The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  Bryce stopped adjusting the target and strode over to Mal. “Whatever your job used to be, you’re more than that. More than your function. You know that, right?”

  “You might be.” But Mal was less and less sure that he could say the same for himself. What had he ever done with his life besides brawl, kill, and fuck any man he could beguile into bed with his glamourie? Pretty fecking ironic that he was on the receiving end of the beguilement now. He leaned into Bryce, nuzzling his neck, breathing in the scent of grass and earth. But what a way to go.

  Bryce chuckled. “Careful. We pushed our luck with the open garage door. We’re lucky we’re at the end of the road here, and the homeowner’s association didn’t decide to send an inspector by.”

  “Why? Is garage sex against the covenants?” Mal murmured against Bryce’s jaw.

  “If it wasn’t before, it might be if they catch us at it. You ready to be done with practice?” Bryce’s voice deepened, quivering with the edge of druid power, and Mal was instantly hard again.

  “I—”

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  At the sound of that voice, Mal reared back, thrusting Bryce behind him as Rodric Luchullain sauntered out of the trees at the edge of the slough, his hands clasped behind his back. “What the bloody hells are you doing here, Rodric?”

  “Tracking you, of course.”

  Bryce moved to stand next to Mal. “Why wait until now to follow us?”

  Rodric’s brow knotted in confusion. “This is now.”

  “Obviously. But we saw you yesterday. If pursuit was so critical—”

  Mal gripped Bryce’s elbow before he could go off on a professorial rant that Rodric could never comprehend. “Time moves differently in Faerie. He probably followed as soon as he picked up the trail, but he still has no business in the Outer World.”

  “I could say the same for you, Lord Maldwyn.” The big blond bastard bared his teeth in what could pass for a smile, assuming the others in the room were sharks. “Dallying here with your pet?” He clucked his tongue. “Whatever would your dear brother Gareth say? As I understand it, he takes a dim view of fae consorting with humans.”

  “Leave my brother out of this. You need to go. Now.”

  “Not very hospitable, are you?” Rodric stood next to a stand of cattails, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he hadn’t a care in any world. “Won’t you give me a tour of your oh-so-charming—what do you call it? A cottage? A cabin? Perhaps a hovel? How far you’ve fallen.”

  “I could say the same for you. Not so mighty now, skulking around in the Unseelie sphere like the traitor you are.” Mal squinted against the light reflecting off the water, trying to see if any Unseelie soldiers were lurking under the trees.

  “Interesting thing, that. Because I seem to recall seeing you in Unseelie lands as well. Curious, isn’t it, since if I recall . . . what was it again?” He pursed his lips and gazed at the sky for a moment. “Oh yes. You were exiled from Faerie for violating the consort laws.”

  Bryce edged closer, his arm brushing Mal’s. “Is there anything we can do to him?” he murmured.

  Mal glanced at him. Bryce’s eyes had gone black again, his expression grim. Of course. Rodric was threatening his precious slough. Even my tree hugger would turn warrior for that. “Not unless he makes a move first. As long as he doesn’t interfere with the Outer World, we can’t lawfully touch him.”

  “What is that, some kind of fae Prime Directive?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. But when we get rid of this joker, I’m introducing you to Star Trek.”

  “Tell me, Lord Maldwyn, how does it feel to know the only way you’ll ever regain your so-exalted position at court is to restore me to power first?”

  “That’s not what the curse is about.”

  “Isn’t it? Make whole what you took that night. Isn’t that the way the Bitch Queen worded it? How do you plan to do that when I’ve taken care of it myself?”

  Rodric thrust his hands out, and shite, he had two of them, encased in leather gauntlets with jewel-studded cuffs. How in all the hells had the man regrown his bloody hand? And if he had, maybe the bastard was right. If he’d already magicked a hand onto his arm, how was Mal supposed to make him whole?

  “What exactly are the terms of your curse?” Bryce whispered. “You never said.”

  “Now is not the time,” Mal said through clenched teeth.

  “But it might be, don’t you see? From what I read in that grimoire, the exact words matter enormously. If the exact wording—”

  “Silence!” Rodric barked. “This doesn’t concern you. Stand aside and leave this to your betters.”

  Bryce straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You’re in my world now. My home. My work. I’d say it concerns me entirely.”

  Rodric threw his head back and laughed. “Do you imagine your fleeting life matters, human? Not one of you, not a dozen, not a hundred have half the worth of a single Daoine Sidhe.”

  “Shut it, Luchullain,” Mal growled.

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re not Daoine Sidhe, are you? You’re nothing more than a jumped up bwci, really. Y Tylwyth Teg are meant to be lesser fae. You should kneel at my feet and beg me not to kill you out of hand.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Mal had made a vow, hadn’t he? He only kneeled for Bryce. “Besides, last I heard, no Daoine Sidhe could be Unseelie. If you’ve forsaken the Seelie Court, you’ve lost your rank.”

  “Enough! Being Daoine Sidhe isn’t a rank—it’s not even our true name. Do you forget that we were once the Tuath Dé?”

  “The who?” Bryce murmured.

  “Tell you later. Bugger’s not done mouthing off yet, and we have to get him out of here.”

  “And you.” Rodric sneered, ignoring both their comments. “With all your powers stripped from you, unable to even swing your sword—you’re no better than the human. In fact . . .” He advanced, treading on the delicate blue flowers that edged the water. “You should kiss my feet. Now. Before I lose patience.”

  Bryce lurched forward, but Mal caught his arm and hauled him back to relative safety. “Compensating, are you, Rodric? Striking out at me because I was the vehicle for your disgrace?”

  Rodric bared his teeth again. “You think me angry with you? Hardly. I’d thank you if you weren’t nearly as sanctimonious a git as your elder brother, or as self-righteous a bastard as the younger. I was stifled, tied to that cold bitch for all the best centuries of my life. The presumption of her—deigning to grant me consort status. Her unmitigated gall in declaring the likes of you my equal. Now that I’m shed of all her rules and trappings, I’m free to claim my destiny, my birthright. With this.” He drew the glove off his right hand. Instead of flesh and bone, the hand glinted in the sunlight like molten silver.

  Flaming abyss. Mal couldn’t suppress a shiver. Between Rodric’s talk of the Tuath Dé and his shiny new silver hand . . . Gwydion’s bollocks, did the deluded arsehole actually believe himself to be the second coming of Nuada Airgetlám? Not good. But Mal snorted, refusing to let on how much it alarmed him.

  Bryce slanted a glance at Mal. “Does this guy always talk like a refugee from a bad period drama?” He brushed his fingers against Mal’s hand, and the accompanying jolt of comfort and support bolstered Mal’s courage.

  “Sometimes he’s worse. You should hear him whine when someone has a fancier suit than his. Or when someone’s bested him in sword practice—as Alun did every time they sparred.”

  Rodric’s face suffused with red. “Swordplay? For children. You asked why I came here? I came to kill you, and I now I have the means.” He raised his silver hand over his shoulder, cupped as if he were about to hurl an invisible stone.

  “No!” Bryce pushed Mal aside just as Rodric followed through, a blast of crackling blue lightning flying from his hand to hit Bryce square in the chest, sending him flying back to sprawl on the ground like a broken puppet.

  Mal scrambled over to
him, sparing only enough attention for Rodric to make sure he wasn’t readying another attack. “Bryce! Goddess. Bryce?” Mal felt frantically for a pulse. There. A heartbeat, although it tripped unevenly.

  Chuckling, Rodric strolled forward. “As satisfying as killing you will be, it’s almost more amusing to watch you suffer.”

  Shooting a furious glare over his shoulder, Mal shielded Bryce with his body. “Do you forget, Rodric, you wanker? Spill Seelie blood in the Outer World without the Queen’s permission, and you’ve signed your own death warrant.”

  “Nonsense,” Rodric growled. “The laws don’t apply. You’re an exile.”

  “A temporary exile. I’m still fae, still Seelie. Kill me and you’re fair game for the Queen’s Champion, whose magic safeguards are proof against your little fireball trick. And that honor is currently held by my brother Alun.”

  Rodric blanched, his gaze darting around the lawn as if Alun were hiding under a convenient stone. Good. He’s still a coward at his core, no matter what he thinks is due him.

  “I see you remember that you never beat him in the ring. Not once. Not even when he hadn’t wielded a blade for two hundred years. He’s that good.” He jerked his chin at Rodric’s hand. “Your new toy might sparkle prettily in the sun, but don’t think I didn’t notice you can barely move its fingers. I’ll wager you’re incapable of holding a sword, let alone wielding it with any skill.” Any more than I can. In fact, if he ignored the obvious difference in composition, Rodric’s hand looked exactly like Mal’s.

  Regaining his color, Rodric sauntered forward. “Perhaps I can’t kill you, although you’re a miserable excuse for a fae, Seelie or not, but I don’t need the Queen’s permission to spill human blood. I’ll finish your little pet while you watch.”

  His gaze locked with Rodric’s, Mal lay down, face up, on top of Bryce. The position left him open and vulnerable, but his life—and the threat of retribution—was the only weapon he had. “You’ll have to go through me to do it.”

  Rodric barked a laugh. “So fucking noble. But what’s the point? Humans are so short-lived that he won’t last long anyway. Move aside.”

  “No.”

  “Cynwrig . . .”

  The menace in Rodric’s tone, the speculative look in his eyes—shite, was he actually crazy enough to think he could get away killing them both?

  “Do you really want to take the risk, Rodric? You know Alun. You’ve known him for centuries. If you hurt me, he will hunt you down. He won’t stop until he ends you.” Mal threaded just enough mockery into his tone. “So tell me—are you feeling lucky?”

  For an instant, Rodric appeared to waver, and Mal braced himself for the blow, praying to the Goddess that the bastard would be satisfied with Mal’s life and leave Bryce alone. But then he yanked his glove back onto his silver hand. “This isn’t over. You can’t hide behind your brother’s coattails and the Queen’s skirts forever. I’ll kill you yet.” He stalked off, muttering to himself as he disappeared into the trees.

  “You’re damned right it’s not over.” You have a lot to answer for, and somehow I’ll see you pay for it. In full. Although how he’d do that, dodge Rodric’s murder attempts, and still fulfill the terms of his curse, Mal couldn’t say. Maybe Steve would come through for him yet.

  Mal wrestled Bryce’s inert body up the hill and into his living room. Once he arranged him on the sofa, he checked his heartbeat again. It seemed stronger, no more erratic than Mal’s own.

  Shite. He had no clue what to do. He wasn’t the medic—but he had a brother-in-law who could heal damn near everything.

  “Where the fuck is my cell phone?” He’d stuck it in the pocket of these thrice-damned tactical pants. What good were they if they didn’t hold the weapons he needed? He was never going unarmed again, not when Bryce’s life depended on it.

  He found the phone and speed-dialed David. Who didn’t pick up. Shite. Was he in a class? He called Alun’s office but got voice mail, David’s mellow tenor informing him that the office was closed while Dr. Kendrick was out of town.

  Brilliant. Alun was still missing and Rodric Luchullain was on the loose with a bloody Taser hand.

  He texted David instead: Emergency. Bryce injured by Rodric Luchullain. Need you now.

  He barely had time to hit Send before his front door burst open and Cassie strode in, no hint of a limp in her gait and her eyes black as midnight on the winter solstice. She didn’t spare Mal a glance, just went directly to Bryce’s side.

  “Make yourself useful, Maldwyn Cynwrig, and bring me that poof.”

  Poof? Oh. The footstool. He dropped it next to the sofa. “How did you get here so fast? I’d only just texted David.”

  “He’s my apprentice, you stupid man. I felt him fall.” She roosted on the footstool next to Bryce’s head. “What happened?”

  “Rodric bloody Luchullain. Bastard showed up in the wetlands. He’s found someone to replace his hand with a prosthesis that shoots fecking lightning bolts, which seems to make him think his ego-driven treason was a divine mandate or some shite. How in the hells can that be right?”

  “It’s not,” she said, smoothing Bryce’s hair back from his forehead. “Where are his glasses?”

  “I think the jolt knocked them off. They’re probably on the lawn somewhere.”

  “Go get them.”

  “No.” He wasn’t budging. Not until he knew Bryce was all right.

  She glared at him. “Lord Maldwyn. I said go get them.” Her druid power voice rattled his gods-be-damned triple-glazed windows, but for a wonder, he didn’t give a shite.

  “And I said no. I’m not leaving him.”

  She stilled, her hand on Bryce’s chest, over his heart. “What have you done?” she whispered.

  Panic shot through him. “I brought him in here. Shouldn’t I have moved him? Called 911 instead? But I didn’t want to chance Rodric coming back, and David can do—”

  “Be still. That’s not what I meant.” She grabbed his wrist, her fingers over his pulse point. “Your hearts. They beat as one.”

  He frowned at her. “That sounds like some bloody pop song. Save it for later and help him.”

  “Hush, you foolish man. Bryce will be well. Partly because of you.”

  “You mean because I called David? But you said you already felt—”

  “No. Because you are well. Somehow, you’ve activated the ancient bond between fae and druid. Although I must admit . . .” She glanced back at Bryce, who was breathing as erratically as Mal. “To my knowledge, no druid ever aspired to bond one of the greater fae, let alone a Sidhe lord.”

  “Don’t forget I’m only Sidhe by decree. According to Rodric, I wear y Tylwyth Teg roots like a brand across my bloody forehead.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. The genetic markers for servitude are still there. And I’ve looked into it—for all that Bryce denied it, he’s of the line of Robert the Bruce, although on the distaff side. The magic is quite potent in that line.”

  “He’s potent in more ways than one,” Mal muttered.

  “How far has this gone? Have you exchanged essence?”

  Shite. Now he had to go into details? “We’ve kissed. A lot. So there’s that exchange.”

  She waved a hand. “Yes, yes. That primes the pump, so to speak. Gives the druid the notion of compatibility, whether the bond will take and if you’re both likely to benefit from the association. What else?”

  Mal squinted at her. “You really want to know how two men have sex? These specific two men?”

  She poked his chest with one twig-like finger. “You forget my Davey is married to your brother. There is little you can say that would shock me.”

  He ran his good hand through his hair and looked at the ceiling, the floor, his feet, anything to avoid looking at her face while he confessed. Not shocking her was one thing. But this whole story still shocked him. “He, ah, fucked me. And I sucked him off.”

  Her brows, finally growing back after her illness ca
used by hiding David’s achubydd nature from everyone—including David himself—drew together. “His essence into you both times?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No return?”

  “Well, not really. Maybe sort of. Most of my . . . er . . . essence was on me. He might have gotten some on his skin by proximity, but nothing direct, if you get my meaning.”

  She frowned. “Interesting.”

  “‘Interesting’ as in ‘I know to fix this’ or ‘Interesting’ as in ‘Holy shite, the world is about to end’?”

  “I suppose it could be down to Mr. MacLeod not knowing the meaning of the compulsion, but normally, in the first two exchanges, one goes one way, and the next the other. Sharing, you see. Establishing parity.”

  “What if—” He cleared his throat. “What if I didn’t want parity? What if I wanted him to . . . be on top?”

  “Are you saying that being the receiver in both cases was your idea?”

  “Not just my idea. I begged him. Shite, Cassie, I would have let him take me dry in the middle of the road if he wanted. It was as if the only way I could get off, the only thing that mattered, was his pleasure. I’ve never done that before, never felt that before, not with anyone.”

  “You felt compelled?”

  He nodded miserably. “Like another person entirely. Afterward, I couldn’t understand why I’d do anything like that. Allow someone so obviously, well, weaker than me to own me that way.”

  “Weakness is not always of the body, Lord Maldwyn. And if I judge right, Mr. MacLeod has a strength even he has yet to comprehend.”

  “I heard that there are ways, druid spells or potions or something, to . . . to block the bond. So I don’t feel the urge to throw myself at his feet every minute and beg him to fuck me.”

  “Yes. There are. But there are consequences. And there are other things you should know first. If—”