Page 50 of Quicksilver
The little fox sneezed, his black eyes locked on mine. If a fox could have an expression, his would have been one of panic. He wanted me to help him, I thought, but how was I supposed to do that when, if anything, he was biting down even harder?
“Let go, let go, leggo, leggo, leggo,” I pleaded. “Pleaselet go. I don't want to have to hurt you. I'm sorry we ruined your home. I promise we'll build you an even better one.”
“Don't make promises onmybehalf,” Kingfisher interjected. “I think it would make a great hat.”
I growled at Kingfisher.
The fox growled, too.
As if we'd found some common ground, the little fox slowly relaxed its grip on my forearm, its jaws shaking as if it were going against its better nature by releasing me. I stood, pressing my hand against the puncture marks in my skin, attempting to stem the flow of blood. The fox shot Kingfisher a wary look and darted under my skirts, hiding beneath the folds of the shifting fabric.
“Oh, look,” Kingfisher observed. “Finally. A use for all of that ridiculous material. Such a pretty little doll in her pretty little dress, aren’t you.”
“Hey! I don'twantto wear this,” I snapped, plucking at the dress. “What was I wearing when you found me?”
“A whole lot of blood.” Fisher pondered. Frowned. “Wait. I seem to recall that yourintestinesmight have been a part of your ensemble.”
“Pants and a shirt,” I said dryly. “And a pair of boots with really good soles. Do you have any idea what those boots cost me?”
“Let me guess. Your virginity.”
“Fuck you, Fisher.”
“Sure.” He smirked. “But I'm afraid I don't have any new boots to trade you for your time.”
I lunged for him, ready tokillhim, and gasped when I felt the brush of fur against my calves and remembered the little fox that I was harboring. Its claws scratched against my leg. I attempted not to react, but Fisher saw me flinch. “Gods above,” he groaned. “Let me kill it and be done with it.”
“No! Absolutely not!”
“All right. Fine. Have it your way.” He turned back to the crucible, waving his hand. At the same moment, there was a rush of cool air underneath my skirt accompanied by a frightened yap, and a large wicker cage appeared on the far end of the workbench. Inside the cage: a bowl filled with water, a small pile of what looked like chicken bones, and, of course, the fox.
“You'll need to release the damned thing outside of the palace. It won't last five seconds here. Not even as your plaything. For now, it can sit there and bequiet,” he said, giving the cage a meaningful look. “And you...” He flicked his wrist again, and the tight crimson gown Layne dressed me in this morning disappeared into thin air. I drew in a full, deep breathfor the first time in six hours and almost wept at the rush of air flooding my lungs.
I was wearing normal clothes.Myclo—no, wait. They weren't my clothes. They were similar, yes, but there were marked differences between the clothes Kingfisher had found me in and these garments. The pants were thicker. Black, and not dirty white. The material was tough but supple.Skintight.Well, I guess I couldn't complain about that after being so bent out of shape about the frills Layne had put me in. The shirt was more of a tunic. Black. A little longer in the body than I was used to. More in keeping with Fae fashion. There weresomany pockets. At my waist hung a leather belt with numerous loops for tools and...weapons? There was an actualknifestrapped to my thigh. I stared down at the black onyx handle, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
“Do you need walking through how that works?”
My head shot up. Kingfisher had his back to me. Oh, for the love of all the gods, he was pulling his shirt over his gods-cursedhead!When he turned, his chest bare, a sea of swirling black ink marking slick muscle, his expression was trained into a blank mask. At the very center of his chest, snarling and fierce, another wolf's head had been inked into his skin. Many smaller tattoos surrounded it or broke off from it, but I couldn't tell what they were without inspecting him much more closely, and no way I was doing that. I half expected a backhanded jibe from Kingfisher as I fought not to stare, but he seemed genuine as he jerked his chin toward the knife that he'd magicked into being at my thigh. “In the right hands, a blade like that can wreak a lot of damage. Renfis is a good teacher. He can show you how to use it if you need him to.”
In the cage on the end of the workbench, the fox began to lap thirstily at his water bowl.
“I know knives,” I said, looking down at the floor.
“You said you knew your way around a forge the other day. And then you tried to stick your finger inside a glowing hot crucible.”
“I do know my way around a forge. I just...I wasn't thinking.”
He wiped his hands on his shirt and tossed it onto the workbench. “You could slice your own throat wide open with a knife like that if you forget to think, Osha.”
“Just give me the damn quicksilver already. Let's see if we can bind this bone with it and turn it into something useful.”
We couldn't.
It took me three hours to figure out how to awaken the quicksilver again. By the time I successfully transmuted the matte, solid silver into its agitated state, I was exhausted, my body echoing with pain, and marginally traumatized.
The particles of bone burst into flames as soon as Kingfisher dropped the powder into the vat containing the quicksilver, vaporizing before it ever touched the surface of the rippling liquid, and the quicksilver wasn't even hot. It chanted and cursed at me in a cadence that felt mocking, and I did my best not to scream out of frustration.
I was sweating in the heat of the forge, tired, and growing angrier by the second. Kingfisher didn't notice, or maybe he did but didn't show any signs of caring. He leaned over the workbench, sweat running in a river down the groove in his back, banks of powerful muscles flexing on either side ofhis spine as he made notes in a book he'd conjured from somewhere.
