The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  That’s it. All he needed was the proper delivery system—and he had just the thing in mind. Next time something breached the threshold, they’d be ready for it, and not only because he wanted Mal protected. This time, he intended to get some answers about who was screwing with the wetlands.

  And who was causing the trees in Faerie to weep.

  Mal shut the door behind David, cursing his brother under his breath. How many times had Alun taken the piss out of him for the way he chose to live? Too many times to count over the millennia they’d been alive. Still, he knew Alun had only their best interests at heart, would always have his brothers’ backs, even if Gareth still had a stick up his arse about Faerie, and even if Mal hadn’t ever needed to ask for help before.

  This time, when he could have used Alun’s advice, the bloody bastard was MIA. He might not have been able to discuss Steve overtly, but maybe in the guise of Alun’s psychology practice, he could’ve snuck some information out. So much for that notion.

  At least the second task was out of the way. He walked across the room to the fireplace, at the very edge of his invisible leash, and opened the box David had brought.

  The scale glowed, pulsing with its own inner light, an ombré that morphed from scarlet to indigo. A scale from the dragon queen. If this didn’t pay off Steve’s debt, whoever held his IOU was either a moron or had more power than Mal wanted to think about.

  He flipped the lid on Steve’s casket—and since the bloody thing opened with barely a flick of his finger, it must have recognized the scale for a task completed. For a treasure like this, the bloody thing should have sprung open on its own.

  As he lifted the scale from its nest of silk, it quivered in his hand as if it were alive. It was beautiful just as it was, although someday it would evolve into an equally beautiful jewel. He cradled it next to his chest, and its pulse aligned with his heartbeat. What would that jewel look like? A ruby red as blood? A sapphire dark as twilight? A—

  “Shite.” He dropped the thing in Steve’s box and slapped the lid closed. No wonder dragons didn’t part with their scales willingly. If the hoarding instinct was that ingrained in the things, strong enough to affect anyone who held it? Teresa Tomlinson, queen of all the dragon shifters on the whole fecking planet, must really, really like David.

  “Mal? Is David gone?”

  Mal whirled at Bryce’s voice, lifting his arms as if to hide Steve’s casket and its seductive contents from Bryce. How stupid was that? The bloody mantel was as high as Mal’s shoulders, and the box was clearly visible next to his head.

  What was he protecting though? The scale from Bryce—or Bryce from the scale?

  Damn the elder gods to hells of their own making. He’d never again know whether his thoughts were his own or the result of a spell older than Faerie itself.

  Countless students had tried to snow Bryce about why they couldn’t get a paper in on time, or why they couldn’t possibly make the mandatory Saturday morning work crew. None of them had ever seemed as obviously guilty as Mal Kendrick at this moment.

  “So . . . David?”

  “Right. He had to leave. He’s got a class.”

  “A class? I thought he was a nurse?”

  “Studying to be one. He’s not there yet.”

  “Tell me—” Bryce stopped himself before he flat out demanded the truth. If you phrase the question right, make your voice sound just so, he’ll tell you anything.

  You could make him do anything.

  No. So wrong. He stomped on the temptation, running his hands through his hair. Christ, he really needed a shower.

  You could take one with Mal. He’d do it if you told him to.

  Where the hell were these ideas coming from? Had he always had a streak of cruelty in him? He didn’t remember ever having these kinds of impulses before. He was a caretaker, damn it. His whole life had been about caring for the plants, the earth, its inhabitants. Why did this particular inhabitant make him want to ignore all of that and turn into an asshole?

  Mal was watching him, unmoving, as if the beginning of Bryce’s demand had put him on hold. Bryce cleared his throat and tried again—without the dictator imperative. “He’s a student, then? That’s surprising. He seemed fully capable of handling your injuries.”

  “He’s an achubydd, so he can heal supes through his own magic. But the boyo wants to do the same thing the mundane way, and for humans too, so he’s going to school to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner. Wants to help my brother in his practice. Did I mention that Alun is a psychologist for the supernatural communities?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “It’s a royal pain in the arse sometimes. He’s always trying to counsel me and Gareth—although that might come from being the eldest.”

  “You have another brother? Is he a warrior too?”

  “Nah. He’s a rock star.”

  Bryce grinned. “Get out. A fae rock star.”

  “Gareth is the last true bard in Faerie. He has a band. Hunter’s Moon. He—”

  “Hold it.” Bryce frowned. Mal had never had this kind of verbal diarrhea before. And the sheen of sweat on his forehead was a definite tell as well. What was he trying to hide? Why had he suddenly decided to spill family secrets? What had he been doing to prompt these extreme evasive maneuvers? “You don’t have to go into detail.”

  Mal took a shaky breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his right wrist. “Thank you, my—” He clenched his teeth. “Thank. You.”

  Okay. This was getting more peculiar by the minute. But Bryce had learned from years in faculty meetings how to be patient. Or at least how to endure.

  “Come with me. I need to get something out of my garage.”

  Shit. He hadn’t meant to be so peremptory. Even when he supervised work crews, he requested rather than demanded. “I mean, can we go next door? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  Mal nodded, the muscles in his jaw tight. “Right. Lead the way.”

  Bryce walked out the doors onto the patio. Mal followed, but when they were on the grass between the houses and Bryce expected Mal to pull up even or slightly ahead as he’d always done before, he hung back, just behind Bryce’s shoulder.

  It was freaking weird. It should have been annoying. Instead, he found it inexplicably arousing.

  God, this has to stop. Ignore the hot man at your heels. The one whose ass you plowed not twelve hours ago. His cock popped under his sweatpants, a highly inconvenient tent. Focus. Think about other things. Such as what would happen to the wetlands if the two of them couldn’t find out who was poisoning the water, and fix it.

  That took care of the semi. He keyed in the code for his garage door and resolutely watched it slide up rather than feast on Mal’s profile.

  “Flaming abyss. I’ve never seen a garage this neat. You sort your underwear by color too?”

  Heat swept up Bryce’s neck. All his clothes, including his underwear, were sorted by color and function. How else could he find what he needed when he needed it? “You should be grateful. It means I know exactly where to look for what I want.”

  He edged past the LEAF, and sure enough, on the shelf over his potting bench was the box he needed, just beyond his reach. He looked around for his step stool, but before he could grab it, Mal dropped to one knee.

  “What?”

  “Stand on my knee. You can reach it then.”

  “Won’t that hurt?”

  Mal shrugged, but didn’t offer further explanation. Fine. Bryce boosted himself up, snagging the box without putting all his weight on Mal’s knee. He managed not to drop it when he jumped back down.

  Mal was slow to stand up. Had it hurt him after all? It hadn’t been that long since he’d been brained by those redcaps, although that was a head injury, not leg. Could Mal’s odd behavior be an aftereffect? Maybe Bryce should make him call David—

  Ask him. Ask him to call David. Shit.

  He plopped the box onto his potting
workbench and opened one end. “I had an idea. Take a look.”

  Mal steadied the box with his right forearm and stuck his left hand inside. “What is this?”

  “A tagger, otherwise known as a paintball gun.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s from a game. You’d probably like it, since it’s violent. These guns shoot round gelatin capsules filled with paint, half an inch or so an inch in diameter. In a game, you try to tag your opponents with the paintballs. He who sports the least paint at the end wins.”

  Mal turned the gun over, studying its design. “A tree hugger like you, I’d think you’d object to littering the landscape with shite like this.”

  “It’s all biodegradable, even the paint.”

  “Never had much use for guns.” He laid it down on the bench. “In Faerie, metal and explosives don’t always combine in the way you’d expect.”

  “This is plastic. Gravity-loaded. Hold out your hand.” Mal complied immediately, although he swore under his breath. Bryce wrapped Mal’s hand around the grip. “See how you can hold it with one hand? Brace it with your other arm?”

  “So?”

  “My first druid homework was an anti-evil potion and a spell for sympathetic magic. I can use the spell to transform the paint inside the balls into the potion. Then, with the gun as the delivery system, you’ll have a weapon to use against the Unseelie.”

  Mal lifted his gaze from the gun, a look on his face as if he’d just witnessed a miracle. “You did this? For me?”

  The intensity of Mal’s gaze caused the usual effect below Bryce’s waist. “Anyone could have done the same.” He smiled and shrugged. “If, you know, he was a druid and had a spare paintball gun lying around.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re the only one who’s—” He took a deep breath. “Gareth thinks I ought to be overjoyed to be shut out of Faerie. Alun and David only try to make me feel okay about being useless. But you—you found a way for me to do again.”

  Mal tossed the gun onto the workbench with a clatter and flung himself at Bryce, threading his fingers through Bryce’s hair and looping his right arm around Bryce’s neck. For a moment, the two of them locked gazes, and Bryce couldn’t breathe. Something sparked: a connection that shot like lightning down his spine, pooled in his belly like liquid fire, went to his head like vintage wine.

  “Fuck the elder gods. You’re the one. The only one.” Mal kissed him, devouring him, inhaling him as if Bryce’s breath were the only thing keeping him alive.

  Goddess, this kiss—the velvet thrust and parry, chase and retreat, lock and caress. Mal didn’t care whether the feelings that lit up every nerve in his body were nothing but a biological booby trap. It was fecking perfect.

  Bryce’s hands gripped Mal’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Mal moaned. Goddess, yes. He craved them. Craved being marked by this brilliant man who’d found a way for Mal to keep his identity—to resume the fight against the enemy that had defined his whole life. Who cared whether he wanted nothing but to feel this man’s foot on his neck as he worshipped at his feet? Bryce deserved that and more.

  But not from anyone but Mal. Mal growled into Bryce’s mouth at the idea of anyone else being allowed that honor—the honor of kneeling and taking whatever Bryce chose to give.

  He tore his mouth away, although his instincts screamed at him to stay, to submit, to beg.

  He’d beg all right. But he’d demand too.

  “No one else, yeah? Anything you want, you get from me.”

  “Anything?” Bryce’s voice vibrated with druid power, and Mal’s knees nearly melted.

  “Anything. Everything. Only me.” He sank down onto his knees and pressed his face into the soft fleece over Bryce’s groin, feeling the heat and hardness of that glorious cock against his cheek. “Goddess, I want to taste you.” He looked up to see Bryce’s eyes gone black with lust and power. “May I?”

  Bryce stroked his hair, and Mal’s eyes fluttered closed. “Yes.”

  Mal whimpered and jerked the waistband of the sweatpants down below Bryce’s bollocks. He licked the sack, teasing the tender skin with his tongue, and then sucked one into his mouth, his own cock hard to the point of pain at Bryce’s moan. He lapped at the other, then all the way up the shaft, where a single crystal drop glittered at the slit, beckoning him, tantalizing him. Dragon scales and jewels be damned—those were nothing when he could have this.

  He sucked just the tip of Bryce’s cock into his mouth, tongue working the slit, the salty taste of Bryce like water and air to him, so necessary, something he’d looked for all his life, for millennia, never finding anything remotely close.

  He wrapped both arms around Bryce’s thighs and took Bryce’s cock all the way down his throat, swallowing against the head again and again until Bryce cried out, his hands clutching Mal’s hair to the point of exquisite pain, and emptied himself down Mal’s throat.

  Filling him. Completing him. Owning him.

  Mal groaned and came in his pants.

  Bryce’s vision took at least a minute to return after he collapsed on the hood of the LEAF with Mal trembling at his feet. God, what the man could do with his mouth. Although it wasn’t that so much as the way he’d surrendered control. Bryce would never have believed that would affect him so profoundly.

  But something stirred in his chest, urging him to take care of Mal, see to his needs. He knew so little about this kind of sexual play. Wasn’t there some kind of aftercare?

  And what about that declaration? Had he just committed to an exclusive relationship with Mal Kendrick, the ill-tempered knight of the Seelie Court? Yet since they’d returned from Faerie, Mal hadn’t been the same brash, curmudgeonly asshole he’d been before. Instead of angry and aggressive, he’d turned achingly vulnerable. And while part of Bryce wanted to see how far he could push before Mal said no more (and where had that thought come from?), another part wanted nothing more than to see him well and happy.

  “Hey.” He slid down until he landed on his ass with Mal between his legs. Mal’s head was hanging forward, his shoulders shaking, chest heaving. Bryce slid his fingers under Mal’s chin and nudged it up, but Mal jerked away before their gazes could meet.

  Bryce was not having that. No freaking way.

  “Mal. Look at me.” Something—was it because the car was behind him?—made his voice echo strangely in the garage. Whatever it was, it worked: Mal looked. The expression on his face was half-agonized, half-blissed-out. Bryce hadn’t missed the giant wet spot on the front of Mal’s sweatpants. He felt bad for not reciprocating, not giving touch for touch, stroke for stroke, during the most amazing blowjob on the planet. But for some reason, simply holding Mal’s head, restraining him, had felt so right.

  Now, though, he needed something else—they both did. Bryce leaned forward and kissed him softly, then rested their foreheads together. “Do you have any notion of how incredible you are? How you make me feel?”

  “Bloody hells.” Mal pulled away. “I can’t— This is shite. I’m—”

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Bryce grabbed Mal’s shoulders. “Nothing to be ashamed of. We agreed. We only do this with each other. Nobody else needs to know, right?”

  Mal took a deep breath. “Right. Nobody.”

  “Good.” Bryce kissed him again. “Now, what do you say to a shower and a little target practice?”

  Mal’s smile bloomed. “I’d say bloody brilliant.”

  Bryce stood and offered Mal a hand up, which, for a wonder, he took without arguing. “I’ve got a spare pair of tactical pants and a vest you can wear. Easier to pack the paintball charges when you’ve got plenty of pockets.”

  “Oi. I’ll look like a wanker in those.”

  “Are you saying I look like a wanker?”

  Mal grinned. “Yeah, but on you, it’s a good look.”

  Only the promise of target practice with his new weapon—Goddess, to be armed again!— kept Mal from begging Bryce to fuck him in the shower. Afterward, he helped Bryce set u
p a straw bale as a target midway down the hill, with their backs to the wetlands.

  “These charges are only filled with water. We don’t want to waste the potion until we actually expect to encounter something with evil intent.”

  “Evil intent is everywhere, mate.” Mal patted the pockets of his ridiculous tactical pants. “I should carry live ammo with me at all times so I’m prepared to meet it.”

  “Listen to you. Talking about ammo like a card-carrying NRA member.” Bryce grinned, and Mal practically wagged his nonexistent tail at the praise. Gwydion’s bollocks, Cassie better have a cure for this shite, because it was fecking humiliating.

  Then he remembered the golden contentment that had nearly swamped him after he’d submitted to Bryce. Maybe potential humiliation is worth it—especially if nobody else ever finds out.

  Bryce, though . . . Clearly the man hadn’t a cruel bone in his long, elegant body. Plus he’d come up with this way for Mal to be less bloody useless. For that, he’d blow him whenever and wherever the mood struck.

  But, now, they had a mission. After half an hour of steady practice, Mal had the hang of the paintball gun. He tucked it under his right arm and patted it affectionately. “It may not have the elegance of a broadsword, but it does have a certain style. Don’t suppose you’ve got a scabbard for it?”

  Chuckling, Bryce dropped a kiss on Mal’s nape as he passed by on his way to the target. “You don’t have to haul it around with you 24/7, you know.”

  “Oi. Remember the Unseelie who showed up in your slough? We’re under siege, mate, and enemies aren’t in the habit of scheduling their ambushes in advance.”

  “So you wore your sword all the time?”

  Mal frowned. “All the time in Faerie. Come to think of it, Unseelie have never shown in the Outer World before.”

  “That you know of.”

  Mal’s eyebrows shot up. “Shite. You’re right. After the Unification treaty, Unseelie weren’t under the jurisdiction of either the Queen or the supe councils, so any incursion would take careful diplomacy to sort out—Alun’s brand of fancy-worded, psychological diplomacy. They wouldn’t want to send their proxy executioner to crash around like a berserker, endangering their hard-won peace.”