Although he had to admit, as guilt wormed its way into his belly, that while he was with Andy, he hadn’t made the least attempt to impersonate Rey in anything more than appearance, and that was the result of the spell. Would Rey have spent the morning reading under a tree? No. Would he have turned down a rugby scrum in favor of a walk by a river? No again. Would he have restrained himself to a single kiss with anyone who’d signed a fecking contract that they were willing to do anything for the chance to be his consort?
Definitely, unequivocally, emphatically no.
But Andy hasn’t signed any such contract. Relief washed through Con—that he hadn’t pushed, that Brooke had intervened before his resistance crumbled, that Andy hadn’t offered.
It was the last that was the most important. Andy hadn’t offered. He wasn’t swayed by power and privilege. Although he had inside knowledge of the entire event, he didn’t use that to his own advantage.
He wasn’t that kind of man.
If Con expected to stand any kind of eventual chance with him, he had to be that kind of man too. Which meant taking this event seriously. Not avoiding his obligations to Rey, to Faerie, to Gloriana.
Time to face my responsibilities.
Con picked a tunic at random—it hardly mattered which, since they were all fecking red velvet—and tossed it on the bed. He stripped off the sweatshirt and folded it neatly, giving it one final pat before pulling on the tunic.
If he could get through all this, taking the selection process seriously for both Rey’s benefit and the good of Faerie, easing Andy’s job as well, maybe once it was over, Con could meet Andy again as himself.
That’s right. Rey had to show up for the coronation and the wedding. Even though Con hadn’t received an official invitation—one didn’t invite the living evidence of the Queen’s humiliating betrayal to an event of such pomp and importance—he could crash the party. Surely Rey would grant him that much, after forcing him into this charade.
Yes. That was a plan. Not a great one, since there were still so many ways he could betray himself, but any plan was better than none. When he suddenly appeared as himself—wearing blue, damn it—he’d just have to pretend he was meeting Andy for the first time. Get to know him again.
Which wouldn’t be a hardship at all. The hard part would be getting through a week’s worth of dates with other people and paying close enough attention to know which would be Rey’s best match.
But Andy would be there to shepherd him through the process.
Con grinned at himself in the mirror as he tugged the tunic straight. Now that wouldn’t be a hardship in the least.
Chapter Eight
AFTER escorting the prince and Kjersti—whose morning spa orgy had turned her into an exquisite, glowing beauty with apparently no residual effects from the elixir poison—Andy had a sudden urge to retreat to his own modest room and sulk. Mystifying, really. After all, things were back on track, right? And he hadn’t even flicked Fate with a single stray thought.
He sighed. Better make sure that Hashim would be ready for the Mt. Etna visit tomorrow, and that Nils hadn’t snuck Earthside again in search of another bellhop.
So he trotted back to the EO suite to do his freaking job.
He didn’t slam the door behind himself—barely—glowering at Smith who was eating a hamburger, sans bun and extremely well-done. “Do you ever stop eating?”
Smith shrugged. “What can I say? Demons consume a lot of energy. Would you rather I drained the power grid or a random brownie or two?”
Andy gulped. That’s all we need. Enchanted Occasions already had to maintain massive liability insurance because it employed so many aitchers whose races were considered untrustworthy, volatile, or—in Smith’s case—incendiary. They’d never had an actual incident, and Andy certainly didn’t want the first one to occur on his watch.
“Listen, have you checked on the other candidates?”
“Sure.”
“Have they all recovered?”
“Well, the undine has been underwater in the bathtub for the last six hours, so she’s okay. Occasionally she surfaces for sushi. Nils is kicked back on his sofa, surfing channels and drinking microbrews.”
“At least he’s not cruising the Earthside staff again.”
“No worries there—I’ve got all the interface talismans accounted for. Besides, Margit, the other dark elf, is hanging with him.”
“They’re together?” Andy frowned. It wasn’t against the rules. Candidates were free to form coalitions—this was a political game after all. But if one dark elf alone had the wiles of a basket full of tunnel snakes, two together could cause a revolution—assuming they overcame their own egos enough to cooperate. “Are they… you know….”
“Fucking?”
Andy glared at Smith, who gazed back blandly and took another bite of his burger. “No. Do they look friendly? Conspiratory?”
“Nah. Check it out.” Andy circled the desk to stand behind Smith, who pointed to a monitor on the upper left. Nils was sitting on his sofa, boots propped on the marble coffee table, with the remote in one hand and a microbrew in the other. The table was littered with empties. Margit huddled in the other corner, alternately glaring at Nils and doing something on her cell phone.
“Is she texting someone?”
Smith shrugged. “Maybe. Svartalfheim installed a couple of cell towers, but their network isn’t very stable. My guess is she’s playing a game on the local server.”
“Johan’s already been escorted through the Intergate and back to Alfheim. What about Hashim? Can you show me his room?”
Smith stilled for an instant before shutting off the monitors. “No point. He’s been huddled in a chair about six inches from the fireplace, staring into the flames, ever since he got out of bed.”
Andy glanced at Smith, wondering about that incredibly neutral tone of voice. “Is there something you need to tell me? About Hashim? He’s scheduled for tomorrow’s date. Do I need to worry?”
Smith drummed his fingers on the desktop, swiveling his chair back and forth. “I don’t know.”
“What?” Andy peered at the bank of darkened monitors. “Is he all right? I don’t know if we can juggle any other events.”
“I’m not worried about him, per se, although I’ve never seen a more morose ifrit. But did you ever wonder why the candidate list is so limited and so, well, binary?”
Andy frowned and sat down in the chair next to the desk. “What do you mean?”
“Think about how many different realms, how many different races, there are across the Interstices. Why this group?”
“I’m sure there was some kind of selection process.”
“It seems suspicious that we ended up with pairs of candidates who are almost inimical to one another. Like the Queen wanted conflict. I mean, come on. An undine and an ifrit? Everyone knows fire and water don’t mix.”
“Maybe that’s the point. To give the prince a wide range of choices.”
“Then why two dark elves and two light elves—and nobody else? The truce between the dark elves and the light elves only needs one good diplomatic meltdown to break it completely, and the clans of both races are almost as contentious among themselves.”
Andy thought about that. It was true. He’d recognized the clans’ names and had been surprised—another reason it was odd for Margit and Nils to be in the same room without drawing weapons. On the other hand, maybe Johan’s treachery had encouraged them to form a temporary alliance.
“I’m sure there’s a reason. It’s not our place to question it—just to make sure the Queen’s wishes are carried out and that the week culminates in a successful coronation-slash-wedding.”
“Yeah,” Smith muttered. “It’s the slashing I’m worried about. It’s like she wants a battle to break out.”
Andy raised both eyebrows and gave Smith his best seriously-dude glare. “We’re talking about the coronation and wedding of her son. Why in all the realms would she want
to screw that up?”
Smith’s gaze slid away, and he poked at his mouse with one severely bitten claw. “I don’t know, man. It just seems ominous to me.”
“You’re a demon. Worst-case scenarios are your stock in trade.”
“Half demon. Just because I can imagine the worst case, doesn’t mean I cause them—or even like them. I anticipate the worst case so I can avoid them. I’m just saying there are a shit-ton of ways this gig can explode.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, exposing the nubs of his horns. “I see ’em in my nightmares, every time I fall asleep.”
Andy squeezed Smith’s shoulder. “It’s our job to make sure none of them happen, then.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
And I’d better get right on that. Mooning over an unattainable prince was not the way to do it. So Andy retreated to the suite’s sitting room, settled at his own desk, and started making contingency plans.
He included one for himself, to make sure he could keep a smile on his face during the blasted wedding.
CON supposed he ought to have been glad that Kjersti was one of the most self-absorbed people he’d ever met, even for a light elf—which was saying something. The elf clans considered themselves too good for the gods in Asgard, let alone a mere prince from a backwater realm like Faerie.
They were three-quarters of the way through their allotted time at the gallery, and she’d spent most of it casting surreptitious glances at herself in every available mirror, tossing her long blonde hair when there were enough spectators around to make it worth the effort, and in general behaving as if her presence was a treat for the other visitors. Thankfully, Con didn’t appear to be one of those she wanted to impress. She seemed to barely register his existence, leaving him to stare morosely at the artwork.
Harpy art had always made him uneasy—he was never sure whether the red was paint or… something else. How much more pleasant would it have been to spend another afternoon with Andy, even if they’d done nothing but stroll by the river again, or browse in that amazing bookstore? Con wanted nothing more than to return to his suite—alone—and spend the evening reading.
Well—he wanted one thing more. If he had a chance to spend the evening with Andy, he’d toss all the books out the window. But that wasn’t an option. Not now, anyway. Maybe later, once Rey gets here and assumes his duties.
As Con stared at an appalling statue of a grimacing firedrake drenched (naturally) in red, a horrifying thought occurred to him. Rey wouldn’t expect to use the impersonation spell after he was married, would he? Surely even Rey wouldn’t, couldn’t expect that of Con. After all, the fidelity vows covered the consort as well as the prince. Didn’t they? Con made a mental note to check with Talus, because if not—no. Not even Rey could be that thoughtlessly cruel.
I deserve to live my own life, even if it’s boring or borderline humiliating, given the court’s attitude toward me. What a prize to offer Andy—surely he’d jump at the chance to share that fate. But as Con stared at the firedrake’s tortured face, he had an epiphany that had nothing to do with harpy art.
I don’t have to live in Faerie. I’m half human. I can live Earthside.
He sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding as if an iron band had suddenly been released. To be free. Free to live as I choose, live with whom I choose. Never again endure the contempt of the court, the shunning that was the result of his parents’ actions. Portland would be a perfect place, with green spaces right in the city, the river, the forests, the mountains all within easy reach. He could stroll with Andy any time he wanted.
He froze, and Kjersti shot him an irritated glance, since they were between mirrors. He still didn’t know what Andy’s heritage was. He worked for Enchanted Occasions, and Andy had told Con all of them were aitchers. Andy must be part human. If so, they could both live Earthside if they wished. But would Andy wish? Once he found out Con had deceived him—well, Con would just have to make sure that never happened.
Once Rey returned, Con would present himself to Andy as himself and woo him in earnest. Would he want a disgraced fae? Con would never know if he didn’t try.
He breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the end of the exhibit hall. Kjersti turned to him with a bright smile and the inevitable hair-toss—although the smile dimmed when she realized there was nobody nearby.
“Loki’s balls, I am so ready to get out of this place.”
Con blinked at the coarse language, so at odds with her angelic appearance. She seemed quite comfortable with it, though, so it must be normal for her.
He gestured toward the exit, where they were due to meet the Enchanted Occasions escort. “After you.”
Kjersti kept up the smile-and-flirty-hair-toss all the way through the three Intergates, hanging on Con’s arm and gazing up at him as if he were the most fascinating person in all the realms—even though he wasn’t saying anything beyond repeating “After you” and “Mind the boulders.” Once back in the resort, she moved closer, even though the traffic in the hallways wasn’t heavy.
As soon as they got back into his suite, though, she let go of him and headed straight for the bar in the sitting room. The Enchanted Occasions staff had again provided champagne on ice, but Kjersti ignored it in favor of a bottle of scotch.
She splashed three fingers of it into a glass and took a gulp that had to have burned her throat, but she huffed an irritated sigh as she kicked off her shoes. “This farce is bad enough without decent liquor.” She held her glass up in an air toast. “But then you prefer this revolting stuff, don’t you? Once we’re mated, you’ll need to import all the palace liquor from Alfheim. Or maybe Jotunheim. The giants don’t fuck around when it comes to booze.” She collapsed onto his sofa with remarkably little grace.
Con blinked. “You’re assuming we’ll be mated?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please, Rey. Nobody buys this whole setup. Get-to-know-you dates with a fae all of us have fucked at least once?” She tilted her head. “Except the ifrit. I can’t see you going in for fire play.” Her smile turned sly. “Unless you’re kinkier than you let on.”
I’m going to kill Rey. He should have warned me. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions. Glor—my mother is taking this process very seriously, I assure you. The good of our realm depends on the correct choice.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She took another slug of scotch. “My clan will come through with the goods. Treaties, realm access, shares in the mines, the technology feeds—all that shit. But that could have been handled at the negotiating table without wasting my time with all this nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Interstices protocols. Being forced to kowtow to a bunch of uppity aitchers. I mean, since when have you ever wanted to spend an interminable afternoon at an insipid gallery when we could be drinking and fucking?”
Con remained frozen by the door. The afternoon had been interminable to him, true, but primarily because he hated harpy art and his companion hadn’t shown the least interest in conversation. Be fair. The only one you were interested in talking to was Andy. Did he resent Kjersti for not being Andy? Yes. But that didn’t mean he should be less than courteous to her.
She didn’t appear to share the same restraint.
“Now that we’re back here, though, we can finally enjoy ourselves.” She got up and strolled over to him, her smile turning sultry—which did absolutely nothing for him. She tossed her hair again, but this time it was to reveal the row of pearl buttons on the back of her gown. “Undo me?”
“Uh….”
“Come on, Rey. Bad enough I have to wear this ridiculous antiquated clothing to appease the Faerie rules. Loki’s balls, that’s another thing I’m introducing. Zippers.”
“I don’t think—” A knock at the door saved him. “Enter,” he called, not even caring that his voice rose an octave.
Andy pushed open the door, holding it for a troop of brownies in the hotel livery. Con’s heart leaped at the rescue,
while at the same time his inner demon whispered “If Andy were to ask you to help him undress, you wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Good evening.” Andy’s smile was bright but professionally neutral. “I hope you enjoyed your time at the gallery.”
Kjersti scowled at him and turned her back in a way that seemed deliberate and insulting.
Con thankfully moved away from her. “Yes, thank you. Or at least as much as anyone can, given the… shall we say… monochrome nature of harpy art?”
Andy laughed, a warm and comforting counterpoint to the clink of china and silver as the brownies set the table. “It’s an acquired taste, true. But you’ve expressed admiration for the featured artist before so—”
“Yes.” Con cleared his throat. Another near miss. “Of course. But one has to be in the proper mood.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Speaking of moods,” Kjersti said, striding across the room to take Con’s elbow, “mine just got killed. Let’s go back to my suite.” She angled herself so her back was to Andy and her breasts pressed against Con’s arm. “We can finally have some privacy.”
Alarm shot through Con like a fire arrow, which must have clearly shown on his face, because Andy stepped into the breach like a true champion.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but the rules clearly state that the only one-on-one time you’re allowed with the prince is in either his suite or on the prearranged outings.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she muttered. “This whole setup is nothing but a boring time-sink. We know what the outcome will be. Why not avoid the bother and expense of even pretending anyone else has a chance?” She looked up at Con, her eyes heavy-lidded. “Tell him, lover.”
Con stared at her, technically beautiful but completely unappealing to him, and made a decision that Rey had only himself to blame for. “Very well.” He disengaged her hands and gently moved her an arm’s length away. “Andy, as the official representative of Enchanted Occasions and the contest, would you please note that I have formally rejected Kjersti of the Stjarna clan out of Alfheim as a potential consort.”
Nudging Fate Page 8
