The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  Mal glanced back at Bryce, tried to imagine what Gareth had gone through when his lover was kidnapped. If Bryce were taken away, if Rodric had succeeded in killing him . . . Mal’s belly clenched, and pain lanced through his chest. Goddess, I couldn’t bear it. Was this the bond talking, or had Mal actually found someone who completed him the way Niall had completed Gareth?

  Could he take that risk? Take the chance on that kind of deep connection when the other half could be torn away anytime? Niall had been human. His time with Gareth would have been short in any case. But that doesn’t mean Gareth has nothing left to lose.

  “Leave my brother out of it and I’ll do whatever you want.” He’d find a way to convince Bryce—if worse came to worst, he’d let Bryce fuck him from here to Aberystwyth if it kept Gareth safe, familiar bond be damned. After all, it’s not like I’ve got a brilliant life awaiting me anyway. “So what’s your last bloody task?”

  “A night for me in the Queen’s bed.”

  “Are you out of your bloody mind?” Mal shouted, then glanced over at Bryce, who stirred restlessly before settling back to regular breathing. “Come here.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. Might as well get as far away as possible before he tore Steve a new one—assuming the bastard didn’t already have several. Who knew what kind of fae was lurking under that hood?

  He stalked through the darkening dining room and into the kitchen, as far as his tether to Bryce would allow. At least the wall between the rooms would block the sound of their conversation, although given the anger boiling in his chest, he doubted his ability to keep to what David called his “inside voice.”

  Inside voice be damned. If this idiot expected Mal to put his skin on the line, he’d better come through with a few more fecking details. This time, Mal was sober enough to demand more information. This time, he had more than his own worthless life at stake, since any foray into Faerie would have to include Bryce.

  But if he refused, would Steve make good on his threat to approach Gareth? Gareth might actually be able to pull it off—the combined power of his voice and Gwydion’s harp was enough to convince the trees to sing and the hills to dance.

  Gareth has been through enough. I can handle this. One-handed. With a druid sidecar. Who I apparently want to shag me every time I look at him.

  Shite. He was fucked. Upside down, backward, and sideways.

  Steve took up a position in front of the sink, and in the twilight, his silhouette against the window looked even larger. Mal flipped on the lights to tone down the effect.

  He realized this was the first time he’d seen Steve in good light when he wasn’t three-quarters pissed. His cloak was embroidered with tiny gold leaves—and given that Faerie thread was actual gold, Steve was clearly of high rank. So he should bloody well know better.

  “You realize that’s an impossible task, right?”

  “If curses were easy to break, there would be no point in them, for how would a victim learn to respect the power of a caster?” Steve’s sepulchral voice, normally so deadpan, took on a definite sarcastic tone.

  “Who are you really?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “If you expect me to—”

  “You misunderstand. I cannot say.”

  Oh. So I’m not the only one with a magical muzzle. “Your curse. That’s part of it, isn’t it?” Steve inclined his head. “Can you tell me whether I’ve met you before?”

  “No.”

  “No, you can’t tell me, or no, we haven’t met.”

  “The latter.”

  “Why is that? I’ve been at court since the Unification.”

  “I was never at your court.”

  If he wasn’t at the Seelie Court, that meant— “You’re Unseelie. Shite, of course you’re Unseelie. How else would you get me a talisman to get me through the gates? Goddess, I’ve tied myself to an Unseelie swine as well as to a druid!”

  Could my life get any more fucked?

  “Accepting the geas was your choice. Accepting this task is your choice as well.”

  Some choice. If he refused, he’d lose his other hand and risk condemning Gareth.

  “You realize I can’t set foot in the Seelie sphere without calling down a death sentence.” And, shite, the executioner would be Alun. He wasn’t sure who would be more devastated—Alun, at having to execute him, or himself, when he realized Alun would actually do it because his damned code of ethics would demand he do his duty, no matter who the criminal was.

  And if Mal went through with this, he’d be a criminal then, no question—a traitor to Queen and court. He couldn’t justify his actions even to himself.

  “How do you propose we avoid that little complication? I don’t suppose you’ve got a cloak of invisibility up your endless sleeve.”

  “No.”

  “A royal pardon?”

  “No.”

  Mal lifted his hands in a there-you-go shrug. “Can’t see how I’ll be much use to you, then.”

  “You needn’t venture into Seelie territory. Only the common ground. The Stone Circle.”

  Just fecking grand. The Stone Circle, the site of his last act as the Queen’s Enforcer. The night he’d made the huge mistake of taking only Rodric Luchullain’s hand instead of his head.

  “Even the common areas—I’m not sure that’s not a violation too.”

  “If you don’t want to lose the use of your other hand, you must at least hazard an attempt.”

  “You mean, if I try and fail, I won’t be in default of the bargain?” He’d be no worse off than he was now. Not that he was thrilled with that idea, but one hand beat none, hands—as it were—down.

  “No. But if you don’t try, you will definitely fail. At least in this, you have a chance.”

  “Lovely.”

  “This will ease your way.” Steve held out another coin. “To open a gate closer to the Stone Circle. You needn’t traverse Unseelie lands.”

  “Small favors.”

  Steve rumbled. “You would prefer to locate the gate yourself? No doubt your druid paramour could manage it.”

  What a bloody horrid word. Paramour. It made their connection sound so . . . sordid. “I’d say leave him out of this, but I can’t.”

  “Indeed. He must attend you, whether he wills it or not.”

  “Say we locate the gate. Enter the circle. Then what? It’s not as if the Queen holds court there.”

  “Take this.” Steve held out a jeweled dagger, a Celtic knot worked into its hilt. “Strike the ground at the foot of the altar stone, and the Queen will be summoned.”

  Mal took the dagger. It was a piss-poor weapon, the heavy ornate hilt making it uncomfortable to hold. It would probably do as much damage to the wielder as the victim. Just as well the ground was the target—at least it didn’t fight back. Much. “What the hells should I say to her? ‘Cheers, Your Majesty, I’ve set up a booty call for you with this fine Unseelie gentleman.”

  “‘Booty call’? What means this?”

  “It means you want me to convince the Queen to let you shag her. What possible reason could I give her to listen to that kind of shite?”

  “You could tell her that the fate of Faerie itself hangs on her answer. If she refuses, the Seelie Court could fall. Indeed, Faerie itself could cease to be.”

  “And she should believe this, why?”

  Steve rumbled. “I cannot force her to believe. But this might make her more agreeable to my suit.”

  Steve pulled a delicate wooden box out of his sleeve, this one barely half the size of his palm, its top and sides carved with exquisite tiny birds. Mal took it, but when he would have flipped the lid on its silver hinges, Steve threw up a hand, and Mal found himself frozen in place. “Don’t open it.”

  “Why? Is it bespelled? Because if you’ve got some double game up your cloak, you can forget it.”

  “The contents are fragile. Exposing them to air not of Faerie will destroy them.”

  “Seems what my brother-in-law w
ould call ‘sketchy.’”

  “Nevertheless, if you intend to keep your bargain, you must do as I say.” He lowered his hand, and Mal could move again. “You must arrive at the circle no later than dusk tomorrow. If the Queen agrees, you must await us in the circle until dawn breaks.”

  “Keeping a human inside Faerie for more than a night—”

  “He is not human. He is druid. He will be well.”

  So you say, but how can I be sure? Mal found he was less willing to take chances with Bryce’s safety than he was with the Queen’s. After all, she could take care of herself. And if she couldn’t, her guards could.

  Shite, her guards. Was he likely to be able to get two words in before they arrested him and tossed his arse into prison for the next millennium?

  “It seems to me that all the risk is on my side. If I’m doing this—”

  “You’re doing it to lift your curse. To restore yourself to the honors and privileges due you as a high lord of the fae. What more do you want?”

  “I want a gesture of good faith on your part.”

  “I have not killed you or your paramour, nor reduced your domicile to a cinder. Surely that is good will enough.”

  “That’s just good business. How can I do your dirty work if I’m dead?”

  “What then?”

  “Uncloak. I need to know what I’ve got to deal with. Exactly how persuasive I need to be to get the Queen to lift her skirts for you.”

  Steve rumbled. “You should show more respect.”

  “Why? Isn’t that what you’re asking? Don’t cloak it in flowery medieval poetry. Say what it is. You want the Queen to let you fuck her.”

  “No!” Steve seemed to grow another foot in height and three in girth as a frigid wind swept through the room, rattling the blinds and blowing Mal’s hair off his face. “Do not speak of her with such disrespect!”

  The Queen is the chink in Steve’s armor? A weakness vast enough to make him lose control? “Don’t lie to yourself. It’s what you’re asking.” Maybe at least one of them could manage to own up to his desires. “It’s only fair that I know how persuasive I need to be. Uncloak, before Bryce wakes up and starts asking questions.”

  “Very well. But remember, this is your request.” And he pushed back his hood.

  “Gwydion’s bloody bollocks,” Mal muttered.

  When Alun had been afflicted with his beast curse, he could at least have passed on the street as human, albeit horribly disfigured. But this—this blue-skinned, boar-tusked, serpent-haired horror couldn’t pass for anything but what it was: a monster. A monster even among a race that counted web-footed bean nighe, spike-tailed fuath, and one-eyed, skinless nuckelavee as normal.

  “As you say.” Steve’s eyes burned like embers, focused on Mal as if he’d prefer to incinerate him with a glare—which might be one of his superpowers for all Mal knew. “Now, a night for me in the Queen’s bed, and you’ll be rewarded. Will you complete your side of the bargain or no?”

  “You know I will.” Whether he’d succeed in this last task was anybody’s guess, but he’d at least have to try, if only to keep Steve away from Gareth. Yes, it meant choosing between sparing Alun or sparing Gareth, but Alun had David. Gareth had nobody. And a skittish, out-of-control, monstrous magic-user was a danger to everyone, even the last true bard of Faerie.

  The low, furious conversation between Mal and a stranger finally resolved into intelligible words in Bryce’s muzzy brain. What kind of an unholy bargain had Mal struck? It sounded as if he were in league to somehow compromise the Queen of Faerie. With whom? He opened his eyes, then clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. The shadow thrown on the wall by Mal’s mysterious visitor was huge and misshapen and utterly inhuman. Was he agreeing to coerce the Queen into a liaison with a monster?

  To judge by Mal’s muttered expletive, even he was shocked. Yet he still agreed, despite the potential harm to his Queen. This can’t be right—he wouldn’t sacrifice another for his own benefit. Surely Bryce hadn’t been so mistaken about Mal’s character.

  Would he lie again to coerce Bryce into unwitting complicity?

  I could keep him here. If I refuse to go, he can’t cross. But would that be enough? I could order him to stay, and he would.

  No. That would make him the same kind of monster as the creature in the kitchen, who wanted to force a sexual encounter on the Queen by conspiracy and subterfuge.

  He’d think of something. He had to. If only to keep Mal from damaging himself so much in the eyes of the Queen that he’d never get his position at court back.

  Wouldn’t that be better, though? If he couldn’t go back, he could stay here. With me. But would he stay if he had a true choice? If he hadn’t been roofied by fae biology?

  Bryce’s ears popped as all the blinds flattened against the windows. The shadow disappeared, and Mal muttered a few more words in an unfamiliar language. Welsh? Gaelic? Would Mal tell him what it meant if Bryce asked? But to ask would be to reveal he’d been eavesdropping. And to ask might compel him to answer. Better to give Mal a chance to explain on his own, without coercion. Because it would be too easy for me slide down that slippery slope. He muffled a sigh. If only slippery slopes weren’t so freaking exciting.

  Quickly rearranging himself on the sofa, Bryce pretended to be asleep. He heard Mal’s footsteps approach, could detect his shape just by the way the air moved across his own skin. Was this . . . this awareness a part of the bond Cassie had spoken of? On some instinctive level, Bryce knew that he could do something to deepen the bond. With the right combination of actions and words, he wouldn’t simply feel Mal—he would be a part of Mal, linked in a way that incorporated the physical as much as it transcended it.

  Bryce concentrated, and without any effort at all, he aligned his breathing with Mal’s, settled his heartbeat into the same rhythm. When they were in complete synchronization, Mal heaved a shaky breath, a near moan.

  One finger skated along Bryce’s cheekbone. “Cariad.”

  Bryce opened his eyes, and Mal snatched his hand away.

  “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s all right. What time is it?”

  “About eight. You’re going to have trouble sleeping tonight with a nap that long so late in the day.”

  “Maybe.” Bryce stretched and noticed that Mal was watching him, his gaze flicking from Bryce’s chest to his groin and back again. As if responding to Mal’s attention, Bryce’s dick decided to wake up and say hello.

  No. No way in hell. He couldn’t manipulate Mal like that, force him into unwilling sex. No matter how good it felt.

  A wicked grin grew on Mal’s face. “Look you, someone wants to come out and play.”

  “No. That’s just . . . morning wood.”

  “It’s evening, mate.”

  “But I just woke up.” Bryce rolled to a sitting position and scooted down the sofa away from Mal’s unsettling gaze. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Need any help?”

  He stood up, giving Mal a sardonic glance. “I think I can manage, thanks.” He scuttled down the hallway, but Mal followed close behind. “Really. You don’t have to help.”

  “I know. But in case you’ve forgotten . . .” Mal gestured between them. “Still attached at the mystical hip. If you want, I’ll stand at the end of the hallway, but the sofa is out of range.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  He escaped into the bathroom and leaned against the door. Christ. Talk about torture. He didn’t feel an irresistible urge to throw Mal up against the wall and fuck him senseless . . . precisely. Although that notion held a definite appeal, he could still resist it. Nevertheless, he craved Mal’s presence, his closeness.

  When he got out of the bathroom, Mal was still lounging against the wall, but he sprang to attention as soon as Bryce appeared. “So. Rodric’s attack made you a bit peckish even before Cassie’s brew knocked you for a loop. Fancy some dinner? I could call for a takeaway.”r />
  Bryce crossed his arms. “Really? That’s all you have to say? That we can order a flipping pizza?”

  Mal’s eyebrows quirked. “Well, I was thinking more along the lines of Thai curry, but pizza’s okay with me if you’d rather.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Mal, and you know it.”

  Mal huffed out a breath. “I don’t know shite, mate, unless you tell me.”

  “We need to talk about what happened today.”

  “Which part? Rodric? Cassie? The weather?”

  “Try what happened between us earlier.”

  Mal’s eyelids drooped and his mouth softened. “Talk, is it? I’d far rather do. If you’re up for a repeat, I—” He turned away. “Ah, shite. Never mind. Come on, then. Pizza and beer and we’ll bloody well talk.”

  Unable to pay the delivery guy and accept the pizza hand-off at the same time, Mal had to let Bryce take the box. Shite, his life had turned into a bloody three-legged race—or rather three-handed. With Steve’s latest impossible demand, coupled with his threat to Gareth, Mal was beginning to think he’d be limping along like this forever. And to a fae, “forever” wasn’t just some meaningless hyperbole.

  Bryce hesitated in the middle of the kitchen, glancing at the bare table. “Shall I set out plates?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I suppose, given your preference, you’d simply stand over the box and shove it in.”

  How can I resist a lead-in like that? Mal donned his old cocky attitude. Although it felt as uncomfortable now as a suit of ill-fitting chain mail, it might still offer protection against Bryce’s inconvenient curiosity. “It’s not pizza I’ve been wanting shoved into me, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Bryce fumbled the box, and Mal’s left hand shot out to steady it. Ha! Left hand—I’m learning. “Careful there. I don’t fancy scraping our dinner off the floor.”

  “Right. Sorry.” He slid the box onto the counter. “Look, Mal—”

  “Maybe plates would be a good idea. You know where they are by now.”

  “Of course.” Bryce opened the cabinet like a good little soldier. “But—”