Free Ironside by Holly Black Page A

gun, but he cut off the hand that held it before the mortal had a hope of firing. He stabbed the other through the chest. A human boy—perhaps twenty, with a Brookdale College T-shirt and rumpled hair—slumped over Roiben’s hooked sword.
    For a moment, the boy reminded him of Kaye.
    Kaye. Dead.
    There was a shout and Roiben turned to see a shower of silver pinecones burst just short of where he stood. Through the smoke he saw Ruddles, taking a bite out of the side of a Seelie fey’s face, Dulcamara dispatching two others with knives. One of Roiben’s pages, Clotburr, slammed a burning harp into another faery.
    Here, in his once majestic hill, human corpses still held their iron weapons in stiffening hands as they slumped beside more than a dozen unmoving Unseelie troops in shining armor. The fire lit the bodies, one by one.
    “Quickly,” Dulcamara said. Choking black smoke was everywhere. Somewhere in the distance, Roiben could hear sirens wailing. Above them, the mortals came to pour water on the burning hill.
    Clotburr coughed, slowing, and Roiben lifted him up, settling the boy against his shoulder.
    “How did she do this?” asked Dulcamara, her fingers clenched white-knuckled around the hilt of her blade.
    Roiben shook his head. There were protocols to faerie battles. He could not imagine Silarial putting decorum aside, especially when every advantage was hers. But too, who of her people would know what she had done this day? Only those few she had sent to command the mortals. Most were dead. One cannot dishonor oneself before the dead. It occurred to him then that he’d misunderstood Dulcamara’s question. She didn’t want to know how Silarial could be so hideously inventive; she was puzzling out how it had been accomplished.
    “Mortals,” Roiben said, and now that he considered it, he had to admit a grudging awe for so radical and terrible a stratagem. “Silarial’s folk are charming humans instead of leading them off roofs. She’s making troops of them. Now we are more than overmatched. We are lost.”
    The weight of the soot-smeared faery in his arms made him think of all of the folk of the Night Court, all those he had sworn to be sovereign over. All those lives he’d been willing to accept in trade for Silarial’s death. And he wondered in that moment what he might have accomplished if he’d done more than just endure. Whom he might have saved.
    As though catching his thoughts, Ruddles turned toward him with a frown. “What now, my King?”
    Roiben found himself wanting to win the unwinnable war.
    He had known only two rulers, both great and neither good. He did not know how to be any kind of King nor how to win, other than to be even more ruthless than they.

    Kaye pushed Corny ahead of her, through the crowd near the door of the club, out past the ID-check woman, who still looked giddy with enchantment. He held his hands above his head, as in surrender, and when people came close, he flinched. They walked like that for several blocks, past people in their heavy coats shuffling through the slush. Kaye watched the heels of a woman’s ostrich-leather boots stab through an icy mound of snow. The woman stumbled.
    Corny turned toward her, dropping his hands so that they now hung in front of him. He looked like a zombie lurching toward its next victim.
    “I know where,” Kaye said, taking deep breaths of the acrid iron air.
    She crossed several blocks, Corny behind her. The streets were a maze of names and bodegas, similar enough for her to get easily turned around. She found her way back to Café des Artistes, though, and from there to the fetish shop.
    Corny looked at her in confusion.
    “Gloves,” she told him firmly as she steered him inside.
    The scent of burning patchouli thickened the air in the Irascible Peacock. Leather corsets and thongs hung from the walls, their metal buckles and zippers gleaming. Behind the desk a bored-looking older man read the paper, not even glancing up at