Crown Jewel

by Megan Derr

  Actors, he thought scornfully, watching as a few of them stumbled drunkenly past him, still dolled up in cheap make-up and cheaper costumes from whatever farce they had put on. No different than jewels, really, but they loved to think they were better—as though flaunting their ability to act made them special. The best actors never gave any indication they were acting, as any proper jewel knew. Actors were just gaudy little bitches who wanted to rise to the half-world, the closest any peasant got to nobility, as if that was the smart thing. All that make-up addled their brains. Celeste loathed the Theatre District; they were unpolished jewels pretending to be something grand. All show and no substance.

  Bypassing the theatre houses, he made for the throng of teahouses that stretched along the water front portions of the district. Pastel-colored paper lanterns lined the entries and walkways, along with bells and chimes, lush flowers and little ponds filled with exotic fish.

  He walked up the well-lit white stone path of the Primrose Teahouse, one of the most expensive in the district—and one of the more notorious. He slipped under the overhanging roof and into shadow, then pulled the comb from his hair and unwound the braid, allowing his hair to tumble free again. It was long, heavy, difficult, and tiresome to deal with—but something about it always helped him earn those precious extra coins he had secreted away from the first day. Every detail mattered in the life of a jewel and his hair had always been an especially crucial one. His mouth was another, which was why he drew still more attention to it by way of his costly lip oils. He bothered with no other make-up, since they did more harm than good in the end, but the lip oils were infinitely worth it.

  Reaching into his jacket, Celeste pulled out the small tin of lip oil that he perpetually carried, using his small finger to rub it on his lips, making them glisten and burn from the cinnamon oil in it. Ready, he entered the teahouse and strode past the hostess in her gaudy, over-patterned dress.

  Teahouses were a popular thing, a peculiarity brought into the kingdom centuries ago. They were less formal than other establishments, but better than taverns and bars. He kept walking, ignoring the way other patrons stared, stopping only when he reached the large table in the middle of the room where Marco sat with a handful of his men.

  It had been a very long time since he had laid eyes on Marco. They had gone their separate ways at thirteen, when Celeste had been old enough to take up legally as a jewel and Marco had gone down deeper into the criminal world. They had been good thieves together as children; a pity that Marco had blackened himself with the drug trade. "Marco."

  Everyone at the table froze as a complete stranger addressed their boss so casually. Marco only laughed and sipped his wine from a delicate porcelain cup. "Well, a visit from the Crown Jewel himself. I am honored. You are more beautiful than all the rumors say."

  "I need to discuss something with you," Celeste replied.

  Marco lifted one brow, but said nothing. Instead, he motioned to one of his men and jerked his chin at Celeste. "Search him."

  Celeste smirked and held his arms out, spreading his legs a bit. "Watch your hands," he told the leering bodyguard. "There is always a fee for touching me."

  The man only laughed and, predictably, was very thorough as he searched Celeste's body for hidden weapons, tossing each of his daggers one by one to the ground. When he was done, a smug look on his face and a noticeable bulge in his breeches, he stepped back—and bellowed in outrage as Celeste backhanded him.

  Dodging the angry swing he threw, Celeste tripped him, pinned him to the mat, and retrieved one of his daggers, pressing it to the man's throat. "Did you think I was lying, you weed-addled fool? No one touches me without my permission and plenty of coin. You owe me one sovereign."

  The man sneered at him. "I'm not paying you a wooden pence, slut. You did nothing for me; I ain't doing nothing for you."

  Celeste smirked, readjusting his grip on the dagger, then reached down with his other hand to grab the man's hard cock through his breeches. "Feels like I do plenty for you," he purred, tossing his hair and letting it fall just so around his shoulders. "Rough play isn't my thing, pet, but if you like pretty little men tossing you around and holding knives to your throat, I can recommend a few excellent jewels."

  "Go to fucking—"

  "Enough," Marco barked out. "Celeste!" He moved and Celeste twisted, neatly catching the flashing gold sovereign Marco tossed. Tucking it away, he then roughly released the man beneath him, standing and retrieving all his daggers. Sliding them back into place, he looked at Marco and said, "Your men lack discipline."

  "Not for long," Marco said, making the offender pale—and gladly bolt when Marco indicated that he should. "So what brings the Jewel of Jewels to our humble teahouse? Must be interesting indeed, for you to come yourself."

  Celeste tossed his hair and said scornfully "Jewels do their own work. A job worth doing is worth doing oneself."

  Marco chuckled. "You haven't changed a bit." He tossed back the last of his wine, and then stood up. "So let's speak." He strutted off, leaving Celeste to follow.

  Shooting last warning looks at the men eying him, Celeste followed Marco through the teahouse and past sliding paper doors to the rooms in the back. They smelled of tea and wine, flowers and cheap cologne and sex. He wrinkled his nose in distaste that the theatre district would so brazenly run a cheap brothel instead of directing such business to the Jewel District. Honor among thieves, indeed. Damned actors.

  Marco led him down the narrow hallway and past several rooms from which all manner of sounds emanated, until they reached one at the end. Marco slid the door shut behind them, then moved to settle amongst the pillows scattered around a low, small table meant for two.

  Sitting down on the opposite side, moving so that his hair slid and tumbled just so, Celeste tilted his head back and to one side. "Life is treating you well, Marco."

  "I work hard to ensure it does," Marco replied, chuckling, eyes dragging slowly up and down Celeste's body. "It's treated you better."

  "I worked hard to ensure it," Celeste mimicked. "A pretty form only goes so far, after all."

  "Mm," Marco agreed. "So why has the Crown Jewel come to see me?"

  Celeste slowly removed his jacket and tossed it casually aside. A server appeared then, knocking discreetly on the door. She slipped inside quietly and swiftly arranged a tray of wine and light food, then slipped away again. When they were alone, Celeste said, "I work for the House of Peace. It is owned and mastered by Pio. He is a wastrel and a dream addict. Right now, I own ten percent of the business; it was part of my terms for agreeing to move to the House of Peace. I want one hundred percent, but I will not get it if Pio dies or gets himself arrested before I can afford it. Seven months is all I need. I want him kept off dream smoke for those seven months."

  "You want me to ensure he is not sold any. That could make him more dangerous."

  Celeste gave a short, sharp shake of his head. "I can handle him, if he's off the drugs."

  "For seven months," Marco repeated, as though tasting the words. He stood up abruptly and strode to the door, barking at someone down the hall. After a moment, he resumed his seat. Before Celeste could speak, someone else entered the room—a dark, handsome man with a foreign touch to his features. He spoke in a language Celeste only vaguely recognized; he knew just enough of it to know when he was being propositioned and how to explain just how much he cost.

  "You still have a regrettable fondness for drama," Celeste drawled when the man had gone. "But I suppose you would fare poorly here in the Theatre District if you did not."

  Marco snorted. "I find it interesting that a jewel mocks me for being dramatic."

  Celeste smiled. "The art of the jewel is the art of subtlety."

  "If you call your behavior tonight subtle, I would be interested to see how you behave when you are being obvious," Marco replied.

  Laughing, Celeste tossed his hair again and leaned back against the pillows, putting his body on display. Marco mi
ght think he was not being subtly manipulated, but he was as foolish as anybody in that respect. Peasant, prince, duke, or drug lord—all were susceptible to the shine of a jewel. Marco believed he was only mildly interested, but he was already half-seduced. "Why should I need to be subtle with an old friend? As I said, you like drama." He licked his lips, tasting cinnamon. "So are we dealing or not, bello?"

  "Maybe you should spell the deal out," Marco replied, sipping his wine, looking amused—and hungry.

  "Seven months. No drugs go to Pio."

  Marco sipped his wine. "He makes me two sovereigns a night. That is a healthy sum of money to lose."

  Celeste laughed, even if he was alarmed to learn that Pio was wasting so much money—if he was spending that much already, he would only spend more and more, and bleed the house dry. "I am worth ten sovereigns a night. I am busy six out of seven days. You do the math."

  Marco smirked in a smug little way that he had possessed since they were children. Strange, and a little funny, how people never really changed at all. "Maybe I prefer the money to fucking you."

  "Maybe you do," Celeste conceded. "But I never knew of 'Lord Marco' to lose a chance to brag." Marco had always wanted power, status, and all the fine things that went with being the man in charge. But even a man as powerful and wealthy as Marco, who controlled all dream smoke trade in the city, could not afford regular appointments with someone like Celeste.

  Everyone tonight would wonder why the Crown Jewel wanted a private word with Marco. Later, when Celeste had gone, Marco would ensure everyone believed that Celeste had come to him on orders, that Marco had the Crown Jewel at his beck and call. It would do things for his reputation that fear and violence could not. Marco would thrive on having Celeste in his power for seven months—not that Celeste cared; he could handle Marco for seven months, and after that he would own the House of Peace and be able to retire from actively tending clients.

  Silence stretched on between them and Celeste did not break it. The next move was Marco's. He would come to Celeste or send him away, and that would be that. Finally, just when he was getting fed up with the game, Marco finished his wine and abruptly shoved the table out of the way. He reached out and snagged Celeste's wrist, pulling him close and pushing him down into the pile of pillows. "A deal, then," he rumbled. "Now show me what makes you worth ten sovereigns a night, when the best dream smoke cannot get more than two a measure."

  "Gladly," Celeste murmured. He pushed away all useless thoughts and emotions, focusing solely on being a crown jewel, determined to add Marco to the list of men who would do almost anything for just one more night in his bed.

  *~*~*

  Lazzaro finished his wine and beckoned for a fresh pitcher, smiling faintly at the serving maid who winked at him before scampering off to fetch the wine. Lazzaro was not typically one to indulge, but the Festival of Secrets existed solely for that purpose and Benito would not hear of him remaining behind. Given his options, it seemed best to go along with the revelry.

  "La, to be unencumbered by a future husband and a future throne," Anastasia complained playfully, purple-painted mouth curving in a smile beneath the purple and silver feathers of her ornate mask. Benito lifted her hand and kissed the gloved palm, which she withdrew with mock haughtiness, tossing her dark-stained ringlets about to hit him in the face.

  Benito only laughed and snagged them, dragging her around to press a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Fidelity certainly is not stopping anyone else, demon."

  "Oh, really?" Anastasia challenged.

  "It's stopping me," Benito corrected, grinning. "La, woman. Go dance with something pretty and leave me to my drinking."

  Laughing, Anastasia blew him a kiss and obeyed, twirling off in a tumble of purple and silver. Ordinarily, the royal couple would never be permitted to gallivant about in the heart of the city so freely, especially with so much chaos around them. But during the Festival of Secrets, identities were the greatest of secrets. Not a person in the city went without a mask, and so it was safe in a way it would not otherwise be. That aside, there were numerous guards scattered discreetly about, braced for any unforeseen problem.

  Lazzaro thanked the pretty serving maid as she returned with a pitcher of wine, and for a fleeting moment he considered taking up her unspoken offer. The man who had plagued his thoughts for the past month again flickered through his mind and banished any fleeting thoughts of the serving girl.

  It was damned annoying to suddenly desire something that was easily within his reach, and yet completely out of it. He did not make sense even to himself; he could easily afford Celeste, so it should not be a problem. He did not want to purchase Celeste, however, and that annoyed him because there was no good reason to feel that way. One brief meeting was not sufficient to have mucked with his head as much as it had. He had gone to Celeste for one thing and Celeste had refused. Lazzaro would not ask for anything else. He drank deeply from his cup, suddenly not entirely opposed to getting drunk and ignoring his problems for the rest of the evening. Benito would be delighted with him, at least. He traced the rim of his goblet, frowning at the dark red wine within. He should indulge, in everything. One good tumble would surely banish Celeste from his thoughts.

  Nodding, decided, Lazzaro looked around to see where the serving girl had gone—and felt something tighten and twist in his chest as his eyes landed on a figure across the way. It could not be; the man probably just had similar hair, for the coincidence was too much. No, it was definitely Celeste. Lazzaro had seen Celeste only once, but he would remember that hair, that form, anywhere. If he felt like being honest, he wanted to comb his fingers through that pale, beautiful hair, tangle them in it as he held fast to Celeste's hips, guided Celeste up and down on his cock—

  The pleasure would be fleeting and cost him several sovereigns, and he was annoyed that it was not the number of coins that bothered him—merely that there must be coins involved at all. One brief exchange should not leave him in such a sorry state. He should ignore Celeste and go find the serving girl.

  Even as he told himself that is what he should do, however, he finished his wine, murmured absently to Benito, and rose. His head swam with the warm buzz of good wine, muffling the noise of the crowd around him, attention only for the beauty on the balcony across the way. Snagging a lush, dark pink rose from a flower peddler at the edge of the crowd, he tossed her a bit and pushed on the last few steps to where Celeste leaned over a balcony railing, staring down at the crowd below. Coming up behind him, not quite pressing against his back, Lazzaro presented the rose and murmured in Celeste's ear, "Beautiful evening, jewel."

  Tensing, clearly taken by surprise, Celeste took the rose and half-turned. He smiled, slow and taunting, already recovered from his shock—and something in his smirk, in his eyes, said that he was no more deceived by Lazzaro's costume than Lazzaro had been by his. "Beautiful evening, handsome stranger." He held the rose to his nose, then let his hand fall to his side. "Enjoying the festival?"

  "Of course. What of you, jewel?"

  Celeste licked his lips, clearly teasing, and mimicked, "Of course."

  Lazzaro chuckled. "What games do you play during the Festival of Secrets? Any favorites?"

  "I play only those games I am well paid to play," Celeste replied. "I am not so lofty I can flirt with pretty serving girls and drink too much wine."

  Startled by the realization that Celeste had clearly marked him some time ago, Lazzaro said, "I do not believe you. Even a jewel can take time off to play during Festival."

  "Perhaps," Celeste said, clearly meaning 'no.'

  Lazzaro buried the disappointment he had no business feeling, but could not keep all the bite from his tone as he said, "So what does the Crown Jewel charge for a dance, if I cannot ask you to dance freely?"

  Celeste must be tired, or upset, because that made the second time in as many minutes that he had let his surprise show. "A dance?" Celeste repeated softly—then abruptly tensed, eyes focused past Lazza
ro's shoulder and his mouth tightening into a flat, pinched line. Lazzaro was dismayed, because Celeste was not the sort of man to upset easily or ever show that upset.

  He reacted instinctively, determined to drive away whoever had distressed Celeste—and there was one sure way to ensure that they were left alone. Lazzaro pushed Celeste up against the railing, pinned him there, and bent to take his mouth. In response, Celeste bit his lip hard. Lazzaro grunted at the pain, but did not break the kiss. To his surprise, Celeste did not break it either, instead tangling his fingers in Lazzaro's elaborate jacket and kissing him back.

  Lazzaro really hated to admit it, but he was beginning to truly appreciate why Celeste was able to charge several sovereigns for a single night. He sank his hands into the fine hair and held fast, groaning at the softness of it, the greater softness and warmth of Celeste's too-talented mouth. He finally tore away at the sound of someone loudly clearing his throat and stared for a moment into Celeste's eyes. They really were the warmest, softest brown he had ever seen. He had meant to say something, he thought, but could not for the life of him recall what. He could not seem to recall much of anything.

  Another throat-clearing finally snapped him out of it. Slowly letting go of Celeste, but not stepping away at all, Lazzaro half-turned to address the intruder. "I was always taught it was in the poorest of taste to interrupt a man in the middle of a seduction."

  Celeste pinched him then, generous with his nails, but Lazzaro gave no sign of having felt it.

  "I am afraid the dark faerie is mine," the man said, indicating Celeste in his elaborate black and silver costume.

  Lazzaro met his gaze coolly, every bit the haughty Duke. "You are mistaken."

  Against him, Celeste muttered a soft curse and tried to push Lazzaro away, even as the stranger drew closer to them. "I will not say it again," the stranger repeated. "He is mine."