A stranger sort of fairy.., p.6
A Stranger Sort of Fairy Tale, page 6
Viridian tucked up against him, grabbing at his hand. Tarquin glanced down at the slight creature pressed right up against his side, nestled under his arm.
He’d never been touched so freely. Tarquin cleared his throat, lifted his hand again. “If you look straight ahead, the tip of the mountain there—that’s Gihelter, the highest peak in the entire range. And then, if you look straight up, you’ll find the north star.”
Viridian lifted his head a little. “Where?”
“Right there—it’s very bright.”
The fey pointed. “Is it that one?”
“No, a little higher—there.”
He lifted the fey’s hand as he spoke, pointing to the star, and Viridian tracked the motion. “Oh,” he said, then curled his hand about Tarquin’s. “You know a lot!”
“Well,” Tarquin said, dropping his gaze.
“Can you teach me more?” The fey’s wings vibrated with excitement. “Please? This is fun. I like this a lot.”
“Do you?” Tarquin didn’t need the confirmation; he could taste the fey’s enjoyment, all over his tongue. It was thick and sweet, like honey.
Aleks started laughing again.
Viridian paused, his expression dropping a little. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Tarquin asked.
“Like you want to eat me up.”
Aleks practically tumbled back into Tarquin’s chambers. “I’m sorry!” the grand prince cried, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”
He grinned broadly, and Tarquin bared his teeth in response. “Go on then,” he snapped, “get out. But if I hear one word of rumor—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aleks said, then retreated.
Tarquin watched him go, his lip still curled in disdain. “Ass,” he muttered, then glanced back at Viridian. He pressed a hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“Do … do you eat flesh?” the fey inquired.
“No,” Tarquin replied. “I’m an incubus. We eat energy. Sexual energy, usually, but …”
He cupped Viridian’s chin. “Emotional energy as well,” he finished, licking his lips. “I can taste you from here.”
“Oh.” The fey wrapped his hands around Tarquin’s wrist and rubbed his cheek against his palm. “What do I taste like?”
“You’re very sweet,” Tarquin said, hoping to sound matter-of-fact about it.
Viridian’s cheeks were scrawled scarlet. “Am I?”
Tarquin averted his gaze when the fey made eye contact. “You’re also very excited right now.”
“Yes,” the fey said breathlessly, and his wings fluttered again.
“You’re enjoying yourself immensely.”
“I like this. I like being with you.”
Tarquin paused. The fey closed his eyes, pressed the incubus’s hand to his cheek again. “I was so lonely, for so long. Nobody to talk to, certainly no one treated me this way, showing me the stars.”
“No?” Tarquin cupped the redhead’s cheek.
Viridian’s eyes peeled open. “No,” he said. “Fey like me are only made when you leave them alone. Otherwise, they become females.”
He blinked at Tarquin. “I was the same as my siblings.” His voice fell. “But they wanted a boy, so I was alone for a very long time. The whole time I was in my cocoon.”
Tarquin frowned. “Isn’t that … bad for fey?”
Viridian closed his eyes tight. “I don’t want to think about it,” he said, and warmth ran across Tarquin’s palm before going cold. “I don’t want to remember it.”
“All right.” Tarquin put a hesitant hand around the fey’s now-trembling shoulders. “It’s late. Let’s to bed.”
Viridian sobbed, his little fangs on full display as he did so. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He took one faltering step forward, stumbling as he did so. Tarquin grabbed him, then hefted him into his arms. “Hush now,” he admonished.
Viridian looked up at him. “Please,” he implored, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
Tarquin flushed, looking away. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “You must go back to the south tower now. But … perhaps we can visit the dressmaker tomorrow.”
They both looked down at Viridian’s dusty red dress. “You can’t go running around in the same dress day after day, after all.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course,” Tarquin huffed. “I wouldn’t say something I don’t mean. You have my word, and you can put stock in it.”
Viridian curled against him with a sigh, his eyes closed. Tarquin looked down at him again. The ache in his fangs was almost unbearable, and the redhead was so close, his energy so overwhelmingly content and happy.
He couldn’t help himself. “You don’t need to worry,” Tarquin murmured, dipping his head down, brushing his nose against the fey’s. The hunger was close, driving his better judgment to the edges of his awareness. There was only Viridian, those enormous emerald eyes, like a universe unto themselves. “Tomorrow, I’m all yours.”
4
Uninvited in the Temple of the Sun
Tarquin woke in the rays of another pale winter’s day. They’d left the balcony door ajar last night, and a stiffer breeze blew through, bringing with it a chill. He could see his breath upon the air. The curtains rippled, and the sun streamed across the floor, landing in bright shafts across the bed.
He blinked, then ran his tongue across his descended fangs. That unfamiliar ache throbbed through them, vibrating up into his gums, ascending through his sinuses. The pain pulsed behind his eyes, then radiated around his skull like a crown.
He was lost somewhere between gnawing hunger and a sea of nausea. One moment, he was wracked with pain, his insides contracting around the emptiness; the next, he thought he might vomit, as though he’d already surfeited on some too-rich dessert.
He gasped another breath and opened his eyes again. The ache in his fangs intensified.
He licked his lips; he could almost taste the fey’s energy on the air, that honey-sweet vitality he’d come so close to sampling the evening before.
He’d never been this hungry before. He’d never felt pain like this before.
There was a knock at the door. He turned over, dragging his hand down his face, praying the servants would go. Normally, if he didn’t answer, they left him alone.
The knocking continued unabated. He rolled from bed. He stalked through the antechamber, gritting his teeth. They never trained the new servants properly, even though he’d told them—
He tore the door open and looked down at Viridian, who startled. Tarquin couldn’t even help the hiss he emitted as he latched onto the fey, dragging him into the chamber, whirling him about as he slid his claws beneath skin. He leaned over him, fangs extended, ready to strike.
Viridian hung there, limp like a doll in Tarquin’s claws. Tarquin licked his fangs again.
The desire to sink them into the fey’s neck was almost too much.
He ripped his nails out of Viridian’s skin, pulled away, all but threw himself to the other side of the antechamber. He swallowed pain and bile.
Viridian, little idiot, stepped to his side, hesitated over him, then landed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Tarquin lied, then looked at the fey. Hunger washed over him anew, and he clenched his teeth. “No.”
Viridian’s brow tented. Tarquin fumbled for words.
“I need to feed,” he admitted sheepishly—what odd words for someone who never said them.
The fey tilted his head. “Didn’t you dine last night?” he inquired.
Tarquin flushed. “No. But—yes. I had human food, yes.”
Viridian frowned. “But—”
“Get your hands off me, or I will devour you.”
The redhead hesitated, then reached down and grabbed Tarquin’s hands, twined their fingers together as he encouraged the incubus to stand up straight. “If you’re hungry,” he said, smiling, “please eat.”
Tarquin groaned with the suggestion. Did he have any idea what he was saying?
“You need breakfast before we go to the dressmaker, right?” Viridian raised one of the incubus’s hands, placed it gently on his neck. He held Tarquin’s gaze, still smiling. “Here’s good?”
Tarquin could only nod. There were a few major veins and arteries that made for excellent feeding places; they were taught to steer clear of most of them, since opening a wound could spell the end of the victim, especially if it was left open. The energy flow was also more difficult to control, often resulting in the incubus drawing too much, making himself sick and draining the victim.
He rubbed his fingers along Viridian’s neck, traced the fey’s pulse. The redhead looked down, flushing.
“Why?” Tarquin asked, his voice cracking.
Viridian gazed up at him from under his thick, dark lashes. “I like you,” he said, his voice falling a notch lower before he offered up his neck. “Please. You’re hungry.”
Tarquin growled low in his throat, felt the redhead shiver, his pulse quickening. He dragged his hand away. “No,” he said. “No, we—”
“You’re hungry,” the fey insisted, inching back toward him.
Tarquin shook his head and tried to withdraw. How could he possibly? Giving himself over to hunger was base, animalistic. It went against all protocol—Viridian wasn’t just some thing he’d been given. If he so much as breathed incorrectly in the fey’s presence, it could trigger another rebellion.
The redhead caught his hand and drew him back. “Please,” he whispered, leaning close, their noses bumping together.
Tarquin let his head drop back against wall. Did this creature not have any idea what he was doing?
His body wasn’t under his control; one hand traced down the fey’s spine, right between his wings, then came to rest on his bottom.
“You’re teasing me,” he snarled.
“Not a tease,” Viridian replied.
Tarquin huffed another breath, then lowered his head. He kissed the redhead’s clavicles first, checking his reaction.
Viridian sighed softly.
Tarquin bit his tongue, winced. The fey put a hand on the back of his head, guided him to the left. Tarquin raked his teeth across the skin.
Viridian gasped, then relaxed into his arms. “Yes,” he murmured. His hands slid up Tarquin’s neck, into his hair.
Tarquin glanced up at him, studied his expression—bliss.
He reached up with one trembling hand and pinched the tip of the redhead’s wing.
“Oh!” His eyes shot open; his arms constricted around Tarquin’s neck. His jaw went slack.
Tarquin rolled his tongue against the skin, encouraging energy to the surface. He tweaked the fey’s wing this time.
Viridian cried out sharply. “Yes,” he groaned, then dropped his head.
“You like that, hm?” Aleks hadn’t been wrong, he supposed. He pinched the creature’s wingtips even harder, rolling them against the pads of his fingers.
The fey clutched at him, his blunt nails digging into his arms. “Yes,” he panted, “yes please—it’s good, I—oh.”
Tarquin pulled his hands away, stroked one finger down the fey’s right wing, watched him shudder with his exhalation.
“Please,” Viridian whispered, and Tarquin grinned.
He wanted to taste this. He dipped his head again, sank his teeth deep into the open wound and suckled at it, drawing the energy forth. It gushed into his mouth—sweeter than sweet. A frantic heat scorched his throat on the way down.
Someone coughed, and Tarquin froze. Viridian’s eyes widened.
Tarquin turned. Tullia glared at him from the doorway. “Well, dearest brother,” she snarled, “I see you’ve helped yourself to some breakfast—a very good thing, seeing as how you overslept and are now in danger of missing your own coronation.”
“You saw that?” Viridian’s voice was sotto noce, so quiet they scarcely heard him.
“I saw enough,” Tullia sneered. “Stop playing, and get ready!”
She was right beside Tarquin now, grabbed him by the collar of his nightshirt and shook him. “You have forty minutes to get ready and get to the temple or you’ll be late!”
“Can I come?” Viridian asked, glancing between them, even as he rearranged his skirt self-consciously. He pulled away from Tarquin, locking eyes with him.
“No,” Tarquin sighed, then retreated into his chambers.
“But why!” the fey cried.
“You have nothing to wear.”
“But!”
“No buts,” Tarquin replied waspishly. “You have nothing to wear, and besides, you weren’t even invited.”
“What about the dressmaker? You said—”
He shrugged into the dalmatic Tullia held out for him. “I’d forgotten about the ceremony.”
“You forgot,” Tullia groaned.
“But you said.” It was clear from the tone of his voice Viridian was sulking.
“I said that assuming I had nothing to do today, but Tullia’s right—this is the most important day of my life. I cannot miss the ceremony.”
The redhead pulled his wings back straight. “I want to go with you then.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He could only think of the stir that would cause. Rumor would fly from here to Rus and back again.
The fey looked at Tullia. “I can wear this!” He tugged at her dress.
She blinked. “But I’m already wearing it.”
“Please?” The redhead gave the damask another gentle tug.
“We don’t have time for this,” Tullia said, pulling the skirt away. “Quin, are you ready now?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, adjusting the robe just a bit more. He yanked on the sleeves, shook them. The weight of the fabric was already pressing on him.
Tullia stepped to the door, her gait quick and neat. She yanked on the handle. “We have to hurry—you still need a few things, and your face is a mess. The carriage is waiting, of course, but it’ll be a nightmare to get through the streets now.”
“I know,” he grumbled and passed her as he stepped into the hall. The air was claustrophobic, heavy. The carpet sank under his babouches.
She shut the door behind them, the noise echoing down the empty corridor. “This way.” She gestured and then walked smartly away. He was just as hampered by his robes as she was by her skirt, so they traipsed along as quickly as they could.
“What happened?” Tanaquil whispered when they arrived at the grand staircase, descending with him into the foyer. Her eyes were full of concern, her brows knitted with worry. “Gaius reported you weren’t opening your door—not answering—when Tullia sent him at nine, after you didn’t arrive for breakfast—”
He touched a hand to his temples. “I must have fallen asleep,” he said finally, meeting her questioning gaze.
Aleks and Søren, the dark-haired man from the morning before, were standing on the front step, which was bathed in sunlight.
“Good morning,” Aleks lilted, shading his eyes. “My dearest cousin, you’ve overslept! A long night?”
He grinned wickedly, and Tarquin gripped the bannister a little tighter, imaging the teak was his cousin’s neck. “Of course.” His voice was so tart, he could almost taste it. “It was the solstice after all.”
He took the stairs two at a time. The sun was quickly approaching his zenith on this short winter’s day.
Aleks snorted, rolled his eyes. “Not exactly what I meant,” he muttered as he fell in step with him. “But the fey—did he keep you up?”
“Not in the slightest,” Tarquin replied, brushing by his cousin as they emerged into the courtyard. “The crown prince returned to his own chambers shortly after you took your leave of us.”
Aleks couldn’t even be bothered to hide his disappointment. Tarquin looked straight ahead. There was no way he was going to intimate to Aleks what had happened between Viridian and himself in the antechamber.
True to Tullia’s word, the carriages were waiting for them. He lifted his robes and grabbed the footman’s outstretched hand as he ascended into the vehicle. He settled himself with a sigh, arranging and rearranging the fabric that pooled around him now.
“Too bad,” Aleks said as he peered into the carriage. “But no matter—I hope you’ll enjoy him soon enough.” He grinned; his brows lifted and his eyes lit up. His meaning was crystal-clear, even if Tarquin chose to ignore it.
“Come along,” Søren said, the first words he’d spoken in the time Tarquin had known him. He had a hand on Aleks’s elbow. “The king must arrive at the ceremony on time. Let him go now.”
“Yes, yes,” Aleks grumbled, then hopped down from the step. “Bon voyage, cousin! We’ll see you at the temple shortly!”
He waved, even as the footman slammed the carriage door shut. The snap of reins was followed by a whinny and a “ya!”, and the carriage rolled forward, the clattering of hooves and churning wheels over cobblestones drowning the rest of the audible world.
x
The Temple of the Sun was a sprawling complex located at the heart of Arubio. Its spires stretched toward the sky, towering above all other buildings, casting shadows upon the rest of the city. Its facade was intricately decorated, the work of skilled masons and artisans who had lived five thousand years before. Though the desert winds wore against the stones, still they stood, much as the sun rose every morning and fell every evening.
It was here Tarquin’s ancestors had subdued the native
desert-dwellers and taken control of the desert empire. It was here they had prayed to the sun god and so derived their powers, divinely gifted, that they might live a thousand years and rule over a hundred mortal generations, steering them with the patience of gods to ensure every step they took was toward future glory for their sons and daughters. Where mortals might only think of their own pitiful lives—of fifty or sixty years, perhaps a little longer if they were particularly favored by the gods—these rulers would think of millennia.
Indeed, they were gods themselves among the humans, and they worshiped in the center of the mighty temple. Its hallowed halls were empty save for the monks that tended the shrine; it only opened to the masses upon the solstices.
