Yet he couldn’t agree with Maelduin. He couldn’t make himself say the words. “How is it you don’t see how totally bizarre this is? Me picking up a homeless guy and bringing him home for a night of incredibly hot sex—”
“And a morning.”
Incredibly, Terry had to fight not to snicker. Maelduin did that to him, way too easily, made him smile, made him laugh. “And a morning. But… that isn’t normal. Not for me. And it’s not something I can let go on.”
“Why not?”
Because for some reason I don’t understand, probably sheer loneliness, I want to be falling in love with you. And I can’t. Yeah, that would work just great. “Because—”
“You are able to fly.” Maelduin gestured toward the wall of photographs, Terry’s dance roles, the chronicle of his former life. “Why are you afraid to fly now?”
Terry sat, stunned, as Maelduin’s words settled into him. He sees right through me. “I’m not afraid,” he finally managed.
“Then why will you not let me stay?”
Terry shook his head, hard, feeling as if he were trying to break a spell. “Christ, it’s like trying to talk with someone from another planet.”
The pause that followed was long, and awkward.
“Well… not exactly.”
* * *
Not exactly…
Possibly the stupidest thing he had ever said. But it was the only thing he could have said.
Terry was staring, eyes wide and startled. He reminded Maelduin of a yearling fawn. No doubt he would be as graceful as one, should he choose to bolt now.
Should he choose? Maelduin dared not let him choose, not with so much at stake. His vengeance, his oath, his life. He had far too much to lose to pay any attention to feelings no Fae could possibly understand, much less experience.
Surely he only imagined those feelings, himself.
Yet, feelings or not, real or not, he had to convince Terry to join with him, whatever form that joining took. Their charmingly disjointed dinner conversation had, in the end, amounted to nothing more than an unsuccessful attempt on Maelduin’s part to assay the rinc-daonna, the ancient name as’Faein for the dance of seduction, when it was performed by Fae and human. Useless to get Maelduin any closer to what he needed. And he would stand precious little chance of any kind of joining, ever, if Terry put him out on the paved lanes that were home to cars and trucks and buses and taxis and any number of other wheeled private hell-realms.
“I’m kind of afraid to ask you what you mean by ‘not exactly,’” Terry murmured at last, his eyes slowly narrowing.
Sex had failed. Seduction had failed. What was left, other than honesty? Macánta, the word as’Faein for honesty, came from the same root as machtar, desperation. Fitting. “Not exactly another planet. Another…” Frantically, he searched the vocabulary the imprisoned spirits had given him. “Reality. Next to this one.”
He was surprised to find himself holding his breath, waiting for Terry to speak. If he rejects me now…
“I think I ought to be more freaked out by that than I am.” One side of Terry’s mouth turned up in what Maelduin hoped was a smile. “I brought home a crazy homeless guy. But at least you’re the harmless kind of crazy. Right?”
Now it was Maelduin’s turn to stare. “I am not crazy. And even if I were, I am as far from harmless as you can imagine.” His gaze flickered to his oath-blade, on the floor beside the small table covered with take-out food cartons. “Or I was, before I came here.”
“I was going to say, right now I don’t think you’re a threat to anything but the carpet, which you just might beat to death with your nose.”
Maelduin felt the blood rushing to his face and stinging his cheeks. Yet… as long as you allow me to stay here long enough to deliver the beating and then to join with you, it will be enough. “It seems you don’t think I’m serious.”
Terry shrugged, even that simple movement graceful enough to make Maelduin’s breath catch. “Of course I don’t. I’d have to be even crazier than I am, to believe fairy tales.”
Magick itself shrivels and dies when it touches his disbelief. Why should something which is nothing more than a story of another world reach him?
His bloodsworn blade gleamed in the human-made light. He reached for it, hefted the comfortable and comforting weight of it.
“Before you put me out… come with me, lán’ghrásta. Back to where you found me. I need to show you something.”
* * *
“Here.” Terry linked arms with Maelduin; it was awkward, because of the difference in their heights. But there was no denying the stairs were easier thus.
“Thank you.” Maelduin’s cheeks burned as his own helplessness was driven home to him once again; he managed a quick smile at Terry, then turned his gaze upward, to the top of the stairs and escape from the subway station. He suspected contact with Terry let him touch, temporarily, what he had lost coming through the Pattern.
I need to regain it permanently. Whatever ‘it’ was. His grace, his skills, his kinetic sense. Everything he needed to keep his vow, fulfill his purpose, save his life.
Holding fast to that vision had helped him survive another imprisonment in the moving room—somehow, knowing that humans called it a “subway,” and barely remarked on traveling thereby unless something went wrong and delayed matters, did nothing to make the experience more palatable to a Fae.
Terry squeezed his hand; Maelduin squeezed back, but knew better than to look down at him. He had always been a quick study, and the art of seducing Terry Miller was proving to be different from what little a modern Fae knew of seducing humans in general. Let Terry’s own thoughts, his natural curiosity bring him closer to the enigmatic stranger.
Maelduin hoped he could remain enigmatic for another few minutes. It was difficult to remain mysterious while tripping over one’s own sword. Although he might have been somewhat less likely to trip over it had he not channeled enough magick to conceal it from sight.
Or perhaps not. Whatever had happened to him in his transit between the worlds seemed determined to keep him from accomplishing what he had sworn to accomplish.
Terry held the door at the top of the stairs, and the two of them emerged into the crisp night.
“Which way?”
Terry tugged gently at his arm and led him to the left, sidestepping people determined to descend into the subway’s depths. “You really didn’t notice which way we went last time?”
“I was… preoccupied.” Almost exactly as he was now, in fact; absorbed in the task of trying to make his limbs follow instructions, as his thoughts insisted on wandering to the male beside him. The warm fingers laced with his own, the strong arm trying to brace him against his own clumsiness.
I shouldn’t care about warmth or strength. As long as I get what I need, the rest is irrelevant.
But it was not irrelevant.
Terry dug in his pocket and withdrew a ring of keys; sorting through them one-handed, still holding Maelduin’s hand, he fitted a key into the lock and the door swung open. “Mind your step—sorry.”
“No problem.” That seemed to be the correct answer, given that the long-handled implement missed his nose this time when he stumbled onto it, and simply clattered off into a corner.
Even before the lights came to life, Maelduin could see the faint glow he remembered. And now he remembered why it had seemed wrong to see it there; the glow was living magick, what little a Noble could see of it, where legend said no magick could possibly be. All the tales of the Sundering were clear; the entire point of the Sundering, the last desperate battle with the monster the ancient Fae had called the Marfach, had been to withdraw all living magick from the human world and create a barrier to isolate the monster from its food source.
Yet magick was here. And if his luck had not entirely deserted him, somewhere between the worlds, magick would help convince the beautiful human he was already beginning to think of as his, to be his in truth.
&nb
sp; * * *
“So what did you want me to see?” Terry craned his neck to look around the unfinished space. What am I supposed to see that wasn’t here last night? The wood and metal supports marking the lines where the walls would go… the lights clipped to them, and to the tracks where the ceiling tiles would soon go… the pile of construction debris from downstairs… the concrete rake that had tried to wreak havoc on Maelduin’s face… the six-by-six square of sprung flooring…
Maelduin frowned. Even his frown was gorgeous. “Let me start with this.”
Before Terry could open his mouth to ask what ‘this’ was, Maelduin made a pass in the air with his fingers. And suddenly there was a sword hanging from his belt, in a fabulous tooled-leather scabbard.
Now it was Terry’s turn to frown. “You’ve had that since I found you. And I keep forgetting you have it. Or not noticing it. Even though there’s no reason in the world for you—or anyone—to be carrying a sword around Washington, D.C.”
Maelduin’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword, as if it had always hung at his side, as if it were part of him. “No reason in your world, lán’ghrásta. But in mine, it is the comart’, the symbol, of my life. My oath.”
Terry had spent most of the subway ride sheltering Maelduin from the view out the train windows and trying to figure out whether he was irritated with, fascinated by, or afraid of Maelduin’s strangeness. He still hadn’t quite worked it out, but at the moment he was feeling somewhat put out. “Why do I keep forgetting about it, then?”
“Most of the time, I have kept it hidden. For safekeeping.”
“Hidden? How? It was right there all along.”
“I know a few small, useful channelings.” Maelduin caressed the sword-hilt, not seeming to notice that he did so. “This concealment is one of them.”
Yeah, put out was winning. “This is your proof you’re from another world? Hiding things from me?”
Maelduin blinked. “It would never have occurred to me to prove anything to you that way. Concealment… is simply what Fae do.”
As soon as he had spoken, he turned an interesting shade of red. Like he’d give anything to have back the words he’d just spoken.
“Fae.”
The word hung in the air between them, almost visible.
“Yes. Fae.”
Lovely. I really, truly did bring a crazy man home with me. Terry wished the thought felt a little more vehement. Especially since Maelduin had just basically admitted to hiding things from him. Lying. Did I learn fucking nothing from all those years with Bryce?
Yet Maelduin didn’t look like a liar. He’d drawn himself up to full height, squared his shoulders… looking down into Terry’s eyes like he was waiting for a verdict. Or maybe a firing squad. And damn, it just made him even more beautiful. Ethereal, almost.
For some reason, Terry found himself staring at Maelduin’s hand, the one resting on the hilt of his sword. That hand is real. No doubt about that. And he could almost believe it was magical, after everything it had done to him and for him over the last 24 hours. He was jealous of a damned sword hilt, sitting there under that hand, warming to that touch.
He could almost believe. But ‘almost’ was a big word. Too big.
“So you’re magical. But there’s no such thing as magic.”
Maelduin stiffened. “There is, I assure you.”
Terry fought down an urge to laugh. “It’s probably all tied up with love, isn’t it? You’ll cast a spell on me, and I’ll fall madly in love with you, unable to resist your fairy wiles.”
“Fae. And we call it channeling magick. Not casting spells.” Maelduin’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “If I knew that channeling, and if I thought it would work on you, yes, I would use it. But you resist what little magick I possess.”
“Oh, for the good God’s sake.” Terry’s eyes rolled so hard he wondered if he’d strained something. “Maybe you should have found a more credulous mark.”
A sudden wave of bitterness surprised Terry. He’d actually let himself think—last night, and again this morning—that something special was happening with the tall, hard-bodied blond. Not something he’d be able to hold on to, of course, but something it would have been sweet to remember. Now he wasn’t even going to be able to deal with the memories, not without remembering what an idiot he’d let himself be. Again.
“Terry…” Maelduin laid a gentle hand on Terry’s arm.
For a second, Terry imagined he felt a tingle racing up his arm, and down into his hand. “What?” Lame.
“Did you feel nothing last night?”
“What do you mean, nothing? You gave me an orgasm like nothing I’d ever felt before in my life.” He paused, swallowed hard. And laughter. You gave me laughter. You took care of me. He remembered giggling into his pillow, the gentle softness of a warm wet cloth, a kiss on the back of his neck. Tenderness. “Are you going to tell me that was magic?”
“It might have been. I’m not sure.”
Not sure. “If you don’t know, how do you expect me to believe you?”
“It’s complicated.”
Terry couldn’t quite keep back a snort. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Maelduin seemed genuinely startled. “I forgot. This might be as hard for you as it is for me.”
Every time I think I get what’s going on here, I have to start over. “Hard for you? All you have to do is talk me into letting you stick around for a few more days.” The irritation Terry had felt only moments before was elusive now, hard to retrieve.
“And you have made it very clear that that will not be easy.” A slight smile touched Maelduin’s lips, but was quickly gone. “But I have more to do than that. I have to make you believe in magick.”
“Good luck with that.” The expression on Maelduin’s face made Terry wish he’d been a little less flip. Terry’s belief, or lack of it, really mattered to the guy.
To the Fae.
Right.
“Will you try something for me?”
Jesus. When Maelduin talked like that, Terry was willing to do just about anything. Except believe in magic. Or believe in magick—you could hear the ‘k’ in Maelduin’s voice. Or believe in love. “Within reason, sure.”
“Reason has little to do with our situation. But there is magick here. This is where I came into your world, and the magick lingers. If you cannot feel my slight gift, perhaps you can feel this.” He gestured…
…toward the slab of sprung flooring, where Terry could still see the scuff marks from Garrett’s sneakers. And what looked like bloodstains, near where Maelduin had been sitting when Terry first saw him.
And… something else? A faint glow?
I can’t give in. I can’t believe him. If I cave now, I’m just as stupid as I was with Josh, and with Bryce.
Maelduin’s thumb stroked the back of Terry’s hand, a caress somehow as intimate as a kiss. “Please. Come stand in the circle. Feel the magick, if you can.”
Chapter Twelve
Janek O’Halloran figured he’d lost the capacity for gratitude… oh, probably the third or fourth time the parasite riding in his head had fucked him over in his quest to swing Tiernan Guaire’s head around by its blood-soaked hair. But if he could have been grateful for anything anymore, he figured he’d probably be grateful the bitch couldn’t feel the cold. She was in control now; the body the four of them shared perched on a frozen chunk sticking out of the giant berg, as frigid as the fucking ice, blood-red skirt swirled around her pale bare feet. She stared out over more ice—solid looking, partly covered with grayish wet snow, with a clinging fringe of a crumpled-looking kind of ice with a lot of green and blue in it. Ice that might have struck Janek as pretty if everything in his life didn’t suck frozen donkey balls right now. And if the pretty shit hadn’t nearly killed all of them, crumbling away under them when they were trying to claw their way up out of the freezing water.
The water. At the bottom of an ice cliff they’d clawed their way up by the bitch
’s pointed fingernails, surrounded by the chaos of giant blocks grinding against one another, falling into the water and coming back up like fucking breaching whales, making choking snow clouds and cracking treacherous chunks of ice off to slide back down into slushy frozen hell. Way too much fucking water.
What’s so important about the ocean? The male wasn’t as full of piss as he usually was, probably because he did feel the cold, and hadn’t liked the way his balls tried to shrink up and hide behind his kidneys the last time the female had gotten tired of his bitching and forced him to be their body for a while. He was sick of not being able to jack off, too, and made fucking sure they all knew it. But he hated the water. They all did. Janek could feel it in their bones. His bones.
“If we cannot conquer our terror of it—if we cannot find some way across it—we are trapped here as securely as we were trapped in the wretched mage’s toy.” The female got to talk, since she was the one who controlled the vocal cords.
The male didn’t seem to have an answer for that. He never did. And Janek sure as hell wouldn’t have offered one even if he’d had one. He’d been laying as low as he could ever since they’d all come up hissing and roaring from the underside of the ice—he didn’t want any of them getting the bright idea of forcing him out to face the Antarctic air.
Of course, if they did that, they were all going to be dead. Janek hoped that would occur to them before they decided to do anything fuckheaded.
Then we need to do something. Not just sit around till your dripping quim’s frozen and stuck to an ice floe.
The female sniffed. But she also shifted where she sat. Making damn sure she wasn’t stuck.
Even if we could get off this fucking forsaken berg, where would we go? Janek was pretty sure the male wanted to spit. Which didn’t sound like a bad idea, come to think of it. Except that even if he had any spit, it would freeze before it could hit the ground. He was pretty sure it was supposed to be warmer in Antarctica when the sun was out all the time. But the weather was as fucked up as everything else.
Stone Cold Page 12
