“Among the fae, there have never been many who could make even such a minor artifact as this once was.”
He tapped the walking stick lightly, then spun it. I would never have suspected that the old fae had the skills of a drum major, but he twirled it so fast it blurred.
Still spinning it, he said, “Ariana”—Samuel’s mate—“was one of the best of the makers before she deliberately crippled herself.”
He tossed the walking stick up and caught it.
“Lugh.”
As he spoke that name, a spark of light twinkled in the worked silver that bound the gray wood of the artifact Lugh had crafted who knew how long ago. Possibly Zee had an idea, but I doubted it. The few very old beings I knew tended not to dwell on the past or count the years.
“An artifact is made—and then finished, sealed in its wholeness so it neither gains nor loses magic. Nor can its purpose be changed. Lugh was careless in his later years, though mostly that just meant that his artifacts lost power, became less, and then broke.”
He tossed the walking stick at me without warning. I caught it. Or possibly it came to my hand.
“It is not the case that your walking stick was improperly made,” Zee said. “Extraordinary things happened to it while it was in your hands to change it. To allow it to change.” He looked at me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said.
I had done something to the walking stick, a lot of somethings that had resulted in the object I held in my hands. I’d used it to kill an immortal monster. I considered that and amended it to multiple immortal monsters—at least one of which might have been considered a god. I’d gifted it to Coyote—which, in retrospect, might not have been the smartest thing I could have done. The walking stick had gained in power, in versatility, and... sentience. I didn’t know what it could do, or would do, and neither did anyone else.
“Because there is another way for an artifact to be made.” Zee’s voice was soft. “Worship. Blood. Desperate need—the way that you remade Lugh’s walking stick. Other catalysts include time and belief.”
He reached into one of the pockets in his overalls and pulled out a small metal object. He threw it at Adam, who caught it easily.
Adam opened his palm and I saw a dull gray metal ring. “Heavier than it should be unless it’s made out of lead.”
“Iron,” Zee told him.
I touched it and pulled my finger back with a hiss. It hadn’t hurt exactly, but it left me with a feeling of wrongness and seeking.
I told Adam, “Give that back to him.”
He tossed it back to Zee.
I took Adam’s hands in mine and examined them, turning them. I had no idea what I was looking for and didn’t find anything, but the palms of my own hands itched. Possibly that was still because I’d had spider eggs dug out of them.
“Go wash,” I said. Running water was effective at dispelling magic. It should wash away any taint that foul thing had left behind. “You don’t want any of that sticking to you.”
He didn’t argue or ask what “that” was. As soon as I heard the sound of the faucet in the bathroom being turned on, some of my urgency dissipated—leaving room for anger.
“What were you thinking?” I growled. “That isn’t something you just toss around as if you’d picked it up at Walmart. And you don’t, by God and all his angels, you don’t ever throw something like that at my mate.”
Behind me Adam laughed. I turned to give him an indignant look to see him drying his hands off with a shop rag. But he was looking at Zee.
“Bran looks like that when she lays into him,” he told Zee. “Affronted, but also sort of incredulous and delighted. When was the last time someone yelled at you for a”—and his voice lost its amusement—“dumb stunt?” He let the words ring a moment and said, “Are you going to tell me what that was?”
“Haunted,” I said.
“An artifact,” Zee answered at the same time.
Zee shrugged. “Haunted might be right. Your mate was in no danger. It takes time to feel its effects, and once it is no longer in skin contact, its magic dissipates.”
“I stand by my objection,” I said. “I don’t care how harmless you think it is. Don’t throw cursed objects at my husband.”
Zee threw up his hands. “Fine. Fine.”
Adam got us back on track. “What would it do if I wore it for longer than five minutes?”