The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  “Want a beer? I’ve got more of that Double Mountain IRA.”

  “Sure. However—”

  “Grab some paper towels too.” Mal brandished his unresponsive hand. “Not exactly tidy at the table these days.”

  Bryce glared at him. “In case you weren’t aware, those are made from trees.” He jerked open a drawer and pulled out a stack of folded cloth napkins that Mal hadn’t known he had.

  “Imagine that. Those come with the house, do they? Present from the homeowners’ association?”

  “Of course not. I’m sure your brother-in-law—” Bryce clenched his eyes shut for an instant, his chest lifting with a huge breath. “Mal. Stop trying to divert me. We need to talk. We can do it while we dance around your kitchen getting ready to eat. We can do it while we eat. We can do it—”

  “Can we do it while we fuck?”

  Mal immediately wanted to take the brazen response back. He might have meant it—in fact, he was sure he did—but not in the way it sounded, as if it were something offhand and trivial. However, Bryce’s tendency to analyze everything down to its bloody bones was far too dangerous, and Mal needed to put him off the scent. Otherwise, I might learn something about myself I’d rather not know. Or worse, Bryce might learn something about Mal that would drive him away.

  “Christ Almighty.” Bryce flung the napkins onto the counter and carded his fingers through his hair, giving himself that fetching mad-scientist do. “Will you please, please be serious?”

  “You think I’m not serious?” Mal stepped forward until he could feel the heat of Bryce’s body against his own. “Think again.”

  “Mal.”

  At Bryce’s tone of exasperated command, Mal shivered, the shield of his bravado melting away. He closed his eyes, hands hanging limp at his sides, waiting for whatever Bryce ordered him to do next. Craving it. If Bryce would just—

  “Shite,” Mal muttered, at the same time Bryce said, “Crap.”

  Mal chuckled. “Amounts to the same stinking mess, eh, no matter how it’s translated?”

  Bryce sighed heavily. “Clearly the tisane isn’t doing much in the way of bond management yet.”

  “You think?”

  “On the other hand, everything I’ve read so far indicates that individual will is a critical component of any spell. If we expect this one to work, we’d better do our part and . . . well . . . resist.”

  “Resist.” Mal tried the word out, turning it over in his mind. Did he want to resist? Could he resist? Furthermore, did he want Bryce to resist? “Is that what you want to do?”

  “It hardly matters. This connection between us is something neither of us intended. So don’t you think a little distance”—he flicked his fingers at Mal’s middle, where the tether was quiescent, as close as they were standing—“figurative if not literal, would be best while we sort this out?”

  Distance? A pit opened in Mal’s belly at the very notion. Hells no. Bryce couldn’t be serious. Could he? Since Mal wasn’t sure he’d like the answer, he wasn’t about to test his luck by asking the question. “If you ask me, ‘best’ would be getting something else inside us besides that bloody druid brew. I think it’s putting both of us off our games.”

  Bryce pressed his lips together and nodded, taking the plates and napkins to the table. Mal joined him, where they made it through two slices of pizza and a beer and a half in total silence. Well, Mal ate and drank; Bryce just picked at the sausage and took one or two half-hearted pulls on his bottle.

  Shite. If this was what Bryce meant by “distance,” Mal wanted none of it. His skin fairly crawled with the need for Bryce’s touch. Guess my will isn’t as thrice-blasted powerful as his. Or maybe . . . Could the residual effects of Rodric’s attack be putting Bryce off his feed, despite Cassie’s soporific vitality potion?

  Rodric. His silver hand. His delusions of godhood. Mal doubted the blighter would be colluding with Steve—and Steve didn’t seem the type to resort to arming psychopaths with built-in flamethrowers anyway. But Rodric’s plans, whatever they were, could definitely complicate Mal’s own mission.

  If I’m not prevented from telling Bryce about Rodric, that should prove he’s not part of Steve’s plot, right? Might as well give it a shot—Bryce deserved to know more about the arsehole who’d tried to kill him.

  “Listen, mate. I know you said distance, but we need to chat. We’ve got bigger problems than our bond.”

  A relieved smile spread across Bryce’s face. “Thank God. Let’s get to it, then.”

  “Here now, really? I never took you for one of those blokes who thrives on a rumpus.” Gareth’s first—and only—lover had been like that: forever stirring the pot, glorying in the resulting chaos and commotion. Mal had been half-relieved when an Unseelie noble had spirited the blighter away, if only so he wouldn’t keep leading Gareth into scrapes. Mal would never have figured Bryce for the same sort.

  “No. Of course not. I just mean— Never mind. Go on.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on Mal’s forearm. “Tell me.” Then he snatched his hand away. “Scratch that. I didn’t mean—” He took a breath. “If you want, I’d love to hear any concerns you choose to share.”

  The sudden release from the compulsion to tell made Mal a bit dizzy—and disappointed, if he wanted to be honest. Damned PC tree hugger. He tried to reorganize his scattered thoughts, wishing Bryce would touch him again, help him focus.

  “Right, then. What do you know about the Irish?”

  “The Irish? But—” Bryce’s eyebrows drew together. “Okay, I’ll bite. I assume you’re not referring to the current inhabitants of the country.”

  Mal barked out a laugh. “Hardly. Ever hear of the Tuath Dé or the Fir Bolg?” Bryce shook his head. “The Fomorians?” Another shake. “Guess I’m utter shite as a tutor, eh? The Tuath Dé lived in the land—Ireland that is—in the time of the elder gods. In fact, some say that they were gods themselves, but that’s revisionist propaganda put about by the Daoine Sidhe, if you ask me.”

  “Why would they care?”

  “Because the Daoine Sidhe are what the Tuath Dé became after they got swindled out of their kingdom in the Outer World.”

  “Swindled?”

  “Aye. When they were dividing up Ireland after one of their shiteload of battles, the fools let a poet from the other side call the terms. And he, being a clever sort, picked everything above ground. So off toddled the Tuath Dé, into the sidhe mounds and straight on to Faerie.”

  Bryce raised an eyebrow. “I take it the Tuath Dé weren’t happy about this.”

  “You got that right. That’s one of the reasons the Daoine Sidhe are such a bloody pain in the arse. The thing is, the Tuath Dé stole the place themselves first from the Fir Bolg and the Fomorians, who were rumored to be a bit on the dodgy side in both appearance and behavior.”

  “Ah. So that’s the kind of being he—” Bryce shook his head, and this time his smile was nigh on nuclear. What was that about? Whatever it was, that smile turned Mal’s insides to jelly. If he were to encourage Bryce to do it again, maybe from on his knees? Mal licked his lips, tempted to give it a go, but Bryce made a get-on-with-it gesture, then sat forward, his eyes bright. “Sorry. Dodgy. Got it. Go on— I mean, you were saying?”

  “Right.” Mal swallowed his disappointment. This is important. To be safe, he needs to know. “In the first battle, Nuada, the Tuath Dé king, faced an opponent who cut off his right hand with a single sword sweep.” Mal raised his own. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  “Wait.” The elation drained from Bryce’s face, leaving him austere—and fecking hot. “This isn’t about— You’re referring to Rodric?”

  “Of course. Who did you think I was talking about?”

  Bryce’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, Mal feared—hoped?—that a druid command would be forthcoming. But instead, Bryce balled up his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Never mind. I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

  “What was?”


  “That you would trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

  Mal’s heart stuttered, then took off at a gallop as anger and hurt warred in his chest. “Oi. Everything I just told you is absolutely true.” Although I left out the part about wanting to do you under the table. “You Outer World yobboes might dismiss it as myth—”

  “‘Us’ yobboes? So I’m still on the other side, am I?” Bryce pushed back from the table and stood, looming over Mal. “Is that why you refuse to tell me about—”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Mal scrambled to his feet, heart sinking at the expression on Bryce’s face. Talk about distance. “You know it’s not.”

  “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.” He stacked their plates on top of the pizza box, then stalked into the kitchen. His movements were jerky as he stored the leftover pizza in the refrigerator and loaded the dishes in the dishwasher’s energy-efficient maw.

  Mal couldn’t think of a thing to say, but his druid had always been more about action anyway. So Mal strolled into the kitchen to collect the empty pizza box. After he tucked it under his right elbow, he cut a highly inefficient path back to the dining room so Bryce couldn’t miss him. Capturing the necks of their empty bottles between his fingers, he circled the table to stand by the back door.

  Bryce didn’t glance up from wiping down the counter. Mal cleared his throat. Nothing.

  “Could I get a hand here, mate? Can’t open the bloody door with my arms full of recycling now, can I?”

  With a snort, Bryce finally looked at him. “At least you’re separating glass from cardboard.”

  Mal offered a grin, but got nothing in return. Damn it. “What can I say? I can be taught, given the right professor.”

  Bryce’s cold glare wasn’t promising, but he crossed the room and opened the door, then accompanied Mal to the side of the house. If only I could believe that he wanted to do more than make sure I put this shite in the right bins, and that he wanted to be with me for any other reason than that gods-be-damned tether.

  “Bryce—”

  “Look, today was a little eventful, and I’m ready to pack it in.” His glasses glinted in the wan light of the solar-powered streetlights as he turned away. “If you don’t mind.”

  Clearly Bryce hadn’t forgiven him for that stupid slip. “Nah. Suits me.”

  Bryce nodded jerkily, then led the way inside, resistance evident in the stiff set of his shoulders.

  Goddess, tomorrow would be a pisser. Yeah, Mal had to persuade the Queen to bed a monster, but at this rate, it would be a walk in the park, a day at the beach, a blooming picnic compared to convincing Bryce to take another hike across the threshold into Faerie.

  Before he could do that, though, he had to get Bryce to talk to him again—or rather listen, since Bryce didn’t seem at all inclined to allow Mal to explain himself. Bloody stubborn druid.

  Then there was the coming night to endure: hours in bed next to Bryce, resisting the desperate urge to touch, to kiss, to beg.

  I’m doomed.

  Even Mal’s lie about the reason for their first foray into Faerie hadn’t ticked Bryce off this much, probably because of tonight’s massive crash of disappointment. For all of five minutes, he’d truly believed that Mal would open up to him about the secret visitor. Perhaps go so far as to ask for Bryce’s help in escaping a bargain with stakes so monumental that Mal considered them a fair trade for treason.

  But then Mal had offered nothing but a damned history lesson, which might have been appropriate for a supernatural tutor, but sucked big time for a trusted partner in . . . in . . . whatever it was they were doing.

  As they got ready for bed, Mal attempted to start a conversation several times. Bryce ignored him, and stubbornly left his briefs and T-shirt on, although Mal stripped down to mouth-watering nakedness before climbing between the sheets.

  Resist, damn it. You’ve got willpower, so use it.

  Bryce lay down on the edge of the mattress, staring up at the ceiling in the near-darkness. When Mal edged closer, Bryce rolled over to face the wall. “Don’t.”

  Mal didn’t move away, but he didn’t get closer either. “You know I don’t think of you that way, cariad. As an outsider. As other.”

  “Really? You don’t still label me as a ‘bloody druid’ in your thoughts?”

  He chuckled, a rather strained sound that vibrated the mattress, with a predictable effect on Bryce’s dick. “Yes, but not in a bad way. And I wouldn’t lie to you. Not anymore. I don’t think I could.”

  “Because of the bond.”

  “What? Shite, no. Because—”

  Bryce sighed and tugged the sheets up over his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Mal.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he muttered, and flopped onto his back.

  It might have been easy to say, but it wasn’t easy for Bryce to do. He lay awake for hours—and from the tension in Mal’s back when Bryce was weak enough to look—Mal did the same. He must have dozed off finally, because when he jerked awake, his hand was gripping Mal’s hip and his nose was pressed to Mal’s nape, with Mal moaning encouragement.

  Shit. He scrambled back to his side of the bed and tried not to hyperventilate. He didn’t drop off again until just before dawn—and then woke with his hips pumping, his dick nestled tight between Mal’s ass cheeks.

  He rolled away, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his misbehaving dick. “This isn’t working.”

  “Only because you stopped.”

  “I told you. We need to resist.”

  “Yeah, because that’s working so well.” Mal’s tone revealed he was just as out of temper as Bryce.

  “Let’s get up. I’ve got work to do. You can piss first.”

  “Fine.” Mal disappeared into the bathroom, and somehow, even the toilet flush sounded irritated. Clearly the miserable night was about to give way to an equally unpleasant day.

  They continued to snipe at one another while Bryce prepped their next dose of the “management” tea. Gah, that stuff was foul—it turned Bryce’s stomach so much that it nearly made an immediate return appearance.

  Mal had snickered at his reaction, which didn’t help his mood. So for the rest of the morning, he ignored Mal as much as possible given their enforced proximity, and managed to get a fair bit of work done in the wetlands. The results didn’t improve his temper.

  Now, as Bryce waded along the edge of the slough in the early afternoon light, he tried to rein in his annoyance and alarm so he wouldn’t damage the plants. Mal was brooding on the bank, as he’d done all day, adjusting his position when their tether pulled too tight.

  The blight had spread, its virulent yellow-green tentacles snaking through the water. That . . . that poison didn’t belong anywhere in nature—and definitely not here in his wetlands. A new coil split off and drifted toward a stand of cattails, making his stomach roil. I have to stop this, no matter what—and if the problem is rooted in Faerie, that’s where we’ll need to go to solve it.

  Mal was his only means to gain entrance, but Bryce still wasn’t sure of the man’s motives.

  Ankle-deep in water, a dead trout bumping forlornly against his boot top, Bryce turned to face Mal, who was yanking up fescue and piling it by his feet.

  “Stop depilating the lawn, Mal. You’re worse than an herbicide.”

  “Never killed an herb in my life,” Mal muttered, and scattered the fescue shreds with a swipe of his hand.

  “Could we put aside our personal grievances, please? What’s at stake here is bigger. The blight is worse. If we don’t find a way to fix it, the entire site could be contaminated beyond recovery. This was supposed to be a model project, the template for others all along the West Coast. If I can’t even prove this one out, how likely is it that I’ll be able to get funding for another?”

  “Looking to expand your empire, are you?” Mal stood, slapping irritably at his pants with his good hand. “Become Bryce MacLeod, king of the West Coast swamps?”

  Bryce
ran a hand through his hair. “Christ Almighty, no. The important thing is the work. The plants. The animals.” He gestured to the poor belly-up fish. “You really think I’m in this to stroke my fucking ego?”

  “Why not?” Mal’s eyes flashed, and he took a step forward. “People hide their true desires all the time. It always seems to come back to power, though, in the end. Sometimes”—he gestured to the pond, the surrounding trees, the dead fish—“the cause is just the excuse.”

  Bryce waded out of the water. “This is not. About.” He poked Mal in the chest with one finger. “Me.”

  “That’s what you say, but what do I really know about you?”

  Bryce snorted. “Ask your brother-in-law. He’s the expert.”

  Mal frowned and advanced on Bryce. “David? What do you mean? Did you know David before? Shite, have you fucked David?”

  “Of course not, you idiot. He researched me. I only met him face-to-face the day before yesterday.”

  “You’d have had time. When I was outside with Cassie.”

  “Do you hear yourself? Is that what you think of me? That I’ll screw anything that moves? And David—do you really think he’d betray your brother? He’s obviously insanely in love with him.”

  “I trust David. But you . . . you could talk him into it. You could make him do it. The druid power voice can make anybody do anything.”

  “‘Power voice’? What the hell is that?”

  Mal snorted. “Just another wee trick in your druid arsenal.”

  “You mean the control, the . . . the dominance, it’s not just our—” he gestured between the two of them, his blood turning to ice, “—our connection? I could affect anybody? Coerce them accidentally?”

  “‘Accidentally’? Not likely. You’re the one who’s been on about exercising our wills.”

  “Mal, please. This is important. Could I do that?”

  “Maybe not to humans so much. But supes? Definitely.”

  Frowning, Bryce tried to think past the panic sparking in his brain. “David said supes have an extra physiological component—”

  “You’ve got it too. Why do you think Cassie was able to sucker you into apprenticeship? Gentle persuasion? The logic of her arguments?”