Silver Skin (A Cold Iron Novel) (2 page)

And he did not know how to stop it.

Miach had not made the wall between worlds, but he had studied it for two thousand years. It was an intricate Druid construct, a magical barrier that straddled two realms, its foundations deep in the earth of this world and the fabric of the plane where the Fae dwelled in exile. Its engineering was a marvel, and Miach admired it from a strictly technical standpoint. Viscerally he recoiled from the edifice that had imprisoned his race, evil as they were, on the other side. It was a monument to an epic betrayal and the bloody annihilation that followed, in which he had played no small part.

And it was vulnerable. It sat balanced like a fulcrum between worlds, had been erected to hold a precise number of Fae, and now held one more. Enough, Miach suspected, as age decayed its foundations, to tip it off balance. And unbalanced, the wall could tilt and align the gates and let the Fae out. A measure of force, from one side or the other, might send it reeling. Or create a crack. Or cause it to crumble altogether.

In which case the world of men and Miach’s human family in particular would be well and truly fucked.

It was possible that the wall could rebalance itself, adjust to one more Fae on the far side, find some new equilibrium, but that was not a hope he could pin his family’s safety on. Or the world’s.

A knock at the door interrupted his speculation. His granddaughter, or, really, great-great-granddaughter, or more—he had lived among the race of men for two thousand years and begotten a large and boisterous family that was difficult to keep track of—put her head in.

“Your tea is ready,” she said pointedly. He had been taking his afternoon meal in his study for weeks, working late into the night and missing dinner, searching for some way to neutralize or at least contain the power of the Prince’s silver arm, and the mini matriarch who ran his household and managed her child along with her sister’s children had declared yesterday that she would no longer stand for it.

He returned the arm to the lead-lined box where he stored it. After the children had sworn they’d heard something tapping inside the box last week, he had barred his family, except for Nieve and his “right hand,” Elada, the Fae warrior who was bound to him, from the room.

Just as he closed and locked the lid on the box, the whole house shook. It felt like the shock of an earthquake, but Miach knew it was nothing of the kind. The house and grounds were warded. It had been a long time since any Fae had been foolish enough to try to attack him with magic. His race, even reduced as it was, warred constantly: to settle old grudges, to satisfy an ingrained need for violence, to fight the boredom of the centuries. But Miach’s enemies knew better than to bring the fight to his doorstep.

Nevertheless, someone had just carried magic into his house. A grave offense, one the miscreant would die for. His wards would already have dissipated any petty spells the intruder carried. Death would take care of the rest.

And it would be meted out by Miach and Elada. Fae sorcerers always went into battle teamed with a champion. The warrior protected the sorcerer, who would be vulnerable while performing complicated magics, and the sorcerer healed the swordsman and enhanced his battle skills with spells to multiply dexterity and speed.

Elada
passed
into the library, employing the Fae ability to travel through any substance but cold iron, and appeared in the center of the room, sword in hand.

“Finn?” he asked, alluding to the Fae warlord who controlled Charlestown, and who had been Miach’s rival for centuries, but quiet just of late.

“Most likely,” said Miach. When trouble came, with the recent exception of the business with Beth Carter and the shocking reappearance of Conn of the Hundred Battles, it usually came from Finn and his unruly family.

The video chat on Miach’s computer rang. It was an improvement over the scratchy old intercom and it helped make the rambling house livable.

“You have a visitor,” said Miach’s almost human grandson, Liam, who, along with his brother Nial, ran much of Miach’s legitimate business—and most of his criminal enterprises as well.

“I could guess as much, Liam. Who is it?” asked Miach.

“Remember how you asked me to keep an eye on Helene Whitney, even though you promised the Druid woman to let her well alone?” asked Liam, whose all too human conscience often proved inconvenient.

“I promised not to approach her myself,” said Miach. He had taken a
geis
upon himself when he made the promise, stronger because it had been made to a Druid, and one who would come very near to being his equal in power someday. “What does Helene Whitney have to do with our visitor?”

“My contracts professor would call your claim a distinction without a difference,” said Liam.

Miach knew he would regret loosening his hold on this younger generation, allowing them to live more fully in the human world outside South Boston.

“Your contracts professor would be unwise, then, to bargain with a Fae.”

Liam sighed. “Beth Carter told you to leave Helene Whitney alone.”

“And I have,” Miach said pleasantly.

“Then why is she here, with enough magic on her to trip the wards and break every glass in the house?”

Chapter 2

H
elene had never been to Miach’s home before, but Beth had described it from one of her visits. The sorcerer was tutoring Beth, teaching her how to use her Druid talents. Helene hadn’t liked the idea, could not, no matter what her best friend said, bring herself to trust Miach.

Now she would have to.

South Boston was a world removed from the bustle of the rest of the city. Much of it was infill, connecting the old fort at Castle William, originally an island, with the mainland. Separated from downtown by the Fort Point Channel, it had long been a tough neighborhood of immigrants, one group displacing the next until the Irish had come and stuck.

It was fashionable now to buy houses and condos in the gentrified parts of Southie. The Shamrocks and the Winter Hill gang were only memories these days, but muggings and robberies were still alarmingly common. And of course Miach MacCecht’s close-knit crime family remained, collecting protection money from the bars and liquor stores, receiving their tithe from the goods that arrived at the shipping terminal, the cars that rolled off the container ships. Like the milk and honey, which Beth had told her some Irish villagers still left outside their doors to placate the Good Neighbors, a little taste of everything profitable in South Boston was offered up to the Fae.

Helene had taken the T as far as the Broadway station, and begun walking. The Back Bay, where she lived, was a neighborhood of cafés and boutiques and grand public buildings. South Boston was a neighborhood of barbershops and bakeries and light industry. Helene had chosen what she perceived to be the safest route, on a well-trafficked street with schools and businesses, but when two shirtless men covered in prison tattoos had started following her and calling out obscenities, she jumped into a passing cab and told the driver to take her to the big house at City Point.

The driver knew exactly which house she meant.

Her first thought was that the mansion was ugly. A jumble of spires and porches and dormers with no rhyme or reason to them. But there was an exuberance to the architecture, an undeniable joy in the variety and sheer excess of ornament, that seduced her as she drew closer. From the looks of the outside, she guessed that the individual rooms would be quite charming, the house taking its shape from the interior living spaces more than any architect’s plan.

It had taken an act of will to come here. The night she had met Miach, she hadn’t known what he was. She’d felt an instant attraction to him, the effect, she now understood, of his Fae glamour. And perhaps, to be fair, of her unconscious desires.

She was tired of dating men who were intimidated by her. Helene wasn’t petite and curvy like Beth. She was tall for a woman, but she didn’t fit the willowy feminine ideal. Helene was . . . athletic. Tanned. She worked out to stay strong, not slim. She had more than a few freckles across her nose. Her hair was long and blond, but it wasn’t the iron-straight curtain of perfection found in glossy magazines, more the windblown sort that hung in irregular waves.

The scholars she met at the university, with the exception of a fling with a marine biologist who had turned out to be married, tended to be urban creatures, more at home on asphalt than on a forest trail. And few of them were comfortable dating a woman over five-foot-ten who might be able to bench press more than they could.

Helene wanted to meet a man who was comfortable in his own skin, who wouldn’t feel emasculated by her height, her strength, or her focus on her career.

Miach had introduced himself as a doctor. A confident professional with achievements, a breed apart from the introverted scholars and wealthy dilettantes she met at the museum. Their attraction had seemed promising—until she’d discovered what he really was.

Helene had not believed it at first, but when she and Beth were kidnapped by a renegade band of half-blooded Fae, she’d been forced to learn the truth. The Fae had once ruled over men through their vassals, the Druids. But the Druids had grown weary of the abuses of the decadent, sensation-loving Fae, and turned on them, banishing most of the
Aes Sídhe
to an alternate plane, where they abided still, always looking for a way out.

Save the few the Druids had kept prisoner aboveground, such as Miach.

He had refused to take Beth, in the middle of a malaria attack, to a hospital. Helene had thought he was killing her best friend. She’d threatened to call the police. He’d tried to use his glamour then, to bend Helene to his will, and when that wasn’t expedient enough, he’d used his magic to close her windpipe and cut off her air until she’d blacked out.

While she was unconscious, he’d inked a
geis
, a magical tattoo, on her inner thigh. It had allowed him to track her movements. While she admitted that the
geis
had probably saved her life and allowed Miach and Conn to find her when Miach’s renegade son kidnapped her, the Fae sorcerer had not put it there for her sake.

He’d put it there to mark his territory. To make it clear that Helene Whitney was
his
. Later, Beth had made Miach swear to leave Helene alone, but now that she was entering his domain of her own free will, all bets, she feared, were off.

The girl who answered the door was young and pretty and welcoming, and she beckoned Helene inside with a warm smile. Helene crossed the threshold and felt something almost like an electric current pass through her, like receiving a massive static shock. At the same time the whole house shook, as though a truck had passed in the street.

A look of surprise and curiosity passed over the girl’s face. “You’re the lady the old man sent the curly lamb coat to, aren’t you?” she asked.

The Persian lamb coat. Helene still had it in her closet. Longed to wear it. Possibly the most glamorous thing she had ever owned. Miach had sent it by way of an apology—after his son and grandsons had kidnapped her, locked her in a tiny attic, and threatened to abuse her.

She’d hidden the coat away.

“Yes,” she said carefully.

The girl looked her up and down, then wrinkled her nose and said, “He’ll be able to smell it on you. Another Fae’s magic.”

It was the thing Helene had feared the most. That one of these cruel, soulless creatures was climbing inside her mind. Had done it over and over again. Would continue to do so if she could not find help.

So she asked the question that had kept her from coming here for so long. “How can you tell it isn’t Miach’s magic on me?”

The girl looked at her like she was stupid. “Because you tripped the wards on the house.”

Helene wished Beth was here to explain this strange and hidden world to her, but she wasn’t, so Helene was forced to ask: “What does that mean, exactly?”

“The old man’s got the house warded—protected—I mean, with boundary spells. They’re only triggered by magic that isn’t his. Otherwise we’d lose a set of crockery and have to replace all the mirrors every time he came back from a stroll.”

The relief on Helene’s face must have been obvious, because the girl looked at her and said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m better. Fine, I mean,” Helene said.

That was at least one of her fears alleviated. Miach was not the one doing this to her. The mosquito bite on her shoulder, nearly a month old, itched suddenly, but she ignored it and followed the girl—Nieve, she said her name was—into the house.

Nieve ushered Helene past a dining room where a boisterous afternoon meal was taking place with piles of cakes and toast and pots of tea. There were half a dozen small children seated at the table as well as a sprinkling of adults who shared Miach’s black hair and brown black eyes and—looking sheepish at the far end of the room—Miach’s grandsons Liam and Nial.

Helene almost turned tail and ran. Liam and Niall had been two of her kidnappers. But then Nieve was leading her up the stairs, drawing her on with a steady stream of chatter. Nieve was not Fae—or at least not full-blooded Fae. She was pretty but not achingly so. She was charming, but used no chilling glamour to coax Helene to talk about herself. Nieve simply exuded warmth and interest, and Helene found herself describing her job at the museum and her apartment in the Back Bay and then, before she knew it, she was inside a huge chamber that looked out over the harbor.

It was a library. It could easily have been one of the university’s tiny specialized collection rooms, with its polished paneling and embossed red-leather walls. The furnishings were nicer than what a college would have in a space used by students, an assortment of overstuffed lolling chairs and empire sofas covered in silk damask.

Helene took all this in before noting the room’s principal feature: Miach MacCecht. He stood behind a large mahogany desk, and he wore a human glamour, like the night they had met, but she would never be fooled by that again.

He was dressed much as he had been that night, in a dark-gray T-shirt that clung to his sculpted chest and hung loose over the cotton duck trousers that hugged his narrow hips. His hair was coal black and close cropped, his jaw chiseled, his cheekbones set wide and high. Like all of his race he was tall, graceful, fine boned, but beautifully muscled, biceps and forearms lean but strong. His black brows crowned golden brown almond shaped eyes. Even with his human glamour he had the exotic appeal of the Celtic peoples, familiar and, at the same time, fey.

Although she knew how dangerous he was, knew that she should not be attracted to him, she was. She spent her whole day surrounded by beauty, by great works of art. Miach had more than physical appeal. He radiated power. When she had seen him without his human glamour, his features—sharper and more predatory and his eyes an unearthly gold flecked brown—had possessed an uncanny quality that had set her teeth on edge. And still, she had wanted him.

He stayed behind the desk.

“Where is Elada?” she asked. Beth had told her that the sorcerer was never without his right hand. It was another reason that even if Helene could forgive Miach for knocking her out cold, there was no way for them to be together. Miach had tried to kill Beth. And Elada had been the one to carry out his orders. He’d tried to run Beth and Helene’s car off the road, and later on taken Helene’s mind over and forced her to sit inside his vehicle while he chased after her best friend.

“I thought you would rather not see Elada,” Miach replied. “Why are you here, Helene?”

The moment of truth. She opened her mouth to speak. The bite on her shoulder itched so badly, it burned for a second. Then the words tumbled out: “I’m here because a Fae has been abducting me for hours, almost every day, and I can’t remember what happens.”

Miach’s entire body, every lean inch of his six-foot-two frame tensed. “What Fae?” The threat of violence laced his words.

“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice broke. It was such a relief just to be able to speak the words, to talk to someone who believed her. Humiliating tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back and looked away. Her shoulder tingled. Not an itch this time, more of a stretched feeling, like sunburned skin about to peel. She couldn’t resist scratching it.

Miach crossed the room faster than she thought possible and arrested her hand. He spun her around and yanked the strap of her tank top down, exposing her shoulder and the top of her breast.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

“It’s a bug bite,” she said, puzzled. The skin looked red and raised now—even though the bite hadn’t been visible before. And it
was
peeling like a sunburn, spiraling out in a pattern several inches in diameter, larger than a mosquito bite, more symmetrical than a rash. It looked almost like someone had branded her shoulder with a hot iron.

“It’s not an insect bite,” he said. “It
was
a
geis
. A spell.”

It hurt now, a delayed reaction. She’d touched a hot pan once, recoiling at the sting but not feeling the real pain until several seconds later, when it had hit her in a searing wave. This was much the same, but Miach’s fingertips traced a soothing pattern over her branded skin like aloe being smoothed over a wound.

“The wards on the house burned most of it off,” he said. “And your words just now did the rest. You must have been fighting it hard, for some time, because it looks likely to scar.”

“I tried to tell Beth what was happening to me, but the words wouldn’t come out.”

His fingers were still tracing, still soothing. It felt good. Too good.

“Stop,” she said.

His fingers stilled but remained in contact with her skin. “The ink,” he said, “was tinted the shade of your skin. That’s why you didn’t see it. But you fought it, over and over again, forcing it to rewrite itself. It will almost certainly scar now if you don’t let me heal it.”

Letting him touch her was a bad idea. She liked it too much. But a giant scar on her shoulder didn’t appeal.

“Go ahead,” she said. She wanted the thing gone. “Someone did that to me, while I was in their power under their glamour, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” he said, his fingertips exploring the inflamed skin. He touched the other side of her shoulder as well, a look of concern flitting across his handsome face, quickly hidden.