Cold Iron

by D. L. McDermott

  Helene pursed her lips. “I know that, but you haven’t been yourself since you got off the plane from Clonmel. I’m not saying that there isn’t a good reason. If my ex-husband tried to gaslight me, I’d be out of sorts, too. But you have to think about how it looks to Dave. And you have to be strategic if you want to outmaneuver Frank.” Helene nodded to where Dave stood beside a Mayan relief. He was staring up at a taller man, and seemed to be listening enthralled. Then Beth looked at the man.

  Even before he turned, she knew it was him. Conn. Her Celt from Clonmel. He looked different without his costume, but the sharp cheekbones and dangerous, pale-blue eyes were the same.

  Tonight his white-blond braids were drawn off his face and gathered at the back of his neck. He wore jeans, indigo blue and artfully frayed at the hem. His white button-down was needle tailored and open at the collar. His forest-green velvet coat might have come from Carnaby Street—or Culloden. The effect was striking but not entirely outlandish in a university town that prided itself on the arts and encouraged eccentricity. Apart from his attractiveness and his arresting garb, though, there was nothing to indicate the otherworldliness she’d sensed—no, imagined—in Clonmel.

  “That’s him,” Beth said, realizing that the dull throb between her legs had started again. How did this man arouse her from across a room? And what did her susceptibility to this lunatic say about her?

  “Who? Conn?” said Helene.

  “That’s the Celt from Clonmel. What is he doing here?”

  “Dave says he’s a good prospect for a big donation. A serious collector.”

  “Helene, he’s the guy Frank hired to gaslight me.” And she knew it was no coincidence that he had turned up at the same time as the gold. Frank had probably sent him to charm the treasure away from her.

  Helene’s brow wrinkled. “Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of him before tonight. But he was really convincing.”

  “That’s it,” Beth said. “I’ve had enough of Frank and his shenanigans.”

  Beth made a beeline for Dave and Conn. She knew Helene was following at her elbow, chewing her lip in worry. And with good reason. Dave Monroe wasn’t a scholar or an educator. He was a fundraiser. This was his hunting ground. Angry employees tended to scare off the prey. Beth was taking a huge risk approaching him here tonight, but if she didn’t, and Frank or his accomplice made away with the gold . . .

  “Excuse, me, Dave,” she said. “But I have an urgent matter that needs your attention.”

  Conn turned and looked down from his lofty height at her. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was. Almost too beautiful to look at, but she forced herself. His smile was politely blank. As though she were a stranger. Somehow that irritated her.

  He and Frank had played her for a fool. And probably laughed about it afterward.

  “Of course,” Dave said politely. But Beth didn’t miss the flicker of irritation that passed over his face. He turned back to Conn. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “No,” said Conn, in a voice that reached straight down Beth’s spine and stopped Dave Monroe in his tracks. “You are not excused. You will stay.” Dave stood there, mildly fuddled, like a man who had entered a room looking for something but forgotten what it was.

  And that wasn’t right. Not right at all. Dave Monroe was never uncertain about anything, even when he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Dave,” Beth said, trying to break through to him. “Frank stole objects from the dig at Clonmel and sent them here in my luggage.”

  Conn kept silent but cocked his head, intrigued. Dave came out of his fog for a second. “Frank Carter is a respected scholar. He’s well versed in the intricacies of international art and heritage laws. I’m sure anything he shipped to the museum was obtained legally and for the collection. He has more to gain publishing his finds than pilfering them.”

  No one ever wanted to believe anything bad about Frank. But this time she had proof. “He didn’t ship it to the museum; he shipped it to me. In my suitcases. There’s no customs record of any of it.” Dave’s brow wrinkled. She had him now. He was worried. Anything that might embarrass the museum would demand his full attention. “I can show it to you. Now,” she added.

  Dave sighed, placed his glass down on a passing waiter’s tray, and prepared to follow her.

  Then Conn said quite softly, “Now isn’t a good time.”

  Beth felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, like they had in the window seat in Clonmel. Like in her bedroom at the inn. She could feel it—this man’s power—his glamour enclosing the three of them, only Beth able to resist as he tightened his hold.

  “Put her off until tomorrow,” Conn suggested, his voice soft but resonant with power.

  Dave’s face went blank. He shook his head and parroted Conn. “Now isn’t a good time.” He faltered for a second, trying to process thoughts not his own. Then he picked up the thread. “I’m meeting with Frank tomorrow morning, to discuss an exhibition related to the dig. We can talk about it then.”

  “It can’t wait until tomorrow,” Beth insisted. “I’ve hidden the gold but I’m sure Frank plans to come for it. Maybe even tonight.”

  But Dave wasn’t listening. He was staring up at Conn. So was Helene, with an expression of slavish adoration. She couldn’t see him for what he was, vulpine and cruel. Conn smiled. How had she ever convinced herself he was an ordinary man? Not even Frank had that kind of mesmerizing charisma.

  She could feel it wrapping around her, choking her.

  Then she remembered Mrs. McClaren’s words: “I always envied my sister her looks, until she captured the fancy of one of them. . . .”

  Helene was beautiful. Conn ran his eyes up and down Helene in an appreciative caress, and Beth realized he was making a threat.

  Her hackles rose. “Leave Helene alone.”

  “The fair-haired Amazon?” He shrugged. “Would you enjoy watching me take her?”

  She flushed. The erotic image, her Celt working himself in and out of Helene’s taut, tanned body, filled her mind. Embarrassed by her reaction, she stole a glance at Helene and Dave, but they weren’t paying any attention to her.

  “What have you done to them?” she asked.

  “They hear only the words I direct to them. So tell me, would you enjoy it, watching me spread her and take her?”

  It was beyond wrong. And beyond hot. And it made her irrationally angry. “You’re disgusting,” she said.

  He laughed. “And you, my lovely little thief, are aroused. And jealous. I’m gratified. You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, you and your no-longer-husband.”

  “Frank took your gold, not me.”

  “But you led him to the mound, didn’t you, Beth? And now the gold has led me here, where I find so many diverting amusements offered me.” He lifted Helene’s guinea gold hair off her shoulders to expose the pure line of her neck, the swell of her small breasts.

  And Helene let him. She leaned into his touch. As Beth had on Clonmel. As the landlady’s sister must have with her Fae lover.

  “Helene,” Beth said. “You should leave. Go. Now.”

  But Helene was staring up at Conn with the puzzled intensity of a child. “I want to stay,” Helene said dreamily. “I want to touch him. . . .”

  “Helene,” Beth said, cringing at what she was about to do. She knew of only one thing dear enough to Helene’s heart to break Conn’s spell. Beth took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” And splashed her red wine all over Helene’s pale silk gown.

  Helene yelped. The glamour ensnaring them snapped, letting the room back in. Helene looked down at her ruined dress in shock. “Why did you do that?”

  “You were staring at him,” Beth whispered, her heart sinking. Dave was glaring. She gestured toward Conn, but now he seemed entirely harmless, the glamour that had surrounded him and fascinated Helene gone in a twinklin
g, leaving behind just a strikingly handsome man. “You were enthralled by him,” Beth finished weakly.

  Helene shook her head. “I don’t know what really happened to you in Clonmel,” she said, picking up the dripping hem of her gown. “But you haven’t been right since you came back.” She turned on her heel and walked with as much dignity as she could out the door. Dave’s eyes narrowed in veiled anger. Tomorrow’s meeting was not going to be pleasant for Beth.

  “Now you may be excused,” Conn said to Dave with regal authority, and like a marionette, the director trotted from the room, leaving Beth to face her nemesis.

  He’d been prepared to let her go in Clonmel, but not now. He had crossed an ocean in pursuit of his property, and even though Beth was not the thief, it was she who had led the thief to his horde. He was owed some recompense. And entertainment.

  Archaeologist. That was what she had called herself. A student of the ancient.

  He had discovered that and more. It had not taken him long to master the devices of this new age. The world had changed while’d he slept. It always did, and he adapted. Some changes he liked better than others; for example, he found the stink of smoke engines incredibly irksome. Their allure, of course, was speed. He understood the appeal of speed, and the human desire to build ever-faster chariots, but the Fae could still pass faster than any clattering machine.

  The computers and telephones he liked. A vast network of wisdom and knowledge available at his fingertips. An ethereal library, equal—almost—to the learning of the Druids. Useful.

  It was easy to find her in that gossamer web. Beth Carter. Archaeologist. Married, for a time, to Frank Carter. Another archaeologist. But while Beth was a true seeker of knowledge, this Frank, the villagers in Clonmel had intimated, was little more than a grave robber. The Gaels were a race, to use some of the modern vernacular he had acquired, of bullshit artists. They knew one when they saw one.

  They had been relieved Beth had escaped him, he discovered, as he sat in the taproom, being offered their best ale and their best food, receiving their quiet deference. They were eager to answer his questions about the foreigners. The villagers had liked the girl the first time she had come seeking her mounds and her barrows, but they had not liked the man she’d returned with, or the way he had flaunted his child mistress in front of them and his ex-wife. They had taken a certain amount of spiteful pleasure in manhandling Frank Carter in the bar.

  They were too frightened to say it, but they welcomed Conn’s questions and hoped he would pursue the pair, because they did not want him there. They had not wanted to give him Beth, but neither had they been brave enough to defend her. A whole village, one thousand strong, cowed by one single Sídhe. He’d made no threats or demands, but they’d rolled over like a beaten dog and offered her up, out of fear of what he might do. His kind were few now and not often seen, but most of Clonmel knew it was unwise to antagonize the Fae.

  But he had not cowed Beth. Tonight he had made threats, clear and direct, against her friend. Beth had done what a thousand villagers in Clonmel had not: she’d stood up to him. And she had more than a dim memory of what a Fae Lord could do. She’d been subjected to it herself, knew what he was capable of.

  In Clonmel he had admired her beauty. He’d wanted a taste of her, the same way he had wanted the deer and a cool sweet drink from the stream afterward. There she had engaged his appetite. Here he realized how long it had been since a woman had engaged anything more.

  He liked her garments better tonight—black silk and bare shoulders. The drapery of the gown hugged her curves and the inky color made a pleasing contrast with her porcelain skin. Beth’s museum was a collection of beautiful objects, admired by beautiful people, but no other woman here tonight appealed to him the way she did. When she had entered the room, everything, everyone else, had faded away.

  It occurred to him that Beth was not only beautiful; she was brave and strong-willed. The combination would intrigue any of his kind. Like cats, the Fae enjoyed toying with their prey. A spirit like Beth’s would take a long time to break, and provide weeks, if not months, of entertainment—if he played with her delicately enough.

  He tried to imagine her in his thrall, but somehow the image would not coalesce.

  In his bed.

  Yes, that he could picture. Under him, crying out, and once she was reconciled to her own buried sensuality, over him, taking her own pleasure with his body. Arguing with him. Yes, that appealed as well. But enslaved to him, as so many women had been, by pleasure, by their own vanity, and finally by the mark he placed on their skin—that he could not picture for Beth.

  She was more than courageous. She was resourceful. She had used the only weapon at hand—the glass of wine—to break his hold on the blond Amazon. Loyalty was a quality the Fae admired.

  He must have been mad to let such a prize go in Clonmel. She watched the tall beauty leave and wheeled on him, all angry, flashing eyes and outrage. Her body carried with it the scent of evening, fresh from outdoors, a pleasing contrast to the poisonous miasma rising off the strange carpets and too-bright walls. It offended him, this building. It shunned the earth and the trees and sealed out the moving air.

  “You tricked me,” she accused. “You didn’t want Helene at all.”

  “Not really. No. But I enjoyed your reaction to the thought.”

  She flushed. He knew she was sensual, but guessed also that she was not awake to her own nature. “I’m not like that,” she said, unaware of all the signs that told him exactly what she was like: the flutter of her pulse at her neck, the swell of her breasts in the confines of her gown, the color suffusing her pale skin. The signs of arousal. “It’s your voice,” she insisted. “You can make people feel things.”

  He laid his fingers gently over the delicate bones of her wrist and tugged her hand free of the pocket hidden in her gown. Her pulse sped beneath his touch. He lifted her hand and held it up between them, careful not to let the iron key dangling from her fingers touch his own. “My voice can’t compel you while you touch cold iron. And you have been clutching that in your pocket since you crossed the room to confront me.”

  He felt the shock ripple through her. “Oh,” she said, licking the lips he looked forward to moistening with his own tongue.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Would you believe me if I said I came for you?” It was partly true.

  He could see her thinking. She wanted to believe that, but she didn’t. Interesting. She had been surprised by his attention in Clonmel, seemed not to realize her appeal. He’d been awake long enough to know that this was an age glutted with images of sterile beauty. Hollow loveliness, with a tiresome, cloying sameness that blunted weak-minded men’s ability to see beauty like hers.

  But Beth was not weak-minded, not stupid enough to compare herself to such empty images. If she did not think herself beautiful, it was because a man, a man who could only see what others pointed out to him—Frank, no doubt—had convinced her so.

  That should have made her an easy mark, ripe for flattery and seduction, but she was too intelligent for that. “No,” she said at last. “You let me go in Clonmel. No matter what Mrs. McClaren says about your kind, I don’t believe you would have pursued me after I refused you.”

  Her faith elicited an unfamiliar emotion. He recognized it through the haze of memory as shame. Because he was not entirely certain she was right. His vanity told him he never needed to pursue a reluctant woman, but his conscience told him that not every woman he had taken over the years believed she had a choice.

  “I came for the sword.” He was surprised to find himself admitting it, but something about her made him want to deal honestly with her. “I hoped you had taken it because you wanted to be chased.” He remembered how his pulse had quickened at the thought, how very alive it had made him feel. Hungrier than when he had hunted the deer. He took a step closer t
o her, so she could feel the heat of his body, the velvet of his coat brushing her bare shoulders and the tops of her breasts. “Because you understood the old ways,” he said. “Because you wanted me to run you to the ground and take you on the forest floor. Like this.”

  He used their connection, her hand in his, skin to skin, to flood her mind with images. For a second they shared one mind, and she was in the woods, running, breathing hard, fighting her own dark desire. She wanted to be caught. A current of pure sensation slid through her body, a wave of dark pleasure, like the crest of a sexual climax, but faster, more fleeting. He shared in it, and before the connection between them broke, he caught something else. Fragmented, buried images. Ugly, painful, pushed to the back of her mind, but tangled hopelessly up with sex and desire. Another unfamiliar emotion licked at him. He wanted to call it possession, but knew it from eons ago as protectiveness. Fierce and sudden, it shocked him to the core.

  “Stop that,” she said, taking a step back, wrenching her wrist out of his grasp and stealing away the intoxicating emotions. “I didn’t take your sword. My ex-husband did. But I can’t give it back to you. I need it to prove that he’s a liar and a thief.”

  Conn was still trying to process the sudden and overwhelming desire he felt to protect her, to avenge her. As he had not been able to protect or avenge another woman a very long time ago.

  They were no longer touching, but the connection remained. He could feel the fierceness of her anger against the man who should have been her lover and friend but had become her tormentor.

  As he would become, if he took her. A voice from the past whispered: It was not always thus. But he silenced it. That was the past. This was now.

  So he surprised himself by offering her a compromise. “Keep the gold for now. Use it to prove your ex-husband a thief and a liar. And then let me deck you in it, naked. But I must have the sword, tonight.” He would not bother explaining the blade’s significance. She would never understand.