One was small and scowling, holding a large hammer like a sword. A tool belt, somewhat like a blacksmith’s, was slung around her boyish hips. He would have bet everything he owned that she was the one who’d been complaining about iron alloys earlier.
The other was taller and plumper, with tired shadows under her eyes and wispy brown hair escaping from a messy bun. She looked considerably more nervous than the rest of the group, but she still held a cast iron frying pan poised and ready.
Cuan had a dim recollection of having seen that pan before, very briefly. Coming for his head, and at high speed. Just before everything had gone dark.
“Don’t even think about trying glamour,” Betty went on. “We’ve all got cold iron.”
“Or high-carbon iron alloys, at least,” the woman with the hammer—Jack, Betty had called her—muttered. A rather worrying gleam appeared in her eye. “Maybe fae are actually allergic to carbon. Anyone got a graphite pencil? Or a diamond?”
“We all have cold iron,” Betty repeated more loudly, casting Jack an exasperated glance. “And we won’t hesitate to use it. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be co-operative.”
“No—I mean, yes, of course, but—” Cuan struggled to marshal coherent speech through his throbbing headache. “You don’t understand! Tamsin sent me!”
“Tamsin!” Daisy gasped. She jabbed her pain-hooks at him. “Is she okay? Is she hurt? What have you done to her, you fiend?”
“Nothing!” he yelped—which wasn’t precisely true. High sidhe honesty compelled him to modify that to, “That is, nothing bad. Er. I am fairly certain she enjoyed herself, at least.”
This did not seem to reassure Daisy. She dug her torture device into his ribs again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Answer me!”
“I would very much like to do so!” He winced as she found a particularly tender spot. “For the love of the Shining Ones, would you kindly cease doing that?”
Betty put a hand over her eyes. “He can’t talk while you’re trying to puncture his lungs, Daisy. Will you all please let me handle this interrogation?”
Cuan was beginning to like Betty very much. Even if she did currently have him tied to a chair.
“No interrogation is necessary,” he said hastily, before anyone could resume either poking him or launching into baffling monologs about metal. “I am on your side. I came to find you, Mistress Betty. To plead for your aid. Tamsin is in dire peril. You are our only hope.”
Daisy finally lowered her hooks, much to his relief. She bit her lip, casting Betty a sideways look. “You said elves couldn’t lie.”
“Which doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth,” the hellhound replied grimly. “High sidhe can’t tell a direct lie, but they’re very good at twisting the truth. Especially unseelie high sidhe.”
“I swear on my blood and honor, I am not attempting to deceive you in any way.” He racked his mind for some proof he could offer them. “Angus! Where is Angus? He can vouch for me!”
“You’re calling the dog as a witness,” Betty said, in very flat tones.
“Angus is a very good judge of character,” said the brown-haired woman with the frying pan.
The other two women nodded. The white hellhound barked, as if it too agreed.
Betty did not fling up her hands. She did not seem to be that sort of woman. Nonetheless, Cuan had a strong impression that she wanted to fling up her hands.
“Fine,” Betty sighed. She had the expression of a woman whose evening was not at all going as planned. “Someone get the dog. Let’s see what Angus thinks. Why not. We’re so far off track by now, we couldn’t find ‘professional’ with a map and a compass. Our alpha had better never find out about this.”
The white hellhound leaned against Betty’s side in silent consolation. Its long pink tongue lolled out. It very much looked like a smirk.
Daisy disappeared through a door. In a matter of seconds, she returned carrying a grumpy-looking Angus.
“Okay, mister elf.” She thrust the dog into his face. “Say hello to my little friend.”
Cuan sent up the most fervent prayer to the Shining Ones that he’d ever made.
Angus squinted at him, sniffed his nose…and then subjected him to a very enthusiastic face-licking.
“Mercy,” Cuan gasped, trying not to drown in dog slobber. “Mercy!”
Daisy withdrew Angus again, much to the hound’s annoyance. “I think he is telling the truth.”
The white hellhound glimmered. Its form stretched up, solidifying into a slender, middle-aged blonde woman. She had delicate bones and, looking up into her kindly blue eyes, Cuan was abruptly very glad he was not facing her on a battlefield. Only a fool mistook kindness for weakness.