Cold Iron Read Online Free Page B

across the room with the force of a geological event and all he did was throw his shoulders back and laugh. Never mind that she had no idea how she had done that.
    He wiped a trickle of blood away from the corner of his mouth, then licked it off his hand, seeming to savor the taste and the violence at the same time.
    She shivered, frustrated desire and revulsion making her sick. “What are you?” she asked.
    He smiled. “You know what I am. And you were enjoying it. But the question is, what are you?”
    “I’m an archaeologist,” she said, although it was hard to stand on her dignity with her arms wrapped convulsively around the iron headboard. Topless. “And I’m done with your little role-play. I’m sure the Lord of the Fae thing goes over big at your D and D game, but I’m an academic, not some American rube susceptible to your made-up Celtic mysticism.”
    “Then let go of the iron.”
    “I don’t feel like it.”
    “Because you know that cold iron has power. It lets you see clearly, hear clearly, think clearly. It cuts through glamour like a blade.”
    He was right. His voice did sound different. It was still musical, but no longer a haunting melody, more like listening to an orchestra tune, when you could hear all the individual instruments. And some of them were shrill, ugly, dissonant.
    “Fine. I’m sure this is a dream or a delusion, but we’ll play by your rules. The iron has power. I can see you clearly now. And I don’t want you.”
    Without his glamour, his face was far more expressive. More human. And right this second, a surprising mix of disbelief, wounded pride, and puzzlement. “Then why did you come to the mound?”
    The floorboards outside her door creaked. “Beth?” It was Frank, his voice muffled by the door. “Is someone in there with you?”
    Conn raised an eyebrow. “Your man has found his courage.”
    The doorknob rattled.
    “I told you. He’s not my man.”
    Then a higher pitched voice, Mrs. McClaren’s, said, “I can’t be giving you keys to another guest’s room.”
    “She’s not another guest; she’s my wife.”
    Her Celt raised an eyebrow. “We’re divorced,” she said in response.
    “Then he has given up his right,” her mad Celt came to the bedside, “to see you like this,” and pulled up her blouse, then stepped away. Her hands were still wrapped around the iron, so his proximity had only a muted effect on her, but the casual kindness of the gesture made her want to cry for all the years of her life when she had received none. And this, from a mad stranger.
    The key scraped in the lock. Conn stepped back and settled his wide shoulders against the cracked wall. A casual pose, entirely at ease, like he owned the place. Like he owned her.
    The door opened.
    Frank barreled in, ready to play the hero, then stopped when he saw Conn. “What the hell is going on here?”
    Mrs. McClaren bustled in. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him,” but she said it more to Conn than to Beth, and she said it with decided deference, and that was decidedly odd.
    “I’m fine, Frank. We were talking about the mound. And the Aes Sídhe .” Both true. “But we’re finished here,” she said.
    It was a dismissal.
    Mrs. McClaren drew in a sharp breath and held it. Frank looked confused. And her enigmatic visitor cocked his head. “If you wish to know more about the mound, you know where to find me.” He bowed. It was a small gesture—courtly, rigid, and fraught with hurt pride. Then he walked out the door.
    Beth watched him go, and felt bereft.
    “You could have answered the door, Beth.” Frank chided. “That guy broke somebody’s arm downstairs.”
    “I’m fine,” Beth said. She wasn’t, but the last person she wanted help from was Frank. She wasn’t certain herself whether she’d almost had a one-night stand or nearly been assaulted. But his concern surprised and touched her.
    “That’s what you get for picking up locals in bars,” Frank said.
    So much for