The ley line tickles the soles of my feet, teasing me. It would be so easy to reach down and lift a handful of power. To knock them on their asses. But I shouldn’t.

“You’re always hanging around the Unseelie,” the second slurs. “Should pick your friends more carefully.”

“Pretty sure I already do that. They’re waiting for me to bring back our drinks, so I’ve gotta go, guys.”

They press in closer, tight enough that I can smell their hair product and the delicate colognes spritzed over their clothes.

“Think Aileen would want to talk to him?” the first asks.

A cruel leer grows on the third’s face. “No. But I bet the king and queen would. We should take him with us.”

He wraps his hand around my forearm and twists when I try to pull away. He whispers something and my arm jolts from what feels like a hundred bee stings.

I’ve faced down monsters far worse than this little group. I grit my teeth and assess the situation, even as the stinging in my arm gives way to a blistering sensation. The shot in my left hand is cheap whiskey, but it’ll burn just fine. I dip my fingers in the ley line and pull out just a sprinkling of it, trying not to forget how pissed off Roark will be if I overdo this and blow up Domovoi’s.

The surface of the whiskey sparks, blue flame curling against the glass. When I smash it against this Seelie’s face, it’ll light him up.

I lift the shot and swing it toward him, resigned to the unholy beating guaranteed to follow, when the glass is plucked from my hand. Bitter cold surrounds me. The Seelie start coughing as the moisture freezes in their lungs. Roark calmly blows out the flame and slams back the shot before placing the now-frosted glass upside down on the bar.

“Another,” he says without raising his voice. “And three more for our friends.”

The bartender, eyes wide, nods, but doesn’t interfere.

The Seelie continue hacking, clutching at their fancy dress shirts. Some of the people around us have started to notice, but wisely don’t say anything. Roark’s presence encourages them to give us a wide berth.

“Hey,” I mumble.

Roark pretends to not notice my awkwardness. Instead, he lounges against the bar and watches his handiwork.

His voice drops too low for the few around us to hear. “Honestly, Smith, you didn’t think you could just walk away after saying that, did you?”

We both know what he’s talking about. “More like hoped.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but when he sees the way I hold my arm, fury clouds his face. “They hurt you.”

It’s not a question. Cool fingers on my arm, brushing over what feels like raw skin. The ley line squirms, trying to help me control the pain like it did all those years ago in the Unseelie sídhe.

I keep my voice down as I warn him, “Need to make the pain stop or the ley line’s going to do that for us.”

“I can help, but it’ll hurt you more.”

“And after?”

He makes a face, then clamps his hands down on my arm. I yelp, but the burn’s ache dulls, fades, and finally vanishes as it’s replaced with a gentle numbness. The ley line stumbles when I cut it off and feed the leftover energy into Roark while I have the chance. His shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t say a word against it or reprimand me like he has in practice. Instead, he turns his pale gaze toward the Seelie, face masked with glamour.

“They hurt you,” he repeats, lower this time, rough-edged, like the ley line’s power is singeing the edges of his words.

“No starting a war with drunks,” I hiss back, trying to tug my arm free. How can I prove to him that I’m okay? I can’t let him lose it. Any aggression from him would likely be considered an act of war. “We’re in public. You don’t get to hurt them here.” Wait, a loophole. I add, “Or anywhere else.”

“They deserve it.”

I glare down at him, almost too upset to notice he’s still holding on to my arm. Almost.

“Roark, lift the damn hex already.”

By now the Seelie are on their knees. Their lips are blue and their eyes turn up imploringly at Roark, who finally releases my arm. The bartender left the shots Roark ordered on the bar before retreating to the opposite end. Roark pushes three of the shots toward the Seelies’ seats.

His mouth tightens, but he turns to my tormentors. The ley line—and my entire body—relaxes when he lifts his hex. Warmth floods back to our part of the bar and the troublemakers gasp as they gulp down new air. Roark holds out his hand to the ringleader, so regal and polite no one would think he was just choking the life from them. “Cockweb, isn’t it?”

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net