The Cobbler's Soleless Son

by Meredith Katz

  Renart reached the edge fast, but she didn't let him come easily, grabbing tight around the base and leaning away from him to draw in a breath. It almost hurt when her mouth left him. He was so close, so eager, wanted it so badly. He ached for that moment when he could feel her drink a fragment of his spirit down, swallowing his life out of himself and leaving him a little emptier than before. It was absolutely addictive. The risk was the best part of sleeping with demons, he'd found, especially with cubants.

  Before he could do more than voice a whine, she grinned up at him, licked her lips, and carefully tossed him across the room from his door to the bed. His own breath went out in a rush, the shock of slamming into his bed pushing him away from the edge of orgasm slightly, though he nearly came anyway when she began crawling over him. Her breasts had spilled from the straps of her shirt and her skirt was hiked up to her waist, leaving her clothes framing her body rather than covering it. He reached up to pull her down, wrapped his arms around her and held on as she sank down on top of him, pulling him inside her.

  Renart couldn't hear anything beyond his gasps, his struggles to breathe, the wet sounds of their bodies moving against each other. He couldn't focus at all. If she wanted to kill him, she could. The pleasure was too hot, her insides pulling at him, and all through it, her eyes stayed on his, staring as she sucked at his life force, pulling him in, pulling him in, pulling him in—

  He came with a shocking intensity, shuddering through the pleasure as it peaked nearly to pain. It lasted just a moment too long, agonizing, then slowly ebbed, leaving him panting as he sank back against the bed. The room swam in front of him but he was still awake, at least, and he had his own mind about him. Good; he hadn't been sure he would.

  That was always a risk.

  The demon had begun to pull away. Hastily, he grabbed the strap of her outfit under her arm before she could go far. "Wait," he managed, tongue thick in his mouth. "Please."

  "Hm?" She settled back on the bed, leaning over him. "Not enough? You're playing a dangerous game, boy."

  "Not that," he said, and smiled at her with enough genuine fondness—if not for her specifically, for her kind—that she seemed taken aback. He hadn't even begun to play his dangerous game yet. "I want to talk about something. Make… a deal."

  "A deal?" She lifted her brows, pulling her strappy outfit back into something resembling the right place. The playfulness had vanished from her eyes, leaving behind a curiosity and hardness. The hair on his arms raised in a sudden chill as she considered his request. "What sort of thing are you looking for? You know I won't go easy on you just because we've had a moment."

  "I'm not expecting you to," he assured her quickly. He could slowly feel his wits coming together properly again, mind recovering in the aftermath of his lust, starting to get back what felt like proper control over human speech. He smiled again, half to test out how his mouth felt. "I'll set proper terms, don't worry."

  The demon reclined beside him on the bed, tail curling over one leg. She reached over to push Renart's floppy hair out of his eyes with too-long fingers. The brush of fingers on his forehead almost seemed to burn, a vague spike of arousal starting to stir again. The act was playful but the look in her eyes was thoughtful and a little scornful, and he tried not to show that he'd noticed. "What do you want, then?" she asked.

  He took the time to breathe deeply and focus. He couldn't afford to mess this up, or he'd really be the fool she clearly thought he was. "I want to meet Prince Hrahez," he said. "And for that, I'll give you all the soul I have in my possession right now."

  She blinked, her horizontal pupils narrowing as they focused on him, and then let out a startled laugh. "What sort of turn of phrase is that? Do you think maybe I'd just take part of your soul, perhaps your passion for life or your love of dancing? Or have you perhaps sold off part of your soul, or loaned it out?"

  "No," he said, and willed his heart to calm down and beat steadily. "I just wanted to be specific."

  She watched him for a moment, inscrutable, then exhaled, her smile curving again into something almost fond, a little reluctant. "You really shouldn't bother making a deal like this," she said gently. "You don't know Prince Hrahez, and anyway, he's an incubus. Even if you became the prince's lover, you'll hardly have his sole attention. Humans often want that, right? But it's not possible. You know we steal the life-force of our lovers; if the prince agreed to monogamy, you'd die quickly enough."

  Renart shook his head, sitting up properly next to her, legs crossed. It wasn't the most dignified position, naked as he was, but he figured she'd seen it all before. He leaned over and grinned at her. "I don't care," he said. "I've dated a cubant before and haven't minded. He can have as many lovers on the side as he wants if he's mine regardless."

  That drew another laugh from her. "The prince yours, rather than you the prince's? I can get you to meet him, but I can't promise that."

  "I know," he said. "Anyway, you're right that I don't know him. But I know he's fair. I've seen how he's been running his fiefdom and I know what the other options are like. He's even said before that if people think he leads them poorly, they're welcome to try to overthrow him."

  "A threat or a challenge, not a kindness," she countered.

  There wasn't much point arguing it. She knew Hrahez, and Renart didn't. "Could be one," he agreed. "I've heard that the prince loves a good challenge. That he loves to play games and toy with people." It felt risky, like he was pushing too hard, but he met her eyes again.

  Adrenaline hummed through him, and he couldn't keep from smiling from the thrill. The expression felt a bit weird, not quite right on his face. "But I do too," he continued. "If he meant that as a challenge, then he still wants someone to try him. He's above threatening for the sake of it, but he dared them regardless. I want to challenge him back—though of course I don't want to overthrow him. But I don't know how I would meet him. I can't get into any of the events where I actually could talk to him. You know that humans aren't allowed to those."

  Her own smile had faded slowly as she watched him, listened to him talk. More than anything, she looked intrigued. "It's to protect them. The demons at those parties would eat any wandering humans right up."

  "I'm sure!" Renart said, nodding, his tone light. "If a human's not invited, nothing to stop a demon from taking advantage of that intrusion. See, what a nice guy, protecting his people from his own kind!" Her arguments didn't matter to him, and he wished she'd stop making them. He didn't care what the reason was. It was just one more barrier to him actually getting there—and that was all that mattered. "Why do you care so much? You're not going to lose out if this deal goes badly for me. You'll have what you want either way. That's what's important, right? So don't hesitate." He stuck out a hand.

  His heart was in his throat. If she refused this, if she thought he was trying to play her, it'd all be for nothing. If she got the best of him… I'd never get to meet Hrahez, he thought wistfully, and looked at her hand instead of her face, afraid she could read it in him.

  Finally she sighed again, almost put-upon. "Oh, very well," she said, and took his hand. "I'll get you an invitation to meet the prince at one of his soirees, as you wish, for all the soul you have in your possession."

  He shook it, feeling the heady rush of elation, of victory—and then reached down, leaning over the edge of the bed, picking up his shoes. He snagged a prying tool from nearby with a quick sweep of his hand, then sat up with both. His heart was pounding so hard that he thought it might come right out, giddy.

  I've done it.

  It took barely any effort at all to hook the edge of the sole and begin to work it free.

  She made an audible choking noise. "—Really?"

  "Verbal agreement. I was really going to be in trouble if you wrote it down, but I thought if I put my hand out first," he explained as the first sole came off, "it might work." Relief had made him almost shaky, voice trembling.

  Renart was fairly sure, from her ini
tial amused disbelief, that he wasn't going to be in trouble. He knew he had her when her slitted eyes narrowed, head falling back as she let out a genuine guffaw.

  "Fine, you're right," she said, wiping a tear away with one finger. "I shouldn't have made a verbal bargain! I ignored the basics—mistaking you for an illiterate fool was my mistake. I'll take these, then."

  He finished prying off the second sole and handed them both to her. "You can't have any of the other soles in the building," he told her. "The ones that have sold belong to their buyers, and the ones that haven't are still my mother's. She's the cobbler; I'm only her son."

  "Fair enough." She took the pair of shoe soles, dangling them between her fingertips, and her pupils dilated again. Her smile tightened and her voice dropped. "Don't think you can get out of this so easily by just offering me two strips of leather, however."

  Renart nodded. He'd accepted that she'd do some form of push back when he came up with the idea. There was nothing to do but accept it. "What is it, then?"

  Her gaze felt like it was boring into him; he couldn't blink even if he wanted to, his dry eyes stinging. Power had gathered around her. She said softly, "You have two more soles in your possession. The bottoms of your feet belong to me now as well. But rather than cutting those off you, I'm setting conditions."

  Even trying to answer, his voice wouldn't come.

  She held up a finger and his eyes jerked to it. "You've given away your soles, so the bottoms of your feet aren't yours to clothe any longer. You will never be able to wear shoes that have a sole to them. The moment you put them on, they'll fall apart. You'll be the cobbler's soleless son. Eventually, you may become the soleless cobbler, and I wonder how you'll sell shoes at all if you're apparently unwilling to wear them."

  He found his voice again in a rush as she released the pressure on him just a little. His eyes were watering from his need to blink, sending tears down his cheek. "That's fine," he managed.

  "Is it? I wonder," she said, and sighed. Suddenly, the tension broke as she looked down and away. He blinked rapidly, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. When he'd managed to clear them enough to look up, she was holding a card out to him.

  "This is—"

  "The invitation you wanted," she said, and suddenly she was smiling again, almost pleased with herself. "Prince Hrahez is throwing a grand party for demons, as you expected. No humans are allowed, but with this, you'll be an exception. It's two months away, so I hope you'll be prepared by then."

  Swallowing, Renart reached out and took it. The invitation felt soft in his hands, more silk than paper. He opened it and looked it over, trying to confirm that everything was in order, but the writing in it wasn't readable, a foreign script crawling across the page as he tried to focus on it. For all he knew, it was like that old wives' tale of demons who sent human messengers to each other as prey. This is the last one for today. Eat up. All he could do was trust her, though, and the deal she made with him—as much as he'd taken advantage of it.

  "Be careful," she told him, and then reached over and patted his head. "You're right that he's put out edicts for us to live in harmony with his human citizens, but you'll find it's different being a human out of the city, in our territory."

  And with that, she was gone. He didn't see her leave, but she was no longer there. The window was open, and his curtain blew softly in the afternoon breeze. From below, he could hear his mother calling for him.

  He ignored her. He had to experiment.

  He searched around, found a shoe that he'd been working on for an order, and put it on. His foot pushed right through like the whole thing was made of paper, the sole falling off, tacks sliding out of place and landing on the wood floor, rolling and bouncing around. He'd likely be finding those the hard way.

  Slowly, he bent down and picked the shoe sole up, looking at it curiously.

  "Huh," he said.

  *~*~*

  Two months was a long time to wait, and it wasn't as if Renart could hide his new situation from his mother. He tried acting as if he wasn't wearing shoes because he was, as he'd told her lightly, "rebellious". For a while, he'd thought it was going to work—might even work right up until the party.

  But after a week and a half, she shut him in the kitchen while he was eating breakfast. "I've had enough of you going around barefoot," she said sharply. "You're making a mockery of our work, and the whole town's talking about it. I'm putting shoes on you whether you like it or not."

  There was no dodging it any longer. He shrugged and said, "I think that won't work." Sitting passively, he let her wrestle the shoe onto his foot. As he'd expected, the nails pinged to the ground without any hesitation, the sole peeling away and falling after.

  Another shoe, and another, and she was swearing with increasing inventiveness before she finally glared at him, his ankle firmly in her grip. "Renart Walker, what have you done?"

  "It's no big deal," he protested, then winced as she gave him the most exasperated, disgusted look he thought he'd ever received in his life. "Look, it's for a good cause."

  She groaned, turning her gaze to the heavens as if they could somehow help her. "You've gotten your feet cursed. You've gone and made trouble with a demon and gotten your feet cursed."

  He put on a bright and appeasing smile, holding both hands up to her. It was probably better that she believe it to be a curse rather than something he'd done of his own free will. "Something like that," he said agreeably. "I'll figure something out, don't you mind it."

  "You're a walking advertisement!" she told him, somewhere between astonishment and outrage. "We both are! The shoes we wear have to stand out. If we wear anything shoddy, we'll lose our clientele, and if we don't wear anything at all… Renart, how come you never think!"

  "I think," he protested. "I'm always thinking. Give me three days and I'll come up with something to fix this problem. It'll be grand. Even you won't be able to complain about it, Mum."

  She shook her head, sighing. "Three days, and you're not to leave the house until you do."

  "Mum."

  "My final word!"

  That was fair enough, all things considered. He pouted regardless, sweeping a dismal bow to her, then was forced to dart up the stairs to his room as she aimed a swat with the sole of one of the shoes she'd tried to put on him.

  It took him half a day to come up with the plan of what he could wear instead of shoes and the full two and a half remaining to get it completed. He worked long hours, wearing his fingers raw with awl and knife, with hot water and dye. He bled as he worked as well, just a little, raw edges of skin pressed to the leather, but that was important as well. He was no magician, but every creator had some essence of magic around them, since magic itself was the ability to transform a concept into a reality. Even if the execution was through hard work only, he pushed what power he could into enchanting the leather, sleeping only when he needed it and taking his dinner in his room.

  When he was done, he sat back and looked at it proudly. It really was something impressive, he thought.

  Renart had made himself anklets; they wound down the top and sides of his feet and left his soles, by necessity, bare. Soft spirals and patterns wound all over them, mimicking the lacing that would tie them on; those held the core of the magic he'd worked into them, the little he could manage. They were magicked to draw the eye, draw attention, draw admiration. If he'd done it well, people would appreciate the craftsmanship even if they thought he was foolish to go around barefoot, they would think, if the cobbler's son can make that look good with the underside of his damn feet uncovered, what could the cobbler herself make for us in proper boots?

  His mother looked less than pleased when he showed them off with an exhausted pride. "I thought you wanted those three days to find a way to break the curse," she said mournfully and somehow resigned, as if she hadn't really expected anything more. "But they'll have to do." As she bent and examined them on him, she relented a little. "They're not half ba
d, are they? You even put enough of yourself into them to give them a touch of enchantment. If only you put that much effort into all your work, Renart, you'd be in a fine state to take over after me! Where would I even find someone else as talented as you?"

  "You'd train them into it, of course," he said, pleased with himself. "Better to have someone with motivation than mere talent, right mum?"

  "Get on with you," she said, exasperated, and he was more than happy to immediately comply. It felt like the first time he'd been free in weeks, even if it had only been three days, and he popped out the door without bothering to say farewell.

  It was good to be out and about with the anklets strapped to his feet. Certainly, his feet still felt nearly as raw as they had since he'd started going barefoot, with stones biting in and grass catching at his soles. But the fresh air felt nice, and he saw people glancing at his legs and whispering. The magic of the anklets was indeed working on more than just his mother. Well, he reminded himself, they could be just reacting to his bare feet by themselves, but he didn't think so. He'd received enough confused looks over those in his first week that he hoped he could tell the difference.

  Time went on, and his feet hardened. Not too much, perhaps not really enough for a trip, but walking outdoors had become much more endurable. That was important by itself. He wouldn't like to show up at a dance hobbling, after all.

  So he went about, training his feet until he was sure he'd be fine on the journey to the manor where the event was to be held.

  *~*~*

  When the time came, he told his friends that he might be away for a bit on a chore for his mum, and told his mum that he was going out with his friends for a while. There was a good chance that things would go unsuccessfully out there, and if it did she'd be better off not knowing what had happened to him. If things went well, he could follow up with her at his leisure.

  So long as he lived, he was sure he'd find a way to let her know what had happened to him.

  The party was to be held at a place not far out of town, a country manor that at other times of the year lay empty. Everyone in the city knew about the event, and everyone knew, too, that they were forbidden to travel there without an invitation. A few would probably go regardless: gossips, storytellers and black market sellers who'd try to get some evidence of the demons' activities one way or another. They'd try to spy in windows—if they got that far—or search the grounds after the fact for any remnants of the demons. Renart had heard from the town's hedge-wizards that scales or horn sheddings were perfectly good spell components, and had occasionally thought of searching his room for some to sell them. He'd never quite bothered, though he was sure he could at least find a hair or two somewhere on his pillow.