Cold Iron by D. L. McDermott Read Free Book Online

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