by K. M. Szpara
It becomes impossible to run. Shoulders bump into mine—outsiders dressed in bright colors and masks, carrying weapons? I see swords, shields, extravagant guns. Are these FOEs? None of their eyes are blacked out like Miller’s. None of them wear uniforms, exactly, and they’re all going the same place. When I realize I’m being dragged along in a current of them, it’s too late to escape. Then I do see a FOE. A thick bald outsider whose skin ripples under their black buttoned shirt. I focus my eyes forward instead of on the holes where theirs should be.
Out—I need to get out of here, away from the push and crush. Breathe, Lark. Remember your power. You escaped Miller, you can escape this crowd.
Someone bumps into me.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy they’re looking for?” another says.
They draw back, exposing me. I had wanted space, but not like this. Not here, not now.
“I heard he stabbed someone.”
I turn, trying to figure out who’s talking, but can’t.
“Does he have a knife?”
Can’t keep up.
“He has a knife!”
“No,” I say, bumping into someone. The FOEs are going to find me.
A scream rips through the air. The crowd surges, a hundred people running a hundred different directions. The crowd swells and rushes like a powerful wind toward open doors, and I can’t go inside. It’s too close, too tight, too much—
I squeeze myself through the throng of hot, sweaty bodies, gasping for air, clutching the thick oversized sweatshirt from the hotel, as if I might have to rip it off at any second. As if these clothes can no longer contain my body, my chest too small for my lungs.
Then, like a gasp of fresh air, I slip into an alley alongside the building. My body hasn’t burst yet. I might even survive. Stars, what did I do wrong? I duck behind a row of tall plastic bins that smell like garbage. Rest my back against the cool brick wall and close my eyes long enough to check in with my powers, give myself a moment to relax. But not so long that I miss the outsider who followed me. They make their way down the alley toward the bins that shield me. When I bring my palm to my lips, it is not to cast a homing spell. It is to attack.
7
KANE / CONFIDENTIAL
The rod was hot, even through the damp towel I’d wrapped around it. Steam hissed through my fingers. Water dripped onto my bare feet. In front of me, Lark’s naked body heaved, shining with the sweat of endurance and the summer heat.
He let his head fall back for a moment, rolled his shoulders to ease the strain of the ropes that bound them to the back of the chair. Lark groaned around the thick stick he clenched between his teeth before hauling himself back up. Bracing for the pain.
I wrapped my hand around his thigh, so close to his cock, not daring to touch it. I wanted to, but Nova’s warnings lived in me, and we hadn’t committed to chastity yet. Pleasure was a distraction. Pleasure dulled the senses and stunted our magic. Maybe it had stunted mine. I never became aroused during our sessions, but Lark always did. We didn’t speak about it, and we never told Nova.
“Only one more.” I pulled the iron rod from the fire and watched the tip glow red-orange in the moonlight. “Then, bed.”
Lark nodded, his eyes half closed, and I wondered whether he would like it if I pressed the rod against his balls. I was afraid he would. Not a thing I’d do without asking anyway. Instead, I placed my left hand on the inside of his calf, massaging the tired muscle. He moaned as I leaned in and pressed my lips to his knee. I’d never done that before—never kissed him—but it felt right in the moment, and Lark didn’t object. His head lolled back again as I positioned the rod near the outside of his leg.
He must have felt the heat in the moment before I pressed it against his flesh. His ragged scream escaped around the gag as I dragged the glowing metal down the side of his calf. It took all my strength not to squeeze my eyes shut—to watch my work. To take care of him.
Nova would push us as hard as she needed for results, and Lark eagerly rose to her expectations. As the eldest, it was my responsibility to care for him. Make sure we never went too far, that no one hurt him irreparably. I worried every night about his future without me. About the two months and twenty-seven days he’d spend alone on Druid Hill after I left for my quest.
I stood and tossed the rod onto a leather mat, my own hand red and damp and shaking. I pulled a wet towel from the bucket and wrung it loosely before applying it to Lark’s forehead. “It’s over,” I whispered, untying the rope that held the stick between his teeth. I tossed it into the trees then untied his arms from the chair. His fingers wiggled as I massaged his shoulders and upper arms, easing each one gently forward into a natural position. “How’re you feeling?”
“Good.” Lark’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Powerful.” The word sent a feeling of unease through me. I never felt power, only responsibility. Obligation.
The next thing I knew, lips pressed against mine, a hand on the side of my face—he was kissing me. I forgot my hang-ups, my worries, everything except the warmth of Lark’s mouth and rough of his fingertips. I straddled him, sitting on his lap. He was still hard, and I took him in hand, not having a damn clue what to do.
Heat radiated from his body—blood rushing, magic swelling. Lark slid his arm down my back, gliding easily through a layer of condensation and dirt. The forest wasn’t the cleanest or coolest, but there was something special about working beneath the stars. Being with him in that space.
My hand glided quickly and easily over his cock, both of us slick with sweat. When he came, I knew what he meant. That’s when I first felt powerful, felt the magic in my hands that could bring him to orgasm, lips that made him moan. But as Lark softened and relaxed, I watched his cheeks turn as red as the heated rod.
I came back into my body. Remembered how little it meant what I wanted when humanity was at stake. I stood and doused the fire, sending billows of smoke and steam into the air. Lark hurriedly dressed, ignoring the burns on his legs and the come on his chest. We weren’t supposed to do that. I’d crossed a line. It would be the last time.
8
CALVIN / NOW
Lilian places the crown gingerly on my head, fitting the knotted branches over the fronts of my ears. She fidgets with my wig, careful not to let strands catch on the leaves, then pats my forehead. “There you go, Daddy Greenleaf.” She jumps from the hotel bed onto the carpet with a thud. A move not hotel recommended.
“You do know Greenleaf isn’t a family name, right?” I adjust my crown in the mirror, face already long and tense. Lips pressed and pouty. Eyes dramatic. I was never a good stage actor—though I desperately wanted to be—but the second I’m fully dressed in a cosplay, I can’t help but become that character. And Thranduil is one of my favorites: stylish, powerful, old as fuck.
Lilian flips her hair, pulling her grown-out dye-job into a bun. “You know what I meant.”
“He is Daddy, though.”
She rolls her eyes, smiling out of the corner of her mouth as she snaps her elastic in place. “You wish.”
“Not really my style.” I shrug, piercing the illusion of confidence. “But it’s fun pretending.” I dig my phone out of my pocket—always sew a pocket into your costume, even if you’re wearing spandex, even if you’re wearing a loincloth—and snap a selfie. “Say hi if”—I read aloud as I type—“you see me on the floor today! And don’t forget, if you pledge $25 per month, you can swipe up for the naughty photos, xoxo.” I add a heart gif and link to my Patreon, then post it to my Instagram stories.
“Nice,” Lil says, head buried in her backpack. Not the kind of backpack you’re supposed to lug podcasting equipment around in—Golden Snitches patterned across stiff white leather with matching zippers and straps—but Lilian is a committed femme. She always makes it work. “Have you seen my portable battery? The lavender one. I have the cable, but…”
When she doesn’t finish her sentence, I look over. She’s stopped searching—stop
ped everything, really. Across the muted television, captions appear beneath a guy who looks like an elf being led away by a SWAT team. Like Modern AU Legolas wearing jeans and a Henley. His blue eyes stare through the screen as if he can see me.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Lilian whacks my arm progressively harder until I have to fend her off. “That’s one of those what’s-their-names! The cult people who live on Druid Hill!”
“Of course.” I blink as if the idea lightbulb is going off directly in front of my face. “The Fellowship of the Anointed.” I grab the remote and unmute the television.
“—stabbed a SWAT officer,” says a windswept journalist. Behind her, a crowd of con-goers in cosplay and nerdy tee shirts wave at the camera as they pass. “Authorities have advised that Meadowlark does not pose a threat to the public despite conjecture that Fellowship members are being held in a hotel downtown, near the convention center.”
“Yo.” She turns in a circle, hands pressed to either side of her face, looking at the various piles of equipment on the floor but not approaching any of them. “Do you think he would guest on my podcast?”
“They just said he stabbed a SWAT officer.” Even though I’m the one reminding her, I can’t help but watch him and wish … Looking at him feels like magic. Could it be real, everything I’ve heard about the Fellowship? This Meadowlark looks like he could relieve an orc of its head, and he’s wearing denim. Something to do with his eyes and the way he holds himself, even as an armored SWAT officer leads him handcuffed into a car.
“Do you think they can really do magic?” I hold my breath, feel my heart beat with slow intent against my chest. Dare to look at Lilian.
She’s cramming a handful of escaped cables back into her bag when she says, “No.” Then, “Wait.” She stares at me. “Do you? You don’t, right?” Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead without waiting for my answer. “You do.”
“I think…” How the fuck do I answer this? Lilian knows more about me than anyone else in the world. She invited me to sleep on her couch when I couldn’t afford to stay in the dorms, so we’ve had more late-night conversations than a group of middle schoolers at a sleepover. She was the first person I told out loud that I wanted to be a professional cosplayer. Not a career goal you share with your college advisor—or your parents, it turned out. At least my advisor didn’t revoke my financial support when I told him.
Even though we lived together for almost a decade—even though we still share hotel rooms at cons, when Lilian can afford her own room thanks to being a famous podcaster and having a Grey’s Anatomy–level hot doctor girlfriend—I’ve never told her just how badly I want it all to be real, whichever “all” that is. Any kind of magic, any fantasy you could name. I’m not picky, only desperate. Now that I have my own (small) apartment, I can even walk around dressed like an elf or wizard or slayer, and no one will call me weird. It’s socially acceptable to dress up for other people, but not for yourself, and definitely not because your deepest desire is that the costume adhere to your body, and the illusion become reality.
So, yeah, I’ve watched every documentary on the Fellowship I could find. If there’s any magic in this goddamn world, that’s where it would be. They claim to have it, so why not believe them?
Lilian zips her bag closed, finishing the motion as if she’d been on pause. “I’m going to leave you to finish what is clearly some deep soul-searching. I’ve got to go.” She slings her bag over her shoulders then hikes her leggings back up over her belly with a jump. Somehow, she’s managed to avoid putting holes in them with her stiletto nails—hot pink, today. “If you see this Meadowlark dude, give him my card.” With a wink, she’s gone.
I stand in full cosplay while the news anchors continue to discuss the Fellowship in the background. I couldn’t answer Lilian, because I’m unsure what to think of all this—what to think of myself. It scares me how badly I do want to meet Meadowlark and also how nervous I am to. Right now, I live in a place of hope. Where magic could be real. Where this Anointed guy could go all Edward Cullen on me and open a world of blood and monsters. I want it more than anything. I also have to pee, dammit.
* * *
It takes me half an hour to get over to the convention center, despite our hotel being a block away. It’s hard to piss while wearing a brocade coat and royal mantle, hard to walk without messing up my wig or losing my crown entirely. Somehow, I manage this true hardship and find the line for registration. The first day of a con is always the worst in terms of logistics and the best in terms of energy. The power of being amidst fellow nerds. Fellow believers.
I follow the long line down the sidewalk, around the corner of the building, down that sidewalk, across the street to the next block, and another, until I’m regretting spending my entire morning working on this crown. I have other cosplays with me, but this one is the best. It shows too. It takes me twice as long to reach the end of the line because people keep stopping me to ask for photos, which I don’t mind. A number of them recognize me from social media and, who knows, maybe I’ll even gain a few Patrons.
As I make my way toward the end—I can see it, finally—the crowd grows unwieldy. People push up against my costume, their fingers catch the ends of my long blonde wig, bodies threaten to topple my crown. With a hard sigh, I hold it in place. I bet Lilian’s already inside. If I’d left when she did, instead of fretting about magic, I could’ve snuck in with her—she has a fancier tier badge than me. Sucks that I sort of have morals.
“Whoa!” I reach out to steady myself as a wave of people crashes into me, as security tries to keep us in line, keep order. I try to move, but can’t. A thick black boot presses my cape to the concrete. “Excuse me.” I try to get their attention, to leverage myself free, but another wave hits as security redirects us.
I hear the rip over the shouts of a thousand shoving fans. Dammit. I give up on getting into the con for now, lifting my coat in gird-your-loins fashion, as I squeeze between people in search of a way out. The alley stinks, but I stumble into it with relief and I don’t stop. Looking over my shoulder to make sure the line doesn’t follow, I tiptoe down the pockmarked alleyway, past a row of bins, until I am fully alone.
I let down my costume, pulling the tangles from my wig as I search for the rip and my sewing kit. This is why I have a pocket. When I bend down to inspect the hem, movement between the huge, green, city-issued trash cans catches my eye. I see someone wearing lumpy gray sweats and brown boots. With blonde hair braided around the crown of their head and otherworldly blue eyes.
I look away, even though we’ve seen each other—we both know it, and I know him. It’s Meadowlark, from the news. The guy who escaped the Fellowship of the Anointed. Or who was escaped from it. He looks as unhappy in this alleyway as he did being led into a SWAT car. I should say something, but my heart is caught in my throat like a chunk of food.
Armed and dangerous. I remember the anger narrowing his eyes and the hard set of his jaw. What do I have on me besides a sewing needle and thread? My cell phone, a tube of superglue? None of that’s going to help, if he even wants my help. If he’s really from that cult, if he’s Anointed, this could be it. My wardrobe door. And it’s a trash can.
I glance down the alley to make sure I haven’t been followed. Back on the sidewalk, the line reorganizes itself with the help of a woman in a yellow polo shirt. Event staff. It’s just Meadowlark and me in this alley. I can do this. I catch his eye again.
“Are you okay?” It seems like the right thing to ask. I don’t want to scare him off. The costume probably isn’t helping. I hold out a hand, palm up. Open and waiting.
Meadowlark brings his own palm to his lips. The muscles in his face move slightly, like he’s talking into his hand. Like it’s a walkie talkie. Is he … talking to someone? Just as I’m about to give up and stuff my hand back into my pocket, he takes it. Eyes trained on me, he allows me to help him to his feet. I position myself between him and the cross street to block him as much from view as I can
manage. The crown helps.
“I’m fine,” he says, with so much confidence, I don’t believe him.
We look each other over—neither of us tries to disguise it. He studies my crown and my wig, the braids Lilian added and the metallic threads in my mantle. I, like a total creep, can’t stop looking at his hands. At long slender fingers, callused. Tanned by the sun and burned by fire. They’ve known magic. I can feel it.
“Who are you?” Meadowlark asks, as if he might’ve heard of me. Of course, he grew up knowing everyone around him.
“My name’s Calvin.”
“Do you have pronouns?” he says, as if I’m a dunce for not offering them.
I feel my face flush. Not an hour ago, I was the Elvenking. Now I’m a kid playing dress-up. “He/him.”
“Calvin.” He tests my name in his mouth. “Why are you dressed like that?” Despite his question, he’s still looking at my hair. Er, my wig. In this cosplay, we look eerily similar.
“For the convention,” I say. And then, before I can think better of it, “Why are you dressed like that?” I bite my tongue until it burns. Get on his bad side, why don’t you, Calvin. Ruin your only real shot at magic.
But he rolls his eyes and pushes up the sleeves on his sweatshirt. “These clothes were provided by the FOEs that held me captive. I hate them.” He rests his hands on his hips. A grimace tugs at his lips. “I suppose you know who I am, since you haven’t asked.”
I nod.
“And you haven’t run away or mocked me.”
“No.” Please sound cool, please sound cool. “You looked like you needed help. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t offer it?”
