by Ann Aguirre
I’ll check later.
“Just a moment, he’s sending someone to collect you.” The window slammed shut with no further small talk. Clearly, they didn’t employ this man for his people skills.
Five minutes passed with Alastor marching in circles to keep warm, and if he thought, I’m a prince, dammit, once or twice, while exhaling like a smoking chimney, he could probably be forgiven since he didn’t actually say it out loud. Dedrick was dangerously enraged by the time the apple-cheeked woman came to collect them. She was all breathless apologies and head bowing as she herded them into a small vehicle.
“I’m Mrs. Christie, the one who picks up after Mr. Furbander. Just call me Christie if you like. He told me you were at the west gate and clearly you’re not, so… very sorry about that.”
“No harm done,” Alastor said with good cheer, mostly to cover Ded’s grunt.
She seemed to notice his curiosity as he studied the instrumental panel, solar-powered like most Rovers, but it was comparatively small and light. What’s this thing made of?
“You’ve never seen a Sol before, I take it?” When he shook his head, she went on, “They’re not street legal but we’re allowed to use them here on private property.”
Christie talked a little more about the company, facts that he’d already learned from Ded, but Alastor made interested noises until she parked outside a massive building, green corrugated metal that was both ugly and industrial. Perfect for a factory, he supposed.
“This way. Mr. Furbander only agreed to meet you because he’s heard you’re a Golgoth prince. He’ll probably ask you to sit for a photo with him. He’s got a wall of unusual—oh. Well.” She trailed off, likely realizing that could be construed as offensive.
His smile tightened. Yes, I’d love to take a photo with a man who considers me an oddity worth collecting. Beside him, Dedrick’s hand was already curling into a fist.
Alastor touched his arm and whispered, “Breathe.”
Briefly, he wished Sheyla was here because she could brief him on what clans these people hailed from, any potential pitfalls. Ded hadn’t thought to include that data in his dossier, and he couldn’t be blamed for it since he was a warrior, not an aide de camp. The big guard probably wished he could settle this shit by kicking someone’s face in—and while challenges were perfectly acceptable at home, here, that would get them locked up.
Aloud he only said, “I’m grateful to your employer for making time to see me.”
“Of course,” she said, sounding somewhat uncertain.
At last, she led them through a locked door and onto one of the production floors. It was too loud to hear with the rumble of machines, so Alastor didn’t try to talk. It was blessedly hot, a respite from the bitter chill, and those working the machines stared at him as his small party went past, their faces dirty and glossed with sweat. He could only imagine how hot and exhausted they must be at the end of the day. Golgerra had facilities like this as well, but it was such hard work that prisoners and criminals were sent to do it, often in chains. Since nobody was fastened to their equipment here, he concluded that their employment must be voluntary.
Conveyor belts, gouts of steam, sorting metal bits with a rake, then letting them fall into a funnel—he couldn’t quite decipher what he saw. Christie was shouting something, and he couldn’t make it out, but he wheeled away in time to avoid a beeping vehicle laden with crates. All told, it felt like he’d crossed a combat zone when she started up some scaffolding-like metal stairs, all utility, no charm, this place.
Ideal for creating weapons of mass destruction.
The office upstairs overlooked the work floor with glass framing it all around. He couldn’t believe how quiet it was when the door shut behind them. He took stock of the office, metal everything, including shelves and desk, with a floor that clanked when he moved across it. As the assistant had mentioned, the back wall was plastered with photos, and he would’ve liked a better look at them to discover what/who Furbander found fascinating enough to commemorate.
Alastor extended a hand to Mr. Furbander, whose head came to Alastor’s shoulder. The factory owner had a shock of red hair laced with white at the temples, a ruddy complexion, and a perpetually skeptical expression. Which didn’t bode well for this meeting.
Still, he had to try.
He bowed, because that was a courtesy he would offer any important dignitary, and Furbander burst out laughing. “Princely manners, for sure, but they’re wasted on me. There are no royals among the Animari, so don’t expect any special treatment.”
So, he’s Animari. It was a helpful clue, and he tucked it away for later use.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir?” Christie cut in.
The man waved her away with an impatient look. “I don’t want tea or biscuits, so don’t bother me for at least half an hour.”
Once she’d gone, Alastor took the seat Furbander indicated, a well-worn leather chair with cracks from cold and improper care. “I’m not looking for royal privilege, sir. I only ask that you hear me out.”
15.
With a groan, Sheyla arched her back. For the last eight hours, she’d been in the lab, analyzing Alastor’s medication. She wouldn’t screw up a second time. Now she had a limited sample to administer, but hell if she knew where she’d get more of some of those ingredients. Most likely I’ll end up scouring every open market in the city.
It had taken fifteen minutes of pleading to get Dr. Seagram to accede to her request, unsurprising since he’d never treated a Golgoth before, and she had to offer all her data, along with promising to supervise his residents on rounds for a fortnight, and she’d also be on call for emergencies. Though her workload was now lamentable, at least she wasn’t on the regular rotation. Seagram had tried for that, but she held firm.
In the changing room, she stripped and showered, washing away that hospital smell. Regrettable, but she shouldn’t wash her hair while it was so cold outside. Though it was dim in the back hallways of St. Casimir, it brightened as she headed toward the public spaces, until there came a clear demarcation between what was meant for staff and what patients and their families enjoyed. Light streamed through the stained glass above the clear panes, iconic scenes from the history that the Order of St. Casimir acknowledged, such as when Oleg the Abundant tamed the first wolfkin and taught them a civilized tongue. Doubtless Pine Ridge understood another version of those events. The next panel boasted of Anwen’s Ride, where she carried the Burnt Amber flame to all Numina in every corner of the land, a feat requiring such great endurance that songs persisted to this day.
Her comm unit buzzed, pulling her from vague admiration of the play of light and color, but by the time she dug it out, it had stopped. With a shrug, she turned for the doors, only to spot Alastor waiting just inside the hospital, his cheeks red flagged with cold. In that moment, it was like she saw him for the first time, and it was an onslaught of impressions: raven black braids twined together in an intricate cascade, eyes like ancient gems, and a smile so sincere and sweet that her toes actually curled. Normally, physical beauty was a fact she cataloged, not an appeal that she reacted to in any visceral fashion.
She wasn’t the only one looking, either. People paused to admire him just as she had the stained glass, and it could’ve been anything from his graceful height to his fine features. In the time since they’d parted, he’d acquired a brown coat with a wooly lining and a plaid scarf that added a roguish air when he needed absolutely no adornment.
“Have I rendered you speechless?” he teased.
“A little.”
Delighted surprise illuminated him; it was the only word that fit. The resultant smile nearly made a man walk into a wall. “Don’t admit it. I’ll become insufferable.”
Certainly, she appreciated attractiveness on an aesthetic level but she’d never been drawn to anyone like this. Her feet were carrying her toward him before she consciously made that call.
“I think my new goal may be to puff y
ou up as much as possible. Dedrick can have the unenviable duty of deflation.”
“He will judge you most ungenerous. Just now you were far too absorbed in something that isn’t me,” he chided. “Though I will own that those panels are quite pretty.”
She had nothing to say about architectural features. As she reached him and he took her hands, she fell into his gaze like a deep, mossy well. “Hi,” she said, suddenly breathless.
“We forgot to start there, didn’t we? Hi. Hello. I missed you.” He punctuated the last five words with fluttering kisses, missing her mouth each time with what had to be maddening intent.
It was beyond her to lie, so she dipped her chin, breaking eye contact. “I would have. If I hadn’t been so absorbed in my work.”
He laughed. “How is it that no matter what you say, it feels like a hug? Maybe it’s because you’re diabolically gorgeous and only grow more so by the day.”
“Thank you?” Her mother had always taught her to accept compliments politely, even if they seemed extravagant or inaccurate. Plus, there was no denying the way he made her heart leap, comparable only to racing across a sunny plain in cat form.
“Come along. This place has held you hostage long enough.” He towed her toward the exit.
Outside, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, a light sprinkle of snow dusting down. Whether it was the weather or her company, the day turned a bit magical as she strolled with Alastor away from St. Casimir. He swung their joined hands so playfully that she almost didn’t ask, “So how did your mission go?”
His arm slowed. “Not brilliantly. He wants assurances that he won’t suffer revenue loss on the conversion.”
“Ah. Too bad your brother doesn’t give a shit about the free market. He’ll claim all the factories in Hallowell, if he can.”
“Precisely. But it was overly optimistic that a businessman would act on my word alone.”
“Any news from Chancellor Quarles?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“It’s the first day. You’re doing well.” She wasn’t great at consolation, but when Alastor squeezed her hand, it seemed like that sufficed.
“There’s nothing more to be done tonight,” he said with an elegant shrug. “What’s happening over there?”
At first, Sheyla couldn’t see over the crowd but when the golden orbs lit up one by one overhead, dotting the skyline, she remembered. “This is the Festival of Lights.”
“The what?” He lit up with interest, and that made her want to share everything she knew, even when it wasn’t her area of expertise.
“It’s an old tradition, harking back to Anwen’s Ride. Do you know that story?”
Alastor shook his head. “My education wasn’t the best, and even if it had been, it’s doubtful the tutor would’ve covered this.”
“Why don’t we get some spiced tea and frybread? And I’ll tell you how it began.”
He hesitated. “I feel a bit ashamed of letting you pay for me again…”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t offer, and this is a treat you shouldn’t miss.”
Whatever he saw in her face seemed to persuade him, so she cut a path toward the busy drink stall first and then waited in a brisk line to get their paper-wrapped pastries, steaming in the cold and liberally dusted with cinnamon and sugar. There were tables nearby, and she chose one near the crackling fire barrel. Across the plaza, children and elders alike were skating on a frozen fountain, executing pratfalls and pirouettes with a joy that reminded Sheyla why she’d loved her time in Hallowell. It wasn’t home, of course, nor was her family here, but she’d be damned if she let it fall into Tycho’s hands.
“This is inappropriately delicious,” Alastor said around a huge mouthful of fry bread. “It makes me want to do indecent things to it.”
“I’ve been supplanted by a fresh edible obsession? How lowering.” After she made the quip, she realized it sounded like something he might say.
Shit. His humor’s rubbing off on me.
His wide grin said he agreed, and his eyes sparkled a bit. “Never fear, you shall forever remain my favorite edible obsession.”
Impossible not to imagine the night before, his perfect mouth between her thighs. She tightened them, conscious of a quiet pulse of longing that cared little for location or timing. He had been so eager, willing to do exactly as she asked—to cover her helpless response to that exquisite memory, Sheyla sipped at her spiced milk tea. Delicious. And it went perfectly with the frybread; she focused on chewing, savoring.
“I’ve stolen your ability to speak again, it seems.”
Her voice came out smoky and dark with desire. “If I told you what I’m thinking, you wouldn’t be able to walk comfortably.”
That startled a sharp breath from him, visible in a puff of white, and now she could hear his heart racing. Good, she liked even footing.
“Ah, well. Damn. Too late on that count anyway. Why don’t you distract me with that story you promised?”
Shifting in the chair offered Alastor no relief.
His cock had spiked the moment she hinted at what must be lusciously lewd thoughts, and now he had to listen to a folk tale to calm down. He drank some tea, outwardly the picture of poise while inside his pants, he could already feel the drizzle of precome. Wanting had never cut into him like a wall of thorns before, both brutal and piercing.
On the plus side, he could stare at her face all day and since she was speaking, it was even a normal thing to do. “Where was I?”
Fuck, he had no idea. Guessing, he offered, “Anwen’s Ride?”
“Right. Well, as the story goes, Anwen was a high-ranking abbess in the Burnt Amber clan during those unsettled times. This was before the Pax Protocols were signed.”
“So, the Numina were all at war, then.”
“Just so. She claimed to have had a powerful vision, urging her to take the light of peace to the four corners of our lands.”
“To each of the sovereign territories.” Despite his throbbing erection, he was getting interested in the history lesson.
“More or less, though the borders weren’t drawn then as they are now. In any event, she set off alone, bearing limited supplies and a torch she could not allow to go out, no matter the cost, as the spirit had prophesied that failure would signal her doom.” She fell quiet, likely gauging his response to her recitation so far.
“Well?” he prompted. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I could spend hours on this if I offered all the embellishments. You’re getting the abridged edition. After many tribulations, Anwen succeeded in carrying the fire emblem of peace to all Numina. That pilgrimage ultimately resulted in the signing of the Pax Protocols.”
“No doom, then?”
“Hardly. Anwen lived to be ninety-four, and she wrote seven different versions of her wondrous journey. Since then, many cities honor her with the Festival of Lights. Each globe represents a soul she saved by ending those turbulent times and ushering in a new era.”
His heart dropped like a stone, and suddenly his prick wasn’t a problem anymore. His brother was threatening an aeon of peaceful coexistence; that was the antithesis of arousing. Alastor forced a smile but his cheeks felt like stone beneath a chisel.
“Thank you for telling me.” He finished his food and drink in quiet, and the wind cut through him in icy bursts, little joy to be had in simple pleasures any longer.
Alastor should have known she’d sense his changed mood, for she’d always been able to read him, even before she came to him as a lover. As they walked to the row house, she said, “Do you plan to tell me what’s troubling you or must I coax it out of you?”
He didn’t want to answer, but he didn’t wish to shut her out either. Weighing the balance took until they reached the suite; inside it was warm and he stripped out of his layers mechanically. Dedrick would have snatched the coat from his hands, so it was a welcome novelty to be permitted to choose whether to toss it over the
back of a chair or hang it. He elected for the latter, conscious that she was giving him time to collect his thoughts.
“Tycho,” he said quietly. “Will they still be able to have a Festival of Lights after this year? He threatens everything those people hold dear, and I, I—” His voice broke; he couldn’t speak the rest.
Am inadequate.
Simply defending Hallowell seemed like a daunting, impossible task, so how could he dream of toppling Tycho from the throne as well? Golgerra was too beautiful for him to want to destroy it, though there were certainly weapons capable of bringing the mountain down on top of them. That would mean the wholesale slaughter of his own people, many of whom hated and feared his brother but couldn’t risk their lives in resistance.
Weary and flush with despair, he sank to the carpeted floor in front of the tan sofa and turned his face to the cushions. What he knew of Sheyla suggested that she’d leave him be, neither interfering nor judging this moment of weakness. From somewhere deep came the burn of tears, but they were frozen and wouldn’t fall. Then he felt her warmth against his side, a gentle hand on his nape. That touch thawed him just enough, and he leaned into her with a raw shudder, buried his face in the curve of her neck.
He cried because she didn’t tell him not to; she didn’t whisper of weakness or betrayal. She didn’t tell him he had to be strong. Conversely, when he calmed, he felt that perhaps he could be, just not all the time. His need for her shifted again, benchmarks that might be forever moving. Before, he’d loved listening to her breathe, and now she gave him the space to do so, a circle of freedom when obligations were tightening on him like a noose.
I can do this as long as she’s with me.
“Words may not help right now,” she said. “But have these anyway. It’s early days yet. Don’t think of failure or success. Only do what you can, when you can, step by step.”
“Is that how you survived your residency at St. Casimir? I understand it’s grueling.”
