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

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