Metal Slinger (Fire & Metal, #1)

by Rachel Schneider

“To be Alaha,” he announces with a fist against his chest. From hellos and goodbyes, to condolences and congratulations. We are one.

I take a moment to block out the bustle of activity going on around us, focusing on his familiar gray eyes, the mirror of my own—the only common trait I share with our people. They’re safe and comforting, the eyes of my friend.

He’s the only reason I’m able to be here. Very few females are chosen to be guards, and considering my parentage—or lack thereof—I would have never been given a passing chance to compete, let alone be accepted.

What I’m not expecting are the words that leave his mouth next. “I asked my parents for permission to choose you at the Matching Ceremony.” My heart goes still. “Why would you do that?” I say, voice wavering. “Come on, Bry,” he says, eyes drilling hard into mine. “You had to expect this was coming.” I shake my head. I’ve never allowed myself to entertain the idea of ever marrying, let alone finding a true love Match. I’ve disciplined myself to push those thoughts away, to lock them somewhere inside myself so deep even I’m not sure where they’re kept. Kai has his pick of girls and their families vying for his hand in marriage. I have no family.

Dark hair, dark eyes, a gold ring in one nostril. Lips I somehow know often say crude things—or maybe it’s his entire demeanor that tells me that, but there’s something inherently vulgar in his beauty.

“Why did you come here?” He’s really smiling now. “For you, of course.”

“Closest friend,” he repeats, as if he’s got all the time in the world to ponder my statement. “I’d be mortified if those were the words my Match used to describe me.” “Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Tell me about your Match. What do you love about her?” That’s assuming he has a wife. Considering his looks—the kind of handsome that’s hard to stare at—I’d say yes, but his personality is very off-putting. His smile fades into something sadder. “She has beautiful eyes,” he says softly, like he’s lost to memory. “They’re brown and green and amber, like every color of every season. I’ve looked everywhere for eyes like hers, and nothing has ever been able to compare.”

“Thanks for saving some.” Impressive considering the level of hunger he’s been contending with. “We can call it even.” “Cold stew as payment for saving your life,” I say, lifting a brow. “When you put it into perspective, couldn’t you have at least saved the whole roll for me?” He quirks a sardonic smile. “After hearing my captor profess his love for you? I would have rather died.”

“Kai’s power is weak, but it’s there. He’s been using it on you. For years, I believe.”

“Whenever a weapon or tool is handmade from the hearthstone of the land, it is magicked to its maker. Axes or swords or even a battering ram—whatever it is will always answer the call of the person who made it. It’s why most blacksmiths are blood-oathed. Only the most righteous are trusted to forge for others.” “Where’s yours?” “Sitting in pieces on my mantle at home, if I recall correctly. Splintered in half on a walnut not long after my eleventh birthday.” He holds out his palm, pointing to the scar between his thumb and forefinger. “How did you end up with mine?” “Your mother gave it to me when I joined the army, to have during my travels. It hummed when I saw you in the Market.” His eyes hold mine, searching for something in the depths that I’m unable to see. “I looked for you. In every market and podunk town, in every corner of every land, I searched each face for yours.”

“So,” I say, balancing my chin on my hand. “What’s my title?” He lifts a brow. “Thinking a little highly of yourself, aren’t you?” I roll my eyes. “The Alaha wouldn’t breach enemy lines to steal a child of a commoner.” He smiles, all teeth and pretentiousness. “You are Princess Jovie of the Maile.” I laugh. “No, really. What am I?” He doesn’t blink. “The Maile have been ruled by your family for the last century. Longer than mine have ruled in Kenta, even.”

Alaha features, dark hair instead of light, brown eyes instead of gray. The Kenta clothes he scrubbed and dried to a semblance of cleanliness don’t help either.

He never lessens his hold, not even when his arms shake. He never lets go.

“You don’t know everything, metal slinger.

“Human emotions are fickle, Jo. Yours, mine, Acker’s. They’re nothing but a wave in the ocean. What really matters is what you decide to do with them.”

“Honestly, I think I knew when we were kids,” he says, surprising me. “You always had these big emotions as a young girl and—” He stops to gather his thoughts, to figure out how to describe them. He lets go of the reins, and I turn enough to see him place his palm to his chest. “I swore I could feel them.” His eyes are alight with the memory. His description makes me sad. For the girl he’s speaking of, a girl I don’t know, and for the boy who thought he lost his match.

“Don’t worry, Jovie. I’m going to court you so well you’ll be begging to climb into bed with me.” I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.