by AM Riley
“Hey. Um, you wanna…” the man’s voice was breathless, but his fingers twined in Maeebsef’s hair and tugged a little. Maeebsef looked up and saw the guy jerking his eyes toward the end of the hallway, the men’s lavatory.
“We can have more privacy, you know?” said the man hopefully. “I’d like to, you know, if you want.”
“You want to fuck me?” asked Maeebsef, blandly.
The man’s cheeks pinked, but he nodded. “Yeah.” His voice gone hoarse. “If you want. I don’t get down here often and, well,” he shrugged.
“I understand,” said Maeebsef, not caring to understand but knowing those words were what was needed. He stood, unbuttoning his jeans as they walked and in no time was supporting himself on a handicapped bar while the man snapped a plastic sheath over his organ.
Maeebsef looked back inquisitively. “What’s that?”
The man was sincerely utterly shocked. “A rubber.”
“You don’t need that,” said Maeebsef, turning back to the wall and spreading his legs a bit more.
“Uh, sorry sport, but I’m afraid I do.” The man had one hand on Maeebsef’s hip and was guiding his organ to his entrance.
Maeebsef straightened and pushed him away. “No. Not with that thing.”
“Are you crazy?” The man was angry the way a man will be when his cock is halfway inside someplace warm and tight and then shoved away. “You looking to die, kid?”
“I won’t die,” said Maeebsef honestly.
“Well, good for you, but I’m not feeling that confident.” The man was still trying to grab at him, though he looked more angry than aroused at this point. “God knows where you’ve been and if you don’t use protection…”
Maeebsef shoved him away. The man took one helpless step back and his back hit the ceramic tile wall. “Hey!”
Maeebsef began to methodically button up his jeans. He’d wasted precious time here and he needed to go catch another human. The man’s hand came out, though, and gave him a good hard shove as well.
Maeebsef snarled at him, snapping his teeth.
“Asshole,” said the man, eyes bright with fear. “Let me outta here.” He shoved his way through the doors and Maeebsef heard the thud and swish of the men room door as he exited.
Keyed up, hard, and feeling that he had overtaxed his welcome in this particular establishment, Maeebsef shouldered his way through the thicket of cruising men to the front of the bar. But at the door, he paused, taken by the goose bumps of premonition that told him Folk were about. His glance slid left. And down.
Buzzimess looked up at him, eyes narrowed and intent.
“I’m not a nosy elf,” said Buzzimess.
Maeebsef raised an eyebrow at this declaration.
“But I noticed you haven’t got a certain Banshee with you.”
Buzzimess scanned the figure before him. Maeebsef’s cheeks were red with shame, but his skin had a strange feverish glow. His lips were very swollen. He reeked of humans and sex.
“I took him home, in case you’re wondering,” Buzzimess said.
Maeebsef looked honestly surprised and then concerned. “Took him home?”
“He was quotin’ the poets and reelin’ with drink,” said Buzzimess. “You mind telling me what happened?”
Maeebsef looked at his hands, his jaw clenched. But he didn’t speak.
“I don’t know much of the Gianes, I admit.” Buzzimess pulled a pipe and a packet of tobacco from the pockets of his vest, began stuffing the pipe. “But I’d understood they were loyal to their partners. Faithful.”
“They are,” said Maeebsef, his voice hoarse.
Buzzimess studied him some more. Waiting.
“I need…” Maebsefs eyes scanned the room. The desperate look of a trapped man seeking some escape. Then his head dropped in defeat. “I need help from Lyre,” he said.
Buzzimess took the young Fey’s arm. “I will go with you.”
***
Seamus woke with his face mashed into his sofa’s nubby cushions. His keys still clutched in his fist.
He rolled and sat up quickly enough to send his brains sloshing to the back of his skull, heaved himself to his feet, and staggered into the kitchen where the jug of water he must have left out last night sat waiting on the counter. He guzzled water for a few minutes, barely breathing as he poured it down his throat. Then he grabbed the vitamin C tablets and aspirin also waiting on the counter and headed, shoulders leading his still alcohol benumbed legs, into the shower.
The spray beating on his head, he let his mind sort through the sludge there. He knew from experience that eventually all of the events would rise to the surface if he didn’t give into the panic of black out.
He recalled the walk back. Being in the company of two strangers. Strangers who’d acted like friends by night’s end, though that was not an unusual occurrence. He remembered toasting repeatedly with very good whiskey and tiny women with neon colored hair. A man with beautiful green eyes. An intense irresistible longing. Seamus shook his head hard under the spray. What had he been drinking? He pressed his hands on the tile, leaning over, letting the stream of hot water beat on the back of his neck, streams of shampoo and soap slithering down his spine and into his crack. It stung.
Huh. Seamus craned his neck to look at his backside, still bright pink and abraded looking and then he remembered the leather bar. Oh, fuck it. That again. He reached over and turned off the faucet with a hard twist of his wrist. Pressing his forehead to the suddenly cooling tile.
He was still leaning against the tile when the rest of the night came back to him. Scarlet, two guys claiming to be some kind of faeries. A crazy bar with characters from the circus. The Big Guy talking about Riley. A man. A man name Liar? And… and… wow. Seamus down on his knees sucking the guy off. Some guy who then stood and gave him his back, waiting for him to leave. Oh, yeah, wasn’t that familiar?
“Fucking idiot,” he said, banging the tile with his closed fist to emphasize each syllable.
But Seamus was positive the Big Ghoul was the same guy he’d seen at Riley’s shooting. There just couldn’t be that many guys that looked like him running around, even in New York City.
He’d beat himself over the head for letting him slip some other time. Right now, he had only one lead and he wasn’t going to lose it.
***
Lyre had spent another night sleeping in the chair under the moon. Even more restless than the night before had been, his half-waking dreams were peopled not just with Joseph in the past, but with the man who resembled Joseph in the present.
Seamus watching a room full of Folk, the lip of a raised bottle between his lips, those eyes perpetually alert and observant. Those same eyes when they’d stared at Lyre across the room, vulnerable and afraid. Seamus spreading his arms, standing between Lyre and a Banshee.
So much Joseph and yet so much not.
Joseph’s book of poems had grown brittle at the binding and the pages were browned at the corners, the gilt edges still smooth. Lyre held it against his chest like a talisman and finally slept.
When Lyre emerged from his apartment building the next morning, Seamus Brady was standing across from the big glass doors, leaning against a telephone pole.
He wore sunglasses, so Lyre couldn’t see his expression, but his mouth was grim. Arms crossed tightly over a heavy black jacket with some insignia stitched on the left breast.
“This is official,” said Seamus, pushing off from the pole and sauntering across the sidewalk toward Lyre. He flipped open a leather wallet, revealing an oval metal pin with numbers and words emblazoned on it. “NYPD, I have questions about an associate of yours.”
Seamus hadn’t shaved properly, Lyre noticed. There was still stubble near his ear, and a little nick on his neck. His skin, above the leather collar, was very pale.
“Have you breakfasted?” he asked.
Seamus’ sunglasses reflected Lyre’s face for a minute, before he looked away. “I didn’t come
to socialize,” he said. “I want to know where I can find that O’Grady guy.”
“The Fearshee dwell where the clan dwell,” said Lyre.
“What the hell does that mean?”
With his head twisted away like that, Lyre could see a love bite on Seamus' neck. He felt a peculiar twinge at the sight of it. “I was unable to rest last night,” said Lyre. “I’m so sorry for what happened.”
“Shut up,” said Seamus. “What, you think I give a fuck? I wouldn’t even be standing here if I weren’t looking for this suspect.”
“Oh,” said Lyre. “Of course.”
“So fucking drunk I hardly remember anything.”
Seamus yanked off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with gloved fingers. The blue seemed darker, the whites reddened, creased circles underneath. “I slept like a baby,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Lyre.
“So where can I find this guy?” Seamus voice was rough and he shoved his sunglasses back on before looking at Lyre again.
And Lyre suddenly wanted to caress that face, to gentle the tension he saw there. “Buy me tea,” he said. “And I will talk to you about it.”
***
Nobody should look that good after a night like Lyre had had, Seamus told himself. It was fucking unnatural. He didn’t know what he had expected, really, how he had thought Lyre might behave. Probably guilty and uncomfortable. Definitely at least a little hung over.
Instead, the guy looked better than he had last night, despite his ‘not having rested’. His skin had a ruddy glow, his hair carelessly finger combed off his forehead, his face relaxed, smile easy and those gorgeous green eyes friendly and clear and not the least bit embarrassed or sorry to see Seamus.
Seamus didn’t know what to do about it.
Lyre seemed to really enjoy tea. He spent several minutes selecting the tea bag from the assortment the waitress brought to the table. And took his time sipping it while Seamus shovelled eggs and sausage into his mouth. “The Fearshee can not be pursued,” Lyre explained to Seamus. “Some may be summoned, though I’d not choose to try it.” Lyre squeezed about half a cup of honey into the pitcher of cream, and then picked up a spoon and stirred it.
“Everybody’s got to sleep somewhere.”
“True.” Lyre picked up the cream pitcher and drank from it.
“Hey!” said Seamus, “you can’t drink that!”
Lyre set the pitcher down in surprise. “Is it forbidden?”
“It doesn’t have to be. It’s disgusting.”
Lyre looked at him with wide eyes. There was a light line of cream on his upper lip. It made Seamus mouth water. “Here,” he said, and picked up a napkin, reaching across the table and dabbing at Lyre’s mouth before he could think.
Lyre blinked.
Seamus glared at the napkin in his hand as if it had offended him and then threw it on the table. “So if a guy wanted to send a message to his ‘Banshee’?”
Lyre frowned, gazing over Seamus shoulder thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, brightening. “You could ask his lover.”
“You mean that skinny blonde?”
“I am not skinny,” said Maeebsef, from behind him. “I am lithe.”
Lyre was on his feet and holding out his chair in an instant. The short old guy that was with Maeebsef came rolling up and hopped onto the chair. Maeebsef standing next to him, one hand gripping his shoulder.
Seamus thought Maeebsef literally personified an addict ‘white knuckling’ withdrawal. The knuckles of the hand gripping the old guy’s shoulder stood out from almost translucent skin. Guy looked more like a skel than many, like last night had been fifty years long for him. Shaking, pasty sweaty, the eyes that stared at Seamus gave him a chill down his back. Hungry. With that fathomless-deep addict's hunger.
“I’m ready,” said Maeebsef.
Seamus was going to ask what the kid was ready for, but before he could blink, Lyre, Maeebsef, and the old guy had been swallowed by the air.
“Fuck,” said Seamus, and slapped the table. “This is gettin’ old.”
***
There was a terrible windstorm in the city of New York that night. A howling gale that screamed and moaned as if the buildings themselves sang some durge. The Folk all over the city looked up, and made the sign against the evil eye. Old Irish women, who knew a thing or three, did as well.
“It’s the old ones,” they said, crossing themselves. “There’s a death in the clans coming, sure.”
Lyre stood outside the iron gate, carefully not coming in contact with it. His hands buried in the pockets of his great coat, his back to the wind. Behind the door at the top of the stairs, the great wailing voice went on and on; “I, too, await the hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?”
Prickles ran over Lyre’s scalp. The poets who knew the Sidhe could write words to charm and ensnare them and the poet the Banshee quoted had definitely been one of them. The words had great power in them.
This was undoubtedly the most foolish thing he’d ever done, reflected Lyre. But the foolhardiness of actions had never stopped him before.
He hopped over the gate, skipped up the steps and rapped at the door.
The howling stopped mid vowel.
The stone mermaid carved into the lintel on the left side of the door seemed to wink at him as Lyre stood, head bowed, hands in pockets, and waited for O’Grady to open the door.
“You,” said O’Grady. His face was a sheet, his eyes cavernous black holes. His hair as wild as a basket of snakes.
Lyre nodded. “Aye, it’s me. Can I come in?”
O’Grady was either too shocked or too numb with grief to be enraged. He moved out of the way and Lyre stepped over the threshold with no resistant magic holding him.
The room reeked of alcohol, ashes, and tears. Lyre’d never really known that tears had an odor, but this one was undeniable. The room was a shambles, clothing and objects everywhere.
“I won’t keep you,” said Lyre. “But I thought you should have news of him as soon as possible.”
O’Grady’s whole face crumbled and he collapsed in a broken down chair, on top of piles of clothing. He buried his face in his hands. “Is he well?” His voice hoarse. Well, screaming loud enough to terrorize a city will do that to a fellah.
“He is better,” said Lyre. “The …withdrawal… is difficult.”
O’Grady raised his head; his eyes were hollow blanks of despair. “Did he mention me?”
Constantly, thought Lyre. But that would be cruel to tell the Banshee. “He misses you,” he said honestly.
O’Grady nodded, his throat working. “I, too,” he managed to croak out.
Lyre looked around the tiny room. A bed, the chair, a cabinet covered with decanters of alcohol. It was a spare existence. He could imagine it filled, nevertheless with the love he’d seen between the two. He saw it now, filled with loneliness. It was intolerable.
“There is some good news,” he said, against his better judgment.
Oh, by Maab what possessed him to put such a light in the old Fearshee’s eyes, such hope? “What is it?” asked O’Grady, seeming to grow in stature just curled up there on the chair.
“We have found an elixir from the water of the Grove and some flower that grows there,” said Lyre. “I’ve tried it and the effects seem…helpful.”
O’Grady watched him with eyes that begged for something. “What does that mean?”
“He may be able to walk among men and not feed. With only occasional visits, he may be able to live outside the Grove.”
O’Grady’s entire demeanor changed. He sat up, eyes warming, wiping his cheeks clean. “Thank you.”
“It will be some time.”
“I will wait for him.”
Lyre nodded. “He will be glad to hear it.” He looked around the room, choosing his words. “He spoke of you to his mother.”
O’Grady g
rowled a bit. Well, of course he did. Maeebsef’s mother had always been the enemy in his understanding hadn’t she?
Lyre smiled. “She’d like to meet you.”
***
“PARKER!!” Seamus, gritted his teeth so hard he swore he felt a cap break.
