Free Touched With Sight by Nenia Campbell Page A

he might be trying to keep his temper in check instead.
    “You have no respect.”
    “ Only when it's deserved.”
    “ It is an honor to be chosen as an instrument of the Council.”
    “ You mean a pawn in whatever scheme you and your people are brewing?”
    Another layer of coldness entered his eyes. “You think you can do better? You're a shape-shifter. An animal. A savage. Nothing. You will be fortunate if you live to see your thirtieth birthday. I suggest you ground your aspirations, lest you end up dead in a gutter somewhere.”
    He wasn't angry that she was refusing to help him in his capacity as a member of the Council, no. He was angry that she wouldn't sleep with him. If the situation hadn't been so pathetic, she might have laughed in his face—but he would almost certainly kill her then. Catherine crossed her arms and squared her shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
    “ Are you holding a torch for your mate?” he continued, ruthlessly. “By now, the worms have started feasting on his flesh. Of course, your kind prides itself on strength, and he couldn’t have been so powerful if he allowed himself to be captured so easily—”
    “ Nobody said he was dead .” She struck him. She'd been aiming for his eye, but he turned his head at the last instant. Livid marks appeared in his pale skin: three parallel lines filled with blood. She'd just barely grazed him with her pinky, and that had left a mark like a tear beneath his left eye.
    For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the witch touched two fingers gingerly to his cheek to study the blood beading at the tips.
    “Well,” he said quietly. “Now it seems I have to teach you a lesson.”
    She retreated backwards a few steps, horrified by what she'd done and sick with anger and guilt. She nearly upset her music stand, which she struggled to right before it could fall to the floor with a clatter. She was putting space between them so she could attack and parry as necessary. Her roving gaze meant she was searching for something as a weapon and was not indicative of subservience, as he seemed to think.
    “Get out,” she said again, without fire.
    “ I could arrest you. But it's been a long night—and I'm bored.”
    “ Read a book.”
    His laugh was chilling. “I don't think so.”
    The hiss of scraping metal filled the air. Against her will, her eyes gravitated towards him and she inhaled sharply. He had drawn a longsword, three and a half feet of wicked, gleaming steel. She stared unabashedly, wondering where he'd been keeping it—until she saw the decorated scabbard hanging at his hip from the metal chatelaine. How hadn't she noticed it before?
    “ Do you know why the sword is considered such a formidable weapon?”
    “ Because it's sharp?”
    Catherine wasn't being entirely sarcastic. She remembered full well how dangerous that little knife of his had been. If this blade was also plated with silver, she was a goner.
    “Because it contains three of the four elements,” he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, “A sword is a combination of fire and earth, forged together by heat and pressure to create metal, which is then quenched by water. As a result, the sword absorbs properties from each of the elements.” A dark, dangerous emotion shot through his eyes. “Rather like…me.”
    “ Somebody threw you into a furnace and then stuck you into a barrel of water?”
    “ Oh, we are witty, aren't we? Unfortunately for you, a sharp tongue is no match for a sharp sword.” He tossed the blade upwards, twisting his wrist a bit so that the sword spun in midair, before catching it expertly by the hilt in the opposite hand. “I suggest you rethink your weapon.”
    It took her a moment to get the volume she wanted; her voice cracked with the effort of keeping it both soft and steady. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “My kind has a special way of settling grievances. You and I are going to duel. You without your powers and me,” he