Page 31 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘Shut up,’ he muttered.

It is rooted in your soul.

He started to sing. Anything to drown out that strange old voice. The incessant pull of his magic. It was dark – too dark. He had felt it that night in the catacombs. He had run from it for a reason. He was still running from it.

This is not who I am.

This is not who I want to be.

The blade was taking shape, this new compound – steelfire – gleaming like a beacon in his hands. Almost done.

Sweat stung his eyes and dripped down his nose. It plinked off the blade, dancing along the sheen of his own reflection. His eyes were wild, teeth gritted tight.

‘Anatoli!’ he yelled. ‘Do you know any folk songs from Farberg?’

‘Of course I know folk songs!’ bellowed the blacksmith, rising unsteadily from his stool. ‘We drank them down for breakfast.’

‘Sing one! Sing all of them!’

Swinging the half-empty bottle around, Anatoli sang his favourite folk songs. He sounded like a sheep in the throes of labour. A cow dying in a field. A flock of gulls coming in from the harbour.

A blissful reprieve.

Every warbling note drowned out the voice inside Theo, enough that he could finish the damn blade in peace. As he plunged the hammered steelfire into a cooling vat of oil, he wished he could plunge himself in too. He was sweating in places he didn’t even know was possible.

Shucking off his gloves, he went to the window and gulped down a lungful of fresh air.

Anatoli stopped bleating. ‘Done so soon?’

‘I feel like I’ve been here for a hundred years.’

The blacksmith took another swig. ‘The moon is still up.’

‘Good for her.’ Theo reached for his satchel. ‘I’ll be back to temper that.’

‘Bring more whiskey.’

‘Only if I don’t die of heatstroke.’ He practically hurled himself into the night, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Maurius for the wind. It tossed his hair and whipped his face, making him feel like a human again.

It was after midnight and there was time to kill. He wasn’t about to spend it with a drunk yodeller or an unhinged saint and his fifty creepy gargoyles.

Fiddle music wafted from the the Drunken Swan. Good enough.

Ducking inside, he made for a quiet spot in the corner when a flash of silver hair stopped him in his tracks. Even from the back, his aunt was unmistakable. If not for the distinct colour of her hair but the way she braided it so intricately down her back.

Paola, who was sitting by the bar, nursing a tumbler of brandy, jerked at his hand on her shoulder. She reached for whatever weapon she had concealed in the inner pocket of her jacket.

‘Easy, warrior. Don’t hairpin me.’

Her shoulders slackened and she eased into a grin. ‘You could do with one. You look like a scarecrow.’

‘You wound me.’

She patted the stool beside her. ‘Sit. Drink with me.’

Pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, he took the stool beside her. ‘What are you doing down here?’

‘Went for a walk. Heard fiddles. Was powerless to resist.’ She swigged her drink. ‘Honestly, there’s something creepy about that big old house.’