The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) by Jennifer Blackstream Page A

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 from 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