“What do you mean?” Lyle froze, anger quelled by a spasm of fear. “You’re my Benjamin. You broke the curse and you’re gorgeous. Why would I want any other man?”
Ben looked down, rolling a pebble beneath his trainer. “One day I fear you’ll see the truth. I’m not gorgeous, I’m very ordinary, and I can’t give you what you desire. You want a millionaire sugar daddy to buy you a luxury home with a swimming pool and patronize your art.”
“Er, sugar daddy?” Lyle let out a humourless chuckle. “Even if I wanted one, it’s going to be hard for me to find an older man around here. And anyway, he won’t want me when he discovers I’m a merman.”
“Believe me, Lyle, most chaps are going to see tentacles as a bonus feature.” Ben dropped his voice to a whisper, although the only creatures within earshot were some large herring gulls who’d settled on the breakwater. “There’ll be a queue of rich guys who want you—including those who can afford the repairs when you accidentally bring the ceiling down. Somebody out there must be able to keep better tabs on you than me.”
The despair-filled suggestion hit Lyle like a knee to the groin. “Keep tabs on me? You mean I need controlling? Is that what you think I need?”
“No!” Ben’s raw panic suggested he was backtracking fast. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean it like that, uh… oh shit, I…”
“Maybe that is what I need.” Lyle turned his back on poor stammering Ben and gazed out into the fog. “Maybe he’ll tie me up and put me in a cage, treat me like the monster I am. I’m a killer, Benjamin. I can’t control myself, let alone my magic. You should just walk away now.”
Ben stepped to his side and slipped a hand to his waist. “Honey, I—”
“Go!” Lyle’s holler set the gulls on the breakwater flapping and wheeling and crying out. He spiralled to face Ben, the white heat of his anger returning with vengeance, fins ripping forth from both his shoulders, spoiling his shirt. Two more burst out from his upper legs, lacerated the trousers at his thighs. “See? A monster!” He flicked them around, feral. “I killed my own brother, Benjamin, so you’d best get the hell away from me!”
Lyle anticipated a strong reaction from Ben; he’d become so engrossed in his personal drama he actually desired one. The horror in Ben’s eyes shocked him still.
Oh shit. He sees the truth. I am a monster.
“Lyle,” breathed Ben. “There’s some really big birds heading our way out of the fog, and they’re not herring gulls. Get down!”
The same instant Lyle realized Ben’s horror hadn’t been directed at him but over his shoulder, Ben rugby-tackled Lyle to the ground. His cheek struck a pebble, pain cracked through him, but he knew he had to stay with it. He flipped himself and Ben over as one, so Ben was protected beneath. Six albatrosses spiralled yards above them, concealed from the rest of civilisation by the mists. Their wings stirred the air like a tornado as they bore closer.
Lyle reached out to the ocean, drawing every ounce of its magic. He would throw everything he had at those bastards. If Ben got hurt, he’d raise hell and high w—
He faintly registered one of the albatrosses dropping a rock from its talons, but only in the microsecond before it smacked him on the forehead. His eyes rolled up and the darkness enveloped him.
Chapter Seven
When Lyle’s senses returned to him, he inhaled the scent of Ben—Ben’s favourite aftershave, and that soft yet masculine musk Lyle so often revelled in, which uniquely marked Ben’s presence. His head rested in a familiar spot, in Ben’s lap. He often fell asleep here, especially when Ben insisted on watching late-night documentaries on BBC4.
Everything else, though, felt horribly wrong. Lyle’s head throbbed like it’d been hammered by a mantis shrimp, and the parts of him not snuggled against Ben were lying on a cold stone slab. When he pried an eye open, it was dark.
Lyle’s pulse jolted, then galloped. Perhaps Ben’s aroma was a trick or a very real part of a dream. Was he back with Welwyn, destined to languish with his brother for centuries before he faded and died? Lyle whimpered; he couldn’t help himself. Besides, his head hurt so much.
“Lyle? Are you awake?”
At Ben’s soft words and the gentle fingers stroking his hair, Lyle whimpered again, only partially with relief. He recalled everything now. Confessing all to Ben, the argument in the drizzle… then the mean beaks and thrashing wings of the albatrosses descending upon him like a shroud.
“Oh, Ben,” he murmured. “Do you hate me?”
“Of course, I don’t.” Ben’s voice was kind, though threaded with anxiety. “Tell you one thing I’ve learned, though. I totally understand why the ancient mariner shot the albatross in that poem. Those birds are ruthless buggers and damned strong to boot. Definitely the bad guys and gals.”
“I take it they brought us here?” Lyle forced both eyes wide and tried to gather where he and Ben might be. Obviously the cave he’d been imprisoned in with Welwyn had been rendered useless as a prison since Lyle had somehow blasted the side away. Scant light revealed he and Ben had been thrown into a much pokier oubliette of a cave. “And I take it here is… uh, something to do with Emmet and my family?”
“Oh yeah,” said Ben. “Forgive me if I sound a bit shell-shocked. Despite all the magic you’ve revealed to me over the past months, nothing prepared me for having albatrosses pluck me up by the back of my pants and transport me kicking and screaming ninety miles up the English Channel to the far edge of the Isle of Wight. And you… I was sick with worry about you. When they knocked you out, I thought you might be dead or something. It was horrible.”
“I’m sorry.” Lyle lifted his hand to clasp Ben’s, finding the apology he eked from his dry throat devastatingly inadequate. Poor Ben. He’d not asked to be sucked into Lyle’s family saga, where life-shattering curses were thrown about like humans used swear words, and grudges could suck up centuries…
Oh shit.
Ben didn’t have centuries, a matter Lyle had brooded upon at agonizing length when he’d been holed up with Welwyn. Indeed, if he and Ben were shut up here even a week without food and fresh water, Ben would… die. Of course, Lyle could provide magic food, but not only did that not appear to deliver the sustenance Ben needed, it sapped his own strength too.
“Are you hungry?” asked Lyle.
“A little,” admitted Ben. He tried so hard to come across as light-hearted and collected. His sweetness cut Lyle to the quick. “If I’d known life was going to take such an outlandish turn, I’d have brought along a cheese and cucumber sandwich.”
“Um, and I don’t suppose you can get a signal on your mobile and call for help?”
“I had a single bar of reception for a while,” said Ben. “When I tried to make an emergency call it vanished, although not before I received an angry text from Mr Bertrand asking why I’m not back at the parlour.”
Shit, shit, shit. Lyle squeezed his eyes tight again. Apologising over and over seemed futile.
“By the way, there was something I wanted to tell you,” continued Ben. “It was quiet in the ice-cream parlour this morning, so I listed your Seahorse Extravaganza on Ebay, like you asked. Just a little twenty-four hour auction, to see if anybody is interested.”
“You’re very kind,” said Lyle, although his dreams regarding his art seemed petty and distant now. Ben’s human needs mattered more than anything. Mustering all his strength, Lyle rolled out of Ben’s lap and sat up, rubbing his sore brow.
“Don’t rush it, love,” said Ben.
“I need to at least try and magic you up some decent food,” said Lyle, horrified as he blinked around himself and registered just how small their prison was. His back was flush against a damp rock face, and his head touched the top of the cave. The ceiling rose high enough to stand only in the area behind Ben, from where the meagre light flowed. Even if Lyle conjured the power to bring the ceiling down, he daren’t. There was nowhere safe to take shelter. He, and more importantly Ben, would be crushed.
&nbs
p; “Any requests?” he asked. “How about a bowl of Weetabix? Even magic Weetabix has to have some nutritious value in it, right?”
“Save your energy. I don’t think we’re going to be stuck here for long anyway. Your dear cousin Emmet said he’d be back soon to see if you’d woken up.”
“You’ve met Emmet?”
“Oh yeah,” said Ben, grimly. “Those albatrosses dumped us right in front of… uh, I think it was his throne. He’s not a pleasant chap, is he? And he’s a big fat liar. He swears you killed your brother in front of his very eyes.”
“Maybe… maybe he’s telling the truth.”
“He’s a liar,” repeated Ben, patting Lyle’s thigh reassuringly. “He wanted to pass judgement on you, there and then, when you were unconscious and couldn’t even speak for yourself. But fortunately… well, I get the impression he’s not particularly popular among the rest of the family these days. There were quite a lot of other merfolk present, and they demanded he call in, uh, something called a Wise Ma, I think they said. Does that mean anything to you?”
“The Wise Mas are an order of merfolk elders, from many different species and backgrounds, who we call in as healers and as arbitrators in times of trouble. If one comes to judge me, sil will get the truth.”
“Sil?”
“It’s from the ancient language of the ocean people, as far as I can remember. Wise Mas don’t see why anybody should label them by their gender. Usually, unless they request otherwise, we say sil instead of he or she and sils instead of his or her. The order are certainly wise, so…”
For the first time since the last few days in the cave with Welwyn, despair washed through Lyle, wringing the final drops of optimism from his spirit. Being here, back in his old world with Ben, spelled out the horrible truth more starkly than ever.
He clenched his jaw to kill the sob in his throat. “Sil will know I did it. Then they’ll lock me away forever, and… oh hell, it’s probably for the best, right? We’ve been living in denial, but we both know I wrecked your life. I’m dangerous to you, that’s for certain. At least holed away here, they can control me. And now… oh Gods, I’ll make sure they see you home alright, I prom—”
The brush of Ben’s lips over his took Lyle by surprise. He’d been sucked so completely into his whirlpool of doom, he’d not sensed Ben get close again. Ben cupped Lyle’s jaw and kissed him so deeply and devotedly it set the tips of all four of his fins on end. As Lyle leaned into the kiss, enjoying Ben’s taste despite himself, his tormenting thoughts skittered to a halt, albeit briefly.
“Listen to me,” husked Ben, his lips ghosting against Lyle’s. “Back on the beach, we were both angry. We said stupid things we didn’t mean. You know that, and it doesn’t matter now, anyhow. We just need to find a way through this and get home, and then we can worry about the little things again.”
It does matter, Ben. Because when I told you to go, I meant it. If I ever hurt you, I’d… I’d rather die, here and now, than even consider it.
With Ben clambering onto Lyle’s lap, straddling him, Lyle couldn’t summon the emotional strength to express his view. He knew he’d have to, sooner rather than later, but Ben’s precious nearness overwhelmed him. Ben clung to him, kissing the tears that trickled down his cheeks then nuzzling across the soft parts of Lyle’s throat. He sought out all the warm and sexy ways to distract Lyle that he’d mastered in their short time together.
Lyle surrendered; he’d had no time yet to mentally construct a hard shell between them. However, as he threaded his fins up through Ben’s hair and brought his fingers to the buttons on Ben’s trousers, the pang of imminent loss brought a bittersweet edge to his arousal. As they peeled off one another’s clothes, Lyle traced every inch of Ben with finger and fin-tips. He wanted to map each curl on Ben’s chest, the two tiny hard pebbles of Ben’s nipples, and the coarse trail of hair beneath Ben’s navel.
This may well be the last time.
Ben heeded Lyle’s hesitation, his neediness, and let it set the rhythm of their lovemaking. Ben took the lead, solicitous and tender, opening and entering Lyle with a firm, loving authority. As Ben buried himself deep, he murmured words of devotion into Lyle’s ear, so agonizing to Lyle that he half wished Ben’s breath were a harsh desert wind, lashing him with razor-sharp sand. If only the feel of Ben inside him could be a wrenching, tearing pain that he’d want to forget, instead of… oh, oh sooooo good.
Ben and Lyle made the earth shake and the stars wheel one final time. And then, as soon as Ben withdrew, Lyle wriggled away from him. Finding a puddle-filled recess in the rock face, he pulled his torn clothes about himself and curled into a tight ball. He threw everything he had into erecting a mental wall between him and Ben.
When Ben reached out to him, he hissed, snakelike, between his teeth, forcing Ben to recoil.
“You’ve had your fun, Benjamin,” he snapped. “Now you can listen to me for a change. When Emmet comes for me, tell him you want to go home. He’ll release you, I’m sure of it. It’s me he wants.”
“What the hell’s wrong? Did I hurt you? I’m not leaving—”
Spotting Ben edge closer again, Lyle sliced a tentacle up, swatting Ben’s wrist. “What part of ‘Go’ do you not understand?” he spat, proud his harsh tone didn’t falter. “Remember Kristof? What if that branch had fallen on his head, not his legs? What if I’d killed him? Would you have run back to me with an engagement ring then? No, you would not have.”
“But you didn’t kill him, did you? You saved him—you pushed him out of the way.”
“I got lucky. Next time, maybe I won’t.”
“But, Lyle—”
“For heavens’ sakes Ben, I’m telling you it’s over. Get it?”
“Of course, I bloody don’t.” Ben leaned back against the opposite wall and pulled on his trousers before buttoning the flies. “We can talk when you stop being so overdramatic.”
“Not this time,” replied Lyle, so quietly he wasn’t convinced Ben heard. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat it. He had to be strong, though. The only thing that mattered now was getting Ben away—from him—before it was too late.
Chapter Eight
Minutes lengthened into hours. Lyle refused to move, although his body grew stiff and cold, especially around the holes in his outfit where his fins poked out. Eventually, Ben gave up trying to coax communication out of Lyle. Lyle tried to blot out the waves of crossness and misery he sensed cascading from Ben.
Lyle attempted to distract himself by listening to the drip of water from the roof of the cave and the hush hush of the sea not far off. The intermittent rumblings of Ben’s starving tummy, though, grew nigh deafening.
Lyle could endure Ben’s sorrow—it was for Ben’s own benefit—but not Ben’s hunger. Fixing it, albeit temporarily, would require only a small drag on his powers.
He knew that the Daffodil’s pizza had delivered itself into Ben’s lap when he discerned Ben’s gasp of surprise. Lyle savoured the piquant scent of cheese and pepperoni. He allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction listening to the rustle as Ben prepared to eat.
“Thank you,” said Ben. “Are you ready to talk now?”
Lyle bit his tongue. No. No more discussions. He just hoped Ben enjoyed his pizza, like he usually did when they spent happy evenings together at the flat…
No good thinking about those anymore either. That life was all done with. Biting the inside of his mouth to the point of pain, Lyle tried not to wallow in self-pity. To have less than six months of happiness, in a life as long as his, didn’t seem fair, but it was probably more than he deserved.
Only a short while had passed since Ben ceased munching the pizza when a strong current of air swept through the cave. Lyle unfurled himself and sat up. At the only end of the tight space where it was possible to stand, a door cracked open and two merfolk stepped in. One—Emmet, brandishing Welwyn’s old staff—Lyle knew instantly. The other figure he recognized as one of the Wise Ma.
As the door
in the rock vanished again, Ben shuffled on his bottom to Lyle’s side. Ben’s trembling and slightly greasy hand found Lyle’s, and Lyle, despite his hours of trying, hadn’t the heart to reject him. He guessed the Wise Ma, although magnificent to Lyle, must appear strange and terrifying to Ben. Sil was small as a child, with petite and pixie-like features. Yet sils eyes—large silvery pools of swirling cloud and shadow—masked an ancient wisdom, Lyle felt sure of it. Sils skin was pale green, smooth as a rock washed clean by the tides of ages. Oh, and sil had no less than eight long fins, flaring through holes in sils loose white robe. What grace!
“Lyle,” said Emmet coolly, “get off your arse and kneel before your betters, child.”
Lyle let Ben’s hand drop and moved to obey, not because Emmet had asked him to, but through sheer awe of the Wise Ma. As he stooped to kiss sils outstretched fin, sil whisked it away to brush his chin, prompting him to lift it.
“So this is the suspect.” Sils timbre was both mellifluous yet somehow sharp, like honey leavened with blood. “I do perceive a troubled mind with concealed depths. It could be madness.” The mesmeric effect of sils gaze vied with Lyle’s lurch of terror. He’d suspected sil would pronounce something like this, but hated having it articulated out loud in front of Ben. “But I don’t see a killer here,” sil concluded, letting Lyle’s chin drop.
“Look harder then,” demanded Emmet. “I told you—I watched him slay. This demon of an undine impaled the noble lord Welwyn, his own brother, on a stalagmite as thick as my leg. It was no madness; it was cold-blooded murder.”
The Wise Ma never raised sils unblinking gaze from Lyle. Withering under sils scrutiny, Lyle wished the ground would crack open beneath him and swallow him up. Surely sil saw the horrible truth now?
“Did you kill your brother?” sil asked. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“He didn’t!” Ben launched forward as he shouted. Hooking his arm around Lyle’s, he kneeled at Lyle’s side. Lyle let his breath escape him slowly and fought yet another high tide of despair. Confronting the truth was hard enough without Ben rendering it heart-breaking all over again.
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