“A husband.” Cal clucked his tongue and then put his palm to Raymond’s cheek. “You need a husband, and there are other ways to bind us, if the Church in all its holiness will not.”
The worry eased from Raymond’s expression. “You are already that to me,” he explained calmly, if gruffly, though he should have explained it months ago. “I will only have the one. It is our way.”
“You are going to have to tell me more about your ‘way,’ woodsman.” Cal patted Raymond’s cheek, then took his hand away to gesture behind him. “Since you have already met my father, come and meet my mother…. Perhaps get your clothes on first.”
Raymond gave a start and glanced down as though he had forgotten his nakedness.
Cal had not. “But do not get too attached to them,” he added in a whisper. “Your bed awaits me.”
Raymond bared his teeth in a silent snarl. “Ourbed.”
Cal was alive and mortal and married. Married to a wolf, and happier than he could ever have been, even in the court of the Faery Queen.
“Our bed,” he agreed softly, fervently, with all the passion of his stunted half-fae soul, before throwing himself into Raymond’s arms, where he would stay for so much longer than one night.
Tales Before Bedtime
THE CIGARETTE in the silver tray next to the typewriter had burned to the end and turned to cold ash. Matches as well as a lighter, equally silver and costly, rested, forgotten, beside them. The tumbler and bottle looked more recently touched, whiskey in the bottom of each, but not much. Jacob tasted none in his mouth, however, and unclenched his jaw in order to lick his lips. His spit was metallic, unpleasant, so he swallowed the rest of the liquor in the glass before polishing off the last of the bottle.
Fine whiskey shouldn’t burn, but it was fire down his throat and in his stomach. Jacob set the bottle down with less care than he would have if he had been drunk, then closed his eyes to catch his breath before he reopened them to consider the typewriter.
He didn’t read the words on the page still in the machine, or any on the stack on the floor. He didn’t need to. Right now, they were fresh, and his vision was too full of another time and place. He rubbed at the corner of one eye, then turned his head to look out at a view of nighttime Paris.
Rain fell in sheets down the glass, obscuring everything but distant lights. That was fitting, even for a reluctant and sober prophet.
Jacob smiled for a fraction of a second before a shiver hit him, and then another. His fingertips were cold, and so were his toes, which was unusual enough to bring his attention back to himself. The delicate metal chair that matched the metal and glasswork table he used for a desk was frozen to the touch. He was also barefoot, and had sat down sometime after noon, apparently without stopping to button his shirt—or even to put one on over his undershirt.
At least he had pants on. The real wonder was that Kaz hadn’t thrown a blanket over him or pulled him from the horrid work long enough to lead him to a hot bath.
Rather fussy, that bird. Inclined to flutter over Jacob and not himself, until he’d develop a headache and shut himself up in a darkened bedroom and finally sleep in a way that even a golden peacock needed to do once in a while.
The doorway leading into the flat was dark, meaning if Kaz was home, he was alone and not in the mood for guests. He rarely was, these days, not in the flat, though he would go out to parties after performances when he felt it prudent.
Jacob flicked another glance to the blurry skyline visible through Kaz’s decadent wall of glass, then got to his feet. Several joints protested. He felt things more in the rain. Even thinking that reminded him of his grandfather, complaining every morning all through the winter, anticipating his winter complaints during the summer.
Jacob surprised himself with a snort of laughter, then another at the idea of his grandfather taking a tour of Kazimir’s velvet-and-silks flat. His breath was visible, the tiniest huff of steam.
The temperature alone should have earned Jacob a visit from his golden bird, all pouts and cups of tea with slender silver handles. That would have amused his grandfather, too, and perhaps made him despair, a little.
Jacob might have played the part of a mistress, if he had bothered to dress or shave or make himself presentable. In other regrettably sober moments, Jacob had looked within himself for some sort of shame, but the truth was, this was the least shameful thing any human or being could ever know. If Jacob was kept, as fairies sometimes giggled, then so be it. He knew the truth of the arrangement.
Kaz needed care far more than Jacob. If Kaz had made it through a performance but gone directly to the bedroom upon arriving home, then he wasn’t well.
The human world took its toll on them all, the fairies and the elves and the lonely imp child, and the humans, too. Each day were more fears, a rising dread that sugar and champagne could not banish. Kazimir the Great saw it, felt it, threaded it into his golden voice to make audiences weep.
Jacob stumbled forward on chilled, numb toes to the carpeted, comfortable warmth of the main room, leaving the single light on the balcony to burn. He found the path to the bar easily despite the near darkness, downed bourbon because it was the first bottle he curled his fingers around.
Satisfied, if not any warmer, he made his way to the kitchen. Switching on the light revealed a tray with uneaten toast and an egg—his neglected breakfast. But his stomach made not a peep. Kazimir should have interrupted him to chide him about this and hadn’t. That was worrying.
Jacob left the kitchen for the bedroom, pausing at the sight of Kazimir’s long, lovely body curled onto its side, Kaz’s face hidden under a pillow. Kaz had stripped off his evening clothes and left them in a puddle on the floor. His robe had slipped and twisted to bare his exquisite shoulders as well as his legs and a hint of his ass, and the glow of his skin was all the light Jacob needed.
Beautifuldid not do Kazimir justice. Kazimir could go without sleep and drink nothing but vodka or wine and look fresh as a daisy, although, these days, Kaz largely subsisted on sugary black tea and toast with honey. Jacob often teased Kaz about his nervous stomach, volunteered to peel grapes for him if Kaz should desire it, handfeed him apples and cheeses. Kaz usually batted him away then pulled him back, called him ridiculous, then suffered through a caramel or two to make Jacob happy.
The humans who had once thought to own Kaz had likely convinced themselves that Kazimir did not feel hurt and so could notbehurt. His pain was rarely obvious. But his glow was fainter, and his breathing unsteady as if his dreams were restless.
Jacob crept forward to pull a fur from the foot of the bed over Kazimir’s lower body. The peacock immediately curled into it, cooing from beneath his pillow before going silent once again. He should have been able to handle the cold better than Jacob, but this, Jacob wouldn’t tease him for. Jacob’s body was still back in the mud most of the time. He was used to the cold, and French rain, and not lifting his head because there was nothing to see but gray and the not-yet-dead.
That Jacob had not died with them was absurd. The mouthy, troublemaking cocksucker was still around when others were not, because G-d had a funny sense of humor, or for no reason at all, or for a thousand other possibilities that had ceased to exist when Jacob had gone to a party at the behest of a friend and for the liquor, and found himself watching a shining, male Cleopatra dare a man to try to hurt him, with all the confidence of someone who had been hurt by much worse.
