Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4)

by Cassandra Gannon

  That was… troubling.

  The knight didn’t do well with scumbags. Philosophical differences tended to arise. Then, Trystan usually had to kill a bunch of people. He needed to get Galahad out of there, before Trystan was forced to take on the entire town. He had far more important things to focus on than wiping this hellhole off the face of the globe.

  Like, for example, stealing Galahad away from his True Love.

  If all went to plan, when that dickhead showed up, wanting his destined Love, he’d be shit out of luck. Trystan really should script television shows, because he knew exactly how the scene should go. He could picture the wingless dickhead approaching Galahad one day, spewing love, and joy, and fluffiness, and every other emotion under the sun.

  And Trystan could picture himself coming up behind Galahad. His gaze would stay on the interloper, because he hated the man.

  Hate was an emotion he could feel. He was sure of it.

  Trystan would press against Galahad as he had in the hotel doorway in Ted-ville. The knight would lean against him, ignoring his True Love, who would probably weep with sorrow, but no one cared. Galahad would melt into Trystan’s arms. Lavender eyes would turn up to Trystan with many warm feelings reflected in them. Unable to resist the care Trystan could provide. Not ever wanting to leave him.

  Then Trystan would kill the dickhead True Love, because fuck that guy.

  The end.

  See? It was a marvelous story. There was no doubt Trystan had a staggering talent for fiction. The action practically wrote itself and the moral was clear to all:

  Galahad was his.

  The feeling that this man was his mate had been growing stronger each day. Trystan had not fully committed to the path, but he was no longer resisting its pull.

  The wonderful part of corrupting an innocent knight --besides having the fun of preforming the corruption itself, obviously-- was that you took the high ground. You were there first. You were able to dig in, preparing defenses. Trystan had been a warrior for many years. He knew how to push through and win against staggering odds. He knew how to evaluate his own weaknesses and plan around them. All other men would now have to invade Trystan’s territory, if they wanted to steal Galahad away.

  And Trystan knew how to guard his territory.

  He glanced over to the gaudy bed, where the knight was sleeping. The room Trystan rented was designated as the hotel’s “penthouse.” Its overwrought, glitzy, sometimes blinking decorations were exactly what Midas would have selected, but they gave Trystan a migraine. Still, the suite was secure and that was all that mattered.

  Given St. Ives was a lawless shithole, it seemed worth the investment to procure the best room in the best establishment he could find. All sorts of exotic weapons would be floating around a town like this one, mostly in the hands of idiots. Not even Trystan could keep up with the various technological advancements that the wingless made in the art of mechanized murder. The Siege Perilous Hotel and Casino might have had a menacing name, but it also had heavy security downstairs and multiple locks on the door to the room.

  Since the most beautiful man on the planet was presently sprawled in Trystan’s bed, he would take all the guards and locks he could get.

  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the knight was going to be a target in St. Ives. Women were in short supply, so even men who’d normally prefer females were going to be interested in him. Galahad was a lavender-eyed, kindhearted, unarmed magnet for Badness, even on the best of days. Surrounded by villains, he was going to be a goddamned nightmare to protect.

  Trystan sighed, still gazing at the man.

  Galahad had been fiddling with his rusty gun again and it was sitting on the dresser top. He’d cleaned it up to the point where it wasn’t so rusty anymore, which seemed a minor miracle. Lately, he’d been working on inventing “non-lethal” bullets for it, which was an utterly pointless thing for a bullet to be. But it was still very adorable that Galahad thought to fashion them. The man’s artistic mind was a constant source of delight.

  Everything about Galahad brought delight.

  Trystan’s emotions were a confusing mass, most of the time. He was working on sorting them all out, but it was difficult. Trystan kept trying, though, because there was no other choice. If Trystan couldn’t be Galahad’s True Love, he needed to provide adequate sentiment to compensate or the man would still leave.

  Luckily, Trystan’s feelings seemed clearest when he focused on the knight.

  They told him that he should keep Galahad safe, no matter what it took. That he would be lost forever if this moonlit creature slipped through his fingers. That everything else was nothing compared to holding him. Trystan wasn’t sure what that emotion was called, but he trusted it the way he trusted his instincts.

  He should lock Galahad in the hotel room for the duration of their stay in St. Ives. It would keep the knight far away from the assholes roaming this God-awful town. He could stay warm and safe, where no one else could touch him, while Trystan went off to kill his enemies.

  Trystan’s emotions told him it was a great idea.

  Except Galahad was determined to have “brunch” with Mordy and nothing seemed likely to change the man’s mind. Trystan also needed to find Marcus and kill him. Hopefully, both tasks could be finished by noon and then they could leave St. Ives. The city wasn’t that big. A few questions downstairs had revealed that there were other gryphons in town.

  One of them was apparently Konrad Redcrosse.

  After Trystan left the zoo, Lunette’s clan had been the ones to find him. He’d spent time with the Redcrosses, although he never became a part of their clan. He fought with them in the War and knew them well. Konrad had always been an amoral bastard with a lot of connections. It had taken very little effort to send word to him that Trystan wanted to talk. Konrad was probably already downstairs waiting to tell him everything he wanted to know about Marcus. But, Trystan was strangely reluctant to begin his hunt, so he was stalling.

  That wasn’t like him. He shook his head and forced himself to action.

  “Knight?” Trystan headed over to the bed, crouching down beside it. His hand smoothed over Galahad’s hair. It was still damp from his shower. For some reason, the man was even more attractive when he was wet. Trystan had the almost overwhelming desire to defile his perfect, clean, untouched body right then and there.

  But he couldn’t. He had to go meet Konrad, for many important reasons. …It was just hard to recall any of them, when he was touching the knight.

  “Galahad,” he cleared his throat, “I must go out for a moment.” Without even thinking about it, his thumb traced down the center of the man’s face from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. “You will stay here, yes?”

  Those impossibly blue eyes snapped open with instant alertness. Warriors often awoke like that, because they were always braced for attack. The knight had been sleeping better ever since the night he’d told Trystan about Legion, but his past would always be with him.

  Galahad’s gaze locked on Trystan’s face and he instantly seemed reassured. “Hi.” He murmured, warmth and care in his expression. No one had ever looked at Trystan like that before.

  He liked it.

  “Hi.” Trystan’s fingers wound through Galahad’s shimmery curls, awed, as always, by the silky texture of them. It was like touching moonlight. “I will be right back. All is well.” He adjusted the garish silver-and-black blanket over him. St. Ives was cold and all Galahad wore was a hotel bathrobe. “I won’t be long.”

  The knight smiled at him, relaxing again under Trystan’s care and falling back to sleep.

  Trystan’s chest tightened in some way he didn’t fully understand. It was like someone had ripped his heart in two and put half of it inside this man. Was feeling this way normal? Did it matter if it was normal? Either way, he would not seek to change it.

  Even though it all felt so… messy.

  Trystan’s emotions were conflicted, now. A rising swell o
f somethings was urging him to forget about Konrad. Urging him to just crawl into bed with Galahad and cover the man with his wings, resting easy for the night. That was how he’d been sleeping for the past week and it soothed Trystan in ways he never would have predicted. Lying beside Galahad, shielding him and holding him, gave Trystan peace. What was confronting Konrad going to give him? What did he need that he didn’t already have?

  Vengeance.

  And that was what he’d dreamed of. What he wanted most.

  …Wasn’t it?

  Trystan shook his head, clearing away the somethings that were attempting to confuse him. Konrad could point his way to the men who’d betrayed him and then Trystan would finally have revenge. Of course he had to go.

  Determined now, he rose to his feet and headed out the door, checking the knob three times before he left. He wanted to ensure that the knight was safely locked away from the rest of St Ives. He skipped the elevator and took the stairs down to the casino level. It wasn’t hard to spot Konrad by the bar. There were few gryphons left in the world and fewer still that had vivid red hair.

  “Hello, Konrad.”

  Konrad looked up, as Trystan stopped in front of him. He was a handsome man, with brown wings and no moral compass. He had the same burning-out-too-fast glow in his eyes that he’d always possessed. Konrad would die young. There seemed little doubt about that. It was a miracle he’d lasted this long, considering he did everything at double the speed and twice the risk of more sensible men.

  Konrad was one of the few beings alive that Trystan would miss when he finally perished, though. The two of them had known each other longer than most anyone else alive. Even if Trystan did not exactly like the man, he was used to him. Used to his poor choices, and his reckless impatience, and his strange loyalty to their quasi-friendship. When Konrad finally exploded in some blaze of stupidity and bizarre choices, the world would lose some more of its light.

  “I began to think you weren’t coming, Trystan. Do you have some hot pizza of ass upstairs, that you couldn’t vault yourself away from?” Konrad swallowed some of his whiskey and nodded like all those words made sense. “I don’t blanket you. Sex is as close as we can get to feeling, right?”

  Was it?

  Trystan occasionally saw flashes in others of his kind that reminded him of the “somethings” that he felt inside himself. Perhaps Galahad had been right, when he said other gryphons might experience emotions. Even if gryphons were born emotionless, maybe as they grew, they could learn to feel. Or at least develop enough feelings to miss having feelings. There was nothing he could do about the gryphons’ reality, either way. But, like many of Galahad’s ideas, what seemed outlandish at first began to make more and more sense as you considered it.

  Trystan shook his head again, focusing on his hunt. “I see you’re still struggling to learn the wingless tongue, Konrad.” Every third word was mispronounced, misused, or both.

  “At least, I keep practacasing.” Konrad raised his glass in a mock toast. “This buttery language is all anyone speaks around here. Itches the ears to hear it. This is the shit you have to deal with when you lose a war, I suppository.”

  Lyrssa help him… Trystan pinched the bridge of his nose and resigned himself to a very looooong conversation.

  “My sainted mother says I waste my time to learn their language, of course. She believes the wingless words will die out, once we finally kill all the heathens. But their numbers seem too vast for us to wipse them completely out of existence, no matter how many she picks off.” He winced. “But do not tell her I said so.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.” Trystan valued his own life too much to discuss politics with Caelia Redcrosse. It was safer not to speak with the woman, at all. The gryphons had no real art, but she took the torture of her enemies to such creative heights that it might just qualify.

  “Mother always favorited you, Trystan. Even with your wingless blood. She raided many prisons, after you were arrested. I believe that’s why Uther moved you to the Four Kingdoms, just before he died. To hide you from her wrathy-ness.” Konrad paused. “Though, to be fair, Mother does enjoy raiding prisons, simply for the sake of raiding prisons. I cannot be sure she was looking for you, so much as choosing easy targets.”

  “A thoughtful gesture, either way.” Trystan leaned a shoulder against the bar, also speaking in the common dialect.

  “What brings you to here?” Konrad asked. “It is not a smart time to visit St. Ives. There’s been much consumer magic for sale recently. Powders and elixirs that I have never seen before can be easily bought. The wingless use them all for wicked purposes and it leads to wicked deeds.” He hesitated, second-guessing the word choice. “Wicked ‘porpoises?’”

  “‘Purposes.’” Trystan assured him. “‘Porpoises’ are sea mammals, who rarely engage in evil.” But, if they were up to some nefarious scheme, the knight would soon discover it as he ‘decoded their secret language.’ Trystan shook his head in exasperation. “You know, we really can speak in the gryphon dialect, Konrad. I do not mind.”

  “No, no. I am greatly improving-ish with the tongue.” Konrad said easily. “Hey, how did you even get into this town? St. Ives only admits the Bad. I thought you were Good?”

  “It depends on who you ask.” Trystan had never excelled at small talk, especially when only half the words made sense, so he cut to the bottom line. “I am here looking for Marcus.”

  Konrad snorted. “Still? You always were a tenacious son of a chair.”

  Trystan smacked some gold onto the bar top and pushed it towards the man. “I am willing to pay.” Konrad was interested in the wingless’ money and all it could buy. He’d always been inexplicably loyal to Trystan, but most people were just paychecks to him.

  “Why are you so determined to kill Marcus, after all this time?”

  “He was leader of the Yellow Boots. I will hunt and kill all the Yellow Boots, no matter where they hide or how long it takes.” Trystan dropped some more coins onto the counter. “Now, tell me where he is.”

  There was a bowl of bar snacks next to Trystan’s elbow. It took him a moment to realize they were the knight’s ridiculous Gala-Chips. Caramel-and-whey flavor.

  The gold swiftly disappeared into Konrad’s pocket. “Marcus is here. In St. Ives. He’ll be at the race tomorrow, I’m sure. He always is.”

  Trystan very nearly smiled at the news that his quarry was so close. “Do you know a man named Mordy?”

  “Sure. I know everybody and everybody knows Mordy Mordred.”

  “Good. Tomorrow, I’m having brunch with him at his establishment.” Against his better judgement, Trystan carefully selected one of the Gala-Chips and took the smallest bite he possibly could, curious as to what Galahad had created. Instantly, incredible flavors burst across his tongue.

  Shit.

  It was delicious. Of course it was. Why was he even surprised? The man could do anything. Trystan snorted and ate three more, enjoying the crunchiness of them.

  “What’s a ‘brunch?’” Konrad began rooting around in his pockets for a notepad, so he could write down the word. “I’m trying to build my vocabu-latary.

  “It is a wingless breakfast with alcohol.”

  “Shit, I’ve been just calling that ‘breakfast.’”

  Trystan grunted, still munching on the chips. Galahad was completely wrong not to enjoy this flavor combination. Caramel-and-whey was apparently second only to kissing on the list of worthwhile wingless inventions. “So, can you get Marcus to Mordy’s around eleven? I will just kill him there.”

  Whatever got them out of St. Ives the quickest.

  Konrad forgot about his word-building lessons. “Marcus once lent me a scarf.” He mused pointedly. “That is not something I easily disremember.”

  “Oh for Lyrssa’s sake…” Trystan dumped some more money onto the bar. “Does this fog the memory of it?”

  Konrad snatched up the gold. “It does seem to help.” He agreed, cheerfully counting his
coins. “Yeah, I can get Marcus to Mordy’s place for you.”

  “Don’t double-cross me.” Trystan warned, pointing a finger at his face. “I won’t die easily and I know how to hold a grudge.”

  “I wouldn’t traitor-ing you. You’re more interesting than most of the assholes left alive, so I prefer keeping you that way.” He took a healthy drink from his glass. “Besides, my sainted mother considers you Aunt Lunette’s child, even without a true adoption. Because Lunette died helping to save you in the zoo. Unafraid and strong to the last, with her mate beside her. You sharing this news of her end meant much to Mother.”

  “Lunette will always be my clan.” Trystan agreed very formally and with the respect the woman deserved. “If Caelia considers me her sister’s son, I am nothing but honored.”

  Konrad nodded, like that was only to be expected. “Mother --gods always be shielding her-- says you have an enspecial path and I should not disrupt it, no matter the gold at offer. I do much Badness, but I never go against my mother’s wishes.”

  That was probably wise. Konrad’s mother was the most bloodthirsty warrior Trystan had ever met. Lunette had been fearsome, but Caelia was close to a berserker in her rage. She once killed an entire legion of knights and then strung their bodies up in the trees along Camelot’s boarder, just in time for the wingless’ Christmas celebrations.

  “Caelia spoke of my path?”

  “Sure. Aunt Lunette probably told her about it. The old ones sometimes whispered to my mother, you know.” Konrad touched the middle of his forehead. “Our family has a great destiny.”

  Trystan suppressed a shudder. Lyrssa help them all, if Caelia Redcrosse had a hand in reshaping the future.

  “So anyway…” There was a new gleam in Konrad’s eye now that business was out of the way. “It really is delightfully to see you, Trystan.” He gestured for the bartender to bring Trystan a drink. “It’s delightfully to see any of our kind, these days.” He leaned forward, wanting to grab a Gala-Chip for himself.