Read Online Iron (The Warding Book 1) by Robin L. Cole - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin L. Cole
Tags: Urban Fantasy
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as a whisper. And don’t even get me started on what freaky shit I found when I dared to look up information on “shape shifters.”
Saturday afternoon arrived in the blink of an eye and by that time, I was officially out of steam. My eyes burned from staring so long at the computer screen and the thought of looking at one more website made me physically nauseated. (Or maybe that was last of the pork lo mein that I had eaten for lunch. Cold.) My back ached. I had fallen asleep on the couch with my fireplace poker near at hand two nights running. I wasn’t sure if all the claims about cold iron being lethal to the fae were legit, but it gave me a little peace of mind to think I wasn’t totally defenseless if Goliath showed up on my doorstep.
All in all, I was feeling grungy, cranky, and pretty damn stupid. I slammed my laptop shut and shoved it away from me, sending a cascade of empty soda cans and cardboard take-out containers off the other side of the coffee table.
The shrill, ringing chime of Jenni’s text tone knifed into my self-loathing and made me jump. The realization of how silent the world around me was—and had been for days—only further drove home the level to which I had sunk. I picked my phone up off the couch at my back and read, “ You up yet sleeping ugly?”
It felt foreign to smile. I replied, “ Bitch. Been up since 7 thank you very much. ”
“ Never know with you, old lady. You’ve really taken to this spinster-hermit thing. We still on for tonight? ”
I groaned. Saturday had been the date set in stone for our belated birthday bar hopping. I bit my lip and tried to think of a good excuse. How on earth could I go out drinking now, pretending everything was normal when it felt so…not? My thumb hovered over the digital keyboard as another text came in; “ You’re thinking of ways to keep avoiding me aren’t you? L What happened at Gilroy’s was all my fault; I’m so sorry. I never should have let you go outside alone. ”
I hated that she blamed herself for my “mugging.” I had reassured her multiple times over the past few days that it wasn’t her fault, but the guilt remained. God damn it felt shitty to lie to her. I texted back quickly, “Stop that. It’s totally not your fault so please stop blaming yourself. I’m okay. That asshole didn’t hurt me. Scared me, yeah, but I’m tougher than that.”
The eye-opening realization struck me like a bolt of lightning, giving me the shivers.
I had just wasted a gift-horse of a vacay locked in my home, running up my electric bill while sucking down quarts of greasy carbs and fatty pork bits. Why? Because I was scared of fairies? I scowled. I was starting to hate the very word. The “me of a few weeks ago” would have laughed and called the “me of that moment” a pathetic loser. In fact, I muttered out loud, “Loser.”
A few days space had started to leave me questioning what I had seen. Could that really have been a troll? I mean—come on. It was crazy enough that three strangers had slipped into my apartment and made me entertain their wacked out story; what were the chances that they had slipped me something that made me hallucinate the woman-turned-cat-turned-back-to-woman act? Maybe I was being a total ass, even trying to convince myself otherwise. How could I start believing in all this crazy magical crap thirty years into my life? Why on God’s green earth would I, of all people, have ever been chosen to have some crazy rare mystical power like this completely untraceable, no mention to be found anywhere in the whole wide world “Warding”?
It all seemed like utter horseshit. Even Marc’s goat-faced leer seemed less and less real to me now after my crusade through the Internet.
One look around at the mess of my living room and another down at myself to see the frumpy, stained sweatpants and faded tank top I was wearing—and had been wearing for days on end—and I made up my mind. Before Jenni could respond
Saturday afternoon arrived in the blink of an eye and by that time, I was officially out of steam. My eyes burned from staring so long at the computer screen and the thought of looking at one more website made me physically nauseated. (Or maybe that was last of the pork lo mein that I had eaten for lunch. Cold.) My back ached. I had fallen asleep on the couch with my fireplace poker near at hand two nights running. I wasn’t sure if all the claims about cold iron being lethal to the fae were legit, but it gave me a little peace of mind to think I wasn’t totally defenseless if Goliath showed up on my doorstep.
All in all, I was feeling grungy, cranky, and pretty damn stupid. I slammed my laptop shut and shoved it away from me, sending a cascade of empty soda cans and cardboard take-out containers off the other side of the coffee table.
The shrill, ringing chime of Jenni’s text tone knifed into my self-loathing and made me jump. The realization of how silent the world around me was—and had been for days—only further drove home the level to which I had sunk. I picked my phone up off the couch at my back and read, “ You up yet sleeping ugly?”
It felt foreign to smile. I replied, “ Bitch. Been up since 7 thank you very much. ”
“ Never know with you, old lady. You’ve really taken to this spinster-hermit thing. We still on for tonight? ”
I groaned. Saturday had been the date set in stone for our belated birthday bar hopping. I bit my lip and tried to think of a good excuse. How on earth could I go out drinking now, pretending everything was normal when it felt so…not? My thumb hovered over the digital keyboard as another text came in; “ You’re thinking of ways to keep avoiding me aren’t you? L What happened at Gilroy’s was all my fault; I’m so sorry. I never should have let you go outside alone. ”
I hated that she blamed herself for my “mugging.” I had reassured her multiple times over the past few days that it wasn’t her fault, but the guilt remained. God damn it felt shitty to lie to her. I texted back quickly, “Stop that. It’s totally not your fault so please stop blaming yourself. I’m okay. That asshole didn’t hurt me. Scared me, yeah, but I’m tougher than that.”
The eye-opening realization struck me like a bolt of lightning, giving me the shivers.
I had just wasted a gift-horse of a vacay locked in my home, running up my electric bill while sucking down quarts of greasy carbs and fatty pork bits. Why? Because I was scared of fairies? I scowled. I was starting to hate the very word. The “me of a few weeks ago” would have laughed and called the “me of that moment” a pathetic loser. In fact, I muttered out loud, “Loser.”
A few days space had started to leave me questioning what I had seen. Could that really have been a troll? I mean—come on. It was crazy enough that three strangers had slipped into my apartment and made me entertain their wacked out story; what were the chances that they had slipped me something that made me hallucinate the woman-turned-cat-turned-back-to-woman act? Maybe I was being a total ass, even trying to convince myself otherwise. How could I start believing in all this crazy magical crap thirty years into my life? Why on God’s green earth would I, of all people, have ever been chosen to have some crazy rare mystical power like this completely untraceable, no mention to be found anywhere in the whole wide world “Warding”?
It all seemed like utter horseshit. Even Marc’s goat-faced leer seemed less and less real to me now after my crusade through the Internet.
One look around at the mess of my living room and another down at myself to see the frumpy, stained sweatpants and faded tank top I was wearing—and had been wearing for days on end—and I made up my mind. Before Jenni could respond
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