The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  Fantastic.

  He stalked to his own garage and checked the charge on his LEAF. It was ready to go, so if he had to, he’d drive Mal to the hospital himself. He unhooked his old Louisville Slugger from the pegboard over his workbench—although he’d approach Mal to insist on medical intervention, he wasn’t stupid enough to do it without a little insurance.

  He walked out the side door and across the strip of fescue between his house and Mal’s, adjusting his grip on the bat so he didn’t look quite so much like a basher. As he walked past the recycling bins, an emaciated coyote slunk around the front corner of the house and froze when it caught sight of Bryce and his bat.

  Bryce froze too. Was it the same one that had stalked the heron yesterday? An animal that starved, that obviously unhealthy, was a wild card. Normally a single coyote wouldn’t attack a human, but thanks to Mal, this one already had experience with human aggression. That, coupled with desperation, might alter its behavior.

  The coyote crouched down, belly brushing the grass. Its eyes, even in the shadow under the wide eaves of Mal’s house, glowed yellow, and its black pupils looked almost vertical, like a cat’s. That can’t be normal—does it have issues other than starvation?

  It crept backward. Bryce frowned. He didn’t know canines could do that, but then he was an environmentalist, not an animal behaviorist. He kept still, waiting for the beast to make its next move.

  It continued its retreat. When it moved through a shaft of sunlight reflected off Bryce’s study window, a trick of refraction wildly distorted its shadow on Mal’s garage wall, making it look more like a squat, misshapen child than a cowering canine.

  The crash of a door being thrown open startled the animal to its feet.

  “Oi!” At Mal’s bellow, the coyote took off, racing within inches of Bryce, and disappeared into the woods at the foot of the hill.

  Mal barreled around the corner of the house, skidding to a stop when he saw Bryce.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  “No projectile weapons this time? I doubt the animal was any real danger to either of us.”

  “That’s what you think,” Mal muttered. He nodded at the bat in Bryce’s hand. “Looks like you thought it necessary to take up arms against it as well though.”

  “This old thing? This is for you.” He swung the bat to his shoulder and grinned. “Think of it as anti-Malware.”

  Mal’s eyes narrowed. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “Trust me, it would get a huge laugh in the IT bullpen at the college.”

  “So this is . . . what? A bit of persuasion to make sure I follow your instructions?”

  “More like a precaution. I wanted to make sure you were okay, but didn’t want to take the chance you’d try to throttle me again.”

  “Mmmphm.”

  “Seriously, you shouldn’t be racing around in this heat, chasing inoffensive woodland creatures. You need to be resting or, ideally, on your way to the ER.”

  Mal scowled. “Do you always spend this much energy enforcing your agenda on your neighbors?”

  “It depends on whether or not I think they’re a danger to themselves or others. So how about it? Do you have a way to get to the hospital? I can give you a ride if you—”

  “Save it. I called my brother-in-law, the nurse. He’s coming over.”

  Bryce hesitated. He wasn’t sure Mal was telling the truth—about his brother-in-law’s arrival or his profession—but it wasn’t as if he could wrestle Mal into the LEAF without being accused of attempted kidnapping. “All right, then. But remember, I’ll expect to see a medical release.” Bryce raised a hand in farewell. “Later.”

  Mal was clearly about to tell him to fuck off—Bryce could practically see the words forming in the tightening of his jaw, the inhale through flared nostrils. He braced himself for another onslaught of blistering profanity, but instead, Mal lifted a hand to his temple and clenched his eyes shut. Listed to one side.

  Bryce tossed the bat to the ground and lurched forward, catching Mal before he could collapse into the mixed recycling.

  Shite. Mal had almost buggered a perfect opportunity. Here he’d been worried about how to orchestrate a meeting between Bryce and Cassie, and the bloody man had waltzed right into it. As much as Mal wanted to tell him to take his druid arse on a flying leap into the swamp, if he wanted to get the man corralled and under the control of the local circle, he had to pretend he was a pansy-arse who couldn’t take a piddling bump on the head.

  Pissed him off, but all in a good cause.

  He let Bryce catch him against his chest, warm and solid despite the miscellaneous lumps from those tactical pockets. He took a deep breath.

  Mistake.

  He got a good whiff of Bryce’s skin. The astringent scents of that bloody herbal soap underlaid the earthy smell of clean male sweat. Goddess, he hadn’t had a man in his arms since well before his curse. Not a man. A druid. His cock, not inclined to split that particular hair, stirred in his pants, and he decided he might as well enjoy it. Not like he’d be getting any further with Sir Druid, not if he valued his will or his sanity.

  “Take it easy.” Bryce’s low voice rumbled in his ear, his breath warm on Mal’s neck. Mal couldn’t help it—he shivered.

  Luckily, Bryce took it the wrong way.

  “You’ve overdone it. I knew I should have kept a closer eye on you.”

  Mal let himself sag in Bryce’s arms, which was not as much of a hardship as it should have been. He let his limp arms swing, brushing against Bryce’s backside. Even without an actual grope, he could tell that arse was exactly as fine as it seemed, despite the camouflage of those ridiculous tactical pants.

  “The sun . . . it’s the heat. Could you help me back inside?”

  “Absolutely. Here. Can you put your arm across my shoulders?”

  Oh, I most certainly can. And did. Bryce tucked him against his side with an arm around Mal’s waist, a hand the size of a hubcap splayed against his ribs. Mal groaned. Goddess, he loved big hands.

  “Sorry.” Bryce adjusted his grip. “Did you get hit on the back too? Your ribs?”

  “No. Just a little light-headed. Lead on.”

  Mal dragged his feet as much as he could to prolong the unsteady shuffle into his house, leaning against Bryce in a brazen—yet perfectly forgivable under the circumstances—effort to feel him up with as much body contact as he could manage.

  When Bryce lowered Mal onto his sofa, Mal was tempted to pull him off-balance and force a full-frontal encounter, but that would be pushing his luck beyond the limit of reason.

  You were almost feeling up a druid—reason has clearly abandoned ship already.

  Bryce stood and tugged on the hem of his vest. “You okay? Can I get you some water? You really should stay hydrated.”

  “Yeah. Water would be good.”

  “Right. Back in a sec.”

  Mal lay back on the oversoft cushions and grinned at the ceiling fan—solar-powered, of course—rotating in the diffuse light. As much as he loathed being helpless in truth, faking it was damned fun, especially when he could use it to cop a feel.

  Bryce’s footsteps clipped against the bamboo living room floor, and Mal wiped the grin off his face, attempting to look wan and wounded. He rolled his head to smile bravely at Bryce, whose eyes widened in shock as if Mal truly were wan and wounded.

  Fuck that.

  He frowned and tried to sit up, only to have his head swim sickeningly.

  “Hey.” Bryce sat down next to him and steadied him with an arm across his back. “Take it easy. You’re bleeding again.”

  “I’m—” Mal glanced behind him. Sure enough, the pristine oatmeal upholstery of his sofa cushion sported a lopsided crimson splotch. “Shite.”

  “Drink this.” Bryce held the glass to his lips.

  He jerked the glass out of Bryce’s hand, splashing water across his thigh. “I’m not a bloody invalid.”

  “Well,” Bryce drawled, “maybe not an in
valid, but evidence suggest that you are, in fact, bloody.”

  “If you—”

  The front door burst open and David rushed in, all twink indignation. He marched across the living room and planted himself next to the coffee table—made from wood salvaged from a water-damaged high school gymnasium, Goddess help him. Every damn thing in this house had an ecologically approved pedigree.

  “You said you were fine. You said this was nothing. You said I shouldn’t worry.”

  While Bryce was distracted by David’s tirade, Mal took the opportunity to jerk his head toward him and mouth druid at David, but it didn’t deflect his brother-in-law’s death glare. Have to use my words, I guess.

  “Bryce. This is my brother-in-law, David Evans-Kendrick.” He leaned closer to Bryce, the better to stage-whisper into his ear. “He’s pissed.”

  “I gathered.” Bryce’s tone was as dry as his damned druid herbs. Nevertheless he stood up, offering his hand to David. “I’m Bryce MacLeod. I live next door.”

  David reached out to take Bryce’s hand, but he was pushed aside, revealing a tiny, wizened woman with bird-bright black eyes, a rainbow headscarf, and an oak cane the size of a horse’s leg. Mal blinked. Was he really so out of it that he hadn’t noticed David’s aunt until that moment, or had the blasted woman appeared out of thin air? She’s an arch-druid. Maybe she did.

  She thrust the cane at David so she could take Bryce’s outstretched hand in both of hers. “Young man, what in bloody blue blazes do you think you’re about?”

  Bryce tugged his hand, to no avail. “I—”

  “This is my aunt, Cassie Bowen,” David said. “Resistance is futile.”

  Mal settled back to enjoy the show. “You think he’s kidding.”

  Bryce shot a panicked glance at him, still trying to pull his hand from Cassie’s grasp without injuring a frail elderly woman.

  Mal shared a grin with David. The only way Bryce could escape from Cassie now was if he brought the full force of his unaffiliated druid powers down on her, and regardless of what Mal might think of druids in general and ones that hid behind fragging tactical vests specifically, he knew Bryce would never ever hurt someone who appeared so obviously weaker than himself.

  More fool him.

  “Davey, take Lord Maldwyn into the other room and see to his hurts.”

  Mal winced at Cassie’s use of his full name and title. “And miss the fun?”

  She skewered him with her midnight gaze. Right, then. He’d better move before she broke out the power voice, because that shite was . . . well . . . best avoided to say the least.

  He held out a hand and batted his eyelashes at David. “Give me a hand up, boyo? I’m feeling suddenly faint.”

  David snorted and shook his head, his shaggy brown hair rivaling the shine of any elf-maid’s tresses. Damn, his brother had all the luck. Assuming you ignore the massacre of his first lover and two hundred years cursed with the face of a beast.

  “Your lines never worked on me when I didn’t know you. Why do you think you’ll have better luck now?” Nevertheless, David pulled Mal to his feet, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder when he swayed. David’s hand tightened. “Mal? You all right?”

  “Yes. Just a little . . .” His vision swam. “Light-headed. Must be your proximity. Never could resist your—”

  “That will be enough, Lord Maldwyn. Davey, the kitchen.”

  Mal attempted to put a little swagger in his stride for Bryce’s benefit, even if he’d never fool Cassie or David, but the way his head continued to swim made it look more like a stagger. David’s hand on his elbow was the only thing that kept him from colliding with the doorjamb.

  “For pity’s sake, Mal, stop trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. I can see the lines of pain in your head. Sit.”

  “’S nothing.” He sat though, because for some reason his knees didn’t want to support him anymore.

  “I thought you said Bryce administered first aid.”

  “He tried.” Mal kept his voice low. There might be a wall between them, but the open archway between the living room and dining room didn’t exactly block sound. “But it was druid shite. No way would I let him lather that stuff on me. You know what that potion did to Alun.”

  “Well, you should have manned up. If you hadn’t called me when you did . . . here.” He handed Mal a glass of water. “Drink that and give me your hand.”

  “You know better than that, boyo. I can’t give you my hand if I’m using it to hold the bloody glass.”

  “You still have two hands, Mal. Give me your right hand. It will do fine for my purposes.”

  Mal surrendered his useless paw and studied David’s face over the rim of the glass as he gulped down the water. As much as he hated to admit it, the water in this house tasted wonderful, nearly as pure as the stream outside his cottage in Faerie.

  David’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, and healing achubydd heat traveled up Mal’s arm and across his shoulders, winding around muscle and vein and tendon until it found the spot on the back of his head—although it started at his wrist, gods blast it. He still felt nothing in his hand.

  “Alun will have my hide if he finds out you’re using achubydd juice on me.”

  “Shush. I’ve told him, I’ve told you, I’ve told everyone—aid freely given is its own reward. I don’t lose anything that I don’t get back.” David frowned, and the heat at the back of Mal’s skull increased, then ebbed, taking the pain and wooziness along with it. “There. Feel better?”

  Mal set down the glass and probed the back of his head with tentative fingers. No pain. And the borderline double vision was gone as well. “You’re a wonder, Dafydd. My brother is one lucky son of a bitch.”

  “And you’re lucky you called me. Even a high lord of the fae can slip into an inconvenient coma with a skull fracture and a subdural hematoma.”

  “A what? It was just a bump on the head.”

  David smirked at him. “Guess your head’s not as hard as you thought. Now. How about a little eavesdropping?”

  With his hand imprisoned in Cassie Bowen’s astonishingly firm grip, Bryce had to fight the urge to apologize—although for what, he couldn’t imagine. He’d done nothing but try to get Mal treatment for his injury, but he felt like he had when he’d been a boy and had to admit a transgression to his grandmother.

  “MacLeod,” she said, turning his hand palm up to peer at it closely. “A Scot.”

  “Actually, I’m from Connecticut.” He wanted to close his fist under her scrutiny. Not because he was ashamed of the calluses at the base of his fingers from all the digging in his garden—Gran had always told him to be proud of that—but because her scrutiny harked back to the days when Gran had inspected his hands for proper washing before supper.

  What was it about this woman that called his grandmother so irresistibly to mind?

  She flicked his wrist with one finger, just as Gran had when he’d said something she felt was ill-considered. “The geography doesn’t matter, boy. You’re a Scot. I’d have preferred a Welshman. Scots are so independent. And there’s always a danger of that Highland temper.”

  “You’d have preferred a Welshman for what, ma’am?”

  “An apprentice, of course.”

  “I may be on sabbatical now, but I’m a tenured professor at the Pacific Northwest College of Arts and Sciences. I think I’m past apprenticing for anything.”

  She raised one sparse eyebrow. “Best think again, then. I don’t know what your people fancied they were about.”

  “See here.” He tugged his hand, still hesitant to put his full strength behind it because she looked as if the bones in her frail fingers would snap like so many dry twigs at the least pressure. “I appreciate you and your nephew coming to take care of Mal, but since you’re here, I’d best be getting home.”

  “Oh, Lord Maldwyn didn’t call us for himself. He called us for you.”

  Lord Maldwyn? No wonder the man was so arrogant, particularly if
he’d decided Bryce wasn’t behaving in an appropriately serf-like manner. “But I’m not injured.” Barring a little bruising around the throat. “And I really must go.”

  “You’ll go nowhere, Bryce MacLeod, not without my leave.” Her eyes seemed to burn like black coals, and her voice deepened and thrummed in his bones. He tried to pull away in earnest now, but found he couldn’t move no matter how he strained.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “You, my lad, are a druid born, and it’s past time for you to take up your birthright.” She studied him, head tilted to one side. “You can start by minding your language when you speak to me.”

  “A druid?” He would have laughed if he could draw breath into his frozen lungs. “I’m a second-generation college professor. A scientist.”

  “What of the generations before? Your grandfather. Your MacLeod grandfather. What was his occupation?”

  “He—he owned a bookshop. But he died before I was born.”

  “And your grandmother? What was her name before they wed?”

  “Bruce. I was sort of named for her.”

  She rocked back on her heels, and the bands around his chest loosened, allowing him to take a deep breath at last.

  “Bruce? Of the line of Robert the Bruce?”

  “No. Different branch.”

  “Ach. Just as well. He was a papist, after all. The blood wouldn’t have run as strong.”

  “What blood?”

  “The druid blood, of course.”

  “But druidry as a religion died out with the coming of Christianity.”

  “Religion. Bah.” She finally dropped his hand, and he retreated a few steps, although he could go no farther. “You hear the song of the earth, don’t you? You crave the feel of it in your hands, just as you seek the cool wash of a stream, or the warmth of the sun on your back.”

  “I . . .” He swallowed. Wanted to deny it, but how could he? His devotion to environmentalism had been born of the respect for nature and its bounty Gran had modeled for him every day in the garden, the kitchen, the woods. But that was just passion and aptitude. It couldn’t be anything else. But as he tried—and failed—to move farther away, he had to admit that empirical evidence was piling up for a different conclusion altogether.