Cutie and the Beast

by E. J. Russell

  She took her place on the wide, intricately carved stool that was all the throne she’d ever allowed, the Consort at her right shoulder, guarding her nondominant hand. In another blare of spectral trumpets, she raised her left index finger, signaling the beginning of the ceremony.

  Alan had considered his place carefully. He’d maneuvered himself so he was in the prime spot, three-quarters of the way back in the line of nobles. Not close enough to the front to be a sycophant, not stuck in the mediocre middle, not at the back with the desperate.

  He barely listened as each man ahead of him was called forward to kneel before the Queen. He surreptitiously scanned the crowd, looking for any sign that his presence was noted as anything other than routine. As he drew nearer to his turn, he abandoned his scrutiny of the audience and paid closer attention to the Consort.

  The man was taller, he could swear it. When the two of them had sparred on the practice field, Alun had had at least four inches on the bastard, who’d always tried to overcompensate by wielding a sword that was too long for him.

  Now, though, the Consort couldn’t lack more than an inch of Alun’s six foot six, which meant he was now taller than the Queen, who topped six two in her flat velvet slippers.

  Was it glamourie? But glamourie rarely worked on other Fae, and never in the Queen’s presence. As the ritual dragged on, and the closer Alun got to the front of the line, the more he became convinced that something was rotten in Faerie.

  Finally, Alun stepped forward and dropped to one knee in front of the Queen, his right fist over his heart, head bowed.

  “Lord Cynwrig.” She touched his shoulder, permission for him to look up.

  “Majesty.”

  “We are pleased you have returned to our presence.” The Queen’s low, musical voice called up images of water over stones, or a dawn chorus of birdsong. It set Alun’s teeth on edge and sent a spike of dread down his spine.

  “No more pleased than I am to be here, Majesty.”

  The Consort’s brow wrinkled in an attempt to figure out whether an insult was intended. Work for it, Rodric, you wanker. I speak no more than the truth.

  “Are you prepared to swear your fealty to Queen, Consort, and realm?” the Consort growled.

  “That is why I’ve come.”

  “Lord Alun Cynwrig, first among y Tylwyth Teg, Champion of the Seelie Court, do you swear fealty to your Queen?” At the Queen’s emphasis on his Welsh origins, the hairs on the back of Alun’s exposed neck rose, and he had to force himself not to retreat. Why call that out here, when the purpose of this thrice-blasted ceremony was to test her subjects’ commitment to Unification?

  Whatever the case, he had no choice but to continue down this path. “Majesty, I so swear, unto and on pain of my death.”

  He hoped like all the hells she hadn’t just painted a target on his Welsh backside, or that his oath would at least prevent open season.

  David jostled for a better view and managed to score a gap between two broad-shouldered bruisers by infringing a bit on NBA RuPaul and all their trailing lace in time to hear Alun swear he’d be true blue to the ice queen until death did them part.

  “And do you swear allegiance to Faerie, heart’s home to your race?” The Queen’s lilting voice carried perfectly over the hushed crowd.

  “Interesting,” Mal murmured in David’s ear.

  “What?” David whispered back, never taking his gaze off Alun.

  “With the other men, the Consort’s oath came before the oath to the realm.”

  David turned his head, batting cobwebby lace out of his face. “You think that’s significant?”

  “It could be, but—”

  NBA RuPaul stepped away from their whispered conversation. They yanked their sleeve, catching their lace in David’s earring and clocking him on the cheekbone with the world’s boniest elbow.

  “Ow.” Another yank, and the onyx stud flew off into the moss, its back falling down the neck of David’s shirt. He clamped a hand over his stinging earlobe. Thank goodness he didn’t wear hoops or he’d have a slice instead of a hole. “Crap.”

  “Mother of us all . . .” Mingled wonder and dismay roughened Mal’s usual breezy tone. “Alun! To me!”

  He grabbed David by the arm and shouldered his way through the crowd. Not that he had to try very hard—the fae, who had previously packed the circle like so many Cirque du Soleil sardines, melted away before them. Some looked horrified, some warlike, but all of them looked stunned—as if they’d only just noticed David’s presence and were none too pleased about it.

  “Mal,” David gasped, “what are we doing? What about—” He dug in his heels, trying to spy Alun on the dais, but a sea of taller-than-tall fae blocked his view.

  “Shut up.” Mal looked over his shoulder. “Shite. Move your sacred ass.”

  “My ass is hardly sacred. Where’s—”

  “It is now. Flaming abyss, now we’ve gone and done it. We’ve brought an achubydd into the midst of a horde of drunken fae.”

  When Mal’s shout interrupted the Consort’s triumphant request for loyalty, Alun sprang to his feet, scanning the crowd. He located Mal immediately because he was illuminated by an opalescent glow he’d never thought to see again, the aura of a high-ranking achubydd—an aura that emanated from David, turning him into a veritable bonfire of temptation.

  David an achubydd? How was that possible? Owain’s clan was the last of their race.

  “We found another.” Mal’s words returned to him, the news of the newly discovered enclave. How had they stayed hidden? How had David—

  Druids. Of course. How had he been so blind?

  Mal grabbed David and hustled him through the crowd, toward the path to the portal. Thank the Goddess for his brother’s warrior reflexes. Alun willed them to move faster, trapped as he was within the confining globe of the Faerie fire.

  Then David pulled Mal to a stop.

  “Damn it, man,” Alun growled, “do you want to die?” Not this time. He wouldn’t allow it.

  But as he pushed against the barrier, willing David to run, willing Mal to protect him, the fire flickered and died. Thank you, blessed Goddess. He turned to the Sidhe lord behind him and pulled the man’s ceremonial sword from its scabbard. “Your pardon. I’ll leave this at the gate for you.”

  He was breaking protocol in a huge way, leaving the dais before the Queen and without her express permission, but that infraction paled beside the enormity of introducing the temptation of an achubydd into the cauldron of ambitious courtiers who’d never imagined a chance like this could befall them.

  He leaped off the dais and sprinted through the crowd toward the telltale glow, ignoring the chaos that had erupted behind him.

  “Cynwrig!”

  The Consort’s roar spurred him on. The bastard could wait until Doomsday for his thrice-damned oath.

  Alun’s loyalty lay elsewhere.

  Mal hauled David through the woods at a speed that was probably an easy pace for a six-and-a-half-foot-tall guy built like a tight end, but David’s chest heaved in a struggle for breath, a pain like a blade in his side, as he was dragged through underbrush and stumbled over rocks the size of soccer balls.

  “Slow down . . . Mal,” he wheezed. “Can’t we use the path? Where’s the . . . freaking fire?”

  “You’re the freaking fire, boy bach, and we have to get you out of Faerie before half the Court decides to warm themselves with a piece of you.”

  “But—”

  When the bushes beside them thrashed, Mal whirled, landing in a crouch in front of David. But the wild-eyed man who leaped out at them, his hair full of twigs, carrying a long freaking sword, was Alun.

  He grabbed David’s other arm. “Go. They’re after us.”

  The two mega-brothers took off again, supporting David between them, his feet touching the ground only every third or fourth step.

  “Who’s after us? Ow. Guys, put me down.”

  “No!” they shouted in unison.
<
br />   “Not that way.” Alun pointed left with his sword. “There.”

  “That’s not the quickest route.” Mal tugged David’s arm in the other direction until David felt like the rope in a tug of war.

  “They’ll have that route blocked. They’ll try to keep us from crossing the portal. If they can keep us here beyond the dawn—”

  “Shite,” Mal muttered. “Fine. Your way, then.”

  They picked up the pace—not hard to do since this way was almost straight downhill. David had never been afraid of heights, but his stomach tried to hide behind his spine at the nearly vertical view. Alun and Mal must have been half mountain goat, because they never put a foot wrong.

  As they barreled down the slope, David heard the baying of hounds over his own wheezing breath.

  “Shite.” Mal’s grip tightened on David’s arm. “They’ve called out the pack.”

  “Dogs?” David tried to look over his shoulder, a little hard to do in their headlong rush. “Seriously? They’ve set dogs on us? What the hell did you do, Alun?”

  “I didn’t swear an oath to the damned Consort, probably violated six different traditions, and broke protocol by leaving without the Queen’s permission, but they’re not chasing me.”

  “Hello? Running? Dogs after us? I think that qualifies as a chase.”

  “They’re not chasing me, Dafydd. They’re chasing you.”

  They reached the banks of a river and slowed down enough for David to get a good look behind them. A pack of huge white dogs, their ears dark in the moonlight and their eyes glowing yellow fire, surged over the crest of the hill.

  He gulped and held on to Alun’s arm with both hands. “Why are you standing here? Let’s go. Can they follow us across?”

  “Ordinarily no. But it’s the solstice, one of their hunting nights. They can cross given the right prey.”

  “They won’t.” Mal wasn’t even slightly out of breath. “Not without Herne, and he took his oath privately since he’s not really a party kind of bloke.”

  “Then we’d better get across.” David glanced wildly up and down the river. “Where’s the bridge?”

  Alun tossed his sword to Mal, who caught it as easily as if it were a set of car keys. “There is none. We have to wade.”

  “Can’t we cross the same stream as the one we got in by?”

  “This is the same. This is how it looks from the Faerie side.”

  “Wonderful. Those dogs owe me a new pair of boots.”

  Alun gripped Mal’s shoulder. “Can you hold them?

  “I won’t have to if you’re not here. Go.”

  They splashed into the river, which was wide but apparently no more than knee-deep. However, it was snow-melt-cold, numbing David’s legs as the water penetrated both suede and leather.

  Alun grabbed his arm, and David looked up. His lips moved, but David couldn’t hear anything between the baying of the hounds and the rush of the river. Why was it so loud all of a sudden? He stared beyond Alun’s shoulder as a two-story wall of water rounded a bend and roared toward them.

  His eyes popped wide and his mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t make a sound as the impossible tidal wave rushed forward. Holy cats. Just like LOTR. Alun cursed loud enough for David to hear and hauled him for the opposite bank through water that seemed as viscous as tar.

  Alun’s grip on his arm bruised his biceps, but he didn’t care. He concentrated on keeping his feet under him as fist-sized rocks shifted under his feet, the roar of the approaching water drowning the sound of the dogs and his own yell.

  Three yards. Two yards. One.

  Alun grabbed him around the waist and heaved him out onto the grassy bank, then dove after him as the wave boiled past and dissipated, leaving nothing but a gurgling brook, sparkling in the moonlight. The hounds’ baying deteriorated into frustrated yelps before dying away entirely.

  David lay on his back, gazing up at the full moon, which was once again its regulation distance away. His wheezing breath took on a different tempo, and suddenly he laughed. And kept laughing.

  Alun crawled over to him, looking weary beyond belief but still handsome enough to stop an Amtrak train. “Dafydd. What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Are you kidding me? Let’s see—pissy elves, demon hounds, and a tidal wave in a knee-high creek, not to mention swords, magic, and sex.” He flung his arms wide. “Best. First date. Ever.”

  David’s cheek throbbed and his ear stung—a small price to pay for such an awesome adventure. Faerie vanished, along with any sight of Mal—but no hounds with freakishly glowing eyes burst through the invisible gateway, and the stream continued to burble as if to say, Who, me? I would never.

  Alun, still drop-dead gorgeous, was apparently also straight-up pissed, although why he should be grumpy after the incredible adrenaline rush of their escape was beyond David. They’d made it, hadn’t they? Although David still had no clue why they’d had to run.

  He helped David to his feet, but didn’t speak a single word to him on the way back to the car, or spare a glance as he burned rubber—okay, scattered gravel—out of the parking lot.

  As they drove down I-5, David darted a glance at Alun’s profile. His perfect jaw was clenched and he was staring straight ahead at the nonexistent traffic.

  “So. Do all these shindigs end like that?”

  “Mmmphm.”

  “Because usually when I’m in the middle of a riot, it doesn’t involve dogs, swords, or impromptu tidal waves. So, you know, this was different.”

  “Mmmphm.”

  David stared out the window and counted three mileposts before he tamped down his irritation enough to try again. “The fourth time I was abducted by aliens, I managed to hijack the spaceship, drive through Jack in the Box for cheeseburgers, then land in the middle of the cricket pitch at Oxford.”

  “Mmmphm.”

  Brother. David gave up. Clearly Alun was not in his happy place. When they pulled up in front of his house, he reached to open the door.

  “Don’t,” Alun barked. “Wait for me.”

  He flung open the driver’s-side door and slammed it behind him.

  Just freaking great. Dr. Bossy strikes again. Someone seriously needed to give the fae some tips on how to win friends and influence people. David slumped in his seat, arms crossed, and waited for Alun to stalk around the car. Then he crowded so close after opening the door that David couldn’t climb out.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Mmmphm.”

  “Oh, do not start that again.” David shoved Alun’s granite-like chest and managed to thrust him back far enough to slither out of the car. He marched up the front sidewalk with Alun dogging his steps as if they were attached at the hip.

  Which, unfortunately, they were not.

  He stopped on the porch and turned to face the mountain of surly man in back of him. “Gosh, Dr. Kendrick. Thank you for a lovely evening. The sex was great, but maybe next time we should bring some travel games so we’ll have something to talk about on the ride home.”

  “Open the door, David, and let me in.”

  “Why? Is this some juju like inviting vampires across the threshold?”

  “No.” A muscle ticked in Alun’s cheek. “I need to speak with your aunt.”

  Not to me. Not “I can’t bear to leave without touching you again.” Not even a hint that he wanted anything to do with David at all.

  “It’s four o’clock in the morning. She’s not well. What makes you think I’ll wake her up to be scowled at by you?”

  Alun sighed and ran a hand over his forehead, surprise flickering across his face. He forgot what he looks like now. “Let me in. Please. I would like to speak with your aunt, but I would really, really prefer not to be behind the wheel when this potion wears off at dawn.”

  Crap. The potion. “Right. Sure. Um . . . come on—”

  The door swung open. Aunt Cassie was standing there, leaning on her cane, with all of David’s honorary aunts gathered in the living room beh
ind her. All of them were wearing identical dark-gray homespun robes. D’oh—I forgot about their solstice party.

  “Please join us, Lord Cynwrig, Davey.” She gestured for them to enter. “We need to talk.”

  Goddess. A full druid circle. After he’d learned Cassie’s nature, Alun should have assumed it—druids never worked alone. He ought to have realized that the extraordinary effects of David’s candies and coffee and potpourri weren’t near-mystical at all—they were real magic.

  “Auntie,” David bustled inside and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “What are you doing up at this hour?” He met the somber gaze of each of the other women in turn. “Don’t your little parties usually end earlier than this?”

  A rawboned woman with a long salt-and-pepper braid stepped forward. “We had to wait until you got home, pumpkin, so we could give you your gifts. Although . . .” She peered more closely at David’s face, tracing his cheek with a fingertip, then pinned Alun with the druid equivalent of the evil eye. He barely managed to endure it without retreating out the door. “I sense there are more pressing issues to discuss. How did you come by this bruise?”

  A bruise? David was injured? When had that happened? Alun surged forward, only to run into a wall of druid anger when all seven of the women turned on him.

  David caught the woman’s hand. “I took an accidental elbow to the cheek, totally not Alun’s fault. It’ll be fine with a little ice and ibuprofen, Aunt Regan, so don’t fuss.”

  David might as well have spoken to an oak grove, because Regan and three others hustled him to the sofa and coerced him into lying down. With the force of the druids’ attention aimed at David, Alun was able to breathe again without his lungs feeling like stone. Only Cassie was still regarding him, grim and still, her hands folded on the head of her cane.

  Regan tucked a coverlet around David’s legs as two women hurried into the kitchen and returned with a bag of frozen peas, a glass of water, and two pills in a porcelain egg cup.