Stone Song by D. L. McDermott

salamanders in it. She grabbed one at random and clutched it to her chest.
    Her Fae savior cocked his head to look at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “Uh-huh.” Maybe.
    “Stay there,” he said.
    She had no intention of moving from under the breakfast bar. The cold iron was helping her to think clearly, but it only sharpened her understanding of her predicament. It didn’t do anything to decrease the physical effect of the Fae wine she’d drunk. And if she closed her eyes, if she allowed her mind to wander, erotic visions swam inside her head, more adventurous than anything she’d ever fantasized about before.
    She could hear Elada moving about the kitchen, crunching over broken glass and bits of iron. Sorcha listened as he walked from the stove to the pantry and back again, then stopped.
    “Do you have any pot holders?”
    “Are you going to bake a cake?”
    “Your door latches are all iron,” he said.
    “Oh.” She hadn’t thought about that. “There are mitts in the drawer next to the range.”
    “It’s an iron range,” he observed.
    She heard the drawer open and close.
    “What are you doing?” she asked.
    “Looking for something to put over the window.”
    She should get up and help him. He couldn’t touch half the things in the house. But she was afraid that if she got up, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from touching him.
    • • •
    Elada surveyed the ruined kitchen, the broken window, and Sorcha Kavanaugh huddled beneath the countertop where she had rolled after he’d burst in.
    The kitchen window was done for. He could feel the welts where the iron had come into contact with his shoulders and back. A necessity, but the destruction of the window was a pity, because until it was fixed, Sorcha would be vulnerable here.
    He didn’t think the Prince would return right away. The bastard’s arm had appeared to be broken in at least two, possibly three places—which made him like Sorcha Kavanaugh even more. And while the Prince had some of the skills of a mage, he wasn’t the sorcerer that Miach was. Knitting bones back together was fine work, and for anyone with less skill than Miach, which was everyone, it took time.
    Elada knelt beside the little bard to get a better look at her. Her black tights were torn, her blouse was open, her hair was wild, and she was bleeding from several small cuts, but as far as he could tell none of her bones were broken. In other circumstances, he would have found her dishevelment sexy, the blood and destruction deeply appealing to his Fae nature, a vision of the violent goddess who had created his race, but Sorcha had just spent an evening with the Prince Consort, and he wouldn’t wish that on any creature.
    “Are you hurt?” he asked.
    She shook her head. Her pulse was racing, her breathing was shallow, her muscles were taut, but he didn’t think that was from shock or injury. Still, he should make sure. He reached for her. She shrank back.
    “Don’t touch me,” she said.
    He held up his hands. “Okay. I’m not going to touch you. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t injured.”
    “I’m not.” Her hands were clasped together around an iron ladle, white knuckled.
    “Did the Prince . . .” Elada struggled to find the words. They rose in his throat like bile.
    She shook her head once more. “No. But I think I need to be alone now.”
    Which meant the Prince had done something to her. If there was a way to kill the Queen’s lover, Elada was going to find it.
    “I’m sorry, Sorcha, but you can’t be alone right now. The Prince could come back. Until that iron window is fixed, you won’t be safe here. And even once it is fixed, you’ll be a prisoner in your own house now that the Prince has found you. You have to come to Miach’s.”
    She shook her head once more. “I can’t go anywhere right now. I need to be away from . . . your kind.”
    He didn’t like being lumped in with his kind, but it was hard to blame her under