by AM Riley
“I’m thinking this calls for a drink,” he said.
***
Patrons of O’Neill’s Bar and Grill sometimes claim to have seen strange things. It’s a little game they play with the tourists. In keeping with the tradition of the telling of tall tales. But some of them swear, their hands raised solemnly in pledge, those Irish eyes wide with an honesty that looks suspiciously like blarney, that they’ve seen the little people here abouts.
If any of them looked up from his or her drink now, and squinted just so at the golden light coming in round the shamrock-embedded leaded glass windows, they’d have seen an ordinary Irishman, slumped drunkenly against the shoulder of an elegantly dressed blond man, a younger blond slid down in his seat looking as petulant as any adolescent in the company of adults, and a hulking ghoulish man leaning heavily toward the others. A litter of empty whiskey bottles all over the table between them.
Nope, no faeries here.
“Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart: it has snatched my love and left me desolate, Without friend or companion under the roof of my house but this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening,” recited O’Grady, nodding for emphasis.
They were all silent for a minute. Out of respect for the magic of it.
“See, that’s why I say,” O’Grady said finally, frowning at his empty highball glass. He searched the area suspiciously for the leprechaun who’d stolen his drink, and managed to grasp hold of a still full bottle to pour himself another wee one. “The poets had to be Folk. They had to be.”
Lyre helpfully held the bottom of the bottle steady as O’Grady poured. They were both silent for a minute, concentrating on the important task of getting whiskey in a glass. O’Grady set the bottle down with a thud.
“No,” said Lyre sadly. “Joseph was a poet, but he was only human.”
O’Grady clucked sympathetically. “They are very fragile,” he said. “'Tis better to love a Sidhe.”
“No it isn’t.” Lyre buried his nose in his glass. “‘Tis better not to love at all.”
Seamus snorted and appeared to rouse, one eye opening. “Wutz love got ta do with it…” he nuzzled into Lyre’s shoulder and closed his eyes again.
O’Grady frowned. “Yer right, laddie. Love is a curse. I always guessed it.”
Maeebsef shivered and O’Grady turned to him, solicitously. His big hand stroked the silvery blond hair gently. Maeebsef looked up at him and what was spoken in the silence between them was so intimate it embarrassed Lyre to witness it and he looked away.
“I’m surprised,” said Lyre softly, as to the shot glass in his hand. “I believed the taboos.”
O’Grady lifted his arm so Maeebsef could crawl up underneath and cling to his warmth. Although he shook with cold, Maeebsef’s skin shone with the glaze of fever. O’Grady glared at Lyre. “Were the taboos true for you?”
“Perhaps,” said Lyre, “some of them.” Against his shoulder, Seamus mumbled and sighed. Lyre shivered. “Seamus,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
Seamus shook his head, smiling. Lyre pushed the man up to sitting. Seamus, eyes still closed, childish smile still on his face, scootched over and found his spot against Lyre again. Lyre sighed and wrapped an arm around him. His nostrils flared as the scent of the man, human sweat and whiskey and something else undefined but appealing, filled his senses. “All right, then,” said Lyre. “Sleep.”
O’Grady watched this with narrowed eyes. “Lyre of the Gianes, what is your business with my clansman?”
Lyre raised an eyebrow. “I’ve only just met him.”
O’Grady grunted and lifted another whiskey bottle, those opaque eyes fastened on Lyre. “And what were you planning to do with him?”
Lyre’s hand stroked slowly up and down Seamus arm. He frowned thoughtfully at the top of the man’s head. “I don’t know. The curse…”
O’Grady grunted again. “Ah, the curse you’ve been hintin’ at? Has it any thing to do with Maeebsef’s… fever?”
Lyre sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” He tsked and swirled the dregs of whiskey in his glass. “It is taboo to speak of it.”
“Helpful,” said O’Grady. He poured more whiskey into Lyre’s glass. “Maybe you could elucidate.”
Lyre glared across the table at him suspiciously. “You aren’t as drunk as I think I am.”
O’Grady cocked his head at him, his expression completely opaque.
Lyre glowered, but then sighed. “Yes, I see, I’ll have to explain myself. But you listen to me, Fearshee. This is not to go beyond the two of us.”
O’Grady hugged his lover against himself. “And Maeebsef.”
“Yes, of course. And Maeebsef.”
“And of course, the gnome Buzzimess, him being my best friend.”
“You have friends?” Lyre rolled his eyes at O’Grady’s look. “Yes. Yes. All right. You may tell the gnome.” He shook his head. “I’ve broken every taboo now. All that’s left is to vote Republican.”
O’Grady snorted into his drink.
“The Gianes were not friendly to humans always,” Lyre explained slowly. “They drew sustenance from them, their bodily fluids. Sometimes, out of laziness or greed, they’d keep a human with them. As a pet, I suppose. Like humans might keep a milk cow. Or a goat.” He narrowed his eyes, turning his glass thoughtfully. “But humans can be… charming. And some Gianes grew attached to their pets. They chose not to devour them, but lived in harmony with them.”
O’Grady nodded approvingly.
“Problem is, we still have the thirst.” Lyre tipped his glass and drank. Set it down, hard. “So the elders found a sorcerer to turn the dew of the grove to an elixir that would still the cravings.”
O’Grady sat up straight. “Then that’s it. All Maeebsef has to do is get the elixir.”
Lyre looked Maeebsef over. “Are you in the habit of consorting with humans then?”
“No!” said Maeebsef, indignant. He looked up at O’Grady, his devotion obvious in his eyes. “But,” he said, his fever-bright eyes darkening, “before we met, there was a time…”
O’Grady patted his hand comfortingly. “You do not need to speak of it.”
“I see,” said Lyre. “Well. The elixir may not help you much then. It is less a disease and more an addiction. Once a Gianes has the taste of human essence, it’s hard to go back.”
“Maeebsef could do it,” O’Grady said without hesitation. “Even were it difficult. He is remarkably strong.”
Lyre smiled softly. “You really do love him.”
O’Grady’s bloodless skin produced a light flush of color, he squirmed uncomfortably, looking away from the Fey he clutched to his side.
Maeebsef shivered so that his teeth chattered and clung even tighter to him. Lyre wondered at the relationship for the thousandth time that night. Their attachment was so strong one could see it in the air around them, yet the Banshee would not declare it.
Seamus stirred, his mouth opened on Lyre’s shoulder, chewing a little, and a stream of sensation trickled down Lyre’s side, hardening him immediately. He pushed Seamus away again. Propping him against the seat.
Seamus had been roused from drunkenness in enough bars to know that this position generally meant it was time to wake up. He shook his head carefully to and fro muttering about the hour and blinked his eyes awake.
Well, well, that studly guy was still sitting next to him. The Brady luck was with him tonight. “Hey,” said Seamus blearily. “Wuz a nice guy like you doin’ with a dirtbag like me?” And he laughed.
Lyre flushed. “The whiskey has affected your clansman more than I would have expected O’Grady.”
O’Grady’s growl was like the rumble of distant thunder. “And who encouraged him to drink it?”
Seamus scooted closer to Lyre and laid a paw on his shoulder. “I like yer shirt, hon,” he said. His eyes had gone dark blue and his smile was easy and relaxed. Lyre reflected that it had taken at least three bottles of faerie whiskey to make this
stiff, guarded man smile like that. Humans were a puzzle, Joseph had smiled so easily.
Lyre’s eyes traveled over Seamus’ face. Joseph and not Joseph. In many ways, more appealing than Joseph. This man looked less like he might break.
Another rumbling growl came from O’Grady. “You were sayin’?”
Lyre snapped to attention. “What was I saying?”
“The Curse?”
Lyre nodded, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Maaebsef, if you do not return to the Grove, your symptoms will worsen or you will succumb to the hunger. You will know no peace.”
Maeebsef gazed at him with huge feverish eyes. He shivered continuously now.
O’Grady’s hand rested protectively on Maeebsef’s head. “Maeebsef is easy to pacify…”
“I am not easy to pacify,” Maeebsef spoke through chattering teeth, but he spoke hotly. “You, of all people, O’Grady should know that.”
“I only meant,” but Maeebsef pulled himself away. His arms wrapped around himself, fingers clenching hard as he shivered violently.
“Maeebsef needs… I must take him to our home,” said O’Grady, roughly.
“Maeebsef needs to return to the Grove,” said Lyre.
“Well. Well. Well.” Seamus planted both elbows on the table with a thunk and clatter of glasses. “Sounds like a difference of oninion. Of opinion. So…” he leaned across the table and found a focus point somewhere in the middle of O’Grady’s chest. “Where were you on October sixth?”
Maeebsef’s teeth chattered when he spoke. “We don’t know calendar days, sir.”
“Sounds like a pretty lame excuse,” said Seamus. “Where were you sweetheart, if you don’t mind me askin’” He hiccupped.
“Seamus,” said O’Grady, glaring at the man. “Needs a taxi.”
“Nah,” said Seamus, waving a hand widely. “Too ‘spensive. I’ll take the trains.” He leaned toward Lyre, grinning. “Less you live nearby, hon.”
“My treat,” said O’Grady, standing abruptly and grabbing Seamus by the arm. “Upsie daysie, kinsman,” he said. “We’re sending you home.”
***
The great thing about alcohol is it turns off the inner cop, to an extent, and smoothes out all those pesky bumps and wrinkles that drive your thinking mind mad.
So when the three men escorted him to the curb and a taxi appeared as if from nowhere on the now almost empty streets, and that O’Grady character leaned in and told the cabbie Seamus’ address like they were old friends from way back, and the cabbie looked back at him and he was transparent?
Whatever.
His three drinking buddies were arguing out there on the curb when the cab took off. Seamus waited until they’d stopped at a light a couple of blocks down before he rapped on the glass. “Wait,” he said, looking behind him.
The Big Guy seemed to have resolved the argument, because he and his boyfriend were marching off in one direction and Lyre was heading in the other.
Seamus threw open the door and hopped out. He rapped once on the hood. The cab drove off. He stood there, watching the men on their divergent paths, weaving a little on his feet, still, making up his mind.
Then he strode down the street.
***
The wind was a pure thin blade that pierced his coat, as Lyre stood gazing up at the old building that he and Joseph had called home.
He sighed.
“Nice place,” said a familiar voice in his ear, so close Lyre jumped and let his glamour descend.
“Hey!” Seamus batted the fireflies and glowworms out of his hair. “What the fuck?”
“Oh, Seamus, I apologize.” Lyre waved an arm and the glamour broke apart like a spider’s web. “You startled me.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“Only a glamour. It couldn’t have harmed you.” Lyre looked over the man’s shoulder, turned and looked the other way down the street. “Where is O’Grady?”
“A glammer?” Seamus blew out his cheeks. “Okay, whatever. Oh him? I slipped him.”
Lyre’s eyebrows were the same color as his hair. They lowered over those amazing eyes and he frowned. “Seamus, you can’t ‘slip’ your clan Banshee.”
Seamus jerked his chin. “Huh.” He stepped a little closer to Lyre. Oh, yeah, the guy frowned at him, but he didn’t move away, did he? “Well, I did it,” said Seamus. “And here I am, and I’m fucking freezin’. You gonna invite me in?”
Lyre considered. He’d needed no translation of the Banshees look back there in the bar. No explanation of why he’d placed Seamus in an enchanted cab. “Stay away from my clansman,” had been quite clear.
But here he was. Not Joseph, but very like. And Lyre hadn’t touched anyone, human or sidhe in so long. He’d kicked the habit, hadn’t he? One night. One man. What could be the harm in that?
The doorman was standing there holding the glass door wide. The wind whistled through the opening. Lyre bowed and gestured for Seamus to precede him. “May I offer you shelter?”
Seamus grinned, and sketched out a sloppy bow himself. “Sure.”
Lyre walked to the elevators, something bewitching rushing though him, making his mind and reactions seem slow. He pressed the lift button firmly, feeling Seamus coming close up behind him, a hand grasping and squeezing his ass.
Lyre shivered all over. “You like that?” whispered Seamus, the whiskey strong on his breath.
Breathing in and out carefully, Lyre felt a sort of trance fall over him. More than the hunger. There was something about standing in this familiar place, having a man so like Joseph standing at his elbow as they waited for lift doors to open.
Close beside him, warm mouth against his neck. “Want you bad,” Seamus whispered in Joseph’s voice.
Lyre closed his lips over the moan in his throat. A hand on his back, strong and familiar, tracing the bones there. He could hear the lift arriving, the pause before the doors creaked open. “Watchin’ you all night in that shirt thing yer wearin,’” said Joseph’s voice in a hoarse whisper. “Makin’ me wait. Makin’ me wild.”
Lyre nodded. He’d been waiting too.
Lyre stepped into the lift and Joseph followed him in, and stood next to him as the doors closed on them, but the minute they closed, Lyre was pushed against the wall, a hot whiskey soaked tongue in his mouth. He pushed back, grabbing at a tight muscled ass. Joseph laughed into his mouth. “Aren’t you gonna push a button?”
Lyre lifted the key from the chain and turned it in the lock, feeling those arms wrap around him from behind. The hard cock pressed against his backside. “We had… have the whole fourteenth floor.”
“Only see twelve buttons,” said Joseph.
Lyre didn’t even bother to answer.
***
They never made it to the bed.
“Fuck. Jesus Christ, so good.” Joseph’s mouth was full of foul language, but his lips were soft on Lyre’s skin. He suckled at Lyre’s left nipple, his fingers playing nimbly with the right, his other hand holding Lyre’s shoulder against the wall where he’d shoved him.
Lyre’s mind was full of music, his body shaking as if it would fly apart. His hands flew out to find something to hold onto and found Joseph’s hair, his shoulders.
Those lips covered his mouth again and Joseph’s tongue sought and caressed his own, hands traveling farther south, cupping Lyre’s cock, caressing his thighs.
“Love these leather pants,” breathed Joseph, his eyes laughing. “”Cept I can’t figure how to get them off.”
Lyre’s fingers fumbled at the closures, Joseph helpfully going to his knees to strip the clinging leather from his legs.
“Oh man, what a pretty sight,” moaned Joseph, eye to eye with Lyre’s cock. He rubbed his cheek against it and Lyre writhed against the wall. One hand closed around the shaft as Joseph licked with the broad flat of his tongue all around the head, up and down up and down.
“Oh,” groaned Lyre, hands in Joseph’s hair, then flung back to the wall to hang on, then into
the curls again. “Oh, oh Joseph.”
Joseph growled around Lyre’s cock, a vibration of throat and tongue, teeth just scraping and Lyre arched, balls filling and jerking up hard. And then he was coming, the enchantment shivering all around him.
He melted to the floor, mind still full of white light, hands still in Joseph’s hair, pushing the man to the floor and grasping his cock. So warm, so perfect, Lyre bit at the soft skin of Joseph’s neck. Pumped Joseph's cock fast and hard and Joseph yelled and thrashed, his hips meeting Lyre’s strokes.
“Riley!” Joseph came, screaming, hands flung out like a man in flight.
