Page 44 of The Silver Spider
Chapter Fifteen
The damn fae were clever. Instead of fighting him brute strength to brute strength, they simply eliminated his best weapon. He’d let loose a thin stream of scorching smoke when they converged on him, only to have his guess confirmed; the bubble was designed to reflect any attack he made back at him. He gritted his teeth, absorbing the fire, and the beating. Dragons were no more immune to flame and heat as any other creature; he had to accept the burn on his flesh to put the fire out. What else could he do, spit on it?
The cell they’d tossed him in was four smooth metal walls, a remnant from the pre-War days, and a low ceiling, a square the size of a walk in closet, just big enough for two men to stretch out their arms side-by-side. The single lamp flickered with enough oil to emit a soft glow—so as not to torture him with sensory deprivation unless it was on purpose—and when he tried to touch it, his fingers slid right off. Amnan sighed, irritated. It had to be a spell. The glass would have been useful as a weapon. His bubble kept his magic in but he could still put his hands on a foe, the good old-fashioned way.
He sprawled on the cold cement floor, head propped on his elbow. He was certain he was being watched and wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of witnessing the depth of his agitation. He was beneath ground, muzzled, while Serephone was above and without allies. He wouldn’t be surprised if his father was in town by now, but Maddugh would have no way of knowing where Amnan was, even if he followed their trail to Dawnthorne.
The windowless steel door opened and the Lord walked in. Amnan suppressed a sneer. Why the men insisted on wearing their hair in pretty capes to their butts he didn’t know. Self-respecting dragons cut theirs off when it reached a decent length—long enough to satisfy a woman’s aesthetic, and no more.
“The penalty for trespassing is traditionally death,” Dawnthorne said, voice shorn of the social courtesy of their first meeting. Serephone wasn’t here now, Dawnthorne didn’t have to pretend to be anything but what he was. A dangerous snake. But then, he really shouldn’t insult snakes.
“I’m still alive,” Amnan replied, rolling onto his back with a sigh. “The entertainment in my accommodations could use improvement.”
The Lord ignored him. “There are extenuating circumstances, and you are kin to my kin of a fashion, no matter how distasteful it is. So, I must extend you some form of courtesy.”
The thing about the fae was that they loved to hear themselves talk, and crafted elaborate sentences, extended in length, with multiple clauses, when a few words would usually work just as well. And they’d rather die than admit to beingdiscourteous.
“Serephone is mine; she is of my Line, and the laws of my people dictate I may not let her go.”
Dawnthorne smiled thinly as Amnan sat up, abandoning the bored pose. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is not. It is fact. She seems to have some attachment to you, and I would not deprive a potential asset of allies that may, in the future, prove to benefit my interests.”
Stone and Skies, all the talking would give him a headache. His lip curled over a fang, a defense against the constant words. He appreciated, suddenly and deeply, Serephone’s terseness. Amnan was by nature a quiet, reflective person. If she’d shown a tendency toward incessant chatter, he’d never would have found himself attracted to her.
Never.
“Therefore, you will bind yourself to my Line, in the same method she will so do, and my interests will become your interests. And you will be allowed to live, and even to enjoy your life off these grounds—at some point in the future, when you have proven you are loyal.”
“Get stuffed.”
“As foolish as the girl.” Dawnthorne stepped forward, hand rising. “I’ve a mind to punish you both for your intractability, but one must be patient with children. Especially the beast-natured children. It takes you many more years to learn a modicum of civility.”
The two-legged bastard. He would show him civility. “I am no threat to you and yours. I have no interest in you and yours.” Amnan watched the raised hand, unblinking. “I want to collect my woman, and go.”
Dawnthorne’s brow rose. “Your woman? Interesting. She has not claimed you, as you claim her.”
He wasn’t going to respond to that—it was none of Dawnthorne’s damn business. Tension embraced him. The fae was up to something, a glyph coming to light on his palm. Amnan glanced at the sorcerer, a stupid mistake, his gaze caught. Dawnthorne’s eyes glowed, light filling the whites.
“Swear your fealty.”
A pressure on his mind, skirting around the edges like a blanket attempting to settle. Or a vise. But Serephone was there, and their bond, such as it was. He used it as a shield, one fae against another, and the compulsion in Dawnthorne’s eyes faded.
“I see,” he said, lowering his hand. “My kinswoman is even more interesting than I supposed. I am pleased I did not kill you both.”
Dawnthorne turned and left.
Amnan’s lips pulled back over teeth. He leaped, hands shifting to claws, and swiped at the fae’s back. Dawnthorne whirled away at the last second, grace and speed indicating a lack of surprise. He spoke, a single sharp word, and the hidden door in Amnan’s cell opened.
The instant mechanical whir accompanied by a pungent scent of iron and earth accompanied the automaton as it stepped into the room.
Amnan swore. “You’re an ugly beast.”
The metal wrapped troll roared, raising hands made of metal claws, and moved forward, each step a heavy, clacking nightmare.
“Never let it be said I have no care for my guests’ amusement,” Dawnthorne said, and stepped out of the cell. “If you survive for ten minutes, he will return to his cage.”
Amnan hated the fae and their games. Ten minutes was either long, or short, depending on the enemy. Fighting in close quarters with a half-living, half-mechanical creature a half-length taller, a half-width broader, and with whirling saw blades attached to his body as he swiped at his prey? Ten minutes might be a feat, indeed.
