I suppose not.
“I hope you don’t mind that I let him keep the strand of pearls, Fallon.” Imogen gestures to the shimmering heap of chains and jewels. “Apparently his mother’s very fond of sea beads.”
“You should’ve given him all the necklaces, Imogen.”
“Allwould’ve raised eyebrows; one shouldn’t cause him or us any problems.”
My father sets me down beside the rusted trap in which Lore’s crow rests, one spread wing wedged inside, the other poking out. It’s truly a wonder he didn’t tip out in transit. Actually, it’s not a wonder: one of his iron talons is tangled around the metal netting.
The arrow protruding from him has been reduced to a stubby piece of wood, but I manage to pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. When I attempt to drag it out, though, my fingers keep slipping off.
I flip the trap over, looking for the exit wound since it’s the obsidian tip that needs to come out. The wood will just fall out of Lore once he’s released from his steel mummification. With great regret, I find no exit wound. In the words of my great and mighty mate,focà.
I push my damp hair out of my eyes, streaking sand across my brow, then set the trap down on my crossed legs and pinch the stick poking out of the crow’s belly anew. Minutes turn into a full half hour, and I’m no closer to freeing my mate. “I need fire and a metal skewer.”
Planning on roasting me, mo khrà?
I tilt my head to stare up at him. His citrine eyes, for once, aren’t on me. They’re on that piece of him resting in my lap.
“I’m planning on burning the rotted wood and replacing it with a metal stalk to push out the obsidian tip lodged inside of you.”
Sounds painful.
I don’t see any other way of getting it out of you, Lore.
He must give the order to find me the tools I’ve asked for because two of the Crows circling us soar over the forest toward the human settlements in the swamp lands.
As I wait, I go back to trying to twist the wooden shaft, wishing I could use my magic, but since my blood combined with obsidian would turn Lore into a forever-Crow, there’s absolutely no way I’m dripping any on him.
A fabric bundle drops beside me, making me jump. When I realize it’s come from Lore’s messengers, I unwrap it.
May this work . . .
Fifty-Nine
As I strike steel against flint, I murmur,I’m sorry, Lore.
My spark leaps off the stone and onto the arrow protrusion. Though the wood is waterlogged, it still catches fire and burns down like a birthday candle. I study my mate’s shadowy face as the scent of campfire fragrances the beach.
I’m so sorry.
He doesn’t say a word, merely stares at the smoke curling from his iron crow.
Once the smoke stops wafting out, I tip the trap to coax the embers out, then slide the metal skewer into the hole left over by the arrow. I wince as though it’s my own body I’m stabbing.
Don’t cry, Behach Éan. I’m not in—he swallows—in pain.
How could he not be? I drive my shoulder into my wet eyes.
The tears keep coming, keep trickling down my cheeks, plopping onto the shiny iron body of my mate. I start to think I’ll never get the damned arrowhead out when suddenly my skewer slides deeper into Lore, as though he weren’t entirely made of metal.
I hear his breath catch as the sharpened obsidian point surfaces from the iron. I feel his pain flash white and bright through our bond. Teeth gritted, cheeks wet with compassion, I drive the skewer in hard and fast to put an end to this torture. The arrow plinks against the metal trap.
I yank out the skewer, then drop it on the sand, and glare at the weapon head with such fury, it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst into flames.
“Fallon.” The sound of my name jolts me because it doesn’t ring between my temples; it travels through the air.
I look up at the lithe body clad in black and steel, at the high cheekbones inked with a feather, at the eyes forever watching me. Watching over me. So concentrated was I on the piece of obsidian that I missed my mate dissolving into smoke and slamming into his other crows.
