’m not putting my talents to their best use. That I should be raising money for people who really need it. Starving people can’t eat art.”

  “No, they can’t,” said Miach, “but beauty feeds us in other ways. And there’s little point to living in cities as we do, to organizing ourselves in such complex societies, human, Druid or Fae, if we cannot create something more—something finer—than mere sustenance.”

  When they reached the house it was quiet. Not the hush of emptiness, but the soft hum of family trying to stay tastefully out of sight.

  “Shall we go upstairs?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Miach’s suite delighted her. There was a large bay window looking out over the water, offering a different perspective from the view in the library. The ceilings were high, and the ornate Victorian cornices and door moldings had been painted in shades of beige and cream. The furniture was simpler and more modern than anything else in the house, mostly midcentury Scandinavian designs in walnut. The drapes were cream velvet, the carpet underfoot was wool with a velvet nap, and the bed covers were quilted cream silk.

  “Do you like it?” Miach asked.

  “You knew I would.”

  “I suspected you might. I haven’t seen your apartment, but your office was revealing. You like texture.”

  He took her hand and placed it against his chest. “Although I would understand if this is not a texture you care for. I can keep my shirt on if you’d prefer.”

  She felt the scars there through the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “I don’t mind scars.”

  “There are others,” he warned.

  “I want to see them all.”

  She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, which she enjoyed. Men her own height or only a few inches taller than her made Helene feel ungainly, but with Miach she felt slender and fine-boned, even if she was not.

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, his tongue slipping inside her mouth, warm and wet and hungry. They grew breathless quickly, and Miach found the zipper at the back of her sundress and disrobed her. She stepped out of her sandals to stand barefoot on his velvety soft carpet in her bra and panties.

  Miach stepped back and unbuttoned his cuffs, pulled his shirt off, revealing the full extent of his scars.

  Helene didn’t shrink back. She ran her hands over the jagged network of pink lines, from his naval to his collar bone. There were other marks as well, some carved into his flesh and others drawn with ink. Whorls covering his shoulders and bands ringing his biceps.

  “What are these?” she asked, tracing one of the bands around his muscular upper arms.

  “Spells. Protective wards. Some are geasa. Others mark rites of passage for a sorcerer. Now let me see your scars.”

  “Mine aren’t magical.”

  “All marks have power,” he said, drawing her onto the bed beside him. “Even if they are only the power of memory, of knowing your past, what you survived.”

  He unclasped her bra, cupped her small breasts in his large hands. Kissed her mouth, her throat, her nipples, as she lay back on the bed in only her panties. He left those on but slipped one hand beneath them, making her writhe and gasp. Making her hungry for him. She reached for the buttons on his trousers, felt the hardness of his erection through the cloth, fumbled to free it. Gave up for a moment when he slid a finger inside her.

  But she wanted him, and she was persistent. She pushed his hands away and turned to focus on his pants. He laughed as she tugged impatiently at his trousers, then helped her to get them off. Finally he was free, and she grasped his impressive length, couldn’t resist the urge to wrap her hand around the middle of his shaft and stroke up—

  Her curled fingers met smooth metal. He was pierced.

  She froze. “What is that?”

  “It is a Fae jewel,” he replied, taking hold of her wrist and sweeping her hand over the head of his shaft, her fingers over the cool silver. He sighed with the pleasure of it. “Another example of our old arts. And it will feel very, very good inside you.”

  She had no idea what to say. She had never dated a man with a tattoo, let alone a pierced . . . but the idea was somehow intriguing. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the silver ring. The little ball moved. Back and forth. As it would do inside her. . . .

  Miach sensed her train of thought. He swept her panties down off her hips. Then he lifted her to straddle him.

  “Try it,” he said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it off.”

  She had been afraid of losing herself, her autonomy, to a Fae lover, but she had never been more in control of a first encounter than this. She was poised over him, and he held his shaft up to the lips of her body, kissing her entrance. He brushed the silver ring over her clit, and it was cool and smooth and different from anything else she had ever felt.

  She flexed her hips and took the head of him inside her, the piercing stretching and stimulating her entrance. She opened her eyes to find him watching her intently. She sank down on him, exquisitely aware, every inch of the way, of the silver ornament within her.

  When he was buried to the hilt she flexed her hips and arched her back and decided that she did like how the ring felt inside her. He took hold of her hips and lifted her high until only the head of him remained sheathed, then brought her back down firmly on him, as though to demonstrate, again, just how good it could be.

  After that he let her set the pace, and his hands roamed her body while she rode him. For a moment, memories—images—of Deirdre in her studio, riding Kevin, turned in her head. She wondered if the Fae beauty sported a jewel of her own. But even such voluptuous fancies were distractions, and fleeting.

  And then there was room in her mind and universe for no one, nothing, but Miach and herself. Alone in this bed. Alone, but joined. They moved together, flexing, straining, thrusting until Helene felt her body tighten and the first waves of orgasm lap at her.

  Miach flipped them quickly, changed the angle of his penetration, and she lost her place for a moment, slid back down the slope of pleasure until her body registered what he was doing. The silver ring was hitting her there, in that place that drove her crazy, and there was no stopping her climax.

  She did not come alone. Miach cried out and stiffened just as her heels dug into his back. Afterwards they rolled onto their sides still locked together.

  “Did you like that?” he asked, nuzzling her and pulling her head onto his chest.

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ll take that as yes.”

  She giggled. She felt sleepy and replete with pleasure. She was still being stalked by an unseen, unknown adversary, but being confined to Miach’s house had some advantages.

  One of which was already coming back to life inside her.

  “I suppose the Fae don’t have a refractory period,” she remarked dryly.

  “Of course we do,” replied Miach, pulling her close and showing her exactly how he wanted her next. “We just measure it in seconds, not hours.”

  • • •

  Miach drowsed with Helene curled around him. It had been years since he’d taken a human lover, made a mortal woman a regular member of his household, but he was excited about the prospect of having her here, in his home, and in his life.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her.

  She stirred, then pushed the tangled blond hair out of her face and said, “Ravenous.”

  They dressed and went downstairs, passing Nial and a girlfriend sprawled on the sofas in the TV room. The girl whispered in his ear as they passed, but Nial shushed her.

  “It’s like I’m dating a man with teenagers,” Helene said to Miach.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked. “Liam and Nial are genuinely contrite. It was Brian who led them into folly, and he will ne
ver be welcomed back into this house.”

  “No. It doesn’t bother me. I grew up in a blended family. My brothers were half brothers, but I thought of them as my own. And I miss it, the noisy house and all the comings and goings, and sense of belonging.”

  Miach surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. “Will it add to your sense of belonging if I admit that Nieve was the only one who can really cook, and that there’s nothing within my limited skill level in here?” he asked.

  Helene looked over his shoulder at the contents of the icebox.

  “Will you be horribly disillusioned to learn that I’m not the cooking type?” she asked in return.

  “Nial,” Miach called.

  The boy appeared in the door to the kitchen, looking hesitant.

  “Go and get the car,” said Miach. “We’re going out for dinner.”

  • • •

  By the time Nial brought the car around—a Mercedes sedan that Helene hadn’t seen before—she really was ravenous.

  Miach had said that he wanted to build something normal and human between them, and few things could be more human than driving to dinner with your boyfriend’s rebellious son from a previous relationship and that son’s nervous girlfriend.

  The girl, Rosalyn, seemed terrified of Miach, who called her “Rosie” and peppered her with questions about what she was studying at art school and what she planned to do with her degree.

  Helene had expected Miach to take her to one of South Boston’s pubs for a meal, but instead he drove them to a chic bistro in the Fort Point Channel arts district. It was a satellite restaurant owned by one of Boston’s most famous chefs, and impossible, even on a weeknight, to get a reservation with less than a week’s notice.

  Miach drove up to the front door, left the car with the valet, led their little party inside, and was seated immediately.

  The lighting was subdued and the decor was elegant. Miach ordered wine for the table. With surprise Helene realized that this was the first time she had observed the Fae sorcerer in such a context. Somehow he was equally at home in this sophisticated setting as he had been in a dive bar in Charlestown, or at her museum, or on the beach.

  She supposed that if you were immortal and had already lived three thousand years you would be comfortable almost everywhere you went. And that very little would surprise you. She said as much.

  “Places and things rarely surprise me,” Miach replied. “And the Fae are, by and large, a predictable race. That is why we are so drawn to your kind. Because occasionally you do surprise us.” He smiled. “Sometimes in the most interesting ways.”

  The meal was excellent, and afterward Miach had Nial drop them off at the house and take his girlfriend home in the Porsche. With the house apparently to themselves, Miach poured them each a whiskey and took Helene on a tour of his art collection.

  There was a picture gallery on the second floor. Miach’s taste ran to nineteenth century American landscapes and mythological subjects, and he had some enviable pictures. There was an Edwin Austen Abbey, a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Helene particularly liked.

  “I meant to woo you with them,” Miach admitted. “To approach Beth with a major donation for the museum, because I knew you would be obligated to spend time with me. I was determined to show you a different side of my world.”

  He had, unintentionally. He had shown her Nieve and Garrett, and Deirdre and Kevin. And fraught as those relationships were, there was beauty there.

  “And now?” she asked. “Will you still donate the pictures?”

  “Now,” he replied, putting his drink on a hall table and taking hers away as well, “I think you should woo me for them.”

  Chapter 12

  It was a game. An invitation to play a role with him, to explore another facet of what it might be like to be with a Fae. She still wasn’t certain she could live in his world with him. This brief interlude while she needed his protection from her magical assailant was probably all they would ever have. And she wanted to make the most of it.

  There was a large mirror at the end of the gallery with an ormolu table beneath it. She took Miach’s hand and led him to it. He looked intrigued. She unzipped her dress and dropped it on the floor. Now he looked more than intrigued. She reached down and unclasped the iron torc from around her ankle, setting it on the table with a decisive click.

  His eyes opened wide. Evidently she had surprised him. In an interesting way.

  “You wanted me the night we met,” she said. “You drew a geis on me so you could find me again. If Brian hadn’t abducted me, if you hadn’t tried to kill Beth, if she hadn’t placed the geis on you, what would you have done next?”

  • • •

  The Fae were not known for their self-control. There was rarely any reason for them to resist temptation. He’d seen—no, he’d felt—how much Helene had enjoyed exploring her sexuality. His piercing had shocked her at first, but then she’d warmed to the adventure.

  She was inviting him now to push her boundaries. If he intended this to be a short-term affair, he wouldn’t hesitate. But he was looking forward to waking up next to her in the morning, and they had all the time in the world to experiment, to discover what they liked together.

  Then it struck him that she didn’t think about this as he did. That she believed this was going to be a brief liaison. And she might well be right. He intended to keep her safe, to make her experience at the Commandant’s House the very last brush she had with Fae magic and true danger. If he failed, she would probably walk away from him and his world, with good reason.

  He had to make a choice: to take everything she was offering at this moment, because it might be all they ever had, or to rein in his Fae impulses, the hedonism that was natural to his race, in the hope and belief that they might have a future together.

  To prove himself worthy of her trust.

  Which meant using his voice . . . to give her what she wanted.

  “Tell me,” he said to her, “about your fantasies. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

  Her breath hitched. She was visibly excited. And entirely under his sway. His voice would sound like music in her ears, and her body would want to join the dance.

  “I want,” she said, “the end of the chase.”

  Apparently his voice was not the only one that could trigger fantasy, because the image that filled his mind was compelling and uniquely Fae. He was hunting her. Through the forest. Barefoot. Everything verdant and smelling sweetly of spring. And he was close now, almost upon her.

  “Turn around, Helene,” he said. “Put your hands on the table, bend over, and look into the mirror.”

  She licked her lips and obeyed him, hands splayed on the white marble, elbows balanced at the edge. She danced to his tune, and they both knew it, the cold iron torc in plain view, both in and out of her reach now, there on the tabletop.

  For a long moment he studied the pure line of her arched back, the firm globes of her ass, the curtain of her hair as it fell over her shoulders.

  Then he ripped her panties off, the tearing of fabric loud in the still room, exposing the taut, tanned flesh beneath. Helene whimpered, hot with need. He ran a finger along her cleft, found her wet and waiting for him.

  He kicked her feet apart and poised to enter her, but then he stopped. He reached over her arching back, lifted her hand, and placed it over the cold iron torc.

  “Tell me,” he said, “that this really what you want.”

  “Yes,” she said, with her hand curled around the cold iron. “Yes.”

  He plunged inside.

  • • •

  Helene woke the next morning to the telltale sounds of a man dressing. Of belt buckles and clinking change. Or, more accurately, she woke to the sound of a man trying to dress quietly.

  The meaning of that sound, she well knew, was entirely dependent on context. If the man was in your bed, quiet dressing generally indicated that he hoped to leave your apartment without speak
ing with you. If, on the other hand, you were in his bed, the quiet dressing meant that he didn’t want you to wake up and leave.

  Not that she could leave Miach’s house without him until her Fae persecutor was caught. But it was a nice feeling, all the same.

  She stretched and opened her eyes. The illusion of domesticity evaporated. Miach was no ordinary lover. He was Fae. And the metallic sounds she had heard were less to do with spare change and belt buckles and more to do with a half dozen silver blades that he was strapping to his body.

  Still, he was trying to do that quietly, and that must count for something.

  “I was trying not to wake you,” he said.

  “I see that. Where are you going?”

  “To Ireland.”

  She sat up. “For how long?”

  “A few hours. No more. I can pass there in an instant.”

  She had forgotten that. “Why?”

  “Conn and Beth have discovered something at the Prince Consort’s house near Clonmel. Elada and I will return as soon as we can. You should be safe as long as you stay in the house. And Nieve came back this morning, so you’ll have company. And Liam and Nial are here to protect her.”

  “From what?” Helene asked.

  “From her husband, and perhaps from Finn. I lifted the geis I placed on them, that forbade them from seeing her. But they may not be content with the new bargain we struck. I doubt Garrett likes the idea of spending half his week under my roof. They may try to take her. Magic can’t get through my wards, but that won’t stop the Fianna from breaking the door down.”

  And he was still going to Ireland, even when danger might threaten Nieve, which meant that Conn and Beth had found something important. He was also, according to other Fae, the most powerful sorcerer his race had ever known. Two nights ago he had walked into the territory of his mortal enemy with nothing but a penknife in his pocket. This morning he had strapped a silver dirk to each thigh, throwing knives to each of his wrists and ankles, and what appeared to be a leaf-bladed broadsword to his back.