Iron Kissed

"Go home, Fideal," Zee said. "And leave this one. Leave my child alone and your blood will not feed my sword. It, too, hungers and it feeds best on things less helpless than a human child." He waved a hand and a motor spun to life, lifting the garage door next to Fideal.

The fae scrambled out of the pole barn and disappeared around the corner.

"He won't bother you again," said Zee, who once more looked like himself. The knife was gone, too. "I'll speak to Uncle Mike and we'll make certain of it." He held out a hand and Warren used it to pull himself to his feet.

Warren was pale and his clothes were wet as if he'd been immersed in water, seawater from the smell of him. He straightened himself slowly, as if he hurt.

"Are you all right?"

Warren nodded, but he was still leaning on Zee.

The walking stick was just in front of Zee's foot—the blackened silver knob had smoke gently rising from it.

I picked it up gingerly, but it was as inert to my touch as the stick I'd thrown for Ben on Saturday. "I thought this was only good for making ewes have twins."

"It's very old," said Zee. "And old things can have a mind of their own."

"So," I said, still looking at the smoking stick. "Are you still mad at me?"

Zee's jaw stiffened. "I want you to know this. I would rather have died in that cell than have you suffer that madman's attack."

I pursed my lips and gave him my truth in exchange for his. "I'm alive. You're alive. Warren's alive. Our enemies are dead or vanquished. That makes this a good day."

I went to work on Monday morning and learned that Elizaveta, the pack's very expensive witch, had been by and done cleanup. The only trace of my run-in with Tim were the scars I'd left on the cement while I was trying to destroy the cup. Even the door Adam broke had been replaced.

Zee had come in on Friday and Saturday, so all my work was caught up. I had a few bad moments, which I had to hide from Honey, who was Monday's guard, but by lunch I'd reclaimed the shop as mine. Even Gabriel's hovering (after school was out) and Honey camped in my office didn't disturb me as much as I'd expected. I finished at five sharp and sent Gabriel home. Honey followed me to my driveway before going home herself.

Samuel and I ate take-out Chinese and watched an old action flick from the eighties. About halfway through, Samuel got a call from the hospital and had to leave.

I turned off the TV as soon as he was gone and took a long hot shower. I shaved my legs in the sink and took my time blow-drying my hair. I braided it, reconsidered, and wore it loose.

"If you keep fussing, you'll make me come in and get you," Adam told me.

I knew he was there, of course. Even if I hadn't heard him drive up or come in, I would have known he was there. There was only one reason that Samuel wouldn't have called for a replacement. He'd known Adam would be over soon.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was darker on my arms and face from the summer sun than it was on the rest of my body, but at least I'd never be pasty pale. Aside from the cut on my chin that Samuel had put two stitches in and a nice bruise on my shoulder that I didn't remember getting, there was nothing wrong with my body. Karate and mechanicking kept me in good shape.

My face wasn't pretty, but my hair was thick and brushed my shoulders.

Adam wouldn't force me. Wouldn't do anything I didn't want him to do—and had wanted him to do for a long time.

I could ask him to leave. To give me more time. I stared at the woman in the mirror, but all she did was stare back.

Was I going to let Tim have the last victory?

"Mercy."

"Careful," I told him, pulling on clean underwear and an old T-shirt. "I have an ancient walking stick and I know how to use it."

"The walking stick is lying across your bed," he said.

When I came out of the bathroom, Adam was lying across my bed, too.

"When Samuel makes it back from the hospital, he's going to spend the rest of the night at my house," Adam said. "We have time to talk."

His eyes were closed and he had dark circles under them. He hadn't been getting much sleep.

"You look horrible. Don't they have beds in D.C.?"

He looked at me, his eyes so dark they were almost black in this light, but I knew they were a shade lighter than mine.

"So have you made up your mind?" he asked.

I thought of his rage when he'd broken down the door to my garage, of his despair when he persuaded me to drink out of the goblet again, of the way he'd pulled me out from under the bed and bitten my nose—then held me all night long.

Tim was dead. And he'd always been a loser.

"Mercy?"

In answer, I pulled the T-shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.