“You are a woman of contradictions,” Micah said, shaking his head as he assembled slices of cheese atop the apple. I leaned forward and liberally doused them with honey, hoping to mask the rubbery flavor.
“Contradictions? How is that?” I asked, licking honey from where it had dripped onto my wrist.
“You live in a hovel, eating this slop your elders force upon you. You have more power than ten mages, yet you pretend to be a weak girl.” Silver eyes narrowed over the rim of his wineglass, taking in all that was me. “No one truly knows the depth of you, is that right?”
“I don’t live in a hovel,” I protested. My apartment was small, but it was nice. And very clean.
“I meant no insult,” he amended. “I only believe you worthy of a far more comfortable abode.” I smiled, since how could I argue with that? Micah caught a lock of my hair between his long fingers. “I wish you hadn’t made your hair the color of mud.”
I grinned wickedly, drained my wineglass in a very unladylike manner, and balanced the stem between the soles of my feet. Micah either understood what I was about to do or was content to wait, since he said nothing as I flipped my hair forward and began running my fingers through it. After a moment, a single drop of brown goo splashed into the bowl of the wineglass, and then another. It was slow to start, but in a short time I’d squeezed the dye from my hair like so much water.
“One of the few tricks I can do,” I explained, as Micah wrinkled his nose at the ammonia-scented chocolate liquid. Laughing, I set the wineglass on the coffee table. One of the many things the Mundane World has forgotten about Elementals is that we can wield many forms of magic, not just the spells linked to our elements. I still remembered, all too vividly, the time I’d accidentally dyed my hair green and willed the offending color as far away from me as possible; it turned out that the farthest I could send it was splattering onto my mother’s white tile floor. At first, I had been amazed that I could accomplish such a feat, then I had feared for my life if Mom ever walked in on such a mess. After an afternoon spent on my hands and knees, using harsh bleach to scrub away the evidence before Mom—or tattletale Sadie—caught me, I was always careful to keep a bowl nearby.
“My true Sara is at last revealed,” Micah approved. “Never obscure this lovely shade again.” My cheeks warmed; as I ducked my head, I caught sight of something on his face.
“You have honey on your chin,” I explained, as I leaned forward to wipe it away.
“Do I?” He dipped a finger in the jar and quickly dabbed honey on my lower lip. “So do you. Here, let me.” Then, I was in Micah’s arms as he gently licked the sweet, sticky stuff from my lips. “I wonder if there’s any more.” He explored my chin, my neck, and the sensitive spot behind my ears, before returning to claim my lips. I must admit, he was quite thorough.
I pulled his shirt up and over his head, feeling those amazing silver streaks and curls across his shoulders and broad back, and was rewarded with more fervent kisses. Micah’s mouth traveled down my neck to the edge of my shirt and snaked down my body to caress my belly. He inched the thin cotton upward, taking the time to thoroughly acquaint himself with all he revealed. Slowly, as if asking permission, his hand traveled around to stroke my mark. When I arched my back he smiled, and I felt a gentle tug at my waist.
For the second time that evening, a knock sounded at my door. “Ignore it,” Micah all but commanded, his voice muffled by my breasts. Then the unmistakable voice of Juliana H. Armstrong wafted through the reinforced steel, and I sighed.
“I can’t. She’s persistent.” I sat up and wound my hair into a messy knot, then pointed toward the bathroom. “You. Hide.”
“I do not hide,” he said, with a peevish tone worthy of having been asked to empty a litter box.
“Micah—”
“She will not know me for what I am,” Micah stated as he pulled his shirt over his head. Juliana’s pounding grew more insistent, so I had to trust him.
“Yes, dear?” I asked, as I opened the door.
“The Room was lame, so I thought I’d see what you’re up to.” I resisted the urge to point out that The Room was always lame, just as the grass is always greener in your neighbor’s yard, and the sky always bluest while you’re working. Then my heart was in my throat as Juliana walked past me, only to halt when she saw Micah. I followed her gaze, but I didn’t see an elfin lord. Instead, there was a man with close-cropped brown hair and round human ears seated on my couch. His billowy ivory tunic and dark breeches were gone, replaced by a white button-down shirt and jeans. But the features were still his, and the twinkle in his suddenly brown eyes as he raised his glass in greeting was undeniably Micah’s.
“The boy?” Juliana asked, with a sidelong glance.
“The boy,” I confirmed. “Juliana, this is Mike.”
They exchanged nominal pleasantries, and then Juliana’s gaze swept to the table. Her brow wrinkled when she saw the wineglass full of dye, but she didn’t ask about it. Thank. Freaking. God. Taking a hint for perhaps the first time in her life, she apologized for barging in unannounced. As she turned to leave, she snatched a lock of my hair.
“Love the color,” she said. “When did you do it?”
“After work,” I said. It wasn’t a lie, so it came easily. “Mike asked about my natural color, and here it is.”
“Mmm. Well, talk to you later.” With that she was gone, and I slumped against the closed door. Cold sweat broke out across my body, and my heart beat in an irregular tattoo.
“That was the most nerve-wracking two minutes I’ve ever spent,” I mumbled. I looked up and saw Micah, once again in all his elfin glory.
“She is not your friend,” he stated.
“What? Juliana is the best friend I’ve ever had!”
“She lies to you. The deceit swirls about her, black, like poison.” I considered Juliana’s earlier interrogation after my late arrival at work, and now she’d just popped up here. She’d never dropped in before, no matter what she was out doing. Not to mention the way she’d tried to barge into my room after my dream with Micah. I know, I screamed, but my life has given me ample fodder for nightmares. Based on the hundred or so times she’d slept over, there was no way that had been the first time she’d heard me call out in my sleep.
Worst of all, her weird behavior had started a few days ago, the day after I’d met Micah.
I shook my head, unwilling to deal with such implications at the present moment. I had more important matters before me, specifically the matters of Max and Dad. “When can we see this queen?” I asked.
Micah cocked his head to the side, as if listening to a chime in the distance. “If we leave now, we will arrive in time for her next audience.”
“All right.” I pushed myself up from the door, at once determined and terrified. And I was grateful, both for Micah’s help and his calm, reassuring presence. “Let’s go.”
chapter 9
After a long, tedious discussion centered upon what was and was not appropriate attire for a woman (basically, Micah disapproved of my entire wardrobe, using such words and phrases as “mannish” and “not worthy of my consort”), Micah and I climbed into my car and drove toward my employer’s parking lot, the closest location where the veil was thin. I was wearing the nicest dress I owned, an emerald-green sheath that had made occasional appearances at weddings and other formal events. The neckline was much lower than I usually dared, and it showcased Micah’s token against my d6colletage, which were both factors in his approval. I’d decided to wear my hair up, and ever-helpful Micah had worked the bits of copper wire and malachite left over from his cuff into elegant combs. A girl could get used to this.
What I could not get used to was Micah’s human illusion, Mike. Every time I glanced toward the passenger seat I was startled by the sight of a strange man in my car. Of course, he really was still a stranger to me, wasn’t he? Why was I letting him call me his consort? Of all the things I wanted in my life, a husband, no matter wha
t he was called, wasn’t one of them, and neither were children. Was I only going along with him to find out what had happened to Max and Dad? If so, then I was a terrible person. A terrible person who needed to end this now, before it spiraled further out of control.
As if he knew I was thinking about him, Micah slid his hand onto my knee and squeezed. Instantly, I felt his heat slowly spread throughout my leg. The attraction between us was strong and undeniable, but I still couldn’t let myself trust in it. Blame my past if you will, but I kept expecting to find out that Micah was using me.
These fears of mine weren’t entirely irrational, and neither were they without precedent. Past boyfriends, employers, and even one of my college professors had tried to influence me, a Raven fledgling. Neither my identity nor my parentage has ever been a secret—I mean, my last name is Corbeau—though it’s not something I usually brought up. Still, many had sought to gain my favor, only to be disappointed when I’d informed them that I had no power to speak of. Invariably they left me, apparently having forgotten the heartfelt promises they’d made a short time before.
“You have nothing natural in your world,” Micah murmured, rousing me from thoughts of past betrayals. I glanced toward him and saw his temporarily brown eyes tracking a drone as it hummed across the horizon. “Everything is a machine.”
I laid my hand on top of Micah’s and grazed my thumb across his knuckles; all too often, I’d felt cut off from nature, imprisoned in a life dominated by timers and alarms. “The government told us machines were safer than nature, and we believed them,” I explained.
He harrumphed at this, and I smiled in spite of myself. Micah just might be different than all the rest. He hadn’t known about my family when he’d sought me out. He’d wanted me for me.
No, he’d just wanted to get some.
“When we met,” I began. “In the parking lot. Do you do that a lot?”
“Dreamwalk?”
“Hop into cars with strange women.”
Micah chuckled. “No.”
“Then, why me?” He leaned close, caressing his fingers down my neck. “I couldn’t help myself.”
I downshifted, and Micah moved aside to allow me room; the action also hid the shiver that radiated from where his fingertips had just rested. I pulled onto a street that bordered the office lot and parked behind a decrepit hardware store. Only fools went there expecting to purchase hammers and nails; the place was really a front for an herbal tincture supply ring. In the modern world, midwives and Peacekeepers didn’t exactly get along.
“Why are you leaving the mechanical here?” Micah inquired.
“The office lot has cameras,” I explained. “If they see me pulling in with someone who isn’t an employee, I’ll have some explaining to do.” We got out and, when I looked across the roof, Mike was gone and my Micah once again stood before me. I felt a surge of warmth, as if the missing part of my soul had been returned to me after a long absence. He looked quizzically at me, but I just shook my head. I wasn’t quite ready to admit what I was feeling, consort or no. Then he took my hand, and after a short walk through the trees, we stepped out of my world and into his.
In a far shorter time than I needed to mentally prepare myself, we stood before a towering iron edifice. Maybe it was just the color, but the sight of the cruel spires and jagged, toothy gates chilled me to my core. It was a metal palace like Micah’s home, but the similarities ended there. Micah’s silver palace radiated warmth and happiness, but the structure before us was cold and gray, as if cold had transitioned from a sensation to one of the more tangible elements. I wanted to run and hide from the emotions stirred up by this iron palace, but I couldn’t. My way to Max and Dad lay within.
“Is it always like this?” My earlier uncertainties forgotten, at least for the moment, I laced my fingers with Micah’s. His flesh was warm, and likely the only bit of comfort I’d find here.
“Yes.” He squeezed my fingers as he led me through the massive gray archway. It reminded me of the entrance to a fairyland dungeon, replete with grotesques and gargoyles set about the roofline and a wickedly pointed iron gateway poised to impale any trespassers below. On either side of the entrance stood iron footmen, a bit rusty about the lower joints but formidable nonetheless. The sight of their gnarled, pointed teeth was enough to stop my heart.
“Ignore them,” Micah muttered as they leered at me. The footman to my right leaned closer, whispering the many things he’d do to my fragile form once Micah was distracted. I did as I was told and tried to ignore him, but this only made him mad. Saying he’d teach me a lesson, the footman’s hand shot out, quick as a snake, and grabbed at my wrist. Before I could scream, Micah’s hands were around his neck, and the footman’s head was rolling away from me.
“Sara!” I blinked, realizing that Micah was repeating my name. I tore my eyes from the severed head and looked at Micah. “Did he harm you?”
“N-no.” I looked at my wrist; Micah had moved so quickly that the footman hadn’t even touched me. “Is he dead?”
“Ferra will repair him, or not,” Micah said flatly as he ushered me inside the iron palace. I could hardly believe that Micah had so easily separated an iron guard’s head from his body, or that the guard wasn’t permanently dead—and wait, was Ferra seriously the Iron Queen’s name?
But then we were in the atrium of the Iron Queen’s palace, and I thought it best to leave off such musings. The interior gleamed with polished iron, accented here and there with ornate gold scrollwork supporting fat candles; it seemed like, if I looked closely, I could make out what appeared to be bones set amidst the gold, so I didn’t. As I glanced away, another vision caught me, this time the opening to an oubliette. A stench wafted upward along with pleas for clemency, and I wondered what they’d done to be thrown down the forgotten hole.
“Why does she get to use gold?” I mumbled, trying to make out the symbols etched into the golden ring edging the oubliette. Micah’s home was floor to ceiling silver, without so much as a speck of any other metals. Well, none except for me.
“She once captured a number of Gold Elementals, and stripped them,” Micah responded, startling me. For one, I’d been asking a rhetorical question, and two, what, exactly, did he mean by ‘stripped?’
“You mean, she took whatever metal they carried,” I said, a bit desperately. Micah’s grim eyes told me otherwise, and he nodded toward the oubliette. “Weapons and jewelry.”
“Everything that was of their element, she took,” he said. I clenched his arm so tightly I knew I’d leave a mark. Even I, intentionally kept ignorant of my power, knew that stripping one’s element left one a pathetic shell of one’s former self: powerless, hopeless, less than Mundane.
“Why didn’t the gold king—the gold queen! Why didn’t they stop her?” I demanded.
“Whose essence do you think decorates Ferra’s throne?” Micah countered. “Who do you think calls to us from the oubliette?” The room was warm and humid, but I shivered.
“What is this place?” I gasped, my eyes sweeping around the room, again coming to rest upon the oubliette.
“My queen’s home.” I must have looked well and truly panicked, because Micah leaned close and whispered against my ear, “Be strong. Your audience will be over quickly, and then we will leave at once.”
I nodded and offered him a reassuring smile; I knew it was weak, but what else could I do? I would try my best to remain aloof and ignore the obvious corruption pervading the Iron Queen’s palace. There was none of the softness of Micah’s home, no colorful tapestries or silky cushions. Even the floor was bare metal, but it was scuffed until it was little more than a murky puddle. I hated being here, hated everything about this horrible, wretched place. If it weren’t for the slim chance of learning vital information about Max and Dad, I would have turned and fled.
We pressed on and, upon reaching a massive set of rusty doors, Micah murmured a set of instructions to a footman. Quickly, he hurried off, and a few moments late
r he escorted us to the front of the atrium with alacrity, all the while referring to Micah as Lord Silverstrand.
“Why are we moving past the rest?” I wondered aloud.
“My name carries some clout,” Micah replied, with a wry grin.
Silverstrand. His surname was Silverstrand, he lived in a silver castle…
“Are you the lord of all silver?” I blurted in an almost reverential tone.
“I am,” he confirmed. “Though other metals are compliant as well,” he added, lightly touching the copper combs in my hair.
“I had no idea.” Micah looked as if he would say more, but another of the metal attendants stepped forth, this one rust-free. After a few curt instructions, we were ushered before the Iron Queen.
The queen’s hall was polished metal, not all scuffed and dull like the outer rooms,, though it had a long way to go before it would reach the reflective sheen of Micah’s home. Or maybe iron just doesn’t reflect as nicely as silver. Not to mention that the hall was packed shoulder to shoulder with, I don’t know, supplicants. Or petitioners, or whatever you call people who hang out in a glorified dungeon. There was every sort of beastie imaginable, from the innocuous gnome to what appeared to be the mythical Cyclops. Of all the critters to turn out to be real, it just had to be him.
Micah was unmoved by the press of bodies, and he strode purposefully toward the Elemental monarch. A gleaming gold pathway snaked through the hall like a ribbon, leading us toward a raised golden dais. There were four shallow steps, atop which Ferra, the Iron Queen, sat on a golden throne.
Copper Girl Page 7
