The Prince and the Pencil Pusher: A M/M Superhero Romance (Royal Powers Book 7)

by Kenzie Blades

  We toasted silently and I drank first, as was the custom. I watched him carefully as he readied himself to take his sip. I took immense enjoyment from the expression on his face as he tasted.

  “You do know that I have more than a sporting interest when it comes to wine…” I baited again.

  “Duke of Brix and all,” he came back easily.

  I took a slow sip and put my glass down. It gave me pause to know that he would be the first who I told. Even the workers in Fesik’s vineyards did not suspect the true reasons for my presence on his estate.

  “What would you do if I told you that it was I who made this wine? That I’ve made wine all along? And that all of it has been against the orders of Queen Maialen?”

  Ollie put down his glass and raised an eyebrow.

  “That I sincerely hope that you do not get caught. Partially for your own sake in avoiding her wrath, and also for the sake of our country. It would be a tragedy, to lose wine like this.”

  “I cannot think of any greater evidence of my true calling,” I said in earnest. “And I truly believe The Ministry is yours. And I believe that we could each find our way to doing what we were meant to, with some convincing.”

  “What do you propose?” He asked with more caution than conspiracy.

  “Talk badly about me,” I said simply. “Tell anyone who has the ear of Queen Maialen that I am unsuited to my job. On my end, I will sing your praises and speak bluntly to the queen about my doubts. She will be left to conclude that you are the only choice.”

  Part II

  The Queen

  -

  Zain

  “You’re late,” Sylvain informed me with the sort of wicked glee that always seemed etched on his face, and that bled into his not-deep voice. It was too low to be considered high, but just. “I’ve gotten your uniform out of the bag,” he continued, plucking a hanger displaying the offending garment off of the top edge of the locker room door. Though I’d say this one is more of a costume. What little there is of it, eh?”

  I took the proffered hanger and turned it slightly, holding it far away from my body so as not to be poked in the eye by an angel wing. “Not a lot to it” was an understatement. The white booty shorts were the only garment that would offer even a shred of discretion. Tonight’s event was a charity fashion show dinner with a Paradise Lost theme.

  “For a person who doesn’t need to keep my server job, I’m right on time,” I came back with lightness. Arriving here was the best thing that had happened to me all day.

  “Tell that to the party manager. She’s a bit high strung. And she’s been down here looking for you twice. Something about needing to have you dressed twenty minutes ago so she can hustle you on to glitter.”

  I threw him a look that told him that even I had limits. “I will not allow myself to be glittered.”

  “Ah-ah…” he tutted. “Rule number one of being an intervenor is to blend in. Being glittered is part of the job.”

  I scowled at Sylvain’s black suit. Whereas my part to play tonight was that of a waiter, his was as a security guard. Sylvain was brawnier than me. And for his skill—encyclopedic recollection of all living royals with registered powers—was well-suited to standing at the door and seeing all who walked in.

  Most Saturday nights, he and I were paired together. Dealing with rogue supos—or even those who might become so—was no solitary endeavor. Intervenors were a necessary precaution against an indelible fact: sometimes prevention failed. We were boots on the ground, inserting ourselves into the action. It was part anticipation, part de-escalation. It was what I was born to do.

  “Rule number one of intervening is to be present at the right moment with precisely the correct skill,” I came back.

  Not to be confused with royal powers, “skills” were what we called the abilities possessed by people like Sylvain and me. Our powers were not registered and our royal lineage was muddy and obscured. We roamed the world as commoners and concealed our skills for various reasons. Some of us—like me—wound up working for The Ministry’s covert arm.

  Masquerading as a waiter was the best way for me to use my skill. It gave me unfettered access to most people in the room. Everybody needed to be offered something, or served something, or to be visited about taking one’s plate or glass. Most of all, it was easy to escape scrutiny. Nobody looked at you when you were the help.

  Ten minutes later, I had donned my get-up, persuaded the party manager that I had plenty of natural sparkle, and begun serving drinks for an uneventful first hour. The Ministry rated the gatherings it believed to be the highest risk. Friday and Saturday nights were when people got wild.

  “Mocktails for the Marquess of Marlo. She’s got that look in her eye,” I announced as I sidled up to the bar. It wasn’t as easy as it looked considering my wings. The Marquess enjoyed preventing people from lying a bit too much. It sent liars tripping over their tongues and blurting out nonsense that made for comic relief.

  It wasn’t the same as being able to force people to tell the truth. That one had been wielded by the late and much-missed Duchess of Ravenna, whose timing had been nothing short of masterful. I liked that about this job. I did it to blow off steam and to see bizarre things. I did it because I couldn’t not do it. I loved the rush.

  “What was she having?” the bartender, Traci, asked, stifling a yawn. Not much was happening. And, from the feel of it, not much was heating up.

  “Gin and tonic,” I replied and watched as she poured the drink, then squeezed in her magic in tandem with squeezing in the lime. Traci had the ability to cleanse any substance of alcohol, all while making sure it tasted exactly the same. Traci’s skill to not let royals get quite so drunk had averted much trouble at many such events.

  I thought briefly to remark that the night was turning out to be a bore when I thought the wiser. Nothing invited a good jinx better than daring the universe to prove you wrong.

  “Trouble at five o’clock.”

  I was discreet enough not to turn too quickly, but when I did, I saw the smug mug of Arlo Gris, Marquis of La Paix, just inside the entryway to the hall. Greeting his way into the room, he was all smiles, nods and winks. Arlo had an appeal that I had never understood. His power—charm—had always felt quite plastic to me. But he was like catnip to women.

  At this very moment, he had a woman on his arm—predictably young—and naive to what was about to occur.

  “Maite’s gotten wind of him.” Traci’s voice broke into my consciousness at the exact moment that my eyes slid to Arlo’s first ex-wife . Her dining companion—a friend—whispered hotly in her ear.

  My eyes darted next to Koralina Bey, born a commoner, now the Duchess of Sechy—also, Arlo’s ex wife number two. Her second husband, the Duke of Sechy, was a far more suitable choice for a husband, and made up in character what he lacked in looks. But the way Kora still looked at Arlo made me feel sorry for the guy.

  “Kora’s seen him, too,” I reported back to Traci for good measure, “but she’s not the one I’m worried about.”

  Diana Rute was ex wife number three and she stood across the room, positively incensed.

  Hell hath no fury, indeed, I mused, shifting my attention to Sylvain, who had abandoned his post at the door and was already cutting his way through the crowd.

  “Who is she?” I asked when he reached me, inclining my head to the girl on Arlo’s arm.

  “Not in our files.” He continued to scan the room. “If she’s a supo or a half-blood, she’s not registered.”

  “She’s barely legal,” Traci murmured with a bit of disgust.

  “Maite won’t like that.” I turned back toward the bar to make it less obvious that we were plotting. “Last time I saw them together, Arlo told her she was looking a little long in the tooth.”

  “Why? ‘Cause she’s over twenty-five?” Traci still sounded disgusted. She herself looked to be about that age.

  “What’s his third wife’s power?” I turned slightly t
o Sylvain. “I remember that Maite can make things bigger.”

  Sylvain suddenly looked haunted. “That’s one I’ve worked hard to forget. The things I saw in the emergency room that night cannot be unseen.”

  Even I had to shudder at the recollection. When Arlo had pulled the same stunt before, parading Diana around at an affair attended by Maite, she’d used her power to make his phallus uncomfortably large. The doctors said it was the worst case of priapism they had ever seen. When questioned about her motives, all Maite had said was that if Arlo had such a big boner for younger women, that getting him off would be her wedding gift.”

  “Is she still under review for that offense?” I wanted to know. “Under review” was a nicer term we used with royals instead of saying they were on parole.

  Sylvain nodded as he looked back out at the crowd. “For another year, but a reminder couldn’t hurt. The Duke of Sechy looks a bit pissed too. But neither of them are our biggest risk.

  “Kora,” I concluded. She was the one who he had left only recently—the one for whom the abandonment would be fresh.

  “She can cause any object that’s not nailed down to a surface to fall,” Sylvain chimed back in. “A parlour trick on a good day. Only, today isn’t very good.”

  Property damage was a common consequence of abused powers gone wrong. But bodily harm seemed a possibility. Most situations gone sideways involved powers used to lashing out in fits of passion. Kora could make obstacles fall in front of them to trip them where they walked.

  “I’ll take Kora first.”

  I picked up my tray, set to deliver my long-ready set of drinks. A swell of excitement rose in my chest. There was a delicious adrenaline to all of this. After all of the pretending I did, day-to-day, in a mundane world that didn’t know the truth about me, I had this. Moments like this made it worth it—moments that made me feel free and alive and that let me be who I truly was.

  Bypassing the table that had ordered the drinks on my tray, I made a beeline for the Duke and Duchess of Sechy, whose table was closest to the bar. If I got just a bit too close and set the drinks down in just the right place, the person whose space I had invaded would look.

  “Thinking about starting a scuffle with the Marquis?” I questioned the Duke of Sechy.

  My questions were always this abrupt. In order for my skill to work, a seed had to be planted.

  “What did you say?” the Duke demanded, clearly flustered.

  I looked straight at him. “Do your self a favor,” I instructed in a stern voice. “Don’t.”

  The Duchess had been too transfixed by her ex to notice our brief exchange. Though she possessed no extraordinary powers, she was still capable of havoc.

  “You seem quite taken by the Marquis of Le Paix, Your Grace,” I remarked, plunking down a flute of somebody else’s champagne. I waited for eye contact and knew I would get it after setting the glass down too hard. Then, I spoke my command: “Sit placidly as you continue to succumb to his charm.”

  With that done, I stalked off, beating a path across the room, to Diana’s location. She studied the meandering couple with ire. It wasn’t clear whether she had something planned for Arlo or something planned for the girl. She looked angry enough that she might have had plans for both.

  Upon reaching where she sat alone, I placed my body in front of hers. Breaking her gaze might break her concentration. Placing the second to last of my drinks in front of her on the table, I was in such a hurry that it sloshed. I squatted down until I was looking her directly in the eye.

  “You want to hurt both of them, don’t you?”

  She blinked in surprise at my voice. She hadn’t even seen me.

  “Don’t bother. He’s not worth the consequences, and you ought to have compassion for the girl. One day, she’ll be like you.”

  With that, I made a split for the final table—the one with Arlo’s first wife, Maite, who seemed closer to bad decisions than she had been a moment before.

  “Thinking of violating your review period?” I asked, weaving a bit in front of her until she looked me in the eye. When she did, I issued my final declaration. “No using your powers tonight. Not on him.”

  As I spoke to Maite, recognition dawned. She knew what I was doing because I had done it to her before. Only, she could only recall for a split second now and wouldn’t remember the next day. They never did. All four would wake up tomorrow remembering the hostility they had felt for Arlo and wondering why they hadn’t done differently.

  By the time I reached Arlo himself, I had no more drinks on my tray and nothing to offer but words.

  “Do not attempt to charm me,” I started right in.

  He blinked. The woman looked at him.

  “Thought you would have a little fun with your ex wives did you? Party’s over. It’s time to go home.”

  “You can’t kick us out of here,” the woman said to me, and then, to him, “What does he mean, ex wives?”

  But I didn’t need to stick around for the explanation. I also didn’t need to watch him leave to know that he would. I had done my magic—crisis averted. All was safe and well. I let down my tray and returned to my duties at the bar.

  -

  Xabier

  Queen Maialen was the grandest of dames, all elegance and regality and a tough old cookie to boot. She was the elder sister of my father, Prince Frantzisco Garrastazu, Duke of Palamos, who was next in line to the throne after Queen Maialen’s own son. Barely in danger of inheriting the throne given my cousin, Prince Zorian’s, position, my father spent most of his time doing as he pleased and gallivanting abroad.

  I had always been fond of my Aunt Maialen and she quite fond of me. She had sent me into fits of laughter during our play when I was a child. Her power—to spawn fully functional ancillary copies of herself, a feat she could achieve as long as her clones were in her sight line—had given games like hide and seek and Marco Polo a smashing sense of fun.

  “Your Majesty,” I announced myself from thirty paces, not wanting to scare the old girl. I had caught her in the vineyards quite on purpose. My aunt was not the sort of queen to rule strictly from behind her desk, or seated atop her throne. She preferred to know the outside world—and, when not strictly doing that, to at least be outdoors.

  “Out for your morning walk, I see,” I remarked. It was early hours indeed. I had awakened before the sun to make my way to her palace. I prided myself on being one of very few individuals who could arrive for a visit to the Queen unannounced.

  She stretched out her hand and I bowed, kissing her heavy ring, its jewel the color of a ripe pinot grape. I smirked when I stood upright and took in her lips, which were stained purple inside of her pucker. The Queen had been drinking wine.

  “And you’ve had your morning nip,” I murmured a bit cheekily. Such were things between us. In public, I followed the proper protocols of deference, honoring her station with my respect. In private, we were playful and there was much love.

  “You know what I say about a cup of wine.”

  She reached into some hidden pocket of the cape she wore for warmth and produced a silver vessel, which she held out to me in offer. It wasn’t the first time the Queen had shared her morning cup. The bejeweled flask was four times as heavy as any wine it might contain. I smiled less in thanks than anticipation. The quality of her morning libation would be the best of the best. After all, she was the queen.

  I took a slow, shallow sip, all the better to savor its artistry. It was a celebration of sweetness and tannins in my mouth. It was honey and skins and the clay of the soil and alluvial flavors from rivers that flowed strong and constant centuries before I was born.

  “Give me wine to wash me clean of the weather-stains of cares.” I recited the quote, which was Emerson. I’d heard her speak the words on more occasions than I could count. Her morning drink did seem to rejuvenate her somehow. She was sharp and clear-minded even after a good, deep cup.

  “And what of your cares, my child? Ought
’nt you to be at The Ministry?”

  I passed her back her wine. She took a long sip before replacing the lid and hiding the flask in some pocket or hidden chamber within her cloak.

  “Actually, I’m quite confident at being away. The Duke of Shrubs has proven himself to be quite capable. He’s been trustworthy to a fault and well-suited to the work.”

  “The Duke of Shrubs…” the Queen repeated, clearly trying to recall the name.

  “Oleander Zabala, son of Ezkerro Zabala. He’s my second in command. Four years my senior, though he’s worked at The Ministry for five years longer than I.”

  “Ezkerro Zabala’s son…” A sour note came into the Queen’s voice as she spoke of the Duke of Dariouche, known impolitely as the Prince of Thieves. The man lacked scruples, to be sure.

  “I hope that his moral compass is better-oriented than his father’s.” The Queen rarely spoke ill so openly.

  My voice softened and I paused my walk long enough to quote Emerson once again. “Cannot we let children be themselves, and enjoy life in their own way?”

  Aunt Maialen paused as well and gazed up at me with a pensive look. Her lips turned up in a small, sad smile.

  “Quite right,” she conceded, reaching out her hand to place it on my arm. “The Duke has become for you a great lieutenant. For that, I am glad.”

  We resumed our walk, turning a corner after having reached the end of a row. The path would take us west, through more rows until we reached a blooming garden.

  “He has been more than my lieutenant.”

  Now it was the Queen’s turn to stop.

  “Oh?” she asked with interest.

  I nearly balked at what she had implied. The Duke of Shrubs neither shared my proclivities nor was he my type. I was quick to protest the notion, though I made the correction as gently as one must do, even with the most familiar of monarchs.