Cold Iron by D. L. McDermott

quickly. He must make decisions, and a single mistake would end in death for both of them, his swift, hers less so. They would torture her, his Fae brothers and sisters, and they would make it last. Conn, they would finish quickly, for fear of his name and reputation, geis -burdened or not.
    “How do you find the Fae, Beth? When you locate our sites, how do you do it?”
    She bit her lip.
    “If you want to live, you must tell me.”
    “With a map,” she said it softly, as though it shamed her. “With a compass and a map. Sometimes with photos. I can feel it. A connection.” She clutched her stomach, the soft swell of her belly. “Here. Sometimes even with only a few lines drawn on a piece of paper, if they form a landscape, I can feel them.”
    “We need a map of the city, and the surrounding towns,” he said. They must hope there was an enclave inside the city proper. She would not last long enough to travel far.
    “At my apartment,” she said. “We have only tourist maps here. That I know how to find anyway,” she said. “Just of the T and the downtown streets.”
    “How far is your home?”
    “About two miles. Somerville,” she supplied. The name had no meaning for him. The distance presented problems.
    He took her hand. “Come.”
    He led her from the gallery. She moved slowly. Too slowly. He stopped and picked her up. She made no protest. Her head rolled against his shoulder. “Stay awake, Beth. I need you.”
    Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled at him, but it was a glazed look.
    Outside, the cool air revived her, and she looked around. “Where are we going?”
    “We need a vehicle,” Conn said. “Do you have one?”
    “No. I walk or take the T, but it doesn’t run after midnight.”
    “Then we need a car. A fast one. I can pass , but I can’t carry you with me. And if the Fae enclave isn’t close by, we’ll need to cover ground quickly.”
    He set her down on a bench and examined the available options.
    “This is a student lot,” she said. “You can’t steal one of their cars.”
    “The Fae don’t steal. We accept gifts.”
    He selected one. Low slung, silver, with power and speed in her sleek chassis. Not Fae power, not Fae speed, but a counterfeit he did not at present have the luxury of scorning.
    He ran his hand over the locks. Harnessed energy. They called it electricity now, and they knew how to generate it, but not how to tease it out of living things, how to borrow it from one thing and lend it to another.
    He did, though. Conn was no sorcerer, but petty magic was the birthright of all Fae, and it served him well now. The locks sprang open under his fingers.
    He lifted Beth from the bench and carried her to the open door.
    “This is a Porsche,” she said.
    “Is that fast?” he asked innocently.
    Her eyes narrowed. “You know it is.”
    “Yes. I learned quite a bit in the last few days.”
    “I hope that includes how to drive.”
    “Ignition, gearshift, steering,” he said.
    “There are rules, too,” she said. “About using the roads.”
    “Rules are for the ruled,” he said, although he was already finding the maze of twisted lanes confusing as he pulled out of the lot. He risked a glance at Beth, expecting her to continue sparring with him, but she looked disappointed. “What is it?”
    “Nothing. Turn right at the next light.”
    He did. He checked on her once more. She was awake and alert, but strangely withdrawn.
    “What upset you?” he asked. It wasn’t physical pain afflicting her—though that was still there—nor was it fear.
    “That’s like what Frank used to say. Rules are for other people. Sometimes you act like him.”
    Ah. He had his suspicions about Frank. Beth didn’t have enough knowledge to work it out, but she had noticed the telling similarities. “I was born thousands of years ago, Beth. If anyone is like anyone else, surely it is Frank who is like me. I agree with you, though, that he shares some of the arrogance of the Fae, but with