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The jet glided into the darkness over Canada. The hushed flight attendant brought me three bottles of water, then delivered a squat bottle of a reddish blue liquor, but not before giving me a sideways look that earned a baleful look from Sterling.
It was customary in these situations for the male to offer his female a gift. A peace offering for his failing to keep her safe.
Except I was the one who had put myself in danger. I should have bailed on Spring as soon as she’d told me what I needed.
He opened the bottle and poured us shots. Huckleberry hit me. “This is a gift of my esteem. Not my penance.”
The bittersweet taste glazed my tongue. The splash was just enough to coat my mouth with the familiar, tart-sweet taste, and the burn of vodka. He watched me, expecting me to say something, but my words were all an unformed lump. I managed, “Garrett.”
“Who else was I going to trust?” Sterling resettled himself, sharp and intense, like a blade that had just been stoned. “The SilverPaw are no longer a threat. Daniel no longer can touch Jerron, and that means Rodero will be dismantled on our terms, not his.”
I picked up the claw-gauntlet. My hands trembled from weakness.
Sterling reached across the table and took it from my hands, but held it in his so I could look at it.
Gauntlets were not weapons of war. They were weapons of wrath and destruction. Our claws and teeth were very effective weapons. We squabbled amongst ourselves all the time, and casualties happened, but the preference was to wound our enemies so badly they were forced to retreat. The dead didn’t tuck their tail and reek of resentment and shame, and every time you saw them you had a little victory again. The dead were dead.
The gauntlets were for when you needed the dead to simply be dead. Most were relatively crude, made in mass amounts intended to fit a war-form claw. In the past they’d been iron or steel strapped to the claw with leather and buckles, but modern gauntlets used synthetic fabrics and elastics. Basic gauntlets were built like a half-glove that covered the wrist, top of the hand and top of the fingers, and featured crude articulation to allow for some movement. The tops of the fingers ended in metal points slightly curved to be extensions of our claws.
Sterling’s was not one of those. Sterling’s was beautiful: fine steel exquisitely articulated so it would fit either his human hand or war-form claw like a second skin. Because it used a stretchy synthetic material instead of leather buckles, it eliminated the need for a page to adjust the fit between shifts.
Masculine, traditional geometric patterns inset with polished pieces of red quartz were engraved on every steel surface. Entwined with this ornamental engraving were glyphs on the second joint of each finger: courage, righteousness, male, pack, with Gaia on the thumb. The first knuckle of each joint had a small oval plate of silver, and a larger disc of silver rested across the plate that made the back of the hand. Small silver pads had also been set along the heel of his palm, and the underside of each finger. There was barely any way to safely hold the gauntlet, much less be held by it.
The gauntlet had every tiny detail, including a small, clever mechanism that sat under the claw-points. Crude gauntlets didn’t have them—even gauntlets like this frequently didn’t. With an appropriate flick of a hand or claw, the mechanism would slide a silver needle between the claw and the steel tip. A second flick of the wrist, and the mechanism shot a fatal dose of silver into the otherwise minor puncture wound.
In the thumb was another, similar mechanism, only this one had a short, hollow steel needle attached to a small vial containing a fatal dose of liquid silver. This needle was meant for the wearer.
The index finger’s needle was missing.
Centuries of grim research had determined exactly how long and how pure the needles needed to be to insure they were fatal. Fatal didn’t mean swift.
It would take days, if not longer, for Jerron to die. The silver needle would be removed. He’d be disposed of.
Sterling watched with those burning hazel eyes.
I asked, “Where did you get it?”
“My mother had it. She passed it to me.” Sterling moved to put the gauntlet back into its polished wood box. “Alan sent me the video of what they did to you.”
Paralysis hit my throat. The slash on my arm burned. Tingles shot down into my fingers and they started to pluck at an invisible harp.
He was going to die.
I croaked, “I’m sorry.”
He paused, latching the box closed. “For what?”
“This. It’s my fault.”
“We decided to do this together. I put you up to this. I remember holding you and putting you up to it. I am to blame, if we are going to start assigning blame.” His eyes were dark, stormy, ruthless.
“No, no,” I choked. “I should have run. I knew, I knew, I could have gotten out, but I was stubborn and held my ground, and now you’re going to die.”
He seemed haunted, but resolved, too much like those scales of flesh. “A warrior does not put on their gauntlet for any reason besides death. The instant Alan touched you with silver this could only end one way.”
I hung my head. “And it’s my fault. It’s my fault, I could have gotten out sooner.”
He extended his left hand across the table, palm up. I put my right hand in his. He gripped my fingers. “Tell me everything that happened. Or simply talk to me, even if you just want to tell me I am a failure. I have missed your voice, your scent, you.”
