Cutie and the Beast

by E. J. Russell

  David and Owain were more alike than Alun wanted to admit. Just like Owain, David never let Alun escape the consequences of his own foolish choices. Just like Owain, David had chosen family over Alun.

  And just like with Owain, Alun had reacted by running away.

  Merciful Goddess. What have I done?

  He raced back the way he’d come, bursting out of the tree-cover onto the sidewalk, skidding to a halt in front of David’s house. The front door stood open, lamplight spilling down the porch steps to point a pale-golden finger toward where Alun’s car stood at the curb.

  His pulse hammered in his ears, louder than his footsteps in the still night. He’d closed the door when he’d left, hadn’t he? Even if he hadn’t, surely Peggy wouldn’t have left it open. Not at night, even in a neighborhood as relatively safe as this one.

  He vaulted onto the porch and into the house. “David!” No answer, but he heard a murmur of female voices from the bedroom, and the tightness in his chest eased. He took a shaky breath and froze. What . . .? He sniffed again and caught the whiff of ozone and steel, the smell of fae on the hunt.

  He strode down the hallway, his heart in his throat. Something’s wrong. He couldn’t sense David’s presence—that buzz in his blood, a resonance that had been building since their first meeting.

  He stopped in Cassie’s bedroom doorway, scanning every corner, but David wasn’t there. Gone. Just like Owain.

  Peggy was sitting next to the bed, holding Cassie’s hand. And Cassie—she was awake, her bird-bright eyes brimming with tears.

  “Where is he?” Alun rasped.

  “They took him,” Peggy said on a sob. “They threatened us, Cassie and me, and he went with them.”

  “Who? The Unseelie?”

  Peggy shook her head. “No.”

  “The Consort,” Cassie said, no hint of power in her thread of a voice. “It was the Queen’s Consort.”

  Black and white sparks danced in Alun’s vision. “The bloody bastard. I’ll rip his sword arm off and use it to cut off his own head.”

  “You can’t. The Consort laws are sacrosanct—harm him and suffer the same fate, even unto death.”

  Bugger the thrice-blasted Consort laws. “I don’t care.” David’s life was worth any sacrifice.

  “Something else you should know, Lord Cynwrig.” The fury simmering behind Cassie’s tears surely matched his own. “This is not the first time the Consort has attacked an achubydd with intent to kill. The other times—” She swallowed, her hands clutching the coverlet. “The other times, he was successful.”

  The blood drained from Alun’s head, and he reeled against the doorframe. Peggy rushed over and led him to a chair. “Owain. His clan. The Consort was responsible?”

  Cassie nodded. “And the more recent murders as well.”

  Pain seared his chest, as if it were being split open. “My fault. I should have sent David away the first day. Should never have taken him to Faerie.” He dropped his head in his hands and felt the bones shift under his fingers. A beast—you’re naught but a beast and you deserve to look as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside.

  “Stop.” At the combined power voices of both druids, he jerked his head up.

  The hectic color on Cassie’s cheeks was startling in her ghost-pale face. “You cannot let your guilt consume you. You must act. Solve the problem. Do not let this monster succeed again.”

  At her words, Alun pushed back the guilt boiling like sullen lava in his gut. She was right. The only way he could save David was to leave the past behind. Keep the gift David had given him, the gift of redemption.

  And use it to take Rodric Luchullain’s head.

  Alun nodded to the druids and stormed out of the house, dialing Mal as he climbed into his car.

  “What?” Mal’s voice over the scratchy connection was testy.

  Alun put him on speaker. “I need backup.”

  “Of course you do. You never call unless you need something.”

  Alun forced his breath to calm, his heart to slow its headlong gallop. “David’s in danger.”

  “He’s not the only one. Did you ever consider what the consequences of that little bombshell at the Revels might be to the rest of us?”

  Alun jammed his key into the ignition. “The rest of who?”

  “The rest of the family. Gareth. Me.”

  “The Consort attacked you and Gareth?”

  “The Consort? What in the hells are you on about? I mean the Queen—her royal pissed-off Majesty herself.”

  He started the car and roared off down the street. “Why? What did she do?”

  “For one thing, she hasn’t given Gareth leave to quit Faerie. He’s been stuck there since the Revels. His band had to cancel a sold-out concert, so I expect he’ll be none too popular with them or their manager when she finally cuts him loose.”

  “Shite,” Alun muttered. “I never thought of that. What about you?”

  “I’m on the fucking run, brother. She wants to put a tynged on me to bring you in, and she’s not particular about whether your head is attached to your body at the time. The only way I can avoid it is if I stay out of Faerie and away from her Royal Bitchiness.”

  Alun pounded the steering wheel. “Damn them both to all the hells.”

  “Both?”

  “The Consort. He was behind the massacre of Owain’s clan.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “He was also the one who murdered those two achubydd you found.”

  Mal’s muttered curses shifted to Welsh and increased in rancor. “Do you suppose she’s in on it too?”

  “I couldn’t say. But he’s taken David, and if I don’t stop him, he’ll kill him just like he killed Owain.”

  “I’d help you if I could—”

  “I know.” He really did, despite their years of estrangement. “Watch your back.”

  “Likewise. Luck of the hunt to you, my brother.”

  Alun ended the call, and reached for his connection to the One Tree, the molten heat of his fae powers infusing his core. He’d need every bit of it tonight—with a price on his head, he’d need to mask his progress or he’d be taken before he could rescue David.

  What I wouldn’t give for one of my old weapons. But he couldn’t spare the time to retrieve his sword or his bow from his apartment. The Consort had a lead on him already. No telling how quickly he’d— No.

  Alun couldn’t think of David lying lifeless on the altar. He refused to allow it to happen. Not this time, even if the cost was his own life.

  If David had thought racing down the hill between Alun and Mal had been adrenaline-inducing, it was nothing compared to dangling in the air between two massive Sidhe who hadn’t had much practice marching in step. His shoulders felt as if they’d been wrenched out of their sockets, and his breath sawed in his lungs as he struggled to keep up.

  “The least . . . you could do . . .” he gasped, “is allow me . . . to walk to my doom . . . with a little dignity.”

  “Quiet.” The Consort stopped crashing through the underbrush like a wounded moose and held up one hand. The goons stopped, and David was finally able to catch his breath.

  So unfair. He’d just figured out he wasn’t a klutzy awkward loser. He’d finally found a man he could love—if the stupid idiot would just take off his stubborn hat. But if he was really going to die tonight, he wasn’t about to make it easier for the kidnappers. His nervous response had always been smart-assery, and nothing said nerves like the prospect of being fucked to death by a cross between Ken, Thor, and a giant douche bag.

  “You guys need to work on your interpersonal skills, you know? All of you fae are the same. Do this, do that, do what I say—”

  The Consort grabbed David’s jaw in one massive hand and squeezed until David’s mouth puckered like a carp’s. “If I were Cynwrig, I’d have cut out your tongue long since.”

  “No mo’ woyal we?” Fish lips made it tough to talk.

  “Shut. Yo
ur. Mouth.” The Consort punctuated each word with an increase in pressure and a vicious shake. David’s eyes watered, and the Consort’s mouth twisted in a Voldemort smile. He jerked his head at the goons. “The Queen and her coterie are at her pavilion. We detour through the ceilidh glade. The rest of the company will meet us there.”

  He let go, and David passed a hand under his jaw, certain it had been dislocated. Oddly, he felt a soothing warmth spread from his hand to his bruised cheeks. Whoa. This stuff worked on himself too? It’s my power. Mine. And I get to choose how to spend it. He might be a mosquito compared to the fae grizzlies beside him, but mosquitoes could be freaking annoying. If that was all he had to work with, he’d own it—and damned if he’d give up without a fight.

  The Consort veered off onto a narrower path, forcing them into single file. David glanced back at Goon One, whose shoulders brushed the bushes on either side of the path.

  “You guys seriously need a new hobby. Have you tried fantasy football?”

  Goon One grunted and glowered. Ha! In a mano-a-mano glower-off, Alun would leave this guy in the dust.

  Alun. The tiny glow that his token resistance had afforded faded when he realized he wouldn’t see Alun again. That his last words to him had been recriminations. Is this how Alun had felt after his last fight with Owain? This inner maelstrom of regret and want and sorrow? If so, David could understand how he’d want to punish himself for the outcome.

  They broke through the tree cover into the ceilidh glade, the place he’d been exposed as other than human. The circle of white stones glimmered in the moss carpet, and at the far end of the clearing, Gareth Kendrick stood on the dais, holding his guitar, a battered leather case open at his feet. He met David’s gaze across the empty circle, his eyes widening as he took in the Consort and attendant goons.

  A group of about twenty fae, all of them the tall perfect specimens that marked them as Sidhe, strode out of the woods opposite the Consort, who moved forward to meet them in the center of the circle.

  David glanced from the stones to Gareth, Alun’s words echoing in his head. “If you venture inside while a true bard plays, you must stay and dance until the music stops.”

  Gareth was a true bard.

  David glanced at Goon One and Goon Two. Their attention was focused on the confab going on in the middle of the clearing. Now’s my chance.

  So the fae demanded beauty, did they? Well, let them get a load of David’s moves. If he could clear any given dance floor of a raft of horny men who wanted to have their twink and eat him too, these jokers stood no chance.

  He captured Gareth’s gaze, indicating the guitar with a twitch of his chin. Tilting his head toward the group of fae in the dance danger zone, he mouthed, YMCA.

  A smile, so like Alun’s that David nearly faltered, curved Gareth’s lips, and he nodded. As he struck the opening notes, David bolted into the circle. Goon Two shouted and followed, but Goon One didn’t cross the stone perimeter. Dang it.

  No help for it. Maybe the hills coming alive with the sound of music would attract enough attention to foil the Consort’s little plan.

  David’s feet broke into a skipping march without conscious orders from his brain, his hands swinging up to clap over his head. Around him, the Sidhe joined in the same moves, although their actions were smooth and as lovely as anyone could be while shaking their booty to vintage Village People as performed by the last living fae bard.

  Judging by the expressions on their faces, which ranged from murderous to horrified when their gaze landed on David’s best (aka worst ever) moves, they weren’t exactly thrilled by the experience.

  Too freaking bad.

  Gareth’s smooth-as-velvet baritone belted out the chorus, and David led the company in a conga line of arm movements. Ha! They followed his lead, as if the horror of his dancing were mesmerizing, just like the people in the trauma group.

  This is my true superpower: dance as an offensive weapon.

  As Gareth launched into the second verse, David grew breathless. Shoot. He had no endgame in mind. Just a nebulous hope that he’d attract enough people to stop the Consort’s stealth operation. If that didn’t work, what then?

  Over the sound of Gareth’s guitar and his exhortations for young men to check out the action in the Y, David heard a rustle in the trees from two different directions. Please let at least one regiment of cavalry be on my team.

  Unfortunately, the Consort apparently noticed the sounds of approaching company too. He glared at Goon One, who dithered on the outside of the circle, as much as a man the size of a WWE champion could dither.

  “Kill the bard, you fool.”

  David stumbled but couldn’t stop his feet. He hadn’t meant to endanger Gareth. Damn it, he’d acted before he considered the consequences. Again.

  Goon One shook his head. “Kill a bard? I cannot. I would be exiled.”

  “You will be dead at my own hand if you do not stop this madness.”

  Goon One nodded and pulled a longbow off his shoulder. As Goon One nocked an arrow, David tried to stop dancing, tried to stop flinging his arms in wild abandon, tried to shout anything but “YMCA.”

  But he couldn’t. And Goon One let the arrow fly.

  With a tire iron gripped in his hand, Alun was halfway up the tor to the ceilidh glade when he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother’s voice. Surely Gareth wouldn’t be so cruel as to play if David were already dead, no matter how much he hated Alun. He couldn’t make out the tune, but it didn’t sound like a traditional Celtic melody, and was too up-tempo to be a funeral dirge.

  He called on the One Tree and put on another burst of speed to scale the last rise and shoulder his way through the trees. When he broke out of the forest, chest heaving, he dropped into a crouch. In the center of the circle, David was capering with the Consort and a full company of Daoine Sidhe warriors.

  On the opposite side of the clearing, a cadre of the Queen’s guard appeared, armed and battle-ready. Alun had no hope that they were there to rescue David. Far more likely that the Queen had detected Alun’s presence and sent them out to capture him. After all, what did the life of one non-fae—last-known achubydd or not—matter to her when she had an insult to avenge?

  The warriors paused, milling at the edge of the circle, knowing better than to pass the perimeter. If only he could gauge their allegiance. Had they sworn the oath to the Consort that Alun—thank the Goddess—had avoided? Would they follow the Consort, regardless of his horrific plans? Or could Alun turn them sufficiently to save David?

  He located David in the shifting throng of dancing warriors—easy to do because even though his lover was at least a foot shorter than the other men, his movements were so disjointed and spasmodic that it was like locating the one frog in a school of angelfish.

  But David didn’t see Alun—his attention was focused on one warrior who was standing away from the Queen’s guard, outside the perimeter. The man raised his longbow, and before Alun could process the scene, the man had loosed the arrow.

  It flew across the clearing and struck his brother in the right shoulder. The force of the impact spun Gareth half around; he dropped his guitar with a discordant twang and crumpled to the ground.

  Tossing aside the tire iron, Alun lurched toward his brother, but Gareth waved him off before pressing his left hand to his shoulder.

  “Never mind me. Stop the Consort.”

  He whirled to face the chaos in the center of the circle, where the Queen’s guard was clashing with the Consort’s contingent. So he’s acting alone. The Queen isn’t a part of the plot.

  Craning his neck, he tried to sort out the skirmishes amid the crash of swords and differing battle cries. Where in all the bloody hells was the bastard? Where was David? He had been here a bare moment ago—

  There. Three-quarters of the way across the clearing, he spied the Consort’s silver-blond hair. He was gripping David by the arm, dragging him toward the path that led to the Stone Circle and the altar.<
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  Alun bared his teeth in the fae battle rictus and took off across the clearing, past the fighters. The clang of a nearby sword reminded him that the Consort was armed, even if his guards were otherwise engaged. How could Alun hope to subdue him with nothing but his bare hands and his fury?

  “Alun!” Gareth’s voice rang out over the cacophony in the clearing. Alun looked up to see his own sword flying toward him, end-over-end. He didn’t have time to wonder where his brother had gotten the damn thing, or how he’d managed to throw it with an arrow protruding from his shoulder—he was too relieved to see it. He thrust up his hand, and the hilt settled into his palm with a slap, instantly an extension of his arm again, as if he’d never laid it down.

  By the time Alun made it across the circle, the Consort had already disappeared down the path. Goddess, don’t let me be too late. He knew where they were headed, but he knew an alternate—and quicker—route. He refused to fail. Not tonight. Not again. Not this man.

  He left the path and circled through a grove of rowan and ash, splashed through a shallow stream, the water turning his shoes into very expensive pulp. I hate the thrice-damned things anyway. The soles slid on moss when he scaled the opposite bank, and he cursed his Outer World clothing, so inappropriate for wilderness and battle.

  He burst onto the Stone Circle plateau from the north near the king stone just as the Consort dragged David over the lip at the southern edge.

  “Rodric Luchullain!” Alun bellowed. “You hold what is mine.”

  The Consort’s face twisted in a sneer worthy of an Unseelie wight. “I see no consort mark on him.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I claim him.”

  “Hello?” David tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

  “No!” Alun and the Consort both shouted at once.

  “Damn fairies,” David muttered, and the Consort wrenched his arm behind his back and placed the point of his sword at David’s jugular.