My Faire Lord: A Renaissance Flair - Book 1

by C. A. Storm

  That wasn’t to say that finding one’s anam cara was an easy thing. In a world filled with billions of people, there were those that never found their true anam cara, who either settled for something lesser, or found one of the potentials, those who were almost perfect, but not quite. And not all unions ended perfectly, some were tragedies, others horror stories, and some were simply never meant to be. The Fates were fickle that way, and though gods and supernaturals loved to play with the lives of others for ill or good, none were quite as adept at the game as the Fates.

  The Fates had chosen to give him a feisty, fiery little Mortal. He would have to be gentle about introducing her to the Uncanny World, and that was only after he managed to soothe her ruffled feathers. Oh, and deal with the fact that they were interviewing her for a position that they would most likely have to give someone else. Bah, minor details. She was going to end up around anyways, if Rik had anything to say about that. He just wanted to get to the good parts—catching, seducing, and binding Ms. Samantha Moira Kelly to him for eternity. Easy, right?

  He must have snorted or something, because Rik suddenly found himself pinned between a pair of green eyes that glittered with amusement and a pair of gray eyes that made him feel like a school boy. A very, very naughty school boy. A very, very naught school boy who wanted to spank the teacher. Rik casually readjusted himself, trying not to notice Clara’s smirk or the narrowing of Sam’s eyes.

  “So, I’d ask what you two ladies have been talking about, but I know I wouldn’t like the answer. Let’s change the subject then,” Rik said with the most charming grin in his arsenal of smiles. And yes, he had a rather large arsenal of smiles. His mother and grandmother both subscribed to the School of Kill Them With Kindness, even if he did prefer her grandfather’s and father’s more direct, School of Knock Them The Fuck Out. “I take it you’re going to be showing Sam…Ms. Kelly,” he corrected, flashing a grin at Sam that had her rolling her eyes, “around the Estates.”

  Turning his attention to Sam, he said, “I hope you’ll enjoy the tour, and that you’re planning on staying at least through the weekend. The Village opens two weeks from Friday, the weekend before May Day, so this weekend we’ll be opening the Village for some of the vendors and performers, so they can start setting up.”

  Her brow furrowed in thought, Sam looked like she was about to ask a question, when Carter arrived carrying a tray. She waited for the young man to set out the plates of cheesecake and cups of fresh coffee for the ladies, and quirked a brow as he handed Rik a cut crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid and a matching glass. Noticing Sam’s gaze, Rik turned the decanter so she could see the crimson wax seal inset with a golden lion’s head.

  “Fuisce Leon, the Lion’s Whisky,” Rik said as he poured himself a few fingers of the draught. “We have a small distillery. Been brewing since before Prohibition.” He coughed, half-covering his grin with his fist as he said, “Purely for medicinal purposes, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sam echoed, actually giving him a grin before she caught herself. Scowling, she turned her attention to her cheesecake, attacking it with gusto. When she stabbed it with her fork, purposefully letting her eyes stray up to meet his, he had to laugh. Fucking adorable, he thought, then his heart literally skipped a beat when she stuck out her tongue and he caught the glint of a silver stud in her tongue. Fuck me, I’m done. Rik would forever swear afterwards that, at that moment, his dick howled like a horny werewolf baying at the full moon.

  Clearing his throat, Rik shifted in his seat. “Right. Right. Uh,” Damn it, his brain had retreated to its second, more confined and single-minded, head. He took a swallow of his whisky, swallowing hard as the smooth, expensive liquid burned a sweet path down his throat as he struggled to get his brain back up to its proper home. Setting his glass down, he found his tongue once more.

  “I’m going to be working from here this week, so if you and Clara need anything, just let me know.” Okay, he had to get out of there. Now. Otherwise, he was going to toss a curvy little redhead over his shoulder, drag her to his room, and do things he wouldn’t regret. He was a Frenchman, dammit, not a Viking! So much for charming and debonair, right now he completely understood why some Fae kidnapped humans and hid them away in the Otherlands.

  Rising to his feet, grabbing both the bottle and his glass, he gave the ladies a quick toast. “You ladies have a lovely evening. I’ve got some…work…I need to finish up before I call it a night. I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Kelly.” Okay, he meant that to sound more like a seductive invitation and not a threat. Really. Right?

  Retreat was the better part of valor, wasn’t it? Yes. Retreat, regroup, and claim the saucy wench.

  Chapter 11

  There were few people on Earth that Sam was as happy to see going as coming, but the way Rik’s old jeans hugged the taut, flexing glutes had her sending a second prayer of thanks to the denim god. Clara must have noticed her fascination, as the other woman teasingly remarked, “Careful, Sam, or people will think you’ve got a crush on him! And that’s just…well, kind of gross. I mean, you’re staring at his ass, and I really don’t want to think about my brother’s ass. Ever.”

  “Mm hmm,” Sam replied distractedly, still watching that ass’s ass walking away over the rim of her coffee mug. It took Clara waving a hand in front of her face to break Sam’s stare, which caused a guilty flush to creep up her neck. Guh, as if gaining a new freckle if they ever even thought of sunlight wasn’t enough of a curse for pale redheads, no, the fact that blushes caused them to glow like traffic lights had to accompany said curse.

  With more reluctance than she’d admit to herself, Sam tore her gaze from that tight ass’s tight ass and met Clara’s laughing face. “Sorry, he’s just too damned pretty,” Sam muttered, stabbing another piece of cheesecake and chomping down on it. Now that she wasn’t distracted by Mr. Too Damned Handsome—at this rate, she doubted she’d ever actually refer to him by his first name—Sam actually tasted the delicious confection, and she could no more resist the throaty moan of delight than she could have stopped the tsunami with a tissue.

  “Good, right?” Clara laughed knowingly. Sam allowed the woman’s smugness as she nodded and quickly began to devour her desert. It was a simple cheesecake, classic New York style, complete with a sponge cake crust instead of graham crackers, but it was divine. Rich and sweet, without being overwhelming.

  “I may have to marry Bertie,” Sam mumbled around her fork as she sucked on the last remnants on the implement, completely unashamed of herself. “Because, damn…”

  “I know, right?” Clara had already finished her own slice, staring wistfully at her empty plate. When her glance stole toward Sam’s plate, Sam snarled, hooking an arm around her plate and wielding her fork threateningly. “Too bad he bats for the other team,” Clara continued wistfully.

  “Back off. I’ll cut a bitch and not even feel guilty,” Sam growled, fighting back a grin at Clara’s pout. Sam blinked. “No, really?”

  Nodding energetically, Clara leaned in and whispered, “Oh yeah. Sadly, he had to break it off with the cheating skank he’d been seeing when he caught the little whore face down, ass up at last year’s Samhain Festival. Bertie’s normally the biggest sweetheart on Earth, but it took like five of the security guards to drag him away. He disappeared for a few months, but thank the Fates he came back. We were worried about him.”

  “What happened to his ex?” Sam whispered back, caught in the grips of gossip, despite herself.

  “Well, he used to have a glassmaking booth and shop at the Village, ran showings and classes and everything, but by the next morning, he’d closed up shop and gone! We still haven’t found a glassmaker to take his spot,” Clara said with a small shrug.

  “Hunh, you need a glassmaker?” Sam asked. She just might know someone who’d be interested in that. She’d just have to talk her into coming to Colorado.

  “You know someone?” Clara asked, leaning forward in interest. “Seriousl
y?”

  Canting her head from one side to the other, Sam said, “Maybe. A friend of mine used to do some beautiful work, I had some of her stuff in my condo back in Portland.” A brief flicker of pain crossed Sam’s face, but she quickly chased it away. No, focus on today. Today had been a good day, and hopefully the sign of better things to come. “Anyways, she went back to Georgia to finish up her law degree and to deal with some family stuff.”

  “Still, might not hurt to give her a call,” Clara suggested with a shrug, “Who knows, maybe she needs a break from all that pollen!” Clara’s look turned thoughtful as she regarded Sam. “Besides, if you’re going to be here, might not hurt to have a few familiar faces around.”

  Sam muffled a grin. “Oh, believe me, if I stick around, there’ll probably be an influx of Kelly boys to make sure their baby sister isn’t being hassled.”

  “Big brothers, right?” Clara laughed with a roll of her expressive eyes. Holding up her coffee mug, she toasted Sam, “Youngest sisters, unite!”

  When Clara’s expression once more turned thoughtful, Sam narrowed her eyes. “What? No, you can’t have my cheesecake. Mine!” She gnashed her teeth threateningly before she took another bite. So much yum!

  “Speaking of big brothers…” Clara said slowly, tracing a manicured nail along the rim of her mug. “To be honest, Rik’s not that big of an asshole. I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but he can be a really good guy. I mean, yes, he’s rich, and arrogant, and good looking, and way too aware of all of that, but he’s also got a heart of pure gold. Everything he’s ever done has been for the good of the family, for those who work for us, and for the good of the clan.”

  “Clan?” Okay, now that caught Sam’s attention.

  “Ooph, okay, right…” Clara pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “So just how much do you know about the…about our kind?”

  Sam shrugged, “Honestly? Little more than inhumans exist. My mother hated when my grandmother would tell us stories, and my gram passed away not long after my fifth birthday.” Sam wrinkled her nose, “My mom’s super Catholic. Like fish on Friday, fasting, praying the rosary, all that stuff. Her side of the family’s likewise very religious, while Dad and his side of the family were a lot less so. Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to read Harry Potter until I got to college.” Sam’s sudden laugh rang loudly, “Trust me, all the Weasley comments completely skipped past me until I was 18. But considering my dad, and two out of three of my brothers are also proud gingers, it was all water off a duck’s back.”

  “Inhumans?” Clara shook her head, “Yeah, not a good word, sweetie. I think recently, the popular term for us as a whole is Uncanny Ones. Used to be Subtle Ones, but paranormals or supernaturals would work in a pinch. Let’s avoid the inhuman label, okay?”

  Wincing, Sam nodded, “Sorry, I’ll strike the word from my vocabulary immediately.” Tilting her head, Sam looked at Clara over the rim of her glasses, taking in the flickering aura as she asked, “So, if it’s not insulting to ask…?”

  “What am I?” Clara chuckled and tapped her chest, “My family are what is commonly known as the Sidhe. Children of the Tuatha Dé. Some call us the Shining Ones.”

  “I can see why,” Sam said in a deadpan tone. “So, Sidhe. Got it.” She scrunched her brow, “Fairies, yeah?”

  Clara waggled her hand, “Kind of. See, Sidhe are like the nobility of the Fae, direct descendants of the immortal Tuatha, and we’re divided into lots of different clans. What people commonly think of fairies, such as pixies, sprites, leprechauns, and all that, well, they were the inhabitants of the Otherworlds the Tuatha retreated to when the Romans and Christianity spread across Europe.”

  Clara held up a hand, “And before you ask, the Otherworlds are the realms that touch on ours. There are countless Otherworlds, some smaller than a closet, some larger than Texas. Anyways, the Sidhe and fairies are collectively called the Fae, or more formally called the Leanaí, hence the kind of.”

  “And Elves?” Sam asked with a grin, her eyes flicking automatically toward Clara’s rounded ears.

  Clara rolled her eyes and gave a gusty sigh, “Okay, Elves are the Sidhe of the Scandinavian countries, and they really hate the whole pointed ear stereotype. That was a creation of Tolkien; though some Fae do have pointed ears, neither the Sidhe nor Elves have pointed ears.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sam caught the foxy Carter navigating through the restaurant, clearing away a few tables. With a subtle nod of her head, Sam asked, “And the furry folk?”

  Using a cough to mask an obvious giggle, Clara shook her head, “Right. The Fae are only one of the supernatural races. There are countless different Uncanny Ones, but the four largest groups are the Shifters, like werewolves and all that; Vampires, yes they drink blood, no they don’t sparkle unless they’re wearing glitter and at a rave; Witches, which encompass males and females, pretty much anyone that uses magic from an outside source; and the Fae, who possess innate magic because they are magic. Here in the States, because those are the largest four groups, many of the disparate Uncannies that originated outside of Europe have allied themselves with one of the larger groups for safety, you know?”

  “So the Uncannies are organized?” Sam asked, intrigued. Although she had never been allowed to watch supernatural shows or cartoons, or read those books when she was growing up, she had avidly devoured them in college and ever since, quite gladly diving head first into geekdom. Finding out the world where the Winchester brothers and Buffy Summers lived in might actually might exist, and that she was now part of it, thrilled her to the very depths of her geeky soul.

  “Again, kind of, sort of, in a way,” Clara hedged, then shook her head firmly, “Nothing you have to worry about right now. I think you’ve gotten enough out of me for tonight!” She then waggled a finger at Sam, “And don’t think I didn’t notice you purposefully steered the conversation away from Rik!”

  Sam’s expression of innocence was so perfect, and so well-practiced, it drew a cackle from Clara. “Oh no, I mastered that look before you were even born, little girl!” Clara slapped her hand over her mouth. “Shit.”

  “Ah ha!” Sam crowed, “Spill it!”

  “I’m 63,” Clara muttered from behind her hand before she lowered it with a sigh. “My birthday was in March.”

  “And that makes your brother…?” Sam’s voice trailed off, encouraging Clara to fill in the blank.

  Clara coughed into her fist, “137. In June.”

  Sam slumped back in her seat, stunned. “Damn, you bitches are old.” She narrowed her eyes, “Wait, how old is Barbie? And how old was your brother when he started collecting G.I. Joes?”

  “I was 6 when I got my first Barbie,” Clara said, not meeting Sam’s eyes as she continued, “And…uh, Rik was like 80-something when the first G.I. Joes were introduced.”

  “So basically, you’re telling me…that Mr. Big Bad Billionaire was a closet geek, and that he’s basically a man-sized boy-child?” Sam asked, her tone suspiciously even.

  When Clara nodded her head, Sam lost it. Her peals of laughter drew every eye remaining in the dining room, and when she collapsed off her chair, Clara had to wave off concerned helping hands as she struggled to get the cackling redhead back upright.

  After pounding on Sam’s back, trying to get the woman to breathe properly, Clara finally asked, “Feel better?”

  “Oh yes, much, thanks! I needed that,” Sam replied with a grin.

  “Right, I think that’s it for you for the night!” Clara declared, helping Sam get to her feet. And damned if she didn’t once more claim Sam’s arm in her own. “Let’s get you to your room so you can get all rested up! We’ve got a long week ahead.”

  Meekly now, still giggling to herself, Sam followed along as the other woman drug her through the Château, along the inner corridors that formed the ramparts, and into one of the towers overlooking the small lake at the foot of the cliff below. Clara saying, “Welcome to the Maiden’s To
wer, where you’ll be staying,” sent Sam off into another peal of helpless laughter that lasted clear until she was safely escorted into her room, where Clara left her with a helpless harrumph.

  Still chuckling to herself, Sam started to get ready for bed. Opening her suitcase, she pulled out her favorite nightshirt and shorts. Placing her glasses on the nightstand next to the large, princess-style bed, complete with a canopy draped in flowing white silk, Sam began to strip for bed. Her amusement and good humor came to a sudden halt, however, when she stripped off her flannel shirt and bra and noticed the strange marks on her body. She hadn’t noticed them with her glasses on, but now that the veil had been removed from her eyes, she could see the lingering sparks of magic that concealed the marks.

  On her right forearm was a tattoo of an ornate and exquisitely detailed gothic gargoyle, with a lion’s head, perched, the wings stretched to wrap around her upper arm. It was rendered in the deepest blacks and metallic silvers that shimmered in the dim light of the single lamp. Its eyes were a brilliant, almost painfully bright shade of blue. It was an awesome tattoo, or would have been if Sam had actually—you know—remembered getting it! The damn thing took up nearly her entire forearm, from just above her wrist to just below her elbow.

  As if that tattoo wasn’t enough, however, there was one she found coiling around the pale pink nipple of her left breast. Vivid green rose vines formed an intricate Celtic knotwork that curled around her breast, stretching up over her shoulder and starting down her arm. The roses along the vines were blood red, the petals tightly closed. Lurking amongst the vines, barely visible, Sam could just catch the hint of something glittering gold, but she couldn’t pick out any details. What-the-ever-living-fuck? She’d been marked! Twice!