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

by Kenzie Blades

  When the cacophony only continued, I suggested that the Prince allow me to try. To all involved, I made it look like I was doing the same thing. It escaped everyone’s notice that I suggested that she stop right before the visualization. Everybody chalked it up to that when she did.

  Free ice cream day wasn’t much better. Little Lord Gilbert had the power to make any spigot keep flowing once it had been turned on. Every few months, the lordling hatched an elaborate attack on the village creamery with his friends. It usually involved deception to trick his governess, a clandestine escape from his family estate, and a meet-up with said friends at said creamery at a designated hour. The store workers never realized what was happening until it was too late, with soft serve flowing everywhere, out of control.

  “This is brilliant,” the Prince remarked with excitement in his eyes as we pulled up to the curb in front of the store, which spilled over with eager hordes of children at and around the door. The less fortunate of freeloaders ate from the smallish cones and paper cups supplied by the store. The more opportunistic children—likely the ones who were in on it or had caught word early on—ate from enormous mixing bowls brought in from home.

  “The property damage will be enormous,” I baited, curious to see what threats would sway the Prince. In order for his powers to emerge, he had to want to remedy what he saw as wrong.

  “I’m thinking, by now, the damage is probably done,” he observed.

  Xabier inclined his chin toward two uniformed workers, one who sat with his back to the store, weeping helpless tears, the other with her arm around him, looking over her shoulder to watch the unfolding debauchery.

  “This sort of thing doesn’t reflect well upon The Ministry,” I dug in, hoping he cared at least a little about that.

  “How old did you say the young lord was?” The Prince’s gaze stayed out the window and he seemed to be scanning the crowd.

  “Nine, if I recall correctly. He could be ten now.”

  Xabier turned back toward me with a conspiratorial smile. “Can’t blame a ten-year-old kid for wanting a bit of fun.”

  Without another word, the Prince exited the car, breaking our seal of relative silence. Pandemonium awaited us outside—a cacophony of excited screams, accusations of budging in line and delighted praise for the young lord. I followed the Prince, extricating myself from the car quickly and trotting after him. A swell of hope rose in my chest as the children parted to let him into the store. Was it some extension of his powers emerging or was it simple charisma? The din of excitement quieted as he walked in, causing me to wonder the same.

  “Which one of you is Lord Gilbert?”

  The crowd parted again, to reveal a pair of tweens sharing a banana split out of the hull of a model viking ship that looked antique and that had certainly been stolen from some display. Across from the young Lord, who I threw a look of reproach out of sheer habit—sat a young girl who looked a bit too old and a bit too pretty for him.

  “Prince Xabier,” the boy murmured, beginning to stand. Xabier raised his hand in a manner meant to instruct the boy to stay seated.

  “On a date, I see,” the Prince remarked next, regarding the girl.

  “Your Highness…” The girl bowed her head and blushed, regarding him admiringly from beneath thick lashes.

  “Created a bit of havoc, have we?” The Prince motioned his hand around the store. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I think you’d better offer your apologies and see to it that all of this gets cleaned up.”

  The constant humming of the soft serve machines dispensing ice cream could be heard as they continued to pour.

  “Yes, my lord,” the child said, still half-frozen with fear. It was an unexpected response—one quite different from earlier responses we’d seen from the young lord from lesser civil servants. The test itself was going differently than I expected, by virtue of Xabier being such a high prince.

  “I expect this to be sorted out by sunset—not just you, but your henchmen,” the Prince commanded, motioning to several boys around his age behind the counter, who had been busy serving it up. The Prince leaned closer, in a way that seemed like it was meant to be menacing. “Sundown,” he repeated before leaning back. “For now, can carry on.”

  An hour later, I was scowling as we pulled away from the curb of the store. The Prince licked happily at soft serve chocolate out of a waffle cone. After delivering the softest justice I had ever witnessed, the Prince had rolled up his sleeves, gone behind the counter and actually helped to serve the ice cream. The assembly line formed by the children behind the counter—clearly accomplices of the lordling—was mediocre at best. The floor had begun to run with melted ice cream. It had only taken the Prince a minute to direct and organize them on how to optimize their operation to deliver their stolen goods with the highest possible efficiency and the least possible mess.

  And it wasn’t just in serving ice cream that he had excelled. He had fielded questions elegantly—some children asked whether he was a real prince—and he indulged their every request, from excesses of caramel sauce to mixing flavors to walking away with not one ice cream, but two. He spoke to the forlorn employees of the store, informing them of the clean-up by sundown plan, giving them his card should they have any trouble, and emptying his billfold into the glass jar by the abandoned register—an astonishing sum that would more than cover all pilfered ice cream and an enormous tip.

  “Did it not occur to you to ask the young lord to stop what he was doing?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have been right, would it? Sending an unlucky lot of children who hadn’t gotten there quickly enough home without ice cream?”

  “What about the store? What the young lord did constitutes theft.”

  The Prince sighed and looked at me, with a bit of pity I didn’t like. “What the young lord did constitutes youth. You were young once, weren’t you, Mr. Otxoa?”

  And then I was bothered for a third time—not because the Prince insisted, as usual, upon ribbing me about this. But because his implication that I had lost all sense of fun hit too close to home. On this notion, the Prince was right. We settled into a silence then, my mind’s energy split between wondering why I had denied myself the chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve I had quite wanted and trying not to fixate on the way his lips pulled custard onto his tongue as he ate.

  We wended our way back toward South Dulibre, traveling country roads from town to town, in far more silence than that which had descended upon us when first we came. By the time my mind had shifted from my failings as a person to my failings as a civil servant and what I might tell the Queen of our first test, my own familiar energy swelled in my chest, the kind that only arose when trouble was near. Before I could register what imminent danger commanded my attention and whether the prince was safe, I heard the shattering of the first pane of glass.

  -

  Xabier

  “No matter what, stay here,” Zain warned.

  He had parked us crookedly on the edge of the town square, crossing traffic so that we faced the wrong way and the car was halfway up on the curb. Zain had identified the source of the ruckus far sooner than I had spotted the man—a round middle-aged gentleman who I didn’t recognize perched on a high branch in a tree.

  Ignoring Zain’s instructions completely, I exited the car with no real purpose other than to get a closer look and to begin to comprehend what was going on. Looking around the square confirmed the veracity of what we had heard. The glass of several storefronts of the shops on the square had been summarily shattered. The cake shop, from the looks of it, as well as the stationery store, a tailor and a dress shop from what could be seen through broken windows. Scores of townspeople who ought to have been picnicking in the park square or enjoying a stroll in the shops cowered on side streets and in front of buildings, as far away as possible from glass.

  There was only one explanation. The man perched in the tree was a supo, and, for reasons unknown, he had the idea to destroy the sq
uare. This was a job for the Ministry of Powers. Only, I was the minister and I felt utterly helpless to take action. Shouldn’t help be on the way? Though I appreciated the fact that my lieutenant knew what to do, I didn’t like the idea that something so sticky be handled by Zain.

  I winced at the jarring sound of yet more broken glass—this wasn’t as heavy as the glass as the storefront, but rather stained. My eyes scanned for its source and I was dogged to see that it had come off of an adorable little chapel aligned center to the south end of the square. What depraved mind possessed the will to sully a house of the gods? I watched on, in horror, to see what terrible destruction he might perform next. The panes of glass vibrated just before the pane on the opposite side burst.

  He’s using sound.

  An unknown voice inside myself revealed to me the source of his power. I could not comprehend how I knew. Yet, I was certain that stopping the sound would stop the destruction. The palms of my hands tingled and itched and familiar warmth spread to my fingertips, much as they did when I was set to sweeten grapes. They wanted to do something, but what?

  Distraction from the strange thoughts in my own mind were swept away as I returned to the moment, noting with alarm that I now stood even more alone. Zain walked toward the man, a crooked path through patches of ground that had not yet been spattered with glass, to do exactly what, I did not know.

  “Hey!” he shouted loudly, cupping his hands around his mouth as one did when one wanted to throw one’s voice, an attempt to get the man’s attention. The stranger only continued to stare on, eyes moving sorrowfully around the square as fresh tears streaked his face. He was clearly aggrieved and some part of me thought to pity the man, yet unfamiliar sensations riddled my body.

  No, not unfamiliar, the voice that had spoken to me earlier said. What came over me now was undoubtedly new, but it also felt quite right. Only, I couldn’t identify precisely the purpose and nature of these feelings. The danger of the moment caused a natural reaction but this didn’t feel like adrenaline. It wasn’t a pure reaction but it wasn’t not a reaction either. It was some sort of energetic shift.

  “Hey, you!” Zain shouted once more, his voice still failing to capture the man’s attention. To my utter horror, Zain crouched to the ground and picked up a small rock, then hurled it toward the man with precision. What on earth was Zain Otxoa doing? The man was a faultless rule follower, and a keeper of the peace. Surely, throwing rocks at perpetrators wasn’t part of his code.

  Apart from that, I was fairly certain that assault by rock was against the law. I could admit to not having read the manual nearly as carefully as perhaps I should, but this seemed impermissible, even for an incident in progress.

  The rock hit its target, which caused the man to scan the ground for the source of his attack. He set his gaze on me, then darted it to Zain. It all happened in the briefest of seconds, but, where he looked next, his eyes remained fixed. There was a streetlight with glass casing directly above Zain’s head.

  A fear that I had never known gripped me as I saw what was about to unfold. The man would shatter the glass of the lamp and broken shards would rain down on Zain, cutting him for certain, and possibly maiming him for life. In a split second, I thought not only of the lamp glass but of the glass of the bulbs themselves. Was it quicksilver that was in fluorescents? Whatever their inner workings, being hit by lighting components could bring nothing good.

  No!

  My only thought at that moment was to move Zain out of danger. Only, my body didn’t want to move. Why could I not command myself to lurch forward, to run fast enough toward where he stood to push him away? Yet, I kept my gaze focused on the tearful man, frowning deeply as my face and my hands heated with what I could only assume was rage.

  No! I screamed again in my mind, willing him to stop.

  Then, something different. The expression on his face changed. He blinked, as if in surprise. I darted my eyes again to the streetlight where his eyes had been trained. The glass remained intact. A glance back at the man, who seemed less sad in the moment than he seemed enraged, found him glaring down at Zain.

  “Stop this destruction.” Zain spoke the words in a voice that I didn’t think I’d ever heard. And, just like that, the man’s brow unfurrowed and every shred of sorrow and determination melted off of his face. I waited, breathless, for something more—for the man to set his sights on yet another thing to destroy. But his gaze remained fixed on Zain’s face and he did no such thing.

  “You have powers,” I whispered, my gaze still trained upon the remnants of what I had just seen. Even to my own ears, my voice rang with betrayal. Zain had just bent a man with terrifying power to his will with three calm words. My breaths were still shallow and my muscles begged me to move—to act out my surprise some physical way. I waited until the last of the other officers had walked away, when I finally turned my narrowed eyes to him.

  A car had finally arrived from The Ministry, staffed with the officers who were meant to be assigned to the case. Zain and I showing up when we did was a simple stroke of luck. Not a full minute after Zain had spoken his magic had sirens from a distance begun to fade in. Zain had made quick work of directing the officers to identify and detain the man and he promised to file a report later, leaving the two of us, once more, alone.

  “You have powers.” This time my voice was stronger, less a question than an accusation, less uttered in shock than in disdain. “You are a royal.”

  It was the only logical conclusion. Half-bloods sometimes had powers, but they tended to be weak or less significant in nature, as if the very fact of having diluted magical blood delivered trivial gifts. But nothing about Zain’s power was diluted. What I had just witnessed was—without a doubt—one of the most impressive feats that I had ever seen.

  “Please. Not here.” His gaze darted between me and the car. “What I can tell you should not be spoken within range of listening ears or within sight of prying eyes.”

  Back in the car, I did not push. It still smelled faintly sweet, just like ice cream, but all the fun from earlier had been killed in one fell swoop. It didn’t escape my notice that he looked mildly unwell. The notion that his body needed time to return to normal after such a display merely proved my theory. We rode silently back to the Ministry, rode silently in the elevator up to my floor, walked silently past Eusebio in a manner that must have spoken its own warning. The moment that Zain and I had stepped completely into my office, Eusebio silently closed the door.

  “I suppose I should thank you.”

  Somewhere in the car, I had remembered my manners, though it would be wrong to say that I had cooled down. I remained jarred and unhinged by the day’s developments. Skipping my desk in favor of my lit fireplace, I picked up my wine key and opened a bottle of Ichor, poured two glasses and held one out to Zain.

  “I was only performing my duty.” Zain took the glass with a shaky hand but did not drink. “I took an oath.”

  “But what do your duties entail? Tell me plainly. Are you a royal?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  I didn’t like that I couldn’t identify his emotion. His voice was the perfect mix of self-righteousness, bitterness and regret, with a bit of common deference sprinkled in for good measure. Moreso than usual, it sliced.

  “I command you to explain in no uncertain terms.” I surprised myself with my own forcefulness.

  “You command me,” Zain repeated, a clearer emotion beginning to form. He did not appreciate my phrasing. He spoke through gritted teeth and his eyes had gone dark as coal. I hadn’t commanded anybody to do anything since I was six years old. I’d gotten a handy scolding from my mother about how to talk to servants. But Zain wasn’t my servant and I wasn’t a child. I was a man who—by virtue of my position—would be deceived and mislead as a matter of course. Why did not knowing this about Zain hurt?

  “I ask you to explain,” I corrected. The fight had gone out of my voice and I kicked back to wha
t I was feeling. “And I do thank you for salvaging the situation. But, please. I don’t understand.”

  He looked off to the side and shook his head, looking entirely conflicted, as if he couldn’t decide whether I ought to be allowed to know. Only, I already knew enough, so what was he holding back?

  “You told him what to do…and he did it.” I took a step closer, beseeching him. “That power is nothing short of brilliant. I’ve never witnessed anything like it—the power of control.”

  “It’s not control. It’s hypnosis,” he said finally in a voice that had lost its bite. “My power is to encourage a specific action at the precise moment of consideration.”

  “Hypnosis…” I repeated, thinking back to exactly how the events in the park had unfolded. Zain had spoken words and the sad man had done exactly what he’d said. There had been no pendulums or spoons stirring in teacups or dulcet voices telling anybody they were getting sleepy. Surely some elements of true hypnosis must work the same way they did on TV.

  “Suggestibility is another way to say it. I suggest that something should happen and my power persuades the person under my influence to make it so. I can’t control what a person does, but I can lead them toward a certain decision. It doesn’t feel to them like control. It feels like they’ve decided something for themselves.”

  I was still wrapping my head around all of it when a sudden, terrifying, infuriating thought occurred. The ground I had gained from taking a step toward him was erased as I took two steps back. Hypnosis as Zain’s power explained everything. It explained the fog that liked to settle into my brain every time he was near. It explained why something caught inside of me every time he looked in my eyes. It told me why some part of me always felt out of control whenever he was in my presence. Perhaps everyone he did it too felt this way—some unidentifiable instinct that Zain Otxoa had them in his thrall. His sexiness only added to the effect. The most vicious predators were distractingly beautiful. It was all part of the disguise.