Page 102 of A Song of Air
“George, what are you doing here?” She wasn’t sure her shock would abate.
“I go by Kerrigan now,” he corrected with a smile. “George was far too simple for a Fae of my caliber, don’t you think?”
“Arrogant as ever, I see.”
“What you call arrogance, I call confidence.”
She could feel the gazes of those around them volleying back and forth between herself and George. Then she felt the press of her mate’s hand against her lower back.
“How do you two know one another?” he asked slowly.
“George was my supplier in Porir,” Iona said.
“Kerrigan,” George corrected with a flash of a warning smile.
Iona rolled her eyes.
“You know this Fae?” Arlo asked.
Iona couldn’t quite make out what was in the half-Fae’s tone, but she knew she didn’t like it at all. She fought back the glare she wanted to aim in his direction.
George sat forward, steepling his ringed fingers together. The gold shone against his bright blue skin, the copper, iron one standing out to Iona just like it always had. “Iona and I were almost-friends.”
“Almost.”
George smirked at her, like he was recalling fond memories of the two of them, though she didn’t remember them fondly at all. She remembered his creepy lair, his ridiculous prices for the most basic of services, and the way he spoke in riddles and tried to swindle Fae into making deals with him.
“We need your help,” Iona said.
George’s smile kicked up even wider. “Ah.” He leaned backwards. “You’ll recall I do not come cheap.”
Oh, she remembered far too well. He would take years’ worth of wages for forged documents.
Beside them, Arlo let out a low warning sound. “You’ll not charge us,” he said haughtily. “You are in my camp, living off of my—”
George flicked his fingers disrespectfully in Arlo’s direction. “Shut up,” he said.
Arlo blinked.
Iona held back her laughter.
“You are no owner of mine, Arlo Blackwood. I may stay at this camp, but you do not lay claim to it, no more than the humans lay claim to the Fae or our lands.”
Iona peeked over and saw Arlo’s face go red with rage or embarrassment or both.
“How dare—”
George turned away from Arlo, dismissing him quite easily. “Prince of the Fae.” His attention was directed at Valerio. “An honor to be in your presence, my liege.”
Valerio’s eyes shone with mirth and perhaps even the slightest bit of fondness. “I thank you, Kerrigan.”
Iona snorted.
George’s gaze cut to hers. “See?Heis not disrespectful.”
“Look, enough niceties. We need your help.” Iona leveled her stare with his. “Bryson and Weylyn fell through a mushroom circle. We think they may be in the Unseelie Court. We want to know if you have anything that could help us bring them back.”
George leaned back once again. His every movement was slow and deliberate. There was something calculated shining in his eyes, a clarity in there despite his blown pupils. He touched his fingers, twirling that iron ring round and round against his digit.
