Cold Fire (Spiritwalker #2)

Cold Fire (Spiritwalker #2) Page 63

To honor her, I stood. “No one knows what happened during that expedition, just that most of them died and a very few survived. I can only think of one way to interpret what you’ve just said. You trapped them somehow, on the ice, maybe even in the spirit world. She agreed to have sexual congress with you to save the lives of the others. She did it to save my father’s life, because she loved him.”

“That male did not father you.”

“He fathered me in every way that counts. You only sired me.” My voice rasped with unshed tears, thinking of what my mother had agreed to, and how she must have loved me anyway and risked her life and everything she knew to make a life for me. Had Daniel known? Or had she borne this secret alone, hoping the hunter might forget both her and the child? I would never know.

“That you are as you are is a gift that comes from me only. You must be what I made you to be. Forged like cold steel out of many layers, you are strong, resilient, and able to adapt in a moment’s reaction.”

“What do you want from me?”

He extended an arm. The crow hopped from its perch to tighten its claws over the bronzed muscles of his forearm. I thought the tips of those claws drew blood, but because of the way the crow’s shadow—the only shadow my light could not dispel— fell across his body, I could not be certain.

“I want you to spy for me, Daughter.”

I am not a young woman who craves attention or draws notice to herself through dramatic gestures or heedless bravado. But I admit it. I laughed.

“To spy for you! That would be no hardship for a person of my background and training. But I’m sure there’s a hook in the bargain that is about to catch in my lip.”

“You may address me as ‘Your Serenity,’ or ‘my prince.’ Or as ‘Father.’”

“Are you mocking me?” I demanded.

“No, I am suggesting it would be both prudent and wise for you to show respect for your master and procreator.”

“I have never been told I am prudent or wise. But I suppose I could address you as ‘Sire.’”

He betrayed no reaction to my impertinent words and sardonic tone. But the turtle came alive, head easing out from the shell as its eyes opened to look toward me with an unfathomable gaze. My sire tapped it on the head, and it withdrew again. He clapped his hands twice.

Ice smoked over between two of the toads. Within an alcove, a stout man who had no head sat upright on a bench. Two dripping-wet women clothed only in long hair the oil-brown color of seaweed pressed to either side of him. The headless man lurched up, shedding the females leeched to him. With the shuffling gait of a blind man in a strange room, he carried over a tray with two glasses on it. He paused in front of me, and I took a step back, for I had a sudden fear that he might grope me, and I was sure I would scream if he did. He wore a patched tunic with trews beneath, calves bound with cord over soft leather summer boots. Rings adorned his fingers. A buttery-gold torc spanned his neck, whose severed trunk oozed greasily, as if it had never quite healed but could not quite bleed.

“Drink with me to seal our bargain,” said my sire.

“I dare not drink or eat what is served to me in the spirit world lest some property within trap me further.”

“Take the cup, Catherine Bell Barahal.”

My hand took a cup. It was filled with an amber liquid.

The headless serving man carried the tray over to my sire, who plucked the other glass from it. The headless man shuffled back over to the bench. The water spirits clutched at him. Their clinging seemed obscene, for while their hair in streaks concealed most of their bodies, what made the display so disturbing was that, beneath his trews, the man was visibly and powerfully aroused. Dear me. Blushing, I looked away to examine the carpets on which I stood, many layers strewn haphazardly across the floor as if to cover a mighty stain seeping upward.

No, this was not helping at all.

Mastering myself, I looked toward my sire. By now my clothes were half dry, my skin coated with a sticky salt grime, and my hair lifting away from my neck in knotted tangles as it dried. I was exhausted—that went without saying although naturally, as Bee would have commented, I would have mentioned it anyway—but I was no longer frozen and disheartened. He hadn’t smitten me yet.

“Is that Bran Cof, the poet? The one you torment?”

He sipped at the amber wine as if considering its taste or my faults.

“Are the creatures who sleep in the ice your slaves? Or do they serve you willingly out of their own natures?”

Despite his silence, I was beginning to get the impression that my bold manner amused him.