Page 6 of ColdIron
Caspian’s lip curled. “You’d really bite someone unconscious? Someone who can’t consent?”
His self-righteousness might have stung more and amused me less if it weren’t coming from a shifter.
“When have my kind ever needed consent outside our territory?” I rolled my eyes. “We’d all starve waiting for permission. Besides, the boy might smell like shit to you, but his blood is sweet. Too sweet.” I gave him a shrug. “I’m being honest about my limitations.”
Aelindor gave me a pondering look, as if checking whether my fangs had descended yet. They hadn’t. But it was close.
He wasn’t volunteering to carry the boy himself. That much was clear. The four of us were equal in name, but in unspoken terms, the Fae heir outranked us all. He’d seen empires rise and fall, had lived longer than the rest of us combined. Without him, there’d be no Covenant. We’d all be dead—executed like our parents, by the White Witch and her despicable coven.
“Will you carry the boy, Prince Caspian?” Aelindor asked. “You have the broadest shoulders among us.”
Caspian grinned. “I have the broadest shoulders everywhere I go.”
“Then put them to use for once.”
Caspian grunted. No one argued with Aelindor.
He patted the boy down, quick and efficient. Found a crude dagger strapped to a rope that served as a belt. The boy couldn’t even afford proper leather. He was in worse shape than a beggar.
Caspian grabbed the hilt, then jerked his hand back with a curse.
“What now?” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a simple task.”
“Fuck.” He stared at his palm. The skin where he’d touched the weapon had turned black.
“Don’t touch it bare-handed.” Aelindor dropped to one knee. From his pocket, he produced a silk handkerchief—monogrammed A, pristine—and wrapped it carefully around the hilt. He studied the dull blade, its surface dark as scorched bone.
“It’s not rune or spell infused,” he said. “No silver either.”
Shifters burned at silver’s touch. Fae withered against iron. Aelindor, too powerful for such weaknesses, was the exception.
“Then why did it hurt me?” Caspian flexed his blackened palm, displeased.
“You take everything personally,” I said.
“Then you hold that stupid homemade blade,” he challenged.
“Pass.” I crossed my arms.
“Yet it hums.” Aelindor turned the weapon slowly, handkerchief still shielding his grip. “Faintly.”
“I heard nothing,” Caspian admitted.
I shook my head.
“Interesting,” Aelindor murmured.
He wrapped the dagger carefully and tucked it into his bag. Then he turned and led the way back toward where we’d left the jeeps at the edge of the Scorched Wastes.
We’d traveled hundreds of miles from our base in old Colorado. Then another seven on foot into Utah, the White Witch’s territory. All before we found the half-dead boy.
Caspian swung him onto his shoulder in one fluid motion, like a hunter carrying his kill. It didn’t take long for the complaints to resurface.
“He really smells.”
Too bad for him. Shifters’ noses were legendary for their sensitivity, and he was the most powerful among his kind. Every scent, magnified tenfold.
“Take a long shower when we get back.” Aelindor’s rich, musical voice carried no trace of empathy.
