Page 94 of ColdIron
Another secret was about to be stripped away. I wondered how many I’d have left by the time the heirs were done with me. But I had to tell them about Coldiron.
I ran my thumb over the arrowhead. The sentient metal hummed under my touch—the way a cat purrs when it recognizes its person.
“The arrowhead is iron infused with a sentient metal—Coldiron.” I turned the shaft so the metal caught what light there was. “Once Coldiron is given a target, it tracks. It doesn’t miss. You could dodge a spell, but not a weapon guided by Coldiron under an archdemon’s command.” I let that sit. “And iron laced with Coldiron in a Fae’s bloodstream doesn’t wound. It kills. No healer knows how to counter it.”
If he’d died, a part of me would have gone with him. I couldn’t explain this deep connection. I just knew it lived in my bones.
Aelindor drew a long breath through his nose. “Coldiron.” Not a question. As if it was the word he’d been chasing for decades, finally spoken aloud by someone who held the thing in her hand.
“No one in the known world understands this metal except me.” I met his eyes. “Seeing a demon wield it was a shock. But he couldn’t command it the way I do. When I seized control, the metal obeyed only me. That’s why I was able to fling the arrow back at him.”
“I heard him ask who you are.” Drakken’s hard voice came from the driver’s seat.
“I wasn’t going to introduce myself to an enemy,” I said, brushing off his implied accusation.
“He didn’t want your name, Max.” Drakken’s gray eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. “He wanted to know what you are.”
“What I am?” I held his reflected stare. “You mean like ‘warlock’—the label you’ve been welded to me since I got here? Should I expect another round in the dungeon, Highness? Three more days of interrogation until I confess to something I’m not?”
The dragon growled. Smoke leaked from his nostrils.
“That won’t happen again, Max. I promise.” Caspian’s voice was firm. “I’m sorry I didn’t put a stop to it earlier.”
“Keep coddling her,” Drakken snapped, “and she’ll be running this Covenant within a month.”
He was a drama king. But running my mouth and sneering at one of the highest-ranking officers would only land me another twenty laps. Or worse.
“Drakken, please,” Aelindor sighed. He turned to me, warmer now. “May I?”
He extended his hand. Long fingers. Open palm. I laid the shaft across it.
Caspian and Drakken watched in the mirrors.
Aelindor turned the arrow slowly, studying it the way he’d study a rare text—with the reverence of a scholar and the caution of a soldier. Then his fingertips brushed the arrowhead before I could stophim.
He flinched. His hand snapped back. A bright welt already rose across his fingers.
“Don’t make contact with the Coldiron arrowhead,” I warned. “This one’s been activated with killing intent. Most Coldiron stays dormant. But once it’s forged with purpose, even touching it burns.”
I doubted the archdemon had done the forging. That kind of craft required someone with a deeper connection to the metal. Someone more powerful. The thought churned in my gut.
“My turn.” Caspian twisted between the seats, swiped the arrow from Aelindor’s palm, and grabbed the arrowhead bare-handed.
Again. Before I could stop him.
“Don’t let it break your skin!” I shouted.
“Fuck!” He dropped the arrow into his lap, shaking his hand. Blisters bloomed across his palm.
“You should know better than to touch the tip after His Highness Aelindor did.” The chiding slipped out before I could mince my words.
Caspian’s wince turned to a grin. “Noted.”
Drakken’s hand left the wheel. Dragon fire sheathed his palm in gold, and he wrapped his fingers around the arrowhead, using his own element as armor.
It didn’t matter. He jerked back, staring at the blisters forming through the fire.
“Fuck. Burns like ice,” he said. “This metal is unholy.”
