Moonlit Ménage

by Bronwyn Green

  He sighed and slumped against a tree. There had to be a way to save her.

  Brontë flopped onto the narrow bed in her room at the residence hall, the haunting music still winding seductively through her brain. Her fingers twitched, and she was more than tempted to reach for her instrument. She couldn’t believe Quill had been serious about his insistence that she not play the song again. It should be easy to believe it was all an elaborate, if bizarre, joke, but there’d been no mistaking the earnestness in his gaze, the gravity in his tone. Even the ever-teasing Tarran seemed sincere about the whole ridiculous thing. She’d turned the situation over and over in her head, but nothing made sense. Surely there was no such thing as a song that would enrage an entire nation.

  She sighed and tried to ignore the music playing in her head. Of course the only thing that came close to replacing it were her fantasies about Quill and Tarran. God, she wanted them. Both of them. What the hell was the matter with her anyway? Who wanted two men at the same time? She did, apparently.

  Quill was enrolled in the Master’s programme and Tarran…well, she wasn’t exactly sure what Tarran did. He wasn’t a student, but she saw him nearly every day with Quill. He was local. She was pretty sure he lived in the nearby village of Betws-y-Coed, and if she remembered correctly, he said he played in a band. With his long, almost white-blond hair, she had no trouble picturing him fronting a rock band, but so far, she hadn’t seen him perform.

  But she’d seen Quill play plenty of times. Every instrument he handled came to life at his touch. Guitar, piano, fiddle, pipes—each one more enchanting than the last. Any semblance of time and space ceased to matter, as if each song were a spell, pulling every hidden emotion to the surface.

  It wasn’t a huge surprise that she found them attractive. After all, she’d always had an unhealthy fascination for musicians. She knew better. Those relationships had never ended well. The guys were either too wrapped up in their music or too wrapped up with the groupies that came along with it. As hot as they made her, she couldn’t get involved with either one, no matter how much she might want to. She knew herself well enough to know that she couldn’t simply have a fling. No matter how hard she tried, she’d never been able to figure out how to keep her heart out of the situation.

  Who was she kidding? Even if they weren’t musicians, she’d still want them. Both men were tall and leanly muscled, but almost polar opposites in appearance and personality. Tarran was as fair and intensely serious as Quill was dark and playful. And they both sent desire pounding through her body, heating her blood and dampening her pussy.

  More than ever, she wished she’d packed her vibrator. She hadn’t, afraid it would have been pulled out during a random luggage search and inspected. While she was sure people travelled with vibrators all the time, she couldn’t quite bring herself to put it in her suitcase. If she had, she’d already be fucking herself shamelessly by now—giving herself one orgasm after another.

  Closing her eyes, she unbuttoned her top, drawing circles around her pebbled nipples through the lace of her bra. The sensitised flesh chafed against the fabric as she rolled them between her fingertips, pinching lightly. God, how long had it been since she’d been touched by a man?

  Pulling down her bra cups, she bared the tight aching flesh before tugging her skirt up and exposing the damp fabric of her panties. She coasted her hand across her mound wishing it was one of the guys touching her. Slipping her fingers beneath the elastic waistband, she rubbed her hot, wet flesh, sending goose bumps rising over her skin. She circled her clit with her fingertip stroking faster and faster, release shimmering just out of reach.

  With her free hand, she pinched her nipple as she imagined both Tarran and Quill engulfing each one in the liquid heat of their mouths. In her mind’s eye, she saw them stroking her slick pussy while they sucked and bit at her nipples. A needy gasp slipped past her parted lips as the elusive climax broke over her, giving her relief but leaving her feeling even emptier than ever before.

  Chapter Two

  Tarran stared dumbfounded at Quill. “Seriously? That’s your brilliant idea to save her?” he scoffed.

  “What else can I do?”

  “I don’t fucking know, but I’m pretty fucking sure abdicating your fucking throne and getting yourself fucking banished to the human world to suffer old age and death in no time flat isn’t the way to fucking do it!”

  Quillen crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Tarran dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Don’t you think if I had any, I would have brought them up by now?”

  “I know you would have,” Quillen grudgingly admitted.

  The other man looked as frustrated as he felt. Quillen had been pissing him off for centuries, but he refused to let him do the equivalent of committing suicide. He didn’t want Brontë sacrificed either, but this wasn’t the way to prevent it.

  “You know, even if you were to make the grand gesture of leaving Faery, it wouldn’t protect her. There are plenty of factions who would see her dead because they’d blame her for your departure.”

  “And there are those who’d make her suffer simply to hurt me.” Quill raised his eyes and met Tarran’s gaze. “They’d be hurting you, too.”

  Tarran nodded. He’d wondered if his attraction to her had slipped by his friend’s notice. He should have known better.

  He couldn’t even say what it was that drew him to her. Unlike Quill, he’d never been attracted to mortals, but Brontë was different. She was like the answer to a question he’d never thought to ask. She filled up places inside him he hadn’t realised were empty until he’d gotten to know her. He didn’t understand it, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted her.

  “Unless you can think of something else,” Quill said, drawing him back to the conversation at hand. “I think the only option is to convince her to leave here. At least until after the coronation.”

  “Do you really think they’d leave her alone after the crowning? And what of the human they’d choose to replace her? With your attachment to the mortals, I’m surprised you’d be comfortable with that.”

  “Better anyone than Brontë.”

  On that they agreed.

  Strains of music drifted to them, and Tarran recognised the tune at once. Exchanging a look, both men transported themselves to the source. They found themselves in a silk and tapestry draped chamber, dripping with crystals and precious gems. It was as he expected. Rhosyn and a group of her followers played the same melody that had plagued Brontë’s dreams, the same melody that would summon her to her death unless he and Quillen could stop it.

  Rhosyn glanced up from where she drew her fingers across the strings of her harp. “What brings you to my bower, brother mine.”

  “Leave the human be,” Tarran warned.

  Her hands fell away from her instrument and she tossed her silvery-white hair over her shoulder with a scowl. “You’re besotted with her, too?”

  “What difference does it make? Just leave her alone.”

  Rhosyn glared at him. “I expected this base behaviour from the filth of the Seelie Court

  ,” she said, sneering at Quillen before turning to face him again, “but not from you. You’re a prince of the Unseelie Court

  . You have no business interacting with mortals unless you’re spilling their blood or binding their souls.”

  Quillen took a step towards Rhosyn, fists clenched at his side. “She’s done nothing to you. Release her.”

  “Absolutely not,” she snarled. “When a human has both crown princes panting after her, there’s nothing left for her but death. She’s been chosen. Her blood will be spilled tomorrow night to bind your reign.” She eyed both men consideringly. “Unless, of course, you’d like to trade your crowns for her.”

  “Do you really think we’d allow you to take control of both courts?” Quillen practically growled.

  Rhosyn’s smile spread like brittle ice across he
r face. “Don’t be silly. Only a member of the Seelie court can rule there.”

  Quillen’s younger brother, Kynan, stepped from behind the heavy silks.

  “Your throne or the girl,” Kynan said. “It should be an easy enough choice.”

  Quill didn’t bother with conversation. Instead, he leapt forward and slammed his brother backward against the wall. The younger man’s head hit with a dull thud. For a moment, Tarran envied his friend the physical release of pounding his fists into his sibling. As much as he might want to, and as much as she likely deserved it, he couldn’t bring himself to pummel his sister. As if she knew his thoughts, she smiled as sat forward in her elaborately carved chair and again began to pluck the notes of the melody designed to lure Brontë to her death. Her attendants lifted flutes and pipes to their lips, joining their mistress in the death spell as Quillen threw his brother to the floor.

  Tarran drew himself up to his full height. “Enough.”

  * * * *

  Brontë startled from sleep. She must have drifted off after she’d made herself come. She blinked, trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. God, how long was she out? She glanced at the green glowing numbers on her alarm clock. Three thirty-six am. As her sleep fogged brain slowly woke, she became aware of music playing. Not just any music, but the song the guys had warned her about, the song that had been haunting her dreams. Obviously, they’d been teasing her. It couldn’t be that big a deal if someone else was performing it. But who would be playing in the middle of the night?

  Sitting still on the edge of her bed, she listened, trying to figure out where the music was coming from. She cocked her head to the side. It sounded like it could just as easily be coming from outside as down the hall. The longer she listened, the more agitated she became. Compulsion like she’d never known brought her to her feet. Slipping into her sandals, she slid her room key into her pocket and tried to follow the sound.

  The residence hall was eerily silent except for the haunting melody. She half expected to see musicians in the hallway, but it was empty and almost unnaturally silent. The music seemed louder as she headed towards the door. As if she were powerless to control her own body, she pushed through the double doors and stepped into the lobby. Hoping she wouldn’t set off any building alarms, she watched as her hands pressed the release bar of the outside door, letting her into the heavy night air.

  The song definitely sounded louder once she’d left the building, but she still couldn’t determine its point of origin. An unnatural urgency settled over her, and panic built in her chest. Grasping the railing of the stairs that led down into the campus courtyard, she clung to the metal, trying to keep herself still. Unable to control the compulsion to follow the music, she released the handrail and stumbled down the flagstone steps.

  She was losing her mind. That was the only explanation. The strains of ethereal music drew her along the edge of the Gwydyr Forest away from the sheltered comfort of her residence hall. She couldn’t control her own body. The tune had taken root in her head, and she was helpless to do anything but follow where it led. Shoving her hair from her face, she hurried faster through the dew-wet grass, the Welsh countryside clearly visible in the light of the near-full moon.

  None of the other students at the music conservatory appeared to have been woken by the hauntingly beautiful melody. None of the other students seemed to feel compelled to traipse through the dark woods along a darker river to find the source of the music. As far as she could tell, she was the only person who heard it. Maybe the reason Quill and Tarran hadn’t wanted her to play it had nothing to do with offending people and more to do with going mad. It was like the song had become her own personal gateway to insanity.

  Unlike the other times, the tempo of the music slowed, turning mournful, the phrasing so painfully beautiful her fingers itched to follow along on her viola. She stumbled to a stop far from campus. For a moment, she thought she’d be able to break the tune’s hold on her, but her body froze as she tried to leave the riverside, and someone began playing counterpoint to the melody.

  As she listened, small, golden lights appeared ahead of her, flitting erratically along the path. Fireflies? In the middle of the night? Powerless to stop herself, she lurched forward and tried to catch up to the tiny, darting lights. She could have followed them for miles or she could have followed them for mere steps. She had no idea. She only knew that her blood seemed to thicken and slow as it pulsed along with the slowing cadence of the song. Even the fireflies seemed to slow and hover. She’d almost reached them.

  Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet sloped sharply downward as she followed the flickering glow. Her foot caught on a rock, and she lost her balance, pitching violently towards the rushing water. The glittering lights vanished as she headed for the dark surface of the icy water.

  Without warning, hands locked around her upper arms and jerked her backward into a warm, firm chest.

  Heart in her throat and limbs shaking, she looked up see to Quillen and Tarran staring down at her, their expressions unreadable. The music, while fainter, continued to pull at her, urging her away from them.

  Keeping their grip on her arms, they tugged her from the churning river. How had she gotten so close to the water? She didn’t remember leaving the path. Their touch helped to chase away the fog that had cocooned her mind, but the song reeled through her head, insidious and tempting.

  She gazed into their eyes. “I’m awake, and I hear it. It’s not just in my dreams anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind,” she blurted, not caring how her voice shook. “Please tell me you can hear it?”

  “You’re not,” Tarran answered. “We can hear it, too.”

  She pulled from their hold and stumbled backward, jerking when the music grew louder, more insistent. “What the hell is going on?”

  Quillen reached for her, but she sidestepped his grasp, suddenly wary. After all, he and Tarran had both lied to her about hearing the music earlier.

  “Brontë, please,” Quill murmured.

  “I need to know what’s happening to me.” The music tugged at her more forcefully, urging her to follow. It required nearly all her concentration to stay where she was. “And don’t lie to me this time.”

  Both men exchanged a glance, and Tarran moved closer to her. “It’s going to sound crazy,” he began.

  “Crazier than some freaky song forcing me to follow where it leads? I don’t think it gets much more bizarre than that.”

  “Well…” Tarran began again, seeming lost and completely out of his element for once. He shifted his gaze to Quillen who remained silent.

  “Well, what?” she snapped, tired of waiting and feeling the inexorable draw of the music.

  “The Sidhe,” Quillen muttered as if it was a curse.

  “The shee?” she asked.

  “The Sidhe are what you’d call faeries,” Tarran supplied.

  Her mouth dropped open, for a moment before she managed to snap it shut. “Did you just say ‘faeries’?” she asked.

  Both men nodded.

  “Right. Faeries. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Would you rather believe you’re going crazy?” Quillen bit out. “That you almost pitched headfirst into a raging river because you’re losing your mind?”

  Would she rather think that? Not particularly…but faeries? She took a step back. The music sounded louder in her head. Wilder. More urgent.

  Quillen reached out to take her hand, but she sidled away. “There are factions among…the Sidhe who would seek to harm you. The music is a method of controlling you. Of bending you to their will.”

  Brontë took another step back. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she could tell he wasn’t telling her the complete truth.

  “Look,” Tarran began. “I know how difficult it must be to—”

  The rest of his words were lost in the melody that swelled and pitched within her like a storm tossed boat. The sensation she’d experienced earlier of being watched fro
m the forest was back and stronger than ever. She tried to focus on the guys but they seemed to waver in and out of view. Fear, as deep and cold as the river, swallowed her, chilling her blood like ice. The flitting golden lights appeared before her, and the compulsion to follow them became unbearable. A hostage to her own body, she turned away and lurched towards the dark water. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her feet from carrying her away from the guys.

  “Brontë, stop!” Tarran called after her.

  Hard fingers bit into her upper arm. Quillen spun her around, and she slammed into him. At his touch, the intense need to follow the music faded slightly. Dropping her head against his broad chest, she took a deep breath, while he stroked his hands up and down her arms. She closed her eyes and sank into his warmth.

  Brontë glanced over her shoulder towards the river. “Were those…the Sidhe?” She felt like an idiot for asking, but she had to know.

  “No,” Tarran murmured from behind her, settling his hands on her shoulders. “Those are will-o’-the-wisps. Don’t follow them. Ever. In fact, if you ever see them again, turn around and run in the opposite direction.”

  Quillen raised her chin so she was staring into his eyes. “More than one traveller has been lured to his death by them.”

  A nervous laugh escaped. “Great…who knew there were homicidal mythical creatures in this country?”

  Tarran began gently massaging her shoulders and neck. “It’s easy to get disoriented in the dark, and those pests tend to flock near lakes and rivers.”

  Quill’s frown deepened. “The faster moving and more dangerous, the better they like it.”

  “Why?” she asked, the confusion closing over her head like icy water. “I can’t believe I’m actually asking this, but why do they want me? What do they want?”

  “The will-o’-the-wisps don’t want you specifically, they just want to take out as many humans as they can. As for the Sidhe, they rarely want anything to do with mortals unless they can use them in some way,” Tarran murmured.