Nudging Fate

by E. J. Russell

  “There.” Talus pointed to the closet door.

  “In the janitor’s closet?”

  Con opened the door. “Guilty. I need to speak with you privately, and it seemed better to come to you than to have you come to the suite where anyone could enter.”

  Andy’s eyes narrowed. “By ‘anyone,’ do you mean your mother?”

  “Gloriana, yes. Please.” Con put as much pleading into his tone as possible without sounding completely pathetic. “I’m sorry for the way we parted this morning, and this is very important.”

  Andy huffed out a breath. “Right.” He glanced at Talus. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong in the kitchen?”

  “My word on it.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Con breathed a sigh of relief when Andy allowed himself to be ushered into the closet, Con’s hand in the small of his back. Even that light touch ignited the desire for so much more that Con plastered himself against the opposite wall and faced Andy across a thicket of mops.

  “There’s something you need—” they said simultaneously.

  Con chuckled, feeling as if a steel band around his chest had finally loosened when Andy chuckled too.

  “Please, Your Highness. You first.”

  “I asked you not to call me that.”

  “I know, but given the circumstances, I think it’s better if we remember exactly who we are.”

  “That’s… that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Were you expecting Gloriana today?”

  “No. She arrived because she was…” Andy bit his lip again, and Con wanted nothing more than to soothe it with his fingers—or perhaps his tongue. “…unhappy with the reports about the competition’s progress.”

  “I need to ask you a favor. A huge one.”

  “Well, you’re the client. Or one of them anyway.”

  “I don’t want you to help me because it’s your job. I want you to help me—” Con halted his heated words. It wasn’t fair to expect Andy to help him out of friendship, or affection, or—what Con really wanted—love. Not when he didn’t know the truth. “I need you to help keep me out of Gloriana’s sight.”

  Andy’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “I know I didn’t conduct myself very well last night, when I took advantage of you—”

  “You didn’t take advantage—”

  “Or this morning, after you shared your heritage with me, so you don’t owe me any consideration.”

  Andy scowled. “I’m a norn, not an asshole. I’m not vindictive.”

  “I’m not the only one who’ll suffer, though, if Gloriana were to catch sight of me.”

  “I’d help you if I could, Rey, but the thing is everybody’s going to catch sight of you. Her Majesty has moved up the ceremonies.”

  “Moved them up?”

  “To this evening. You’re being crowned and… and married today. At twilight. Um… congratulations?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ANDY had expected the prince to be irritated with the news, but he hadn’t expected him to go ghost-pale. “Your Highness. Are you all right? You should sit down.” Dang it, there were no chairs in here. It’s a janitor’s closet, Skuldsson. What do you expect? He nudged a five-gallon bucket of cleanser closer to the prince and eased him down onto it. “It’s a shock. I know.”

  “It’s not a shock. It’s a bloody disaster.”

  “Well… the thing is… there’s more.”

  “What more could there be?”

  “She’s declared that you’ll be marrying Nils. Apparently that was her plan all along.”

  “Nils? No. Not him. Anyone but him.”

  “Kjersti?”

  “No, not her either.” Rey popped up again, hectic red blooming on his cheeks in contrast to the pallor of the rest of his face. “Damn it, she has no right to dictate this.”

  “She kind of does. At least she has the right to dictate to me. That’s why I need to get to the kitchen. Chef has seven hours and—” He glanced at his watch. Yikes! “—twenty-two minutes to prepare the feast and the cake. If he doesn’t rip me to shreds, he might fling himself off the roof. Not that that would hurt him, but it would definitely take time out of his day.”

  Rey gripped Andy’s shoulders, giving him a tiny shake. “Forget the chef for two minutes and listen to me. Please.”

  Andy rested his hands on Rey’s waist. Maybe for the last time. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I’m not marrying Nils. I’m not marrying Kjersti. I’m not marrying anybody. Not when I’m in love with you.”

  A shiver skated down Andy’s spine at the same time that heat bloomed in his chest. “You… you’re in love?” He could barely push the words out through his tightening throat. “With me? But you can’t be. You’re a prince, and I’m a norn.”

  Rey’s grip gentled and he pulled Andy closer. “You’re half human and so am I. Surely we’ve got enough common ground, especially since I’m—”

  Brooke thrust open the door. “Andy! You have to come now. Chef found out about the change in timeline, and he’s ready to explode.”

  “Oh gods.” When it came to Chef, Brooke wasn’t speaking figuratively. “I’ll come right away.” He gently disengaged Rey’s hands. “Wait. Where’s the Queen?”

  “Smith’s setting up the matrix for her to gate to Svartalfheim for her meeting with the clan chiefs. She said she’ll be back an hour before dusk.”

  Of course. She had to polish off her little scheme to mate Rey to a man he hated, didn’t she? All in the name of politics. Ugh.

  Andy cast a last glance at Rey, who looked so wrecked. Impulsively, he scooted back and planted a soft kiss on Rey’s lips. “I love you too,” he murmured.

  “But there’s something—”

  “We’ll talk later, I promise. But I need to stop Chef.”

  “I’ll say.” Brooke crowded to one side of the doorway. This closet is not made for four people, especially when two of them are the size of Rey and Talus. “He’s stalking that wyvern in the garden with a cleaver the size of a battle axe, and the poor thing’s chained to a tree. It’s not going to be able to dodge forever.”

  Rey grabbed Andy’s elbow. “That’s not just any wyvern. It’s my father. You have to keep him safe.”

  “You can count on me.” He turned to Brooke. “Let’s go. Talus, we could probably use your help too.”

  “I am at your service.”

  Rey reached for him, but Andy dodged, afraid that after Rey’s confession—after Andy’s as well—that another touch would make him unwilling to leave at all.

  “Andy—”

  “Later. I promise. Let me go save your father from our berserker chef, and then we’ll talk.”

  Andy sped down the hall, Brooke and Talus at his heels. “Let’s take the stairs. It’s a faster exit to the gardens.” In the meantime, he tapped his headset. “Smith. I need you to send the flower fairy Incident Response Team to the garden stat. Chef is about to assassinate the prince’s father.”

  “On it.”

  Thank Freya that Smith seemed to be back on his game. Andy clattered down the stairs and burst into the garden, momentarily blinded by the sun. He blinked rapidly until he could focus and saw Chef immediately—hard to miss anyone that large—looming over the wyvern.

  Andy had expected the wyvern to cower under Chef’s obvious berserker rage, but instead, he stood tall, extending his neck, chin up, as if inviting the blow. You’d think he wanted to die.

  On the other hand, if this was the famed consort-turned-wyvern, maybe he’d welcome a quick end rather than centuries more of transformed captivity.

  “Chef!” Andy called, just as the IRT arrowed by him in a flurry of pastel wings. “Stay your hand!”

  “Seven hours for a feast!” Chef roared. “I cannot work under these conditions.” The flower fairies fluttered around his head, landing on his shoulders, his head, and in a couple of brave—or suicidal—cases, his tusks.
“Off with you, you pesky things.”

  With the fairies distracting Chef, Andy figured it was safe to move closer. “Why are you about to slaughter the Queen’s consort?”

  “The Queen’s… what?” Chef thrust his jaw out even farther. “I see only a wyvern.”

  “Yes, that’s him. Why do you want to kill him anyway?”

  “I must prepare a feast in seven hours! The meat I ordered—for three days from now!—won’t be delivered until the solstice eve. The haunch of venison was to be the centerpiece of the meal. A triumph! My pièce de résistance!”

  Andy sidled closer, between Chef and the wyvern, who snuffled at Andy’s hair in a rather alarming way. Those jaws are really big. “Wyvern isn’t venison. And you really can’t serve the Queen’s consort for dinner. It’s just not done.”

  Chef threw back his head and roared, sending the flower fairies into a gyrating frenzy until one of them bopped him on the snout. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Let’s go back to the kitchen, shall we? We’ll come up with an alternate menu, one that’s achievable. Brooke will help you coordinate. If we need to, we’ll import some assistants from the Night Kitchen.”

  “But the menu would have been the talk of all the realms for decades.” Chef’s shoulders slumped, and he let his cleaver drop to his side, thank Fate. “How often do you get to cater the wedding of a prince? There aren’t that many of them left.”

  “I know.” Andy patted Chef’s furry forearm. “But you’ll manage. You always do. You’re famous for wresting a brilliant meal from the jaws of disaster.”

  He perked up, the tufts on his ears twitching. “I am?”

  “Absolutely.” He handed Chef off to Brooke, the crooning of the flower fairies doing their job to defuse the last of Chef’s rage. “Anything you need, you let Smith know, and he’ll coordinate the deliveries, even if we have to transport through several Interstices.”

  Chef froze, his head jerking up, sniffing the air. “Lobster! Grilled sturgeon! We shall create a seafood extravaganza.”

  Brooke made a face at Andy. “I hope I didn’t inspire the seafood theme. I’d hate to have the cleaver coming at me next.”

  “Don’t worry, Brooke,” Chef said. “I never cook my colleagues.”

  CON was tempted to punch something, but he didn’t want to damage the walls—interfering with the spells in Interstices constructs was always chancy—and the stacks of towels and rags were too soft for a satisfactory hit. He still hadn’t told Andy the truth—not all of it.

  He’d at least managed to get out the truth of his feelings. And Andy returned them. Surely that meant something. Surely Andy would forgive him for the temporary deception.

  He hoped.

  But the news that Gloriana had moved up the ceremonies—that was a nightmare of epic proportions. Somehow, Con had to get in touch with Rey, convince him to return in time for the ceremony, because what he’d told Andy was true—he wasn’t marrying anybody.

  Of course, if Rey didn’t return in time and he was forced to put on the coronation ring, that wouldn’t be an issue, because he’d be nothing but a pile of dust.

  But then, if Gloriana got a good look at him, she’d know immediately that he wasn’t Rey. Not only could that ignite her highly unfortunate rage against Con for his role—and his father was an object lesson regarding how ill-advised it was to raise Gloriana’s ire—but it could backfire on Rey too.

  Con held no rank, no power, in Faerie. He was practically invisible. Punishing him would have no repercussions for her power base. She could transform him into anything she wished, and Con doubted it would be anything as relatively sturdy and sentient as a wyvern. But Rey—his punishment would have to be public and severe enough to discourage opposition to her rule. Would she count it as treason? Rey hadn’t actually conspired against her, simply evaded his duties in favor of activities he found more pleasurable.

  Con waited for ten minutes, hoping that was sufficient time for Gloriana to be on her way to Svartalfheim, then he flung open the closet door. He barreled down the hallway to the stairs, and took them two at a time to reach his floor.

  He’d call Rey on that thrice-blasted cell phone. If Rey didn’t answer the first time, he’d keep calling until he did answer. Panic seized his heart and squeezed, making him fight for breath. What if he doesn’t answer at all? They only had half a day to come up with a plan to derail Gloriana’s schemes.

  He burst out of the stairwell and strode down the hall to his suite. One way or another, he’d will Rey to answer the phone. Con waved his hand over the magical lock, flinging the door open when it recognized him and unlatched. If he had to contact a mage to scry—

  “Hello, brother.”

  Con froze, the door bumping his shoulder. “Rey?”

  Rey stood by the windows, tossing an apple in one hand. “You might want to shut the door. Wouldn’t do for anyone to know that there are two of me wandering about, now, would it?”

  Con moved away from the door and kicked it shut since he couldn’t very well kick his infuriating brother. “What the hells are you playing at, Rey? Couldn’t you have given me a little more information about where you were and how to reach you?”

  Rey shrugged and took a bite of his apple. “You seemed to be doing fine.”

  “Fine? I….” Had he done fine? He’d spent an annoying afternoon with Kjersti, but otherwise, his time had been spent far more enjoyably than had he remained in Faerie. And there’s Andy. “Yes. Well. That’s beside the point.”

  Rey’s habitual smirk slipped off his face, and he set the apple down on the table. “Let’s not fight, Con, please. I need your help.”

  “It seems to me,” Con said between clenched teeth, “that you’ve played that card far too often, ever since we were boys.”

  “I know. I’m a right bloody bastard, which is ironic when you think of it, since I’m the one true prince of bleeding Faerie, born of a solemnized handfasting. But you’re the only one who ever cared whether I was happy.” He moved across the room until he stood in front of Con and grasped his shoulders. “I am happy, Con. For the first time in my life. And you can help me stay that way.”

  “Rey… what’s happened?”

  Rey beamed—positively glowed—and Con realized he hadn’t seen true joy on his brother’s face since they’d grown beyond the schoolroom. “I’m in love.”

  Con ran a hand over his face. “Ah, shite.”

  “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “In the ordinary way, yes, I would. But your mother has it in her head that you’ll be marrying Nils of the Brynja clan.”

  Rey’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Rey’s voice raised half an octave. “She’s moved the ceremonies up?”

  “Yes. Apparently this little charade wasn’t proceeding as she’d planned. Too many people getting axed. Me—that is you—not choosing to spend time with the right sort.”

  “The right sort.” Rey snorted. “You mean her choices. They were all her choices. Well, bollocks to that. I’ve made my own choice, and I plan to use her own fecking game to force it right down her throat—and she can’t do a thing about it because it was all her idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The coronation comes first, right? You may think I never attended to those boring government tutorials, but I learned the important parts.”

  “The parts affecting you?” Con asked dryly.

  Rey grinned. “Of course. The thing about the coronation is that it’s not just a pretty ceremony. It’s an ancient rite, a real investiture. It’ll bestow actual power on me.” He shrugged. “Not enormous power, but enough. It’s intended to give me the authority to take on administrative duties for Faerie.”

  “Administrative? So you’ll be… what? The Faerie civil service?”

  Rey barked a laugh. “A pisser, isn’t it? Presiding over land disputes, fae matings, minor clan squabbles, that sort
of thing. Mostly gods-awful boring, but in this case, it fits in with my plans perfectly. But shite, tonight?” Rey paced across the carpet, tapping his lips with one finger. “He’s got a performance. I’m not sure he can get here in time.”

  “He? You mean your lover?”

  “Yes.” Again, that glow. It was truly remarkable. “Wait until you meet him, Con. He’s… he’s incredible.”

  “So that’s your plan? Go through the coronation, then announce your own choice instead of the one that’s been carefully orchestrated—”

  Rey frowned. “Carefully manipulated, you mean.”

  “Look at it from her perspective. She won’t see this as admirable, and she’s still the fecking Queen—not to mention your mother. Do you forget what happened to our father?” Con pointed out the window to where Thomas had curled around the base of the dogwood tree, his snout on his paws. “She could do that to you. Or worse.”

  Rey’s manic baring of teeth set off a warning klaxon in Con’s brain. When Rey got into this mood, he wouldn’t listen to reason. “That’s the beauty of the coronation. If she gainsays my choice, she robs the investiture of the very authority she wants to imbue it with. She has to agree, or she’s stuck handling drainage complaints and market stall permits forever.”

  “Rey, this is insane. You’ll be flouting her authority in front of representatives of all the realms that have an interest in the outcome of this contest.”

  “Exactly. Which is exactly why she can’t protest. Otherwise she could set off an interrealm war when all the clan leaders realize the contest was fixed from the beginning.”

  “You knew that?”

  Rey cocked a sardonic brow. “Of course I knew it. She’s my mother, remember? I learned how to be a conniving bastard at her very knee.”

  Con couldn’t help an admiring chuckle, even though his stomach was still tied in knots. “I never knew you were capable of this much—”

  “Intelligence? Cunning? Bloody brilliance?”

  “I was going to say forethought. Planning. You’ve never….” Con lost any desire to laugh. “Shite! Planning. If we expect to go through with this—”