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

by Kenzie Blades

  “Professionally, my queen. He has been invaluable to me. I fear that he is underutilized.”

  “Is there not some higher post you are able to give him? Even if only in name?”

  “There is one position that would work quite well.”

  “And?” The Queen seemed to sense some complexity.

  “The ideal position for the Duke would be mine.”

  The Queen did not stop walking this time—only kept on with her slow stroll. I kept my quiet, knowing better than to push. It seemed a simple enough matter, but her response took longer than I anticipated. Her answer required no mention of anything I had rehearsed.

  “I cannot allow you to vacate your post.”

  The quietude of her words did nothing to lessen their sting. My mind and heart erupted with the one question that even a beloved nephew could not ask of the queen. She insisted that I stay. But why?

  In the sanctuary of my private consciousness, I had long-since accepted the stark truth: I was educated—yes—and competent in some general, unimpressive way. But people were good at things they loved. Which explained why I was so bad at signing off on things and reading lengthy reports.

  “I cannot help but to think that there are other ways for me to be of service. If not a complete abandonment of my post, perhaps a scaling-back? Certainly, Majesty, it is my intention to do my duty. But I have wondered how well the vineyards might do were they to receive my help.”

  I stopped again, stepped closer to a vine, and placed my hand beneath a cluster, holding my breath for a beat before I allowed the energy to flow. Even for a small display such as this, allowing the energy to release felt divine. And that was just the intoxication of the outflow—also spectacular was the result: a single cluster, ripened to perfection by my touch.

  Exhilaration still welled in my chest as I plucked off one exemplary grape. We stood now in a field of Rousanne. It was bruised and beautiful and something within me didn’t want to let it go. Yet, I passed it to the queen with expectation, and with a boldness no other would have dared to attempt. Remnants of my power still coursed through my body, making me high.

  The Queen took the proffered grape, but kept her attention on to me, scrutinizing me somehow.

  “It’s come of age,” she murmured, yet she didn’t touch the grape. “…your power,” she further explained.

  Only, the queen knew that I had been using my power since I was a child.

  “It’s gotten stronger, Majesty, if that’s what you mean.” I thought of Fesik’s words. “Though, I do sometimes wish that it could be put to better use. More frequently, it seems insistent that I let it out.”

  “Your power is of tremendous import, Xabier.”

  It was rare for her to use my given name. She looked at me so intensely that I stuttered out my answer. “Y-yes, your Majesty. I believe it is as well. I want to honor your country. Won’t you let me—even if only on my free time—to make wine?”

  I nodded to the fruit that still sat between her fingers, holding it out in encouragement, for her to have a taste. Breathlessly, I awaited her reaction.

  “Is it not perfect, Majesty?” I could not help but to ask. Yet, her face gave it all away. She closed her eyes and ignored me, her lips upturning in a wide smile as she chewed. The small act transformed her and—for just a few seconds—she looked like a little girl tasting chocolate for the very first.

  I waited with satisfied patience, vindicated some how but troubled all the same.

  “Indeed it is,” she began to say before she even opened her eyes. “And indeed you are.” She fixed her gaze on me kindly. “And I wish I could spare you now. But things are afoot at The Ministry—things that need strong leadership and capable hands.”

  I thought of the rumors that Duke Oleander had assured me that he had started—not even rumors, merely unvarnished truths. I had upheld my end of the bargain by singing the Duke’s praises. The Queen had many eyes and many lieutenants. It was unlikely that she should not have heard our titterings. The longer she remained steadfast, the more I wondered at what hidden factors drove her position.

  “Is there something wrong with The Duke of Shrubs? Something unsavory or untoward?” Despite her earlier questioning, I was certain she knew who he was.

  “Not at all,” she assured. “There is something right with you.”

  But what of my wine?

  I thought to ask it, then thought again given my doubt that I could spit out the question without a pout and a whiny protest. Because Queen Maialen was a far more astute leader than I, she answered the question I hadn’t asked.

  “If you insist upon making wine, use the process only to push the boundaries of your skill.”

  It was an odd comment, but one that I would not reject. It answered nothing, but gave permission. It kept me from what I wanted, and added to the list of things that I did not understand.

  -

  Zain

  Sunday nights were early nights that came off of sluggish days, not resting as the gods intended, but working. Dotting I’s and crossing T’s on the weekend’s paperwork was no great way to spend a weekend afternoon, but it beat trying to reconstruct it when details were dull and the truth was no longer fresh.

  A job that denied the luxury of weekends off had given way to languorous Mondays that found me sleeping well into afternoon. A good soak in the tub and a nice bottle of wine as a matter of ceremony every Sunday night gave way to perfect rest.

  Wake up.

  Some unwelcome instinct broke into my thoughts and tried to coax me from blissful sleep. A far more sensible instinct told that instinct to shut up. Asleep or awake, lounging in my own bed was delicious. Technically, I had many of my own beds in the pieds-a-terre that I kept all across South Abarra as I worked my various jobs. But this was my very best bed in my favorite house.

  And wouldn’t it be nice to share it?

  This one was a different voice—the one that came to me every Monday morning once I was half-awake, lounging exactly like this. Dreams that I sincerely wished that I could remember gave way to imaginings that were difficult not to ignore when I had no place to be on time and appendages that were needy and stiff.

  It should have bothered me that in my one place of refuge--so far away from the city and from the responsibilities that stole so many hours—he reached me still. That notions of sharing a bed and relieving my ache led to fantasies of sapphire eyes. I would do now as I had done every Monday—indulge it with relish and remind myself that I, too, deserved joyous moments. I would wait until I had at least one cup of coffee before judging myself for my infatuation with the Prince.

  Wake up.

  When that voice spoke again, a full return to sleep seemed unlikely. Still groggy, I rolled to the left, pulling the covers tighter over myself with my top hand as I set to crack open my eyes. Off of the left side of the bed were double doors that opened to the vineyards below. It was my favorite view in the house, one I liked so much, I made sure to enjoy it each time I was in my home. Readying myself to enjoy what I was set to do with my lower hand, I breathed in a soft gasp as I touched what drove my urgency. Then I opened my eyes.

  “Queen Maialen!”

  Before I shouted the words in alarm, I made a loud, desperate noise—one I was fairly sure sounded like a locked-trunk magician coming up from the water and gasping for air. The next thing I knew, I was sitting up in my bed. When I realized that doing so exposed my naked form—my front covered with blankets pooled around me but the air on my back and the tops of my buttocks cool from the morning breeze, I lay back down. Whatever stiffness had been present just moments before, I vainly wished would turn to limpness at a far greater pace.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty.”

  When my eyes had first fallen upon her, her back had been too me, her gaze upon my fields below. I supposed, through my reaction, I had only myself to blame for the sort of attention I was receiving now. Though, she didn’t seem to mind. In truth, she looked amused by my predi
cament. Maialen was that kind of queen.

  “Whatever for? It is I who projected a copy of myself into your bedroom.”

  It partially answered a question I would have needed to find a delicate way to ask.

  “I’m waiting downstairs in my car. I came up simply to coax you awake and ask to be let in.”

  “My apologies, Majesty. I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  It felt beyond odd to be speaking to the Queen as I lay on my back with my covers up to my neck.

  She gave a knowing smile before disappearing. “I believe you were in the midst of a very deep sleep and a very good dream.”

  “His time is near,” Queen Maialen proclaimed after a single sip of tea, taken in my sitting room downstairs—not shabby by any stretch but not quite fit for a queen. The doors leading outside were open to a lower deck of dark, lacquered wood that also overlooked the vineyard hills.

  “I received a visit from the Prince early this morning,” she continued. “He was frenetic about using his powers. He would like me to excuse him from his post so that he can make wine. It was all through his own interpretation, but I am certain—he is beginning to feel the change.”

  The Queen and I had had several such conversations about several royals in similar positions—charges who were similar to the Prince in theory but who hardly seemed similar at all. Usually, it was I who came to the Queen with news of readiness and she who voiced her reservations.

  “I defer to you, Majesty,” I began, as I was in no position to do the latter. “But I do feel obliged to tell you that I have yet to witness such a change. Your Highness knows what would happen if we were to proceed without supreme confidence that the Prince was ready.”

  The weight of her answering sigh was proof that she wasn’t sure.

  “If he feels a change within himself, I am inclined to trust it, even if it is a change that you cannot see. I fear equally for what will come of us if we proceed as we have been.”

  “You are correct, Majesty.” I said it as agreeably as possible.

  “You harbor lingering doubt.”

  I cringed as I confessed. “I do, Your Majesty. Before we proceed, I would like to see it myself.”

  “What do you propose, Mr. Otxoa?”

  “A test.”

  “Could you please notify His Majesty that I am waiting on the rear car park, ready for our ridealong?”

  Eusebio said nothing for a long moment, before voicing the tart, “Hold, please” that he liked to default to any time he was consulting the Prince. He returned in half a minute. “The Prince does not recall discussing any such appointment. A ride along with who exactly?”

  “A ride along with me,” I said as innocently as possible.

  “I mentioned it to the Prince when we last met. Article 5, Section 3a of the handbook specifically mentions that all high officials of The Ministry are intended to attend ridealongs at least quarterly to keep their knowledge of current events fresh.”

  I held my breath in the silence, waiting to see whether Eusebio would take the story at face value. Unlike the Prince, he actually read the manuals. I had added the aforementioned rule to the aforementioned manual myself just that morning to cover my tracks. The more I thought about our new policy, the better an idea it sounded. Ridealongs weren’t glamorous, but they were a good way to learn.

  Just as I was beginning to think that Eusebio had left me on hold for too long, and that maybe I’d better ride up to the executive suite, the passenger door opened abruptly and the Prince climbed in. He held an air of calm compliance.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Ready to experience a typical day in the life of a beat officer, I see…”

  “Yes, well…” He looked out the window as I began to drive. “Now seems as good a time as any to apply myself, seeing as how I am destined to this fate. Guarding the security of the realm is, after all, my life’s calling.”

  I felt for him then, because we were the same—only, maybe he was alone in coming to grips with his own bitter fate. I may not have been a Prince, but at least I had the comfort of knowing the bigger things.

  “We all lead many lives,” I responded softly, not entirely knowing what boldness compelled me to do so. “It has been my experience that contentment can be found, even in lives we do not choose.”

  I expected the Prince to say nothing in return—expected our entire trip to be silent, save from the instruction I would have to give to keep up the ruse.

  My hidden plan was simple: to take the Prince on the most straightforward of calls, for which a resolution would be abundantly clear—calls involving minor predicaments that could be fixed without powers. Minor events that would begin teasing his instincts were the perfect place to start.

  “Yet it is obvious that you were born to do this—to lead The Ministry as you do. Its halls are a place that you never leave.”

  I said nothing at first. The Prince had given me thought? Apart from resenting what I demanded of him, never had I expected that he would think of me in this manner. Not of my call to duty, but of what I might be like myself.

  “I’m not at The Ministry now, am I?”

  “No…” The Prince began slowly. “But we are on Ministry business. You are thorough and circumspect when it comes to your job. You take it seriously. There is something in your way of approaching your work that is rarely seen. It is a sort of caring.”

  I could have said nothing, or nodded, or even thanked him for his comment, but I did not. “It is how I know that you will be a splendid Minister one day, my lord,” I remarked after a short minute. “Contrary to what you might like others to believe, I can see that you care as well.”

  Before the softness in the silence that stretched between us could tempt me to utter another word, the radio crackled with news that we had a call. I had spoken to dispatch, who were given very specific instructions to only route through certain kinds of incidents

  “Dispatch to unit 4-1-5, we have a juvenile male at Jerome Borowitz Elementary School who’s messing around at band practice. Again. The motive seems to be that he’s bored of practicing the National Anthem. He’s spun up a polka situation in which the impacted victims are powerless to stop themselves from playing folk tunes. Are you able to answer the call and handle the situation in progress? Over.”

  I plucked up the radio as I drove and pressed a button that would cause dispatch to send through the location details of the call to the GPS in the car.

  “4-1-5 to Dispatch we are en route and able to answer the call. Over.”

  “Thank you for confirmation, 4-1-5. We have you down to respond to the job. Call in for backup at any time if needed. Over and out.”

  By the time I replaced the repeater where it had been, the Prince looked over at me, a bit agog. “How do you handle a situation like that?”

  “A badge and a uniform helps,” I answered honestly. “Intimidation factor and all. But there’s another piece to all of this. No matter what power you do or don’t have, never forget to follow your instincts.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we walked through the doors of the elementary school and followed our ears to the sound, the beating of uptempo drums and the blare of brass instruments leading our way. I watched the Prince carefully. I was always watching the Prince, but I scanned for signs of a visceral reaction.

  The din became terrible as we approached the music room. The style of music didn’t suit me and was made only worse by the as-yet undeveloped skills of the young children who played.

  “Grating, is it not?” I baited.

  “Indeed,” the Prince agreed with a wince. “I hope you’re right about our badges. Somebody ought to make it stop.”

  Even as we walked closer, I listened carefully. If the Prince remained oblivious to his own power, there was a chance that—subconsciously—he would turn it down. Only the volume of the awful music stayed the same.

  “Why are they playing so loud?” the Prince asked a moment later, not going so far as to plug his ears with hi
s fingers but looking rather like he wanted to.

  “Unclear,” I hollered truthfully. “Could be, the child who is doing it isn’t in full control of his power.”

  As they stormed into the music room, that seemed precisely to be the case. Orchestra practice had been underway and chairs were arranged around a conductor’s platform in rainbow formation. The girl who seemed to be behind it all sat in the strings section next to a discarded viola. A teacher who had sandwiched her way into the row attempted to comfort her as she cried.

  As for the other children, they continued to play, clearly outside of their own volition, their hands moving strangely over buttons, drumsticks, keys and bows. Two looked angry. One looked a bit distressed but the others laughed uproariously. Abarran children were resilient and acculturated to such interruptions as those with powers came of age. Anything that achieved distraction from the humdrum of school was generally thought of as a perk.

  “How shall we help her?” I quizzed the prince, giving him one more try. I would have to put a stop to this, though I would make very careful to be sure that he didn’t see.

  “Children often lose control because of panic. Visualizing with them can be quite healing. Would you like to try?” I encouraged the Prince.

  To my surprise, he nodded. Was this a good sign? Or was he simply acquiescing? He didn’t seem to feel a pull to his power, but perhaps he could be coaxed into working it subconsciously.

  “I’ll walk you through,” I assured him, then proceeded to work the process for de-escalating such a scene in the same manner in which I had done dozens of times before. We greeted the child, and the caregivers, told them who we were and that we were here to help and that, if they would allow us, we might be able to stop what was going on.

  To his credit, the Prince did the work. He held the child’s hand, told her to breathe slowly and asked her to connect with her breathing. He followed my instructions to a T, asking her to visualize turning the music down, and turning down the effects of her power. I watched as both of them tried—the Prince leading by example. It didn’t work.