Chapter 31
“Iknow what you’re thinking,” snarled a voice in his ear.
Oh good, Cuan would have said, if he’d been able to form words. I’m glad someone does.
There was nothing in his mind but pain. The back of his skull throbbed as though he’d been kicked by a centaur. He tried to reach up to touch the injury, and discovered that his hands were tied behind his back.
Well, this is not auspicious.
Someone grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. Cuan blinked, trying to focus. He found himself staring at a number of sharp steel hooks, pointed directly at his eyes.
Shining Ones. I think I’m being tortured.
The hooks were being held by a round-faced blonde woman. Save for the terrifying implements in her hand, she did not look like a torturer.
“Does she have six hooks, or only five?” the woman asked.
“Err…” Cuan croaked. He honestly wasn’t sure. Everything was still spinning.
The woman went on without waiting for an answer. “Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kind of lost track myself. But being that these are nickel-coated steel Odyssey Furls, the most ergonomic crochet hooks in the world, and would take your eye clean out, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well do you, punk?”
Cuan stared, cross-eyed, at the hooks in question. He did not feel lucky.
“Daisy, he’s from the fae realm,” said a different female voice, from somewhere off to Cuan’s left. “Do you really think he’s seen Dirty Harry?”
“Probably not,” the blonde woman said, in a much more cheerful voice. “I’ve just always wanted to have an excuse to do that speech.”
She had not, Cuan noted, lowered the steel hooks. He leaned as far back as his bonds allowed.
The second woman sighed. “I told you, Daisy, alloys won’t work. It’s only cold iron that hurts them.”
“Which doesn’t make any sense,” said yet another female voice, this one distinctly peeved. “There’s no such thing as cold iron. Etymologically, that’s just an old poetic term for a sword. And even the purest cast iron has alloys in it. Carbon, silicon, manganese, chromium, molybdenum—”
“It’s magic, not metallurgy, Jack,” the second woman said, sounding weary. “I don’t understand how or why it works. All I know is that iron hurts fae. Steel doesn’t.”
“Pointy things hurt everyone.” The blonde—Daisy, he presumed—demonstrated, fortunately by jamming one of the wicked hooks into his side rather than his eye-socket. “Don’t you even think about moving, mister elf.”
“I assure you, I am not,” Cuan said fervently.
The hook was indeed very pointy. And slim enough to slip neatly through the gaps between his armor plates. If the woman exerted any more pressure, she would probably be able to fish out a kidney.
A hand even darker than Tamsin’s closed around the blonde woman’s wrist, forcing her to stand down. Cuan breathed a little easier.
Then he looked up, into burning red eyes, and his breath froze once more.
“You,” he blurted out. “You’re the hellhound. Betty.”
Betty drew back her lips in something that was more snarl than smile. She was a tall, striking woman, with midnight skin and elegant features. Even though she was in human form, balefire gleamed in her eyes.
“How nice,” Betty said. “Apparently even random unseelie scum have heard of us, Hope.”
Something growled, right in his ear. Turning his head, Cuan found himself nose-to-teeth with another hellhound. This one was pure white, with ice-blue eyes. It snarled at him, giving him an excellent view of the fierce blue fire burning at the back of its throat.
Betty folded her muscled arms. She was powerfully built, with strong hands and the taut, balanced stance of an experienced warrior. Even if there hadn’t been a hellhound breathing in his face and a madwoman delving into his tripes, Cuan would have found his situation alarming.
“No tricks, unseelie,” Betty warned. She jerked her chin, indicating the rest of the room. “We have you surrounded.”
With some difficulty, Cuan tore his attention away from the white hellhound. Looking around, he discovered two more woman lurking nearby.