Close Quarter

by Anna Zabo

  The words were a knife to Rhys’s stomach. “I want to help you. You’re injured.”

  “How very observant you are.”

  The bitter sarcasm brought an unexpected stinging to Rhys’s eyes. Not again. Not this man. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

  Silas swayed, even though he sat. He placed a hand on the floor, probably to keep himself from toppling over.

  Rhys took another step forward.

  Silas lifted his head and growled a single unintelligible word. He bared his teeth and tensed every muscle. Feral. Like a trapped wolf.

  Rhys stopped. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “If you want to help me,” Silas said, “go away.”

  Go away. Rhys’s father had said those words—both his fathers, really. Five different lovers had spoken the same three syllables. A tightness grew in his chest.

  Now Silas, who made him feel more true than he’d ever felt, who’d set the world aright by turning it upside down. Now those words came from his mouth. Discarded.

  Rhys stepped back. Whispered two words of his own. “You promised.”

  “Promised?”

  “That you’d explain. Tell me what this was all about.”

  Silas’s sharp laugh cut the air. “I lied.” He raised his head and stared at Rhys. “Get out.”

  Rhys hadn’t realized how far he’d backed up until he clipped the frame of the bed with his shin. Pain flared up his leg, and he caught himself before he fell.

  Fucking hell!

  But the sharp stabbing cleared his head. This wasn’t right. Terror lurked in Silas behind those harsh words. Pain too. He hadn’t lied in the garden. If anything, he was lying now.

  Rhys watched Silas. All those wounds. What had the vampires done to him?

  A flash of memory—hands and teeth ripping clothing from his body—sent another tremor through Rhys.

  Rhys straightened. “I’m not leaving. Not until I’ve had my coffee and my answers.” Not until he found out what happened on the deck of the ship.

  “I don’t want you here. Leave me alone.” There was hesitancy in Silas’s beautiful voice.

  Got you. “You’re a horrible liar, you know.”

  The wild fury in Silas shattered. He swayed again and placed his other hand on the floor. Silence filled the room, punctuated only by Silas’s rough breathing. Then he whispered a plea. “Rhys, please.”

  His name. The knot loosened in Rhys’s stomach. “I’m not leaving. Besides, I can’t just walk back to my cabin like this.” Buck naked was certainly not part of the ship’s dress code. “I can’t glamour clothes onto myself. I’m not fae.”

  Silas sat back on his heels and stared at the tan carpet. “There’re clothes in the closet. We’re close enough in size.”

  “And coffee?”

  Silas raised his head at that. Terror still lurked in him, but the blue tinge to his flesh had left. He gestured over to the side of the room. “There’s a machine at the bar.”

  Rhys opted for the closet first. He took the only pair of jeans. They were an inch longer than he liked, but he did share the same waist size with Silas. Same shirt size too. Rhys quickly buttoned up one of Silas’s white shirts. Then he inspected the bar. The creeping start of a headache lurked at the base of his skull, but he ignored it. Coffee would help.

  The coffeemaker was a pod-style that brewed by the cup. Impressive. In Rhys’s cabin there was an old drip machine. He poked a finger at the coffee selections. “Hazelnut, mocha, bold, or French roast?”

  “I don’t want coffee.”

  Rhys gripped the marble bar countertop, glad he no longer faced Silas. The thrum of his headache kicked to full force, stretching his patience thin. “If you don’t choose, you’re getting French. And you’re going to drink it, even if I have to sit on you and pour it down your damn throat.”

  Nothing but the hum of the fridge, then something that might have been a laugh or a sob. “Bold, then. I can’t stand French.”

  Of course not. He set the pod into the machine and pressed Start. “Pity there’s no Italian roast.”

  A longer pause this time. “I’m not Italian.”

  Rhys faced Silas while the coffee brewed. “No. You’re Roman.”

  Silas huffed a breath. “Well, aren’t you clever?”

  “Not really. You dropped enough hints.”

  A faint smile, the first Rhys had seen that morning, pulled Silas’s lips upward. No doubt about it; he looked better. Fuller somehow, even with the myriad scabs, scars, and bruises.

  Rhys rubbed his forehead and leaned back against the counter. He would be happy enough to sit for a while.

  Silas’s good humor fled. “Rhys, you should go.”

  No anger this time, only concern laced with that ever-present hint of fear.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hurting you.”

  The coffee machine behind Rhys beeped, and he turned as he tried to make sense of Silas’s words. He retrieved the cup and set the next one brewing. “I’m going to put this on the table. Can you make it there yourself?”

  The table sat perhaps six feet from Silas.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Rhys crossed the room, set the cup down, and then retreated to the bar. His legs buckled, and he grabbed the counter to keep from falling. Good thing there was coffee. The events of the evening were catching up fast.

  “Rhys?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

  “I know.” Guilt laced Silas’s words. “I’m sorry.”

  The coffee machine beeped again. “It’s not your fault.” Rhys took his cup and turned.

  Silas stood, took the few steps he needed to reach the table, and sat. “But it is.” Silas pointed to a couch against the far wall. “Sit. I’ll explain.”

  Rhys walked to the couch and sat. Sipped his coffee.

  “What flavor?”

  “Hazelnut.”

  Silas grunted. “I would’ve thought mocha.”

  “I guess you don’t know me as well as you think.” Rhys took another taste. “After a day.” Let Silas taste a bit of his own caustic medicine.

  Silas finally took a mouthful of coffee. “You’re a constant surprise to me.” Warmth in those words. “Will you let me tell my tale without interruption?”

  Rhys squirmed. Perhaps Silas did know him. “May I ask questions?”

  “A few. I’ll only answer if I care to.”

  Some concession. “I don’t like those rules.”

  Silas shrugged. He looked more like himself than he had all morning, arrogant and proud. “You’re free to leave.”

  “Oh, fuck you.” Rhys leaned back. “Fine.”

  Silas nearly hid a smile before he spoke. “We’re creatures of passion, fae. Of the elements. Field and forest, stream and sea, breeze and sky, rock and earth.”

  “Fire?”

  “No. That’s the purview of the phoenix.”

  Phoenix? Rhys opened his mouth, but Silas held up a hand. Damn it all. But he’d agreed. He nodded for Silas to continue.

  “As you might have gathered, we’re fond of humans.” Silas toyed with his cup. “Occasionally those unions produce children.”

  Rhys sat forward. “I’m half-fae?”

  “No.” Silas took another gulp of coffee. “Half-fae have the same skills as the full-blooded. More. They require no glamour to walk among humans. They simply switch their state of being.”

  Rhys turned the information over. Sorted through it. “I’d know, then, if I were one.”

  “You’d see what I see. Have talents like my own. And you’d either be in one of the courts”—he paused, distaste twisting his features—“or dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Half-fae are seen as dangerous. If they live long enough, they eclipse full-blooded fae in power, all without the need of glamour to be human. Glamour’s not easy to maintain, especially under stress.”

  “But you can do it.”

&n
bsp; “When I have to, yes.”

  “But when we…” Rhys remembered the feel of Silas’s hands tangled in his hair as Silas’s cock slid through his lips. The taste of Silas’s skin, his semen, his mouth. Silas’s hands on his body, encircling his cock. The scent of pine and earth—

  Silas banged his cup on the table. “Rhys!”

  He started awake.

  What the hell? His cup of coffee lay on the carpet, the contents staining the tan pile even darker. “I…” He glanced at Silas.

  Silas’s nose was better. Bruised but no longer horribly misshapen. And even the dark purple had faded to greenish yellow.

  Silas exhaled. “Please don’t think about sex right now.”

  Rhys tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He tried again and managed, but it was all he could do to remain upright. White haze ringed his vision. A half cup of coffee and he was ready to pass out? Something was very wrong. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I’m trying to tell you.” Silas’s accent grew stronger and his grip on his coffee mug tighter. “But you keep interrupting me. Now sit!”

  Rhys’s face went hot, but he sank to the couch, obedient. For now.

  Silas tapped a finger against his cup and started again. “Half-fae. They’re hybrids. In all but very rare cases, they’re sterile.”

  A coolness washed over Rhys. Something unique in the world. “Shit.”

  Silas nodded. “You were close in your guess. Your father is half-fae.”

  Rhys flattened his hands on his thighs to keep them from shaking. “Is?”

  “I suspect he’s still alive, since he bribed you.”

  Too many questions. Why would his father do that? Why was he only discovering this now? He voiced one. “What does that make me?”

  “Quarter-fae.” Silas picked up his mug. Drank.

  “And what does that mean?” God, he wanted another coffee. Now. If only his legs would support him.

  Silas ran a finger around the top of his mug. His next words were softer. “Quarters are extraordinarily rare. Millennia have passed without the hint of one. Much of what I know is dressed in myth. The rest I’m only discovering.”

  Rhys toed the mug on the floor. Quarter. A label to go with what he was. “Nothing in my life has been all that magical.”

  “There’s only one skill ever talked about. It’s not something you’d discover on your own.” Silas pushed his mug away. “Quarters are elemental reservoirs. They store vast quantities of whatever element they have an affinity for.”

  Realization hit like a slap to the face. Silas’s fear, his desire for Rhys to go. The dead tree in the corner of the room. Silas had killed it, drawn all of its life—its element. His expression must have been utterly readable.

  “You’re brighter than old forest,” Silas said. “And I’m wounded in the middle of the ocean. I’ve been trying not to, but I can’t always…” He looked away. “You really should leave, Rhys.”

  Something didn’t add up. Rhys glanced down at his unmarked wrists. Another memory broke free. Of pain and the chill of the ocean. Dying leaves. Stumbling toward Silas. “Last night I touched you. After you killed the vampires. I felt—” Rhys sat up. “You were dying.”

  “I nearly killed you.” Silas laid his hands on the table. Stared at them. “I couldn’t stop myself. Took nearly all of your element to save my life.”

  Another memory stirred in the back of Rhys’s mind. Silas standing with his sword pressed to his gut. There was more—much more—that Silas wasn’t telling him. Later he would pry it from Silas.

  “You healed me.”

  Silas nodded. “It was your energy anyway and you couldn’t do it yourself.”

  From the way Silas had looked earlier, he’d drained himself. Kept nothing when he should’ve healed himself enough to survive. Stubborn fool. Rhys stared at the dead ficus and recalled broken bits of the vampire’s conversation with Silas. Jarek had taunted him, said Silas had learned well. A glimmer of understanding grew. “You’re not like them.”

  A tremor ran through Silas. “Are you so very sure of that?”

  “You didn’t kill me while we slept.”

  “I had the tree to drain, and we were far enough apart. And you weren’t…”

  Damn it! Every time Silas got close to explaining, he backed away. “I wasn’t what?” A spike of anger gave Rhys strength enough to stand. He picked up the fallen mug and returned to the bar.

  “You weren’t awake.”

  There was no more hazelnut coffee. Rhys chose mocha and shoved it into the machine. “You’re a piss-poor storyteller for someone who didn’t want any questions.”

  Rhys didn’t dare turn around during the cold stillness that followed.

  “You’re more than welcome to go.”

  Rhys could’ve made iced coffee from that sentence. “Not yet.” He enunciated each word clearly. Once his coffee had brewed, he took it and returned to the couch. “Continue.”

  The bruising on Silas’s nose had gone from greenish yellow to a pale yellow. His expression was unreadable. Or perhaps not. Silas had looked like that moments before going down on him—defiance mixed with audacity and control.

  Rhys felt his cock stir.

  “Stop that!” Silas shifted in his chair. Shuddered once. “Gods, whatever am I going to do with you?”

  “Anything you’d like.” The answer slipped out without thought.

  “This isn’t a game!” Silas rose, retreated to the dresser. “Whenever we speak, when we touch, we form a connection—a bond, if you will. The stronger the emotion, the greater the link.”

  So thoughts of sex made Silas slip up. Broke his concentration. Rhys almost smiled. Would have, had Silas’s gaze not been so severe.

  “I heard you call my name,” Silas said.

  Last night. “And you came to save me.”

  “Did I?” Silas spoke low. “Or did I come merely to keep you for myself?”

  Rhys met Silas’s cold stare. “You’re not like them. You’re no monster.”

  “How do you know?” Silas stalked forward, a blush blotting his face. “You know nothing of me.” His voice rose. “You know nothing of what I feel, what I want, what I need.” He reached the table and gripped the chair back.

  “But I do know.”

  “Get out.” This time those words were laced with malice, not fear.

  “Silas—”

  “Get out!” The shout seemed to echo about the room.

  Rhys shook, his anger rising to match Silas’s. Then he felt a trickle of something—like a breeze through sun-dappled leaves in the summer—flow into him.

  Silas swayed.

  So the connection worked in both directions. Did Silas know? Did he even think beyond the tip of that now-healed nose? Rhys tempered his anger. Stood. “I’ll leave.” He marched back to the closet. Earlier he’d spied Silas’s key card on the dresser by the closet. He took the card and held it up for Silas to see. “But I’m coming back.”

  Silas said nothing, just leaned on the chair.

  “Don’t get the room rekeyed, either,” Rhys said. “I’ll find another way in if you do. Or I’ll find you, wherever you go.”

  “It’s a big boat.” Insolence in Silas’s voice.

  “And you’re the only fae on it.” He tapped his head. “This is a two-way street.” Rhys shoved the key card into his back pocket and walked through the short foyer and out the door.

  Once in the hallway, Rhys took a deep breath. He hated to leave, especially like that, but he doubted Silas could be reasoned with right now.

  Anyway, he had his own head to sort through. Quarter-fae? A bond? Vampires and a sword-wielding Silas? This certainly was no fairy tale. Rhys ran his hands through his hair. Shit.

  As fucked up as his life had become in a day, it all made a bizarre kind of sense. That alone should’ve had him running for the hills—so to speak. But it didn’t.

  He’d found Silas.

  Rhys glanced at the cabin numbe
r. His room was two decks below.

  Well, that was a good place to start. A shower would clear his head. After that? Well, he knew the vampires had talked to one other person last night.

  But would Vasil talk to him?

  Chapter Seven

  Even after Rhys left, Silas clung to the back of the chair and stared at his coffee mug. Studying the dregs helped him ignore the tremble in his arms and the wild beating of his heart. Or so he told himself.

  Gods, he was a horrible liar.

  Rhys. Brash, young, and ignorant. He should change key cards, just to spite him. See exactly how he’d follow through on his threat.

  Now that was something new. He’d never had a lover threaten to chase him down before. Lover. Anger slipped away from Silas’s grasp, leaving a sudden longing in its wake. That couldn’t be. He had to let Rhys go.

  He enjoyed Rhys, their verbal sparring, and the teasing. The wrestle for control. But how much, truly, did his desire for Rhys come from the delight—and need—of the element he possessed? Would he put up with Rhys’s flippant remarks—his orders—if he were simply human?

  Probably not. He shouldn’t put up with them now, Quarter or no. He only did because he wanted Rhys, needed the feel of that mouth and the taste of that skin and every drop of forest life he held. All his for the taking.

  Silas pushed off the chair. He was exactly the monster Rhys said he wasn’t. He limped to the closet and found one of the complimentary robes hanging there. He stripped off his bloody clothes before wrapping the robe around himself, then hobbled to the bed.

  He sank down onto the soft surface and his bones cried out in relief. The floor had been hard and his dreams haunted by the past. Sleep would do him some good. He stretched out and buried his head in a pillow.

  The cover smelled of Rhys. The sheets too. Silas groaned and inhaled deeply in spite of himself.

  Curse the Fates, cruel mistresses that they were. He loosened his hold on the pillow. The Fates weren’t the reason Silas was here. The Messengers had sent him.

  He jerked upright.

  The Messengers knew the past, the now, and the future. They knew Rhys would be here and knew what he was. Silas pounded his fist against the mattress. Damn them to their own fiery hell!