Page 43 of Of Sword & Silver

“I really hate that name. So tacky.”

“Any ideas on who should join us?” The Sword swaggers past me to a huge stone statue in the back of the room, one whose face is covered in darkness, the wode light failing to fully illuminate it. The only thing visible is the massive broadsword in the statue’s hands, the tip of which rests on the stone floor, between two bare feet.

A huge stone casket rests behind it, and that’s the coffin the Sword now busies himself about, moving the stone lid off, his muscles straining.

I fan my face.

I’ve never been averse to a good show. The one he’s putting on, all glistening skin and rippling biceps and deep grunts… it’s pretty damned good.

“Do you need help?” I finally ask, pink tinging my cheeks. He doesn’t bother looking at me, thank goddess, because if he did, he might realize that I’ve been staring at him this whole time. Ogling him, even.

“No,” he says tersely.

The direcat coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“Suit yourself.” I’m not miffed by his refusal. Nope. He might be a bigger jackass than Mushroom, but he is nice to look at. And if I can appreciate his very masculine beauty and not work up a sweat, all the better.

Conserving energy and all that.

His muscles strain again, and I raise my eyebrows. If I lick my lips a little, so what?

Finally, unfortunately, the lid of the casket moves far enough that he can access whatever’s inside.

My interest piqued, I amble over to him, half expecting him to have that typical sweaty-man stink, but one sniff proves different. He smells sweaty, yes, but… he smells good.

I squint at him, slightly off kilter.

“Are you about to introduce me to another rotten friend?” I pause, grinning at my joke. If I can’t depend on myself to be my own best audience, then who can I depend on? “You know, I’ve probably said that before but I’ve never meant it literally. Thanks for that.”

He doesn’t answer, and I glance past his ridiculously handsome face into the tomb.

“That’s more like it,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “No bones about it, huh?”

He shoots me a pained look.

There’s no body in this one—instead, it’s full of… weapons. And at first, I thought that shiny stuff was silver or jewels or something fun.

It’s not, though, it’s armor. Not like any armor I’ve ever seen before, though.

My nose scrunches as the Sword pulls out a pair of gleaming gauntlets, then a matching pair of pauldrons with unlikely spikes protruding from their tops.

Greaves and cuisses follow, though they’re less showy, more solidly functional. I stare at the pile of steel on the floor, the Sword still rooting around in the tomb.

“You seem to be missing a few key pieces.”

He grunts.

“Besides your poor conversational skills, I mean. Where is the breastplate? The helm? Also, you’re not exactly going to blend in with these.” I nudge the spiked pauldrons with my foot. Then regret it because they hardly move and now my inner thigh hurts in return for my effort. Ugh.

“I don’t need them.”

It takes me a minute to register what he’s said, still hanging over the tomb, pulling strange things out.

“What? You don’t need a breastplate?” I snort, tapping my fingers along my arms. “Of course you don’t. It’s not like that’s where the important bits are stored.”

“I’m not like you,” he says in a low voice, and I puzzle over that for a second before laughing again.

“Yeah, I know, you’re not human. But Fae still bleed. Or elves, or whatever it is you are.” I peer at him. “What are you, anyway?”

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