Page 47 of Chained Knight

Cold metal against her fingers. Her hands squeezed too, desperately. A bucking jolt, like a terrified animal trapped between them squirming furiously for escape. Mike’s lips skinned back, his teeth gleaming, Jim Beam heavy on hisbreath. If he lit a match and exhaled he could probably produce a fireball; the gun made another convulsive movement.

His grip slackened. A thin thread of copper-tinged air slid down her throat; she choked afresh.

Another shot. Mike staggered back a single step, his hands falling away. Ari’s sock feet hit hardwood, and the gun went off again. That time she heard it, muffled thunder striking her ears almost before the muzzleflash lightning. The .38 leapt like a scared cat, and its next dry bark pushed Mike back another pace. Ari’s shoulders pressed against the cracked, full-length mirror, the edge of its frame digging into her left triceps, and finally she dragged in a single glorious breath. A wad of nasty metallic wetness caught at the back of her palate—she retched, and the gun went off once more.

Maybe she could have stopped there. But panic and fury were twin snakes inside her, and both struck at the same moment. The last shot caught him high in the chest, a bloody hole opening like magic, and then the gun gave only a series of dry clicks while he folded down, limp as a doll, and thudded onto hardwood, blue eyes wide and still glaring, terribly empty.

Blue light, red blood. Like the flashing in the rearview as the Oldsmobile’s engine finally gave out, steam billowing, and icy white headlights sliced a soft summer evening, searching for her…

“Peace, my kindness.” A rumble filled her ear, unforgiving metal pressed against her cheek. “I am here.”

Ari froze, heart hammering, breath trapped against a rancid throat-clot.

Iron cradled her, warm as flesh; she blinked, and a hot tear trickled down her cheek. He knelt on slick white stone, his arms locked around her, and the humming sense of power like a drowsing transformer on a hot summer day vibrated through her own bones. Chains hung quiescent from rerebrace and vambrace; though she’d seen the metal tentacles punch right through shining oversized robots no sharp spike of fear bloomed inside her.

Was this what it felt like, wearing armor all the time? Maybe he didn’twantto take it off; having that kind of protection between a fragile body and an uncaring, violent world sounded flat-out marvelous. He held very still, sharp points and edges brushing her dress.

Nighttime hush filled the pavilion. The Poisonwood murmured under a light breeze; the blue light was soft and indirect instead of bright enough to read by.

It comes with a dimmer switch, for your convenience. The thought was blessedly rational, entirely sane, and even faintly amused. Ari dragged spicemusk-tinted air into her lungs and sagged with relief.

“Peace,” he repeated, and the rumble was his voice, resonating in chest and breastplate both. The word was soft and beautiful in their language, and Ariadne never wanted to leave.

She wanted to stay there, safely enclosed, and just fuckingrest. Not for long—a few seconds, a minute, an eternity. Both her own reality and this savage wonderland were goddamn exhausting.

But survival required continual alertness, constant effort. “I’m all right.” The words quivered, Ari suddenly nine and terrified again, shaking in her mother’s arms after night terrors.

“Are you?” The chained man didn’t move. “I should have guessed this place would stir old hurts. Forgive me.”

I was about due for a nightmare anyway. At least it hadn’t been one of her usual bad dreams, even if she woke to a familiar near-haggard face hovering over her.

She’d traded one set of horrors for another. Was it possible to tell which collection was better, or at least fractionally less dangerous? “It’s not your fault,” she managed, each word a bare dry husk even in their beautiful rolling language.

Because none of this was his doing. That was the hell of it, Ari knew—plenty of adulthood was finding out nobody was responsible for certain events, and those who actually did hideous things never felt guilty about it.

“Lenient as always.” His gauntlet twitched, as if he wanted to pat her back. “Lie down, my kindness. Rest.”

I don’t think I can. And what was that title,my kindness? Some kind of mistranslation, maybe, because Ari didn’t feel particularly kind.

She couldn’t even forgive herself.

Yet another day of weirdness loomed. The darkness seemed midnight-ish, even if her circadian rhythm was shot all to hell. “The others?”

“All weary, and safely abed.” The deep thrum of his voice was almost too comforting. “I took the watch.”

You know, I don’t think I’ve even seen you nap. “When do you sleep?”

“I have had enough of torpor.” The way he said it, flat and businesslike, was chilling. “Only when the traitor is punished, the final fetter broken, the Keep cleansed, and my lady safely in her bower will I rest, and not before.”

That’s one hell of a shopping list.Ari stiffened slightly. His arms loosened, setting her free. She could settle on the rumpled blankets, tug at her skirts—the material had bunched, of course, since she wasn’t graceful as Hannixe or used to handling so much fabric—and push her hair back. Braids and curls slippedbetween her fingers without tangle or knot, and the thought of a whole line of Grey Lady haircare products as well as Greater Drink carbonated beverages was bleakly funny.

The chained man remained kneeling, his shadowed gaze trained on her. No longer so gaunt or pale, he still carried an uncomfortable, unblinking intensity. Yet the feeling was almost friendly after so much time spent in its vicinity, and it was hard to be anything other than relieved he was nearby in case some of those clockworks—or worse—showed up.

The large ceremonial goblet rested near the head of her impromptu bed, its silver rim still shifting slowly, sinuously. Ari bit her lip, rubbed her palms together briefly, and scraped her courage into a reasonably neat pile. “I have to do something with that next, don’t I.”

“Simply bring the Cup to the Mere. All else will follow.” At least he sounded certain.

Somehow she doubted it was so easy. Was she supposed to pull some further Arthurian trick to follow up getting his sword free? Would he be quietly disappointed if it didn’t work? Or would that hot, implacable gaze rest on her for a single moment before a chain snaked out, quick as a whipcrack, and…

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