Iron Master (Shifters Unbound Book 12)

by Jennifer Ashley

  Crispin was difficult to read. He must have learned to keep himself closed off while working for a Fae prince—correction, being a Shifter toy of a Fae prince.

  She wondered why any Shifter would choose to abandon his life and throw in with the Fae, especially Fae royalty, who were known for their cruelty. The story of the first Sword of the Guardian was full of that cruelty.

  Peigi felt sorry for Crispin, but then again, she didn’t. He’d made his choice. If he’d been a captive of the Fae prince, he’d have told them that once he was free, instead of professing loyalty to him.

  Cian also puzzled her. His scent told her he was sincere about whatever he’d said to Stuart, but she wished Stuart had taught her a little more of the dokk alfar language than the basics. She could say hello and good-bye, yes and no, and a few curse words, but that was about it. She couldn’t even ask where the bathroom was.

  Cian walked quietly beside Stuart, unworried, as though out for a stroll on a winter afternoon. Only an observant person, or a Shifter, would sense his tension. He wore thin-soled leather boots, good for feeling his way in the woods but strong enough to keep out thorns and rocks.

  She absently wondered if the dokk alfar had cattle, or what sort of animal the leather came from. It gave off an odd scent, another tidbit of information she filed away for later use.

  They walked for an hour or more. During that time she saw and heard no other Fae, the only sounds the scurrying of small animals in the underbrush or birds flashing from tree to tree.

  Cian paused and the dokk alfar halted. Peigi quickly caught up to Reid, then growled in her throat.

  The mists before them shimmered. Peigi did not like the smell of that air, like sulfur and burning charcoal. Michael and Crispin also halted, noses wrinkling.

  The female dokk alfar soldier who’d first spoken to Stuart gave a command. The warriors formed up behind her, walked through the shimmering mist, and disappeared. Cian started to follow, noticed the others hanging back, and gave Stuart a pointed glance.

  “It’s all right,” Stuart said to Peigi, though his undertone wasn’t reassuring. “It’s a link to deeper dokk alfar territory, and a barrier to keep the hoch alfar out. Similar to a scent-marked boundary.”

  Michael huffed. “A magic-marked one. Doesn’t fill me with joy.”

  “It’s more like camouflage,” Stuart said. “It won’t hurt you, unless you have hoch alfar blood.” He gave Michael and Crispin a keen stare. “Anyone?”

  “Like I’d be a half-blood,” Michael sneered. Crispin screwed up his face in disgust.

  “Now that we have that settled.” Stuart took Peigi’s hand. “We’d better go before they decide to come back and drag us through.”

  The warmth of Stuart’s grip moved up Peigi’s arm to twine her heart. It changed her, that touch, made her believe she could do anything. As long as Stuart was with her, all would be well.

  She gave him a smile, clasped his hand tightly, and walked with him through the barrier.

  The mists were cold, but the tingle of magic quickly fell away. Noise, color, and odors assailed Peigi as the rush and roar of a busy town surrounded them. The change from silent woods to a teeming square made her suck in a breath.

  Dokk alfar were everywhere, men and women, children, dogs, horses, wagons, carts. The square and roads that led out of it were paved with cobbles, rounded and worn from centuries of use. The air had warmed, as though they’d traveled enough distance for a change in climate.

  Shops lined the square, open-air places that sold produce, cloth, spices, dishes, candles—all sorts of goods, including what appeared to be musical instruments. A man pedaled a potters’ wheel, his hands wet with the clay that formed under his touch.

  Men wore the leather and metal studs Cian’s people did, but also trousers and cloaks. Women too wore trousers and cloaks, and some men and women sported long robes that swirled in the constant breeze.

  Cian didn’t take the lead but let his entourage guide them across the square to a larger open-fronted building.

  Peigi had been in enough bars in her lifetime to recognize this as one. A counter ran across the back of the room, behind which were shelves of colorful bottles. Tables and benches covered the floor space. A window to another room in the back slammed open, and a pair of hands shoved a tray of steaming plates onto the sill. A waitress grabbed the tray and sailed through the crowd to deposit the food in front of four dokk alfar, who greeted it with joy.

  A stage rose about a foot from the floor on one side of the room. Three men and two women sat on this, making a rollicking noise with hand drums. They drowned out the chatter, almost as loud as any band in human clubs, but without electricity.

  No one stopped and turned when Cian and his warriors walked in with Shifters. They didn’t gape, gasp, draw weapons, or cease drumming. A few glanced at the nearly naked Crispin, who had condescended to put on a cloak one of Cian’s men had handed him, but mostly, the Shifters and Stuart were ignored.

  Cian led them to a table in the back, which was miraculously empty in this apparently popular tavern. Cian’s people dispersed, except for the woman who’d first addressed Stuart, to shove themselves onto barstools or greet people who were obviously friends.

  Cian, Stuart, the woman, and the Shifters gathered around the table, and the woman signaled to the barmaid. “Gularain,” she ordered.

  Peigi squeezed in next to Stuart. Cian took a place at the head of the table and the two Shifter males perched on stools across from Peigi and Stuart.

  The barmaid promptly brought six ceramic handleless cups on a tray and set it down in the middle of the table. Hands reached for the cups, which had been chilled. Good thing, Peigi thought. Anything to keep the liquid inside from combusting.

  Stuart had once made a batch of home-brewed dokk alfar whisky and invited their Shifter neighbors to try it. The Shifters had taken one drink and then cursed hard and accused Stuart of attempting to murder them from the inside out. It was the closest Peigi had come to witnessing Stuart laugh his ass off.

  He’d advised Peigi to try the drink cautiously, and had helped her work her way up from one sip to a whole glass over the course of about six months.

  She lifted her cup, as Cian watched her closely, and inhaled the aroma as she would a fine wine. Cian’s eyes narrowed as she sipped, nodded her approval, and set the cup down without a word.

  Cian said nothing but Peigi noted his amusement. Cian threw his drink back, draining the entire contents at once. Stuart and the dokk alfar woman did the same.

  None of them exploded. Cian let out an ah of satisfaction and thumped his hand to the table. Encouraged, Crispin and Michael seized their cups.

  “I’d go easy on that if I were you,” Peigi warned them.

  She figured they wouldn’t listen, and they didn’t. Crispin took a tentative sip, probably more cautious from living in Faerie, but Michael decided to down his in one go. He swallowed.

  Michael did nothing for the first second, and the second. In the third second, his eyes widened until the whites threatened to overwhelm his irises, the scarred side of his face pulling. He dropped the cup and gasped for breath, pawing at his throat. Fierce yowls leaked from his mouth, and he started to shift.

  “No!” Peigi yelled at him.

  The woman solider put her hand on her knife. Michael stopped himself before his claws sprouted, but his eyes became fully bear—large and brown with pools of black in the middle.

  “Holy fuck.” His voice barely emerged, hoarse and breathy. “What the total …” He coughed, half rising from his stool and holding his stomach. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Peigi took another demure sip. “Gularain can be a little strong.”

  “Dokk alfar whisky,” Crispin said, his voice also hoarse. “Rumor has it they put old boots in it. And gravel. And iron.”

  “Exaggeration,” Stuart said calmly. “It’s a grain, sort of like barley in your world, and a little sugar. That’s all. But distilled until it’s
pure. The aged stuff is a little more mellow.”

  “You mean mellow battery acid?” Michael demanded. He continued to cough. “Goddess, it’s burning a hole right through my gut. I’ve been stabbed in the stomach before. This is worse.”

  “You have to get used to it.” Peigi tortured him by taking another sip. Crispin, she noticed, had pushed his cup aside. “Are we safe talking in this place?” she asked Stuart.

  “Probably as safe as anywhere.” He turned to Cian and asked him a question in their language. Cian, still amused, shook his head. “He thinks so, but doesn’t plan on divulging secrets. This is a stop to rest and refresh us.”

  “Refresh?” Michael growled. “I’m dying.”

  “That’s very sad,” Peigi told him. “Want me to burn an offering for you?”

  Michael only sneered at her, but that triggered more coughing. He held his belly and looked miserable.

  A small vengeance, Peigi thought as she took another small sip of the strong liquor. But a satisfying one.

  “Peigi has a point.” Stuart resumed his conversation with Cian. “Are we all right in here?”

  Cian signaled the barmaid to bring another round. “Most are my clan or friends of the clan. They are loyal. They are also making a lot of noise.”

  The drummers had increased their tempo, hands flying as they kept up with one another. An older man with strings of bead dangling from his white hair hopped up on the stage. He drew in a breath and began singing a ribald song Reid hadn’t heard in decades.

  It was loud and long, with many verses, about a couple who tried everything to escape friends and family and catch a little alone time, which never worked. Their wagon would break, the horse ran away, the kids would chase them, hoch alfar would attack, and on and on. Whoever sang the song was allowed to add his or her own made-up verses.

  Soon the room was singing along and roaring with laughter. Peigi listened in curiosity—Reid would have to sing it for her later. Even if it meant singing, which wasn’t a good idea for him. Maybe he could just recite the verses.

  Another man and then the woman with Cian got up to join in, but instead of singing, they used their voices like instruments to wail the melody without words. Two more women and a man got up to dance.

  “I see what you mean,” Peigi shouted over the noise. “About the dancing.”

  The best dancers Reid had ever seen in the human world couldn’t compare. The footwork, the spinning, the high kicks, and acrobatics had the room on its feet, cheering along.

  Cian leaned in to Reid. “How is Dimitri?”

  “Good.” Reid accepted another gularain from the barmaid and sipped this one to enjoy it slowly. It was like drinking nostalgia. “He and his mate will soon have a cub.”

  “He was a Shifter very much in love when I saw him. With a strong mate.”

  “Jaycee is very strong, yes,” Reid agreed. One didn’t argue with her if one couldn’t back up the argument with martial arts.

  “So is your bear.” Cian’s gaze darted to Peigi. “Are you …?”

  “I don’t know.” Reid said it quickly. He knew what he felt for Peigi, but life was complicated for a dokk alfar and a clanless Shifter.

  “Ah. So that is the way of it.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know what is the way of it.” Reid took an irritated sip of whisky. “Can we talk about the problem at hand? Are you sure it’s gone?”

  “Yes.” Cian very carefully didn’t name what was gone. “I know, the elders of my clan know, and if we don’t get it back, everyone else will know. And then we’ll die. The situation is simple, and very dire. Will you help us, or not?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “What do you think I can do?” Reid asked impatiently. “You have warriors, armies, and people who can do that.” He jerked his chin at the dancers who spun and kicked in such precise timing that they never touched each other. “I am one person.”

  “You’re an iron master.” He used the dokk alfar word for it, syernghan.

  “You’re a ghandeltraum.” Reid enjoyed Cian’s surprise. “Dimitri told me how you dug through rock to get yourselves out of the hoch alfar cell.”

  “I did. The hoch alfar do not know, however.”

  “Well, they’re idiots.” Reid raised his glass in a toast. “What did you want me to do? Terrify the hoch alfar by bending iron while you sneak around them and steal the thing back?”

  Cian shrugged. “More or less.”

  “Ha. Dimitri told me you were crazy.”

  Cian gave him a tolerant smile. “Determined, rather. The red wolf, on the other hand … At times, I doubted his sanity.”

  “He’s sharp, is Dimitri. There’s a human saying—crazy like a fox.”

  Cian lost his smile. “He’s a being of the Tuil Erdannan?”

  Reid blinked. “I didn’t mean that literally. Non-Shifter foxes are a common animal in the human world.”

  His voice was awed. “It must be a strange place, this human world.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been stuck there fifty years.”

  “You are here at present, my friend.”

  Reid studied the room, from the dancers and drummers, the now-shrieking singer and his accompaniment, and the shouting, drinking dokk alfar enjoying life.

  For a long, long time, Reid had tried anything he could to come back to this, including hunting a Shifter and causing him to be killed. Reid hadn’t actually killed that Shifter, but his actions had led to the Shifter’s death.

  Hence he’d be forever obligated to Cassidy and Diego, not to mention Peigi and the Shifter cubs.

  Reid was back home, yes. Maybe not in his own clan’s territory, but with his kind, among things he knew.

  Instead of relief, though, he felt outside it all, as though he no longer belonged. And maybe he didn’t.

  “Yes, I’m here.” Reid pinned Cian with a stern gaze. “How am I? I’ve haven’t been able to reach Faerie or go far inside it until today, no matter what I’ve tried. The spell that exiled me was powerful. How did you manage to bring me back?”

  “I?” Cian didn’t even try to sound innocent.

  “What did you do? Sell yourself to a shaman? How did you negate my exile?”

  “I did sell myself,” Cian said, his voice low. “My life’s blood. For you to come and help save us all.”

  Ben found it difficult to remain the nonchalant, cool dude he portrayed himself to be while Angus and Tamsin, Jaycee and Dimitri, and Reg, the second-in-command of the New Orleans Shiftertown, glared down at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  Ben stood in a circle of them, red wolf and black, leopard and serval, and most daunting of all, the fox. He never knew what Tamsin would take into her head to do.

  Or maybe Jaycee was the most frightening, her golden eyes full of fury. She could strike fast, and it was almost impossible to get out of her way.

  “Where are they?” Jaycee demanded. “Eric has already been on the phone to Kendrick, and Kendrick is all over our asses about losing them. Plus … we’re just worried.” Her voice quavered.

  “I don’t know what happened.” Ben swallowed nervously but spoke the absolute truth. “One second I’m catching up on the basketball game, the next, Reid is teleporting in with Peigi and a Shifter I’ve never seen before. Then that door opened, and they were gone.”

  He pointed to the wall in the parlor that was smooth and innocuous. No door in sight.

  “So open it again.” Jaycee closed in on Ben, her distress sharp. “You can do more magic than you let on.”

  “Yep,” Tamsin said. “Like the glams you throw, and how you once pinned a scummy Feline who was tailing me to the floor.” She broke off in admiration. “That was awesome.”

  “This is different.” Ben knew he could disable every single Shifter surrounding him if he wanted to—maybe not all at once, but a couple at a time until they were no longer a threat. Magic to do with Faerie, however, wasn’t as simple. “There’s ley lines involved, and gates
I can’t go through, and whatever the house is doing or not doing. I can’t just twirl my hand, and voila, there’s a door.” He waved in demonstration.

  A fiery tingle shot through his fingers. The wall shimmered, and the outline of a door spread across it.

  The six of them turned to stare at it. The door wasn’t substantial—but as though someone had drawn a door frame and door panels on the wall with pencil.

  Tamsin went over to study the outline but carefully did not touch it. “Is this what it’s supposed to look like?”

  “No.” Ben, Jaycee, Dimitri, and Angus spoke at the same time.

  Ben broke through the circle of angry Shifters and approached the wall. “It should be more like a real door.”

  The tingle in his fingers increased as he reached for the outline, and he quickly withdrew his hand. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him if he crossed through a gate, and wasn’t thrilled about finding out.

  “If we can’t open it, what good will it do us?” Jaycee asked.

  “Always so impatient,” Dimitri said. “But she has a point.”

  “I still say we call Lady Aisling,” Jaycee said.

  “Agreed.” Tamsin said eagerly. “I’d love to catch up with her.”

  Ben knew why. Lady Aisling had revealed that the Tuil Erdannan had created the fox Shifters, and Tamsin must have a lot of questions for her.

  Tamsin fixed Ben with her too-knowing gaze. “Remember what Lady Aisling said to the two of us? That you and I had the power to see what was really there, and also to make others not see us. The first part might be what we need—you can see this door and where it leads. Maybe even find Peigi and Stuart when you do.”

  “There are too many maybes and mights in that sentence,” Ben said.

  “We need to start somewhere,” Jayce said.

  “All right, all right, let me think.”

  Ben reached to the wall again and made himself lightly touch the outlines. He felt power in the insubstantial door, masses of it, but he wasn’t certain how to tap it or what to do with it if he did.