said with a shake of his head.
“News?” Hadrian asked.
“Advice,” Alasdair said and they groaned in unison. It was a bit of a standing joke that the leader of the Pyr did tend to make a lot of suggestions—never mind commands. “Just be glad he’s in Chicago and we’re not.”
“I wish I wasn’t driving,” Hadrian complained, his impatience so obvious that the other two Pyr chuckled. “I want to see those gloves.”
“And you want to get to work,” Balthasar noted.
“It’s not that far to your place,” Alasdair said.
There was a sound of tearing paper then Balthasar gave a low whistle. “These are amazing!” He put on one glove and held his hand forward over the gear box, wiggling his fingers.
Hadrian looked between the road and the glove repeatedly. It was a good thing they weren’t on a busy road anymore. Each glove was made of fine leather, the long sharp talons attached to each fingertip. The steel continued from each finger across the back of the glove for strength, and the talons were hinged, like long fingers. They were also sharp, essentially five blades on each hand, and retractable. Balthasar flicked his fingers and the blades swung out, flashing dangerously.
“They are amazing,” Alasdair said.
“You’re killing me!” Hadrian complained and they all laughed.
“I might not give them up,” Balthasar teased, then his tone turned thoughtful. “And Donovan carries them through the change?”
“That’s what he said,” Hadrian said. “He’s able to augment his dragon talons with them.”
“Incredible,” Balthasar mused. “I totally need a pair.”
“Me, too,” Alasdair said, taking the other glove and tugging it on. “I can’t be the only one who wants to slice Fae warriors to shreds.” He slashed with his gloved hand and Hadrian heard the blades whistle through the air.
“Not at all,” he agreed with heat. He was never going to forget how much his feet had hurt when he’d been compelled to dance endlessly. He doubted Alasdair would forget it either—plus Alasdair had endured Maeve rummaging in his thoughts.
“Are you going to take one apart?” Balthasar asked.
“I hope I don’t have to,” Hadrian said as he turned onto the smaller road that led into the hills around his lair. He was excited to get to work and didn’t feel tired at all. “Quinn’s instructions were pretty precise. I think I just have to study them closely.”
“You two are competing, aren’t you, to see who can make the most gloves the fastest?” Alasdair teased.
“Just a friendly competition,” Hadrian agreed. “A comparison of methods.”
“How about I make some dinner while you check them out?” Balthasar offered.
Hadrian smiled. “You can tell I want to dive in?”
“Call me psychic,” Balthasar teased.
“Maybe you’re projecting your own enthusiasm,” Alasdair said.
“Probably. I want a pair of these and the sooner, the better.” Balthasar slashed at the air again.
“Plus the sooner Hadrian starts making them, the sooner we’ll all have another weapon,” Alasdair said. “I’ll help cook, too.” He yawned. “Although I’ll probably crash early tonight to try to get over the jetlag.”
“Start tomorrow like you never left,” Balthasar agreed. “It’s the best way.”
Hadrian hadn’t admitted it to his fellows yet, but he was determined to do more than replicate the gloves: he wanted to improve upon them. It had been almost ten years since Quinn had made this pair for Donovan, after all, and Hadrian was inclined to use more modern resources. The Smith of the Pyr loved his wrought iron and artisan tools, but Hadrian respected the benefits of tradition melded to innovation. He knew he’d never convince Quinn to change his methods, and that wasn’t his goal. In a way, he saw improving the design of these gloves as a challenge that would vindicate his view.
Plus, for Hadrian, the battle against the Fae was personal. He’d been imprisoned in that realm and compelled to dance until his feet bled. He’d been tricked by Kade, one of the Pyr who was under Maeve’s spell, and even Alasdair had been forced to lie to Hadrian. He’d forgiven his cousin but not the Dark Queen behind it all. There was no telling when a Fae portal would open and a battle would start. Hadrian was done with spells and sorcery. He was ready to kick some Fae butt.
He also couldn’t evade his sense that his own days were numbered. What Lila called a kiss of death felt like a block of ice in his cheek. It was impossible to ignore. He’d be sure the Pyr were ready if and when he died. That would be the