Page 89 of Quicksilver

“Good. So you're coming.”

“Saeris.”

“Because you wouldn't want him to command me to do something I didn't want to do again. Because you're a nice Fae warrior, unlike Fisher, who is the devil incarnate.”

Ren looked torn, but at last, he relented. “All right. Yes, okay. I'll come. But he's not going to be happy about it.”

“When is Fisher happy about anything?” I scowled. “Where is he, anyway? Why didn't he come to torture me with news of dinner himself?”

Ren looked toward the doorway, more alert than he'd been a moment ago. I got the feeling that his superior Fae hearing haddetected movement out in the hallway back in the main house, but if he had, he didn't mention it.

“He's with Te Léna,” he said distractedly.

“Oh. Right. Was he hurt or something?”

“Hmm? Oh no, he's fine. Nothing to worry about. There was a skirmish in the eastern wood beyond the camp, but it was over quickly. He came out unscathed.” He nodded as if trying to convince himself that this was true. “I'll see you at dinner, Saeris.”

“Wait. One last thing before you go. I’ve been thinking a lot while I’ve been stuck in here, trying to make these relics, and…Fisher’s sword, Nimerelle, still has some magic, doesn’t it? The smoke and that dark energy that crackles from the blade?”

Ren looked a little wary now. “Yes.”

“How—how is that?”

He rubbed his jaw, thinking for a second. “I’m not sure,” he said. “None of us are. All we know is that when the god swords went silent and abandoned the rest of the Fae who carried them, Nimerelle stayed. At a cost. The blade used to shine brilliant silver. As the centuries have passed, it’s blackened and tarnished. But Nimerelle has stayed. The spirit of that sword or the magic inside it, whatever you choose to believe it is, hasstayed.No matter what, it’s never left him.”

“I don't see whyIhave to come.” Carrion tugged at his shirt collar, grumbling as he hurried along behind me down the hall. “I was in the middle of a great sparring session. I'm filthy. I would have gotten changed if I'd known I'd be sitting down with my kidnapper for a nice meal. Speaking of which,youshould really have changed after you left the forge, too.”

“I did,” I said blandly.

Carrion pulled a face. “Really? I seem to remember there being a very low-cut, sheer black dress on the end of your bed when I went back to the room earlier, and I can't help but notice that you're wearing a faded, threadbare shirt and some very dusty pants.”

“So what? Theyareclean.”

“That's the only positive thing that can be said about them.” Carrion's nose wrinkled in disgust. “I had a vested interest in seeing you in that dress.”

“Why?” I shoved open the door to the dining room.

“Your phenomenal tits, that’s why. They would have looked great in that dress. And your ass. The material was sheer as hell. Wouldn’t have left much to the imagination. Not that I need to use my imagination when it comes to your body, but—”

A sinister growl echoed around the dining room.

Carrion had enough common sense to stop talking.

The windows had been fixed after the attack. There was no huge floral arrangement in the middle of the table this time. Fisher sat at the head of the table, dressed in midnight black. A tailored shirt hugged his chest and shoulders in the most distracting way. His hair was damp, the ends curling, as if he wasn't long out of the baths. His mouth formed a taut line, suggesting that he wanted to close his hands around Carrion's throat and snap his neck. All cleaned up now, Ren sat to Fisher's left, nursing a glass of whiskey, looking pained.

“You're late,” Fisher said in an icy tone. “And please enlighten me. Why have you invited half of the household along to a meeting that was supposed to be for just the two of us?”

“Meeting? I thought this was dinner. And how would it be fair for me to enjoy the pleasure of your company while these two miss out?”

Carrion held up a hand. “I'd prefer not to be here, actually.”

“Sit the fuckdown,” I hissed.

“All right. Gods.”

A place had been set for me down the far end of the table again, though it appeared as though a concession had been made this time, because the table was nowhere near as long as before. Only ten feet? Still, I wasn't some second-class citizen to be relegated to the far end of a fucking table. I strode straight past the setting, swiping only the wine glass as I went, and then dragged out the chair on Fisher's right again, sitting down heavily in it.

Renfis had been in the process of sipping from his glass, but the second he realized that I'd sat opposite him, next to Fisher, the alcohol sprayed out of his mouth in an arc that nearly crossed the width of the table. Luckily no food had been placed on it yet.