Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

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Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel Page 7

by Melissa Marr


  She Saw them, all and each: the thistled skin, the leonine hair, the bone-thin bodies as if scrimshaw decided to walk. And in the midst of all of it was a woman with close-cut, mannish hair and trousers. The others gave her wide berth.

  And that was the faery who watched Irial in curiosity.

  Irial

  The latest Winter Girl stared at Irial, not accusingly but with the kind of curiosity that would make him squirm in his seat if he were most anyone else. He knew better than to bring Thelma here, but the fact of the matter was that until Keenan and Beira were in town, Thelma was safer than any living creature in the city.

  Irial would see to that.

  After the other regents arrived, well, he’d need to make some decisions, and sadly, “after” would appear to be coming far sooner than he’d expected. He leaned closer to Thelma.

  “Will you trust me?” he whispered.

  “I do, and I will.”

  A burst of pride filled him, and he felt the surge of it riding through the shadowed tendrils that connected him to his court. In truth, he rarely sent such a feeling their direction of late. After relations, sure, but in general, joy wasn’t as easily attained as it had once been.

  “Do you remember the English lady’s poem?” he asked in a low voice.

  Thelma’s eyes widened.

  “Trust no one else,” he told her, hoping she understood the warning he was offering. “No one like them.”

  The odds of the fey in the room having read a contemporary poet, an English woman at that, were slim. His predilection for poetry was one he typically had only shared with Niall, although the Summer Court advisor had insisted that the Summer King pay attention to the arts. So, due to that particular bit of insult, Irial’s love of literature had inadvertently led to similar love in the Summer King.

  It was maddening, to be honest, to see what was often his chief reason for admiring mortals to be co-opted. However, neither Niall nor Keenan were in the room, so his words to Thelma were as private as the best of covert statements.

  She eased her chair closer, an unconscious statement of trust that made Irial want to preen, and together they watched a gifted jazz band create the sort of magic that was uniquely human. He wished that this were the sort of club where he could take her into his arms, the beautiful excuse of a dance so as to justify holding a woman closer than appropriate, but neither the setting nor the woman would allow such liberties.

  “Why is she watching us?” Thelma asked quietly in a minute gap between songs, her gaze falling on the current Winter Girl.

  Irial made eye contact with the girl and shrugged.

  Moments later, she was sliding their way, ice glazing the floor under her feet so she was skating on the floor of the room. To a mortal, she ought to look as if she were simply moving with impeccable grace, but he knew that Thelma saw what the girl was actually doing.

  “May I join you, sir?” the Winter Girl asked.

  “Briefly.”

  “I am Rika,” she pronounced, a Northern European accent barely contained.

  Thelma made to reach out her hand to shake. Irial caught it in his. Gently he squeezed her hand and pulled it under the table.

  Rika did not remark.

  “Recently arrived?” he asked.

  Once Thelma’s hand was tucked back in her lap, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. “Smoke?”

  Both Thelma and Rika said, “Yes, please.”

  The two exchanged a look of surprise.

  “Well, then.” He offered them each a cigarette, lit them, and waited.

  “Don’t ask questions, Rika. Knowing too much makes lying impossible, especially to Beira.” Irial inhaled the calming smoke. “You would be better off not to have spoken to me, but at the very least do not ask questions.”

  “There are eyes everywhere, dark one. They see you with--” Rika gestured with her cigarette “—an innocent, and they ask questions.” She glanced at Thelma. “He is not the sort to dally with m—”

  “Married women,” he interjected. Then he learned back in his chair. “Fear not, Rika, the lovely Thelma belongs to no one but herself. She is an artist. A jeweler.”

  He held his hand up, so all could see. The room was filled with faeries of several courts. More than a few were watching them openly.

  “And she is going to run a shop I’ve purchased,” he finished. “I love art. Literature. Jewels. Beautiful things. I collect them, and my lovely friend has the talent to run my new business.”

  “They watch,” Rika said softly.

  “Then, I shall offer them a show.” Irial crushed his cigarette, looked at Thelma, and asked, “Would you be so scandalous as to waltz with me?”

  Thelma exhaled a plume of smoke. Again, she remained silent, but he hoped that was merely because of their companion.

  Irial stood and held out a hand.

  Still silent, Thelma stood as well. She slipped her hand into his, and he made a gesture to the cluster of tables nearest him. Several Dark Court faeries shoved, carried, and tossed the tables and chairs aside.

  The owner, a solitary faery, glared at Irial.

  “I’ll pay for loss, as per usual,” Irial said at level voice. Everyone there heard, though. They had heard every single utterance he’d made since entering.

  “Why do I think being here is a mistake?” Thelma whispered as he took her into his arms.

  The music was wrong, and the future was far more disastrous than it had been that morning.

  But when Thelma looked up at him in guileless joy, he forgot all of it. Her small, ungloved hand was in his, and his other hand held her to him. As one, they moved across the small space open to them. In truth, it was one of his clumsiest dances, but to see the way this forbidden mortal stared at him, it was perfection.

  “Your ring,” she started.

  “I saw you drop it by the water, and I wanted to pay you back for the gift of it, Thelma.” He carefully twisted his words, so nothing there was a lie.

  “It was freely given.”

  “As is the shop I just purchased,” he said in an equally light voice. “It needs only the right manager.”

  Moments passed as they danced. Finally, she asked, “What shop?”

  “Onyx.”

  “The jeweler?”

  “He sold it to me, and I—unfortunately—do not have the time to take on another business.” Irial stared into her eyes. “At the least, you should meet the jewelers. They have been instructed to await my liaison.”

  “I am not wrong to trust you,” she said.

  “Let us hope that is true.” He leaned in far too closely then and announced, “I find that I like you being in my arms.”

  Her smile deepened, but her eyes flashed wickedly. “I still shan’t marry you, sir. Pretty words or not.”

  He ought to be embarrassed. Here was a woman, a mortal woman, seemingly rejecting him. He smiled back at her, though, and said, “I suppose I am to have only your friendship, then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  And in that one word was the promise of more, of the things he sought, of the very things he would have.

  Tam

  The day after talking to Irial seemed to stretch on forever. Tam was gathering the wash she’d taken in. It wasn’t exceptional money, but when her friend Deirdre asked for extra hands, Tam always agreed.

  The thought of the jewelry shop that Irial had apparently purchased lingered on her mind. If she had any doubt that he was following her, the choice of that jeweler would’ve ended it. Of course, she’d seen him there, but he shouldn’t know that. Did he realize that? Was he toying with her?

  The devil didn’t tempt with easy rewards; he tempted with the things one wanted the most. Onyx Jewelers had dismissed her, and now she was to manage the same shop? It seemed like an illusion, the sort offered by men trying to seduce women, empty promises.

  Tam decided that she’d concentrate on laundry instead. What else was she to do? Show up at a faery’s door?
Show up at the shop where she’d been dismissed? Dreams were dangerous things. In New Orleans now or Chicago before, the lure of faster money, easier work, and pretty baubles had drawn a good many women into selling their bodies.

  Poverty made wise choices harder.

  She’d avoided sex work, as well as marriage. Not because of disdain for either, but with relations came babies, and Tam was determined not to pass on the Sight. Doing the wash paid well enough for the moment—and didn’t lead to men or faeries thinking they could lift her skirts.

  Resolute, she went to the courtyard outside her rooms; it was already filled with the laughter of other washerwomen. They brought their work and tubs outside, and one of the neighbors’ older children stoked the fire under the metal pot.

  Tam was lucky enough to be beside the kettle, but not so near that she’d be dripping with sweat once she’d been working a while. There were other women who worked in other ways, but Tam preferred the communal aspect of the courtyard for the bigger pieces like linens or common clothes.

  A rat scuttled past them, darting under a hibiscus. Several children chased after it brandishing sticks and yelling. They pretended to be pirates—and their mothers exchanged shrugs and said nothing.

  “Quiet thing today, aren’t you?” Deirdre asked.

  Tam nodded. She wanted to talk, but she could not tell the other women that she’d met a faery or that the biggest reason she was resisting was fear of children. Deirdre would likely believe her, but talk spread like nits in small communities.

  “Are you in trouble?” Deirdre asked, quieter now, as she snatched up a shirt and scrubbed it on her washboard.

  Tam grabbed a soiled cloth from her pile and began washing. “I met someone.”

  Deirdre bumped her shoulder into Tam’s.

  “He’s dangerous, though.”

  “Worse than one of the Sicilians that shot the sheriff?”

  That was the current meter for trouble in the city. New Orleans police chief David Hennessy had been killed. Nineteen men were arrested, and when some were acquitted, the citizens had gone and lynched them.

  “He’s not a Sicilian.”

  Deirdre nodded. “Good.”

  “But he’s involved in . . . he obviously has money.” Tam wasn’t sure what he was involved in. “If betting weren’t a sin, I’d wager that he owns a house or two over in Storyville.”

  At that word, several ears perked up. The city’s notorious legal “red light district” was as talked about as Hennessy’s murder. Everyone and their cousin had an opinion, and at least half of them seemed to be said in whispers.

  “Is he making you work there?” Deirdre asked.

  “No.”

  “Does he look at you like he’s thinking about you being naked?”

  Tam blushed.

  “Ah, I see.” Deirdre grinned. “And have you been looking at him the same?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Be sure he’s buying the cow before you let him have too much of the milk,” Deirdre advised. “Will’s da got too much free milk if you take my meaning, and by the time Will was here, I was alone with a babe and bills.”

  “Even if he wanted free milk, I doubt it’d be from me. He’s a beautiful man, and I’m plain as curtains.” Tam laughed.

  Deirdre straightened all the way up and stared at her. “You’re not that dim, girl. Course he wants that.”

  “He wants to be friends.”

  “Never heard of a man that could be friends with a woman. Lord’s sake, I can’t imagine such a thing.” Deirdre’s smile softened the harshness of her words.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m not pretty, but—”

  “Bah. We’re all pretty, child. Made in God’s likeness, aren’t we?” Deirdre shook her head and snapped the water out of the shirt fiercely. “The Lord is good, Tam, and He made us like him. You’re as beautiful as any other out there living because you’re fashioned after Him, you see?”

  “I do see.” Tam didn’t think herself ugly, but she wasn’t as curvaceous as some or as fresh-faced as others. She was average, and until now, average simplified things.

  Irial made her want to be more: to be breathtaking, to be unforgettable.

  Deirdre sunk another bit of cloth into the washtub with a vigorous splash. “And if a man is just your friend, what difference does it make where he gets his dosh? Let him spend it on you. Plenty of them don’t want to do that, and them that do don’t stay after they get under your skirts, do they?”

  Tam couldn’t argue. She was the least worldly of the women she knew and worked with: no children or cruel men in her past, simply a desire to be on her own. Tam’s dreams were more fitting for men. Educated, independent women weren’t as common as they ought to be, and women who didn’t dream of a husband were rarer still.

  Lost in her thoughts, Tam worked at her task. Was she being foolish to avoid Irial? He was charming, and he was handsome. Even if she couldn’t accept his offer of a jewelry store, she could continue walking with him. He’d not made improper advances so far. A few dances. A few beignets. No danger in that.

  And if she'd set her hair in papers that evening, so she'd have fuller hair come morning, it was not for him. Sometimes a woman wanted to be a little prettier. There was nothing more to it than that.

  Niall

  Midnight came and passed, and Niall found himself wandering the streets again. The city felt closer to Europe than the United States, but the hedonism that writhed just under the surface brought back Dark Court memories. It was no wonder Irial was here.

  “Looking for some company?” The faery wore the sort of glamour that would turn many a mortal man’s eye. Her green-tinged skin looked like the edge of evening, neither dark nor light, and her seaweed tresses were twisted into curls that she’d caught in a knot.

  “Jenny.” Niall smiled at her, more genuinely than he did with many of the Dark Court fey.

  The Greenteeth faeries were all a part of the Dark Court, but when he’d known them, over a thousand years ago, they were kind to him. He’d learned much of what he first knew of sex with women from them, and though it was sentimental, he tended to revert to that younger version of himself around them.

  “Do you know where his house is?”

  “I do.” She sounded amused, but often, she took joy in the smallest of things. “I shall tell you, my dear missing faery. For a fee.”

  Niall chuckled. “When do you want this fee paid?”

  “I’m free tonight,” she offered. “My services aren’t, of course, but . . . for you? Perhaps. I always welcome the hand of Darkness.”

  “I left the court, Jenny. Remember?” Niall said, although he didn’t object to the way she curled against his side. “I am Keenan’s advisor, now.”

  “And I’m Irial’s spy, love,” she whispered. “Then. Now. We are who we are. Unchanged. You are still looking for the Dark King, like a lost one trying to find home.”

  “I seek him on behalf of the Summer King.”

  “So you tell me.” Jenny patted his cheek. “But I am more interested in my fee.”

  “I have no coins to give you.”

  “You have the coin I require.” Her gaze raked over him, and he had to laugh. In this Summer and Darkness were akin. With all the boldness of both their courts, Jenny informed him, “I shall have you naked and willing against the wall, Niall. Charge them for a show. Let these thick-waisted, thick-walleted mortals see how much fun I am . . .”

  “So you can relieve them of their lives and coins?”

  She lifted her gaze to stare up at him. “We’re addictive, love. Why fight nature?”

  And it wasn’t his job to argue. She wasn’t his responsibility, and truth be told, he doubted Irial would care. They were the Dark Court. Morality was optional at best.

  “He’s well,” Jenny said, voice falsely casual.

  “I expected he’d be gone once you carried word of my arrival.” Niall’s anger seeped into his voice despite the beautiful pliable faery at
his side. “Keenan’s future bride is—”

  Jenny giggled, the sound burbling like the waters that strengthened her. “The Dark King doesn’t flee your new love, Niall.”

  “Keenan is not my—”

  “Irial simply finds it embarrassing to see a faery king stumble over the mortals,” Jenny continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You could help him, as you once helped Irial . . .”

  “No.”

  While they walked, she led him to the front of a brothel. They stood in the street while mortal girls leaned out windows, breasts bare and arms beckoning. Niall glanced at them. If he were a weaker creature, he’d go inside such places and take his fill, leave them withering in want.

  “Come with me, gancanagh,” she tempted, whispering the words against his throat. “Even if you touch none but me, you can look at them. All the mortals. Lustful, naked, writhing. What you seek is here.”

  Niall closed his eyes. He was addictive to them, but a part of him craved the way they offered themselves, their needs, their pleas. He felt like a god when he was entangled with mortals. And if Irial was there . . .

  “No.” Niall shoved Jenny away. “He’ll need to come outside. I cannot go in there . . . I’ll wait here.”

  A step backward.

  Another.

  “I never said he was in there,” Jenny said with a knowing look. “He owns the place, but he’s not here.”

  “Oh.” Niall shook his head at his own foolishness. What he sought? He was embarrassed that he’d thought she meant Irial, but he tried to tell himself that was only because he’d asked her where Irial was. No other reason.

  “I’ll be here, though, or perhaps I should visit you. Slip into the rooms where you keep watch of the Summer King’s discarded toys . . .”

  “Jenny.” Niall took her hand. “Would you tell me if you knew things I should hear?”

 

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