Hold Me Closer, Necromancer - Lish McBride [71]
“So,” she said, pushing her bangs behind her ear, “I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”
“If you wanted to see that, you should have peeked when I was undressing, like any normal person.”
“Of course I peeked. That’s not what I meant.”
“You lost me, then.”
She placed her hand over her heart. “Were-hound.” She gestured toward me.
I almost said “human.” But then I realized that wasn’t the right answer. Not anymore. My hand felt cold as I mimicked her movement and placed it over my heart. “Necromancer. Or at least that’s what people keep telling me. I don’t seem very good at it.” I stretched and looked around the room, pretending I wasn’t trying to get a better look at her legs. She had cute knees. Can people have cute knees? “I feel kind of stupid saying necromancer.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell if I’m just not used to it, or if the term seems too Dungeons & Dragons.” I slid my hands along the bars. I don’t know what I was looking for. I’m not MacGyver. I can’t break out of a steel cage using bubblegum and a shoelace. Not that I had any bubblegum in the first place. Or a shoelace. A cold spot under my palm made me jerk my hand back. It felt like dry ice.
Brid sprawled on the floor. “And what else would you call yourself? Ghost master? Dead-wrangler? Mayor of Zombieville?”
“You might have a point. Dead-wrangler isn’t half bad, though, and I’ve always wanted to be the mayor of something. Or maybe el Presidente for life.” I held my hand over the cold spot and closed my eyes. I saw a symbol traced on the back of my eyelids, like when I used to draw something with a sparkler over and over and then shut my eyes. I didn’t recognize the symbols. I hadn’t expected to. “Do you know what these symbols mean?” I asked.
“No, but I get their intention.”
I opened my eyes; nothing could be gained by keeping them shut. I pulled my hand back into the cage and rubbed it on my jeans. When Brid didn’t follow up, I asked her what she meant.
“This cage is built out of iron. Cold iron inhibits any fey, and I’m half fey.” At my blank look, Brid grimaced. “Fairy,” she explained.
“Then why not just say, ‘I’m half fairy’?”
“Because,” Brid said dryly, “most Americans picture Tinker Bell when they hear fairy. I am not Tinker Bell.” She leveled a glare at me until I held up my hands in surrender. Once I had gotten her point, she continued.
“The cold iron wouldn’t be a problem, but the runes are done in silver. Weres have an allergy to silver.”
I thought back to what all those werewolf movies I’d seen said about silver bullets. “So this cage is killing you?”
One of Brid’s eyebrows quirked up in an amused fashion. “Do I look like I’m dying?”
“Touché.”
“The iron means no magic, and it gives me a bit of a rash. The silver runes keep me from bending the iron.” She made a face. “And healing.”
I tapped my finger between two bars, back and forth. “So they’ve been planning on getting you for some time.” At least long enough to build a cage. I had no idea how long that took. “I’m probably just here as an afterthought.”
“I don’t know about that. Your back doesn’t look like an afterthought.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Some kind of were did your back. I can’t tell you which one exactly, though I can make an educated guess. I do know it wasn’t one of my pack.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. And there aren’t a lot of rogues in this area. Besides, you must be worth something; otherwise, they’d have killed you already.”
“Anyone ever told you that you’re a very reassuring and positive person?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I can see why.” I paced along the corner of the cage. “Earlier you said ‘were-hound.’ What does that mean exactly?” I paused midstep. “If you don’t mind. I have no idea if that’s a rude thing to ask, but I’m tired of not knowing anything.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m a directness kind of gal. It means that I’m a hybrid.”
Since we had nothing but time, Brid filled me in. Her mother was a werewolf, her father some sort of