The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) Read online

  Robin arched an eyebrow. “Yes. It’s snow.”

  Marian shook her head, lifting her hand to her face and sniffing the icy layer of white. “It smells like snow.”

  “Yes.” He tilted his head. “I thought you were eavesdropping.”

  Marian’s brow knitted in confusion.

  “There is no one better than me at glamour.” He grinned. “Go ahead, you can tell me how amazing I am.”

  She pressed her lips together, no doubt holding back the praise he deserved, and huffed out a breath before resolutely returning to her gathering. Satisfaction eased the rest of the ebbing pain in his leg as her hands turned red from the cold, her body shivering despite her obvious attempts to stop it. He was just working up something mocking to say when he noticed Marian’s nostrils flaring as she bent to slide her hand over the ground.

  Now what does she remind me of?

  Realization struck and Robin leapt to his feet, pitching to the side as his leg protested the interruption to its healing process. He shifted the majority of his weight to his other foot in time to keep from toppling over and pointed at Will. “Stay here with our guest, I’m going to check on Little John and see what’s keeping dinner.”

  The spriggan rolled his eyes. “Yes, because he so enjoys your help when he’s trying to hunt. Try not to fall in the river this time.”

  Robin ignored the jibe and bounded off into the forest, brushing away tree branches that welcomed him like long lost friends, leaves caressing him as he passed. It didn’t take long to find his friend. Little John was predictable in his hunting ground, favoring the area around a small waterfall even when he was hunting for meat other than fish.

  Robin caught up with him not more than thirty yards from said waterfall. Little John was just heading back toward the clearing, once again in human form, though his clothes were mere tatters now that he’d shifted in them. He carried a deer over his back, barely hunched under what had to be considerable weight. The gentle giant’s brown eyes didn’t exactly light up to see Robin coming toward him, but he gave a good-natured sigh and slowed to let Robin match his pace.

  “If you’re here to help me hunt, you can see I’ve alr—”

  “What is she?”

  Little John hefted the carcass a little higher on his shoulders, but didn’t stop walking. “What?”

  “What is she? The woman—Marian.”

  A bushy brown eyebrow rose. “She’s a woman.”

  Robin pressed his lips together and pivoted to stand in front of Little John, forcing him to stop walking or risk trampling him. Little John hesitated with his foot in the air, hovering between stopping and taking another heavy step. His weight rocked precariously then settled back as he put his foot down and visibly resigned himself to finishing the conversation.

  “Your senses are keen, Little John, more so than my own. It is one of the few ways in which you are superior to me—the only way, in fact. Are you telling me that Marian has played you and your senses for a fool? Did you truly believe she was merely human?”

  “Your arrogance aside, I feel no shame in telling you that my superior senses did not betray your guest as anything but human.” The deer sagged in his grip and he absently heaved it higher again, jostling the weight until it was balanced more securely on his shoulders. “Though she does wear a little too much perfume. Rosemary, I think. What is it that makes you so certain she’s not human?”

  “Humans don’t sniff for gold coins under a layer of snow.”

  It was a tribute to the longevity of their acquaintanceship that Little John didn’t seem at all surprised at the mention of snow in midsummer. Instead he stared off into the forest, eyes growing hazy with thought. “Did the snow show up before or after you scattered the coins?”

  “After.”

  “Then she’ll have a tougher time of it. A scent over snow can be easier to track, with the cold preserving the scents and there being fewer scents to compete with it on the frosty ground. But fresh snow over a scent can make it—”

  “I don’t care if she finds the coins or not.” Robin started to pace, then winced as his leg screamed in protest. He settled for drumming his fingers against his arm. “I care about the fact that the woman is scenting the ground for the coins—like a dog.”

  “Or a bear,” Little John pointed out.

  “You think she’s a bear?”

  “She doesn’t smell like a bear.”

  Frustration plucked at his nerve endings and Robin rubbed a hand over his face. “You are trying my patience.”

  That drew a snort from Little John and he resumed his procession to the clearing. “Not so funny when you’re on the other end, is it?”

  Robin took a deep breath, barely resisting the urge to do something unpleasant to his ursine friend as he passed. He skirted around his companion to limp in front of him, walking backward so he could keep looking at his large friend’s face. “If she isn’t human, what could be keeping you from smelling what she really is?”

  “Obviously you’ve already considered a glamour.”

  “Obviously.” Robin shook his head. “There are very few so good at glamour that they can create a scent that isn’t there, or hide a scent that is. I know of no one besides myself capable of such a feat. There are those who could hypnotize a creature into believing they smelled something—or didn’t—but actually creating a scent or hiding a scent from the world at large? That is another matter.”

  “There are some herbs that would do it.” Little John’s brow furrowed. “There is the rosemary. I assumed it was a perfume—women are always rolling in something or another to smell nice—but it could be a means of masking a scent.”

  “She’s hiding.” Robin breathed the word in a half-whisper, his heart pumping adrenaline through his system until his body vibrated with it. Who are you hiding from, Marian?

  “Robin, you don’t know that. Maybe she knew more about us than you thought and she simply wanted to sneak up on us.”

  “She lives among the humans, she showed no magical or inhuman capabilities when the sheriff angered her. She killed Guy of Gisborne with her bow, not with teeth or fangs.”

  “Sounds very human to me.”

  Robin stared off into the woods but it was the image of Marian in his mind’s eye that held his full attention. He remembered her face, remembered the look in her eyes when she’d killed Guy. There had been no fear, no guilt, not even anger. She had been…eager.

  “She is not human. I can feel it in my bones. And if she did not reveal her true nature when you and Will did, if she did not answer your inhuman threat with her own…”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Robin. For once in your long life, just let it go.”

  “I wonder who she’s hiding from? And what is she?”

  Little John hung his head in resignation. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to point out that if she is indeed hiding, then sticking your nose into the situation could have disastrous consequences—for her and for us.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone her secret,” Robin scoffed. “I just want to know what it is.”

  “Yes. And you’re so subtle.” Little John sighed again. “This is not going to turn out well.”

  Chapter Five

  “I demand to know why I’ve been brought here.”

  Mac Tyre, the sheriff of Nottingham, arched one black eyebrow at his…guest. The only light in the cottage was the fire burning steadily in the white stone hearth and the small oil lamp sitting on a work table that took up most of the center of the room. Despite the prevalence of shadows, Mac’s eyes had long ago adjusted to the dimness, and with the aid of the fire’s reddish glow, he was able to see the far darrig quite clearly.

  Its small stature painted a dark silhouette against the fire, the smoke from its pipe rising to dance against the wooden rafters before dispersing in a foul smelling cloud. As it waited for Mac to answer its demand, it tapped the end of its pipe against yellowed teeth, beady blue eyes glaring fr
om a wrinkled face almost completely hidden by a flushed bulbous nose. The chair it slouched in was close enough to the fireplace that there was a reasonable danger of its clothes catching fire. Given the state of his tattered red shirt and tobacco stained pants, Mac doubted even the fire would want them.

  “You are here because I summoned you here.”

  “Aye, you have. Your great beast of a wolf nearly took off my leg rousting me from my warm bed.” Blue eyes flashed, like moonlight on midnight blue water. “It’s a brave human you are, dragging me here. Did your parents never tell you of my kind?”

  “Oh, yes. My parents educated me about your kind, and all the other breeds of fey that infest this land.”

  Metal grated against rough wood as Mac drew a small contraption from the broad shelf set high on the limestone wall. It clinked as it settled into his palm and he carefully separated the metal pieces and straightened the small leather straps. The far darrig feigned disinterest, but its gaze sharpened. One by one, Mac fastened the small straps to the hollowed iron, adorning each of his fingertips with a slightly curved claw.

  A faint buzz hummed in his ears, like a lazy fly circling on an early autumn day. The sound was constant, annoying, and more than a little distracting if it went on for too long, but Mac did his best to ignore it for now. He needed the iron to make a point.

  “A week ago, you were heard in a pub blubbering about a man in the forest who took all your gold. Said he was dressed entirely in green and armed with a bow. Called himself…Robin Hood.” He flexed his fingers, testing the fit of the straps, making certain the claws hugged his fingertips.

  The far darrig snorted. “You think I’d let some forest rabble part me from my heard-earned money? You’re daft.”

  Mac traced the first claw with the tip of his finger, appreciating the workmanship, the smooth, cold perfection of the man-made weapon. “Rumors. Hard to know when to trust them, isn’t it?”

  “I should say so.”

  “Always best to get confirmation, go straight to the source.”

  “Always best.” The creature pointed at Mac with his pipe, the gnawed tip shiny with tobacco-scented saliva. “And I’m telling you, I was never robbed.”

  Mac stepped closer to the fire, allowing the far darrig its first good look at the claws. The firelight glinted off the iron, the metal so dark it seemed to drink up the light, leave the room darker than it had been a moment ago. The far darrig’s eyes widened and he sucked harder on his pipe, but he remained seated, a forced calm crushing his shoulders.

  “Tell me everything.” Mac’s words were soft, polite, but then, he didn’t need to sharpen them when he had five iron claws at the ready. The fey were so very vulnerable to iron. So wonderfully, completely vulnerable.

  “Now, look.” The far darrig shifted in his seat, his gaze strained as he fought to look Mac in the eyes. “It’s true that the other night I might have gotten a better look at the bottom of the bottle than I should have, I’ll admit it. But I’m telling you—”

  Mac struck. Four bright lines of red streaked across the fey’s left cheek, furrows left in the wake of his claws. His heart pounded with a burst of adrenaline, but he didn’t look at his iron creations and their fresh coat of blood, didn’t pause to savor the blow. What he felt now was only a shadow of what he’d once been, and he could never forget that.

  “Tell me about Robin Hood.”

  “Sidhe,” the far darrig spat, pipe nearly crushed in his white-knuckled grip. “He is sidhe. Seelie Court, though I doubt they state their claim too loudly these days. He’s a miserable rogue who thinks himself a dashing figure when in reality he is no more than a bastard son of a family who would sooner forget him than wish him a Merry Solstice.”

  Mac strode to the wall beside the shelf that had held his macabre glove. A map hung there, the edges of the parchment dry and crumbling, the lines faded, but still clear enough to read. It was a topography map, a sketching of the forest with all its hills and valleys, all the hidden caves and rivers that speckled the land. He tapped the map with the back of one claw, careful not to damage the old parchment.

  “Show me where you were robbed.”

  “I will claim no robbery, bring no charges.” The fey’s body shook now, despite being so close to the fire. He poked himself in the side of the mouth with his pipe twice before managing to get his lips around it. “I want no attention from the sidhe. What they’d do to me, if they took it into their heads that I’d thrown mud at one of their own, is far worse than anything you could do to me.”

  The challenge rolled through Mac’s mind, tempting him to show the far darrig just how creative a human could be in delivering punishment. A human who could handle iron with little ill effect, who could craft things from iron, perhaps even shoes that could be welded to— He blinked, pulled his thoughts from their wandering. “We’ll leave that for the moment. For now, all I want is his location. Your name need never be mentioned.”

  More blood drained from the fey’s face, leaving his round nose protruding like a snowball that had hit its target and stuck. “The sidhe will know. They have spies everywhere.”

  “You are not the only one who will be speaking with me this night. Tell me where Robin Hood found you or I will leave pieces of your body cooking in a pot over my fire while I interrogate the next miscreant.” As the words left his mouth, Mac tilted his head, intrigued by his own flash of inspiration. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, drawing one claw over his chin, “that would be a priceless motivation for the next—”

  A cry that was half fury, half fear flew from the far darrig’s lips and he flung himself from his fireside seat. The cane he carried stabbed viciously at the solid floor of the cottage as he hobbled to the map. He raised the length of wood, swinging it through their air toward the map.

  Iron claws struck the cane, catching it before it could make contact with the fragile parchment.

  “This map is rather old,” Mac said, his voice a low growl. “And it was quite difficult to come by. A softer touch is required.”

  The far darrig clenched his teeth, but nodded. He shuffled closer to the wall, eyes avoiding contact with the metal claws as he was forced to come closer. “There.” He pointed to the gathering of trees near the fork of a wide river that passed close to the edge of town. His finger trembled as if revealing the location of his mugging had made him a target, as though the thousands of spies he’d spoken of were now focused solely on him. “I can go now?”

  Mac stared at the spot on the map, committing it to memory. “I will send for you again if I have more questions.”

  The fey fled the room with more agility than he’d shown in the entirety of his stay in Mac’s cottage, his old bones apparently not so weary now that it was time to escape. Mac ignored him, focusing instead on the map lying across the thick wooden table in the center of the room. There was a matching map on the wall, sketched for him by one of the town’s more gifted artists. The one before him had pins to mark Robin Hood sightings, names inked to indicate who had spotted him and whether it had been one of Robin Hood’s victims or beneficiaries, and notes scribbled in the margins suggesting avenues of future research or possible inconsistencies.

  Creaking sounds from beyond the door threatened his concentration, but Mac shut them out, staring at all the pins. Seven in all, a pathetic number. Robin Hood had many victims, but finding them and getting them to come forward… None of the fey wanted to admit they’d been robbed, either out of pride or out of fear of what Robin’s kin might do to them. And the beneficiaries were understandably hesitant to reveal that they’d received what they likely knew was stolen gold.

  Mac gripped the edges of the table, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the cutlery-scarred surface. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, harder to shut out. The map blurred as his mind tried to follow a handful of tangents at once, always with the hum of the iron threatening to scatter his wits to the four corners.

  Where are you, Robin Hood?

>   The door swung open, silent on well-oiled hinges, only the shift in the air giving it away. A brief clicking sound disturbed the silence of the room, then stopped. The weight of someone’s gaze fell on his back and he threw a glance over his shoulder.

  A wolf stood just inside the doorway, firelight playing in its amber eyes, making them glow. It was larger than most, would likely rest its paws on his shoulders if it stood up. Silver grey fur covered its body, long enough to hang in a fringe past its well-fed, but still muscled belly. The faintest dusting of black fur around its ears and eyes and its ebony nose were the only things keeping the beast from appearing as if carved from pure silver, like some smithy’s creation come to life. Its nose glistened in the firelight as it tilted its head at Mac. “So we will be moving soon. To finer surroundings, Sienna tells me.”

  The voice was masculine, smooth, and as clear as any human’s. It was the same voice the wolf had spoken with as a man, back when he’d been human. Before his seven years had started and his voice and form had been trapped in the body of a wolf.

  Mac turned his focus back to his map. “Yes. Guy is dead. I will submit a formal claim on his property tomorrow.”

  He slid his gaze over the curling black lines and spatters of dots that tattooed the map. The cartographer had promised it was one of the oldest to be had, that the hills, valleys, and rivers depicted on its face were the most accurate to be found—especially if one was interested in the hidden boughs and caves of the forest. Robin’s hiding place would be there somewhere. It had to be.

  “And the woman’s land?”

  His finger hovered over a spot where two pins lay close together. “Yes, the woman’s too. Now if you don’t mind, I am quite busy.”

  The wolf trotted over to the table, large head tilting up, as it tried to see what he was working on. Its nose touched the edge of the parchment and Mac paused, a new thought making itself heard over the buzz of the metal.

  “The woman—Marian. Do you know her?”

  Ca—no, the wolf. Mac had to think of him as the wolf. It, not him. Thinking of the wolf by his human name, thinking of him as a he, could lead to a slip of the tongue. The wrong word in front of the wrong person could lead to disaster for all of them. The wolf rose onto its hind legs and settled its front paws on the table.