Fox's Folly

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t eat red meat as a rule, so it’s wasted on me. I’ll enjoy it more watching you eat it.”

  Tag had been smiling already from simple pleasure at the delicious rare beef, but he cranked it up a notch at Paul’s words.

  He made such a show out of finishing the beef, licking his lips and rolling his eyes in near-orgasmic ecstasy. “Sooo good!” he moaned between bites.

  Paul’s appetizer, a salmon-skin salad, sat neglected as he watched Tag eat, imagining other contexts in which Tag’s face might transform that way, other things that might make him roll his eyes and flush with pleasure. Under the table, Paul’s cock twitched in appreciation.

  Alas, the taco was small, and despite Tag’s obvious efforts to prolong the culinary pleasure—and Paul’s visual feast—it was soon gone. “I know you’re not a meat eater,” Tag said, his voice throaty as if in the midst of hot sex, “but the sauce on this was phenomenal. You have to taste it!”

  He held out two fingers, slick with sauce.

  Paul hesitated for a second. The one time he’d tried beef, in a fit of adolescent rebellion, he hadn’t liked it, and there was bound to be beef juice mixed in the sauce.

  On the other hand, the taste of Tag was bound to make anything delicious.

  He leaned forward, took Tag’s hand in his and guided the saucy fingers into his mouth.

  Every cell in Paul’s body quivered at the sensation of Tag entering him, even in this way. Tag tasted of ginger and soy and some more complex Japanese spicing Paul couldn’t be bothered to break down, but beyond that, he tasted wild, tasted right, tasted like he belonged in Paul’s mouth, in Paul’s arms, in Paul’s life perhaps. Red magic flared, blurring the edges of Paul’s mortal sight with an inrush of energy. There was no question of treating this as a quick opportunity to taste the sauce. They both knew it. Paul suckled and licked those two fingers as if they were Tag’s cock, long after every vestige of the sauce—which he scarcely tasted—was gone. Tag, for his part, moved the fingers in and out, fucking Paul’s mouth shamelessly in the middle of the restaurant. Paul had a feeling people were staring, but he didn’t care. You went to Vegas to see floor shows, right? Here they were getting one as part of a fine dinner, so they shouldn’t complain.

  The waitress appeared with an artistically arranged plate of sushi while they were still occupied. Too professional to be flustered by a couple enjoying a bit of foreplay over dinner, she set down the platter without saying a word.

  Finally, Paul let Tag’s hand go—but only because Tag offered to feed him some of the swoon-worthy toro sashimi.

  Needless to say, neither of them fed any sushi to themselves. And while Nobu seemed as good as its reputation, for all the attention Paul was paying to the food, he was pretty sure they could have been at Applebee’s and he’d have enjoyed dinner almost as much, as long as Tag was feeding it to him.

  Chapter Three

  “Is this moving a little fast, or is just me?” Tag said, laughing. He had to laugh to make sure he did it, to make sure he didn’t continue kissing and nibbling the man’s fingers long after the last bit of sushi was gone. “I’ve been known to be a man-ho, but I usually wait to learn someone’s name before I ask him out. Or her, or, in at least one case, zir. And I usually ask the last name before we start messing around this much. At least I have since I graduated from college, and that was a few years ago.”

  “Something in the water.”

  “Except I’d already dragged you off to dinner before I had any water here. Must be in the air.” He paused and sniffed, scenting in a way he hoped his human companion wouldn’t notice. Definitely something in the air. He hadn’t imagined that woods-and-ocean-and-amber scent, and his foxside assured him it wasn’t cologne. Paul just smelled like nature, and like, oh gods, hot sex. “Why else would they need a slogan like ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’?”

  Paul grabbed his hand. His face turned serious, startlingly intent. “I’m single. I’d been dating someone casually until recently, but she and I both realized we weren’t a good fit before it got to the point that ending it was messy. So, I’m a free man. I hope you can say the same.”

  “I have a couple of…I’d guess you’d say friends with benefits. They’re married to each other. I’m their good friend, and we all fuck sometimes. They’d probably be disappointed if I didn’t come home with a wild story from Vegas.” Now why had he told Paul about Charmaine and Joe? It sounded sordid to most normies, who didn’t understand fox culture, where extended families and long-term ménages were the norm.

  Paul nodded, though, as if he understood or at least accepted. “Nice work if you can get it. Threesomes can get messy, but it sounds like you guys have it worked out.” He added in a softer voice, “I suppose it’s easier for you than it would be for most humans. Three’s sacred in dual culture—but are you Lord or Trickster? I know you’re not the Lady.”

  There was no point in denying it. Paul was obviously not a speciesist. But Tag still dropped his voice. Paul might be fine, but other people weren’t, and in an increasingly conservative political climate, normies’ fears about duals were being codified into law. The last thing he wanted to do was spend part of his time in Las Vegas being harassed by the Agency, which monitored duals and other Differents.

  Actually, that might be the second-to-last thing. Dragging Paul into that kind of mess would probably be the last thing. He seemed so nice, as well as hotter than hell.

  Tag tried to make light of it. “I didn’t get so rattled I let my ears show, did I? Haven’t done that since I was six and my folks took me into Knoxville for the first time.”

  “No. Not that anyone else would see, that is. I can see the fox in your aura, of course, and…oh shit,” Paul whispered, the ordinary profanity sounding foul in his cultured voice. “I did it again. I am so sorry.” He managed to eke out a smile. “I guess I just blew your cover and my chances at a Las Vegas fling.”

  His aura? Paul knew what he was from his aura? Paul could see his aura? Who was this guy, other than insanely hot and now more than a little freaky? “What the hell kind of consulting gig are you here on, Paul who hasn’t told me his last name?”

  “Security consultant for the casino.”

  Tag sniffed at the air, not bothering to conceal it now that his secret was out. He smelled no lies, but still, his ears perked inside the human seeming. Something was not quite right here. “I’ve met the kind of security they hire for high-stakes games. They look like thugs, and you never see the guns, but you know they’re carrying. You look like a college professor. A young, attractive professor, but still a professor. And you’re not the kind of security who’s supposed to blend in, because you don’t blend. You’re too good-looking, and you’re too uncomfortable. I’d say being in a city makes your paws itch, except you don’t have paws. Maybe you mean computer security, but a geek would be talking about work by now and fiddling with his iWhatever. Who are you really, Paul? What are you? I’m pretty sure you’re human, but you smell like no one I’ve ever met before.”

  “My name,” Paul said, as if answering that one question would answer all of them, “is Paul Donovan.”

  It did—not the name, which was common enough, but the way he said it.

  “As in Desmond Donovan, the former presidential advisor on magic and the Different?”

  The one who’d resigned in solitary protest as, despite his best efforts, laws were passed denying duals their civil rights. A hero in his own right among the Different, though he was a human witch, not a dual.

  Paul nodded.

  “So you’re one of those Donovans.” Tag exaggerated his drawl. It tended to make people think he was dumber than he was, although it was probably too late for that with Paul. “One of the most powerful witches in this country.” If it was true, it would explain Paul’s amazing scent, the combination of raw sex and curious purity. Witches were human, but a witch on the Donovan power level was as unlike a normy as a shape-shifting
dual was. Donovans supposedly had the kind of magic that inspired the freakier western European fairytales—only they were the good witches, the ones who saved the heroine’s butt when everything was going against her. They didn’t use their powers for material gain.

  Which didn’t exactly jibe with being a security consultant at one of the ritziest casinos in Las Vegas.

  As far as Tag could smell, Paul was telling the truth about his family, but it could be a partial truth. He could be a low-powered witch who was taking odd jobs to improve his skills—even the Donovans must occasionally have a kid who wasn’t as powerful, just like his own clan had produced Aunt Mary Frances, who opted to pass for human so she could marry a right-wing Bubba. He could have fallen out with his family for some reason. Just because they were capital-G Good Guys didn’t mean they might not be annoying as horseflies to live with. He could just be checking out the mundane world, like Amish teenagers did before settling down.

  Or maybe he was one of the bad witches. There had to be bad witches. Every sentient species produced a few rotters, and since witches were basically just humans with some twists to their DNA, they’d be no exception.

  Maybe he was a witch bad enough to commit murder with magic and get away with it.

  It didn’t seem likely, not with that fresh, yummy smell. A murderer wouldn’t necessarily stink, but it didn’t seem like a killer could smell like pure joy. But what did Tag really know about witches?

  Some of them had healing magic. Maybe they could change their natural odor. But would they think of it? Humans didn’t understand that scent was a rich, complex language.

  Killer or potential lover? Tag had to know, had to know with all the urgency of a fox’s natural curiosity heightened by loyalty to Uncle Randolph. And face it, he really wanted Paul Donovan to be what he said he was, or at least nothing worse than a minor witch hoping to impress a guy by bragging on or outright inventing a connection to the witch family a non-witch was most likely to recognize. Tag could respect that possibility. It was a foxy thing to do—okay, an adolescent foxy thing to do. A guy in his late twenties should know better tricks by now, but humans weren’t as good at the game as foxes were. And Paul, gorgeous as he was, seemed like a guy who didn’t get out much, the type so wrapped up in his work he remembered to date only if someone landed naked in his lap and wiggled.

  Which Tag had done, or as close to it as you could do in a public place in broad daylight, even in Vegas.

  And he’d do it again to make up for what he was about to do, if Paul Donovan turned out to be one of the good guys. Or even one of the okay guys, lying a little bit to get laid. Trickster’s boobs and balls, please let him not be a murderous freak, because if he was, Tag was going to feel really bad about taking down someone so pretty.

  Come on, Trickster, Lord, Lady, let this be a good hand. Let me bluff this well and win this hand for Uncle Randolph’s sake. Think of all the pranks he played in Trickster’s honor and all the happy lovers he left in his wake.

  “So you’re a Donovan,” Tag drawled, playing the ignorant hick card to say something deliberately rude. “I don’t feel so bad about lettin’ you cover dinner now. You guys must be loaded. That’s what they say on TV, anyway.”

  Paul looked uncomfortable. “I really don’t know. Never paid much attention. We have enough to give back—and to take someone out to dinner on occasion.” He tried to smile, but the smile failed to reach his eyes. “You don’t believe I’m who I say I am. I can sense it, and I don’t even need to use telepathy.”

  “I believe you’re a witch, or something out of the ordinary, anyway. People don’t usually spot me for what I am. We’re not like wolves or lions or the other big predators. Even normies can sense they’re out of the ordinary and a little scary, even if they can’t put a finger on it. But what the hell is a Donovan doing playin’ security drone? Isn’t that a little tacky for your high-falutin’ kind?”

  Paul looked around the crowded dining room before answering, and when he did, it was in a tense whisper. “I can explain, but not here.” He beckoned the waitress over and asked for the check. “My room’s warded. We can talk there.”

  Tag hesitated. There was a killer on the loose, a killer with some serious magical mojo. This man’s story didn’t add up, and he had serious magical mojo. Common sense screamed that Tag shouldn’t go, that he should head for the hills like a sensible fox.

  Problem was, foxes weren’t sensible.

  Someone had killed his uncle. Maybe this witch did it, and Tag could take him by surprise. And if Paul was who he claimed to be, maybe he could help Tag find the killer. Tag didn’t know what all witches could do, but some of it might be useful in ferreting out information. Either way, Tag should stay close to him.

  The fact that Paul, who might or might not really be a Donovan, was sexy as silk-wrapped sin had nothing to do with it.

  Oh, who was he kidding? Tag laughed at himself as he followed the witch out of the dining room. Paul’s sexiness had everything to do with it.

  Chapter Four

  Paul sighed inwardly. It had been going so well. He’d felt a rapport with this stranger, something that might go beyond simple attraction—and the attraction had been fine in itself. Oh yes. And then he’d forgotten about the protocols of the outside world again. He’d let the magic that was so natural to him and so alien to most of the world combine with the fierce attraction to make him forget to pretend he couldn’t sometimes see truths others tried to hide.

  Now Tag distrusted him, and with good reason. Duals had secrecy thrust upon them by scared-stupid elements in the normy world, and Paul had just blown right through his cover. Not that he could have helped seeing through it, but it would have been polite to play along until he was able to explain himself more gracefully to Tag.

  Come to think of it, it did sound lame for a Donovan, even a young Donovan, to be a casino security consultant. Family obligations got you into weird situations sometimes, especially when your family included Grandma Josie, who’d believed in living, as she put it, la vie bohéme.

  A light went on in Paul’s tangled brain. Duals understood family obligations and oaths in a way that normies wouldn’t. Tag might still think the situation was bizarre, but once he knew about Grandma Josie, it would begin to make sense.

  He thought through the right way to tell the story as they hurried back to the Excalibur. And soon as the door closed behind them and his personal wards settled back into place, Paul began to talk.

  Tag shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “So you’re stuck doing this job because back in the ‘20s, your grandmother got herself in a mess of magical trouble, and the casino owner called in some favors from his fae cousins and saved her bacon. Now he needs a favor in return, but Grandma’s dead, and someone else had to take the job.” He stopped pacing around the room—which was quite a bit bigger and more posh than his—and stared at Paul. “This is startin’ to make sense. A promise is a promise, and if the guy’s fae, a promise is a promise forever. It’s not the kind of story even a fox would make up on the fly, with your grandma being in a traveling circus before she met your grandpa, and the demon-possessed elephants and the gigantic snakes and the carnie who was…what did you call him? A snake-demon nasty thing from India.”

  “A naga.”

  “But why the big secret? You could have told me that in the restaurant. Your boss is a fool to waste that caliber of favor on spottin’ people cheatin’ in the casino, but that’s his problem, not yours.”

  Paul’s face tightened. Tag could almost hear a door shutting behind Paul’s eyes. “He’s not just worried about people cheating. There’s something going on in Las Vegas that the police are having trouble handling. He thinks I can help. Or rather,” he added, surprising bitterness in his voice, “he thinks a Donovan can help, and I drew the short straw. The family thinks I need to get out of Donovan’s Cove more, mingle more with non-witches. Believe it or not, they think I’m too shy, which I normally am until you crashed in
to me tonight and made my head spin.”

  Everything fell into place. “I think we’re here for the same reason. Does the name Randolph-Macon McNeil mean anything to you?”

  “One of the five people who’ve died under mysterious circumstances lately at the Excalibur. Sixty-two, professional gambler, fox dual…” He spoke dispassionately, as if reciting facts from a report. Then he paused, and a look of horror crossed his face. “Was he family, Tag? I’m so sorry…”

  “My uncle. I’m here to find out who the fuck killed him and take him down hard.”

  “No, you won’t. We will.” Paul’s voice was soft and professorial, but something in his tone made the words ring in the air with the force of an oath before the gods.

  “Really? Do you mean that?” Tag tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but that wasn’t the fox way. He was tough, tougher than most, but he’d loved his uncle.

  And he hated to admit it, but he needed all the help he could get. He’d gotten into this figuring he’d find the killer and then call in reinforcements, but if Uncle Randolph was the fifth victim, and a fae had asked for help dealing with it, Tag needed magic, not just muscle. “Really?” he repeated, feebly aware he should be saying something wittier but unable to make his brain work at proper speed.

  “Really. I got drafted to do this. For you, it’s personal. Hearth, heart and home fuel magic. We’ll be stronger together than we are alone. And you look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

  The next thing Tag knew, Paul’s arms were around him.

  Damn, Paul could kiss, and his hands, even when they weren’t touching anywhere Tag would normally consider an erogenous zone, sent heat through Tag’s body. Maybe it was magic, or maybe the guy was just that talented. At this point, Tag didn’t care. All he really cared about was seeing how long they could go without thinking about dead people and just focusing on sex, or at least the yummy preliminaries to sex.