by Kody Boye
Even though we were nowhere near her, her eyes were unnerving.
I felt her presence from the two-hundred feet between us.
She was what Guy was.
Kaldr.
Though her eyes didn’t remain for long after she homed in on Guy, her attention did fall to a companion that approached shortly thereafter.
While I didn’t care to focus on their interaction, the knowledge of Guy’s presence spread like wildfire.
Soon, every person we passed on the property was watching us—some discretely, others blatantly.
“You care to explain why they’re looking at us like that?” I asked.
“In a minute,” Guy said, turning up the path that led to the house. “Not while we have so much attention on—”
The creak of footsteps on the wooden porch brought Guy to a solid stop.
A man—the near-spitting image of Guy, right down to his build and facial structure—approached the railing. “Well now,” he said, looking down at the two of us. “Look who decided to show up.”
“Father,” Guy said, swallowing.
The man’s eyes strayed from his son and settled on me. “And this is?” he asked.
“Father—sir. This is Jason. My… uh… my—”
“Never mind. You never could answer a straight question anyway.” The man stepped back and gestured us forward with a wave of his hand. “Come now. You both look like you could use some rest.”
The low growl from Guy that followed his father’s response did little to remedy my worries.
Stepping forward, I climbed the steps of what had to be a hundred-year-old home until I stood beneath the awning.
“Please, pardon me for my lackluster introduction,” Guy’s father said, closing our distance as Guy stalked past us into the house. “My son and I have a bit of a… tumultuous relationship.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I merely remained silent.
“My name is Elliot Winters,” he said, taking hold of and gently squeezing my hand. “And welcome to my home.”
Part III
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I expect you’re exhausted after being out in the elements so long?” a beautiful Latino man with a pair of gorgeous eyes and lips said, stirring a cold glass of lemonade with a spoon before passing it over the counter to me.
“I’m fine,” I replied, sipping the drink. “Thank you.”
The kind-eyed man nodded and settled his gaze on me, watching me drink with near-alien fascination, before he turned and began to scour the interior of a fridge.
Until a moment ago, I’d thought he was human. Then I saw the rims around his brown eyes—nearly translucent but still there—and realized he was just the same as everyone else.
Did Elliot’s property house a clan of the Kaldr?
Guy had yet to return. From the depths of the house I could hear heated arguing—sometimes harsh, accented with barking exchanges, though mostly cordial. I’d guessed something was up when Guy hadn’t cared to elaborate last night or earlier this morning. I just hadn’t been aware of how serious the situation was.
“Don’t mind them,” the Latino man said. “Their relationship is… complicated.”
“You never did tell me your name,” I said, eager to stray in another direction rather than get caught in familial drama.
“Amadeo,” he said. “Amadeo Castallano.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you, friend. And you are?”
“Jason,” I said.
“The younger Winters’ lover?”
I blinked. “Was it really that obvious?”
Amadeo smiled. “Really,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I merely suspected. Nothing more.”
I swished the lemonade around in my glass and took another sip. Amadeo, as if sensing my unease, returned to his various activities about the kitchen.
Nearby, a door opened, then shut. Guy strode into view and set his eyes on the pair of us. “Papa,” he said, nodding to Amadeo.
“Son.” The Spanish man nodded before disappearing out a side door.
Now alone, Guy settled into the stool beside me and ran a hand across his skull.
“Everything cool?” I asked.
“My father’s merely taken it upon himself to lecture me for my stupidity. That’s all.”
“Did you tell him about what I—”
“Oh, he knows, Jason. He doesn’t blame you. He blames me for not handling the situation properly.” Guy sighed and shook his head. “Can I have a drink?” I passed him the glass and watched him nearly down half of it before returning it to me. “He wants to meet with you later—if you’d be comfortable. He’d like to get to know you.”
“I don’t mind speaking with him,” I said.
Besides—truthfully, it was he who held the outcome of my fate, not Guy. I was ready to know whether I had a place here or if I was to be cast to the wind and let the fates decide my course.
We sat there in silence for a long time. Occasionally, he’d glance at me from the corner of his eye, but for the most part kept to himself.
This rift—
Whatever had happened, it surely wasn’t good.
I set a hand on his shoulder, the sudden urge to comfort him completely overwhelming.
He sighed. Muscles tensing, he stood and rolled his neck about his shoulders before he said, “Come on,” and reached to take my hand. “No point in sitting around here.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll take you to my room. We can get cleaned up. Then…” Guy faltered. “Then I can explain what the hell’s going on here.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Guy’s quarters were located on the far northwestern side of the house. Fine in their simplicity but immaculate in their novelties, they were sequestered away from the rest of the home by means of double doors that opened into a separate wing, which began with a living room offering a panoramic view of the Texas Hill Country and eventually expanded into an apartment-like flat.
This is it, Guy had said upon our arrival. Home.
I didn’t bother to question the obvious. The divide was real, made present as Guy turned and secured us behind lock and key. For father and son to have been so adamantly at war in their own home was something akin to the tragedies—Shakespeare, even the mythology of the Greek Gods. Was Zeus not as forgiving as Elliot, and was Guy not the son who wished only to be within his favor?
Guy didn’t bother with formalities. He led me through the living room and down a short hallway until we stepped into a room—undeniably long-abandoned, but upkept to the point where dust shined only on particular objects.
“Guy,” I said, turning to face him, “can’t we just—”
“Relax,” he said, taking hold of my arms. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t want to make it any worse.”
I swallowed, afraid to say it even though it was burning on the tip of my tongue.
His hands on my body, his eyes on my face; the closeness, the anticipation; the heat that didn’t exist physically but did in a way that only those impassioned could realize—he watched me consider him briefly before he turned and began to dig through his drawers, coming up with clothes that were still a few sizes too big but not to the point where I would drown in them. “Shower,” he said, leaning past me and sliding open a wooden panel. “Take your time.”
In the shower, I let cold water run down my skin, forever cursing my mortal body.
It felt far too convenient for safety to only be a few short hours from Austin.
From my place behind the clear glass pane, I watched Guy seat himself atop his bed. Perched on a corner like some thoughtful bird, he stared at the floor with his hands intertwined, his knuckles only occasionally parting to offer relief from an unsure or hard grip. Before, I’d considered such looks contemplative and nothing more. Now, I could see the tension ther
e—thick in his neck, strangled about his shoulders, harsh within his eyes.
I looked away and bowed my head.
What had I gotten myself into?
Chapter Thirty-Four
He paced the room in a pair of loose-fitting sweats while I lay on the bed. Tired from running and worn out from the morning’s activities, I curled onto my side and drew a sheet about my naked body, only vaguely aware of Guy’s presence by the occasional expletive when he bumped into something.
“Why don’t you lay down?” I asked. “You could use some rest.”
“You need something to drink?” Guy asked.
“No, I—”
Guy disappeared out the door and into the deeper parts of the flat.
Frowning, I chose not to fight it and set my attention on the wall.
Like in Guy’s apartment in Austin, there were a number of artifacts which presented themselves in such a casual manner most wouldn’t have thought twice. Globes beneath which were trapped snowy, eastern European continents; barbarian and Viking figures engaged in war; men and women dressed in historical regalia—of times and places described only in history and preserved scarcely in museums. Those that took particular precedence over the others were far stranger than the rest.
I stared at their shapes, trying to discern the quality of their make.
These things—whatever they were—were nothing like I’d ever seen.
Easing my legs over the bed, I tentatively approached the dresser upon and above which they were assembled, cursing my overambitious ideas after the morning’s worth of fun.
The objects, which I could now see in detail, appeared to be pieces of jewelry—hewn jaggedly by hand. From what stone they’d been made I couldn’t be sure. The blue was similar to sapphire, yet the highlights resembled beryl. They also appeared to swim beneath the light in a way that was not indicative of such stones.
I frowned.
The pieces, so strange in their formation, eventually drew my eyes to the ensemble above.
It looked primitive in most respects—resembling Native American craftsmanship in that the clothing had been made from the skin of animals and stitched into certain surfaces were the stones I’d just marveled over. Long threading hung from the tunic and its sleeves, beaded with yet more stones. And the pants—
My eyes centered on one item that I had only just discovered.
A glove—fingerless, extending only to the top of the second knuckle.
Upon its surface lay a symbol—which, when compared in its most primitive form, resembled a ribbon.
“What in the—” I started.
“Back,” Guy said.
Startled, I jumped, spinning to face him only to run into his chest.
“Sorry about that,” he said, holding me steady as I regained my bearings. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was just… looking.”
Guy’s eyes trailed past me. “Oh,” he said. “That.”
He passed the bottle of water into my hand and stood before the display of objects. Arms crossed, his gaze took much of the same path I did before they came to rest on a particular fixture over the bathroom door—the same symbol displayed on the glove.
“This is,” Guy said, without bothering to turn and mind my attention, “my legacy.”
“Legacy?” I asked.
He inclined his head toward the bed and then gestured me out of the room when I indicated that I was fine. He led me into the living room with the panoramic windows and settled down on a loveseat, his sigh giving no indication of where he wanted me.
“My father,” he said as I settled down beside him, “was one of the original descendants of the Kaldr people who fled Norway after Vikings took control of their settlements.” He turned his head when I snapped the lock off the bottled water and watched me drink until bowing his head. “There is… hierarchy, here, in a way. As you may have noticed.”
“Your father’s king?” I asked.
“Hell no,” Guy laughed. “What makes you think that?”
My unwavering stare was reply enough.
He frowned. “It’s… confusing, to say the least. My father, he… was merely a steward for much of his time in the Americas. It wasn’t until the Kelda arrived that the positions split.”
“The Kelda?” I frowned.
“The Fountain. Our leader. Our Mother.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “If your father isn’t king, and if this was his operation until the Mother—I mean Kelda—arrived, then who is—”
“She is one of the original Kaldr.”
I frowned. “What?”
“My father, myself, the people here on this ranch—none of us are firstborn. We bear the name because it is our heritage—ancestry in the sense that we have continued the legacy. But we are not pure. No. We are merely byproducts of human copulation.”
“She isn’t human then.”
“No one knows what she is. Most consider her a goddess. I think of her more as… the bitch that lives beneath the ranch.”
“That doesn’t explain how you fall into all this.”
“My father is one of the few Kaldr spawned by humans in the first generation. Therefore, his blood ties are stronger—more defined, concrete. Therefore, when my forefathers fled their homeland, they considered him their better—closer to the Kelda that arrived thousands of years later.”
“Which explains his status over the property,” I said.
“And which makes me his legacy.”
“His prince.”
Guy shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I am,” he said. “All that matters is that I’ll be forced to copulate to continue the pureblooded generation.”
“But you’re gay.”
“My point exactly.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The absurdity of it was almost too much to bear. “I understand why they would care about continuing your father’s line,” I frowned. “If your father is first generation and you’re second, that means any child you have would be the third.”
“Which was my argument exactly. The Kaldr of today are not the Kaldr of Norway. We’re descendants—bastards.”
“But if you’re able to have children, then that means—”
I trailed off.
“Yes,” Guy said, as if amused at the prospect of a biology listen. “That I can produce sperm.”
“I kinda figured that,” I said. “But if you can’t catch or give anything, why’d you wear a condom that first time?”
“Because I was under the guise of a human, remember? The point is to appear as unobtrusive as possible. Someone finds out I had sex with a positive partner and, well… there you have it. You’ve got someone who’s immune to AIDs.”
I nodded. “That’s why you left,” I said.
“Because even though I was trapped out there,” Guy said, “in a world full of humans, governments, laboratories and the innate need to make a buck, I was still far freer than I ever was here.”
“What’re you going to do now that you’re here?”
“Become prince. That’s all I can do, right?”
Though the expected response was to nod, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Something had yet to be answered.
If there would never again be a true Kaldr, then why was the Kelda so intent on continuing a diluted legacy?
Chapter Thirty-Five
A knock came at the door in the later hours of the night. Freshly filled from dinner and spread out along the couch, Guy lifted his head from its place on the armrest and sighed as he withdrew his arm from my shoulders.
“Sorry,” he said.
I shook my head to show indifference and watched him walk to the door. When he opened it, I caught sight of Amadeo standing in the doorway, speaking in hushed tones to Guy.
Guy turned and gestured me up.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“My father wants to see you,” he said. “If that’s all right?”
“It’s fine.” I looked up at Amadeo. “Hello.”
“Good evening,” Amadeo said, his kind eyes filled with remorse for a sour situation.
With nothing else to do or say, I turned to face Guy. “Guess I’ll be back later,” I said, stepping out through an open door. “Keep an ear out for me?”
“I won’t lock you out,” he said.
We exchanged awkward waves before the door closed behind me.
“This way,” Amadeo said.
He led me through the series of hallways and directed us toward the far wing on the east side. Our footsteps sounded monstrous in the silence of the beautiful home, which only further added to my unease, but I managed to maintain myself and kept my gaze straight ahead.
“I was not aware that you and he had such an… awkward relationship,” Amadeo offered.
I stopped in the middle of the hall, near where the banister overlooked the expansive living room, and frowned. “Sorry?” I asked.
“When he brought you here, I assumed that you might have been a longtime lover. But judging by your actions…”
“It’s okay,” I said, in the silence after he faded off. “You can continue.”
Amadeo scanned my face before nodding, the unease wiped clean off his face. “Mr. Winters and I were concerned when we learned about the alleged murder allegations. When you walked through the door, I expected the pair of you to act in a more intimate manner. But now that I see that you haven’t… well… it makes me concerned for your wellbeing. Both of you.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Guy called you ‘Papa,’” I said a short moment later, when the memory flickered across my conscience like a lonesome butterfly. “Does that mean you’re one of his parents?”
