The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)(18)

“A week ago, you were heard in a pub blubbering about a man in the forest who took all your gold. Said he was dressed entirely in green and armed with a bow. Called himself…Robin Hood.” He flexed his fingers, testing the fit of the straps, making certain the claws hugged his fingertips.

The far darrig snorted. “You think I’d let some forest rabble part me from my heard-earned money? You’re daft.”

Mac traced the first claw with the tip of his finger, appreciating the workmanship, the smooth, cold perfection of the man-made weapon. “Rumors. Hard to know when to trust them, isn’t it?”

“I should say so.”

“Always best to get confirmation, go straight to the source.”

“Always best.” The creature pointed at Mac with his pipe, the gnawed tip shiny with tobacco-scented saliva. “And I’m telling you, I was never robbed.”

Mac stepped closer to the fire, allowing the far darrig its first good look at the claws. The firelight glinted off the iron, the metal so dark it seemed to drink up the light, leave the room darker than it had been a moment ago. The far darrig’s eyes widened and he sucked harder on his pipe, but he remained seated, a forced calm crushing his shoulders.

“Tell me everything.” Mac’s words were soft, polite, but then, he didn’t need to sharpen them when he had five iron claws at the ready. The fey were so very vulnerable to iron. So wonderfully, completely vulnerable.

“Now, look.” The far darrig shifted in his seat, his gaze strained as he fought to look Mac in the eyes. “It’s true that the other night I might have gotten a better look at the bottom of the bottle than I should have, I’ll admit it. But I’m telling you—”

Mac struck. Four bright lines of red streaked across the fey’s left cheek, furrows left in the wake of his claws. His heart pounded with a burst of adrenaline, but he didn’t look at his iron creations and their fresh coat of blood, didn’t pause to savor the blow. What he felt now was only a shadow of what he’d once been, and he could never forget that.

“Tell me about Robin Hood.”

“Sidhe,” the far darrig spat, pipe nearly crushed in his white-knuckled grip. “He is sidhe. Seelie Court, though I doubt they state their claim too loudly these days. He’s a miserable rogue who thinks himself a dashing figure when in reality he is no more than a bastard son of a family who would sooner forget him than wish him a Merry Solstice.”

Mac strode to the wall beside the shelf that had held his macabre glove. A map hung there, the edges of the parchment dry and crumbling, the lines faded, but still clear enough to read. It was a topography map, a sketching of the forest with all its hills and valleys, all the hidden caves and rivers that speckled the land. He tapped the map with the back of one claw, careful not to damage the old parchment.
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“Show me where you were robbed.”

“I will claim no robbery, bring no charges.” The fey’s body shook now, despite being so close to the fire. He poked himself in the side of the mouth with his pipe twice before managing to get his lips around it. “I want no attention from the sidhe. What they’d do to me, if they took it into their heads that I’d thrown mud at one of their own, is far worse than anything you could do to me.”

The challenge rolled through Mac’s mind, tempting him to show the far darrig just how creative a human could be in delivering punishment. A human who could handle iron with little ill effect, who could craft things from iron, perhaps even shoes that could be welded to— He blinked, pulled his thoughts from their wandering. “We’ll leave that for the moment. For now, all I want is his location. Your name need never be mentioned.”

More blood drained from the fey’s face, leaving his round nose protruding like a snowball that had hit its target and stuck. “The sidhe will know. They have spies everywhere.”

“You are not the only one who will be speaking with me this night. Tell me where Robin Hood found you or I will leave pieces of your body cooking in a pot over my fire while I interrogate the next miscreant.” As the words left his mouth, Mac tilted his head, intrigued by his own flash of inspiration. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, drawing one claw over his chin, “that would be a priceless motivation for the next—”

A cry that was half fury, half fear flew from the far darrig’s lips and he flung himself from his fireside seat. The cane he carried stabbed viciously at the solid floor of the cottage as he hobbled to the map. He raised the length of wood, swinging it through their air toward the map.