Cold Iron by D. L. McDermott

possessive hand at the back of her neck and rubbed small circles there. His touch was warm and comforting, though it should not be so. She wanted to shake him off, but found she couldn’t. Another part of the compulsion, she hoped.
    She stumbled. The effort of keeping part of herself free of him, of retaining any measure of free will, was taking a physical toll. Her temples throbbed. The beginning of a blinding migraine. Her jaw ached; her cheekbones felt pummeled. Tears formed at the corner of her eyes. Suddenly he pulled her up short and turned her to face him.
    “You’re hurting yourself by resisting,” he said. “Accept my control and the pain will recede.”
    She gritted her teeth and shook her head. “I can’t.” She couldn’t. Something about his compulsion was impossible for her body and mind to accept. Her reaction was instinctual, ingrained, and agonizing. Her vision swam. She felt cool stone against her back, knew he was holding her up against the gallery wall, could feel his intense scrutiny.
    He released her, withdrew his power so abruptly her ears popped. It was like surfacing after being pulled under by a strong wave and nearly drowning. She took in deep lungfuls of air and sagged against the wall, then eyed him warily.
    He was wearing his Fae glamour, a shimmering aura that blurred the air around him, softened his harsh beauty, and made it tolerable to look upon him. It was false. She knew that now. So, she suspected, was the handsome human face he had worn at the party. His true face was the cruel, alien perfection she’d glimpsed in Clonmel, when her hand had brushed the iron bedstead, and back in the gallery when she’d been clutching the key in her pocket.
    That he could have taken from her at any time.
    He was so alien, she realized, so removed from normal human emotions, that not hurting her required care on his part.
    “Thank you,” she said at last, acknowledging his action and taking in their surroundings. They were in the middle of the vast echoing European Paintings Room. Beyond were the galleries of the ancient world, and past that, the Arms and Armor Room and the sword.
    She reached up and tentatively touched her face. Her temples ached. Her cheekbones throbbed from the effort of fighting him. No wonder most people didn’t bother to try. Then his hands replaced hers. His fingertips circled and stroked, breaking up the lines of tension, massaging away the pain. She knew she ought to keep her guard up against this creature, not allow him another opening, but the relief was too sweet.
    “I didn’t intend to hurt you,” he said. He looked puzzled for a moment, then added, “But most mortals are like beasts of burden. They prefer the certainty of servitude. They welcome being yoked to the plow.”
    “I’m not an ox,” she said.
    “No,” he laughed. “ You are not. But as you saw in the gallery, most people are. You don’t explain your purpose to your car, do you? You get in and turn the engine on and drive.”
    He was right. Most people, like Dave Monroe, preferred certainties, even when their certainties were wrong. And while she’d been under Conn’s control, she had been free of the burden of choice. Of responsibility for her own actions. It was part of what was so seductive about him.
    “That doesn’t make it right,” she said. More to herself than to him.
    But he answered her with a shrug. “My race is older than your concepts of right and wrong, good and evil. It was unlikely you would understand why I needed to reclaim the sword.”
    “Try me,” she said, struggling not to close her eyes under the sweetness of his fingers massaging her temples. “I already know the sword is powerful.” She recalled the way the weapon had sung to her even through muffling layers of cloth. “I just don’t know how.”
    “It makes the wielder an unstoppable warrior. The magic in it marries thought to deed, drives the blade home through sinew, blood, and bone. It has cut a red