Then that unearthly ibis had kissed Jacob and asked for his heart.
Jacob’s heart was not pure or light. Neither was it a lion’s. It should have been safely buried in mud on reclaimed farmland. But Jacob had dragged it from the earth with his own two reckless hands at the suggestion of a sad beauty—at thedemandof a sad beauty, because Jacob had grown up withIvanhoe,and Arthurian tales, and Robin Hood, and it always betrayed him.
Jacob had spent over a decade swimming in whiskey for a reason. He’d gone to war for the same reason—or maybebecausehe’d been the boy who loved Sir Walter Scott too much. He didn’t like to look to the past. Or to the future. Or any of the possible in-betweens. But he had no choice now. He had pledged himself to Kazimir the Great, a firebird, a muse despite himself, and the visions would not stop. Jacob wrangled them into stories both tragic and silly, and left them, imperfect, embarrassing, damp with tears and torn through with frustration, for Kaz to keep.
Jacob was not as drunk as he would like to be. He never was, anymore, because alcohol held them back, the dreams and the pasts and the what-were-to-comes. Jacob was not a great writer. In his stories, he kept trying to capture what could not, or would not, be captured, but Kaz kept them all, regardless. If Jacob left them out for Kaz to find, Kaz would stow them away, perhaps into the overflowing satchel beneath this very bed.
Jacob did not go back to hide the one he had finished today. He went into the bathroom to splash water on his less-than-impressive face and make himself suitable for Kaz’s bed, cleaner if not clean, before leaving his trousers on one of the rugs and reentering the bedroom.
The rain was audible, but only just, like a conversation in another room. The curtains were drawn over the window to keep in the warmth or to leave the room dark.
Jacob clucked his tongue before bending over to gently nudge one perfect, bony shoulder.
“Under the covers, please, golden bird.”
For long moments, there was nothing, then a sigh and one arm slipping over to Jacob’s side of the bed.
Jacob tried another nudge. “I can’t join you in bed until you areinbed, lovely one.”
“Flattery,” Kazimir murmured dismissively in French from beneath his pillow. “Yasha, comehere.” Then, with a heavier sigh, he pulled the pillow half into his arms and brought his legs up to try to hold the Jacob who wasn’t there in place.
Jacob took the opportunity to tug the bedding down and then rearrange it over Kazimir’s body, replacing the fur throw when he was finished. The back of Kazimir’s neck and some fine blond hair was visible. Kazimir was at least fifty years old, perhaps older, but there was no sign of it anywhere on him. Not even dragons aged like that, as far as Jacob knew. Only fairies did, but Kaz was no fairy.
Or maybe he was. What did Jacob know of beings, anyway? Even most of them didn’t seem to know.
Sometimes he thought of the humans that fairies loved, and what it would be like to grow old next to someone who would not, not for a long time. He wondered if the fairies got tired of fragile bones and wrinkled skin, or loved them more dearly because they marked time they would not have together. Jacob worried over this question like a dog with a bone, and what it was that fairies and beings like Kaz saw when they looked at aging and weary, ordinary, imperfect humans like Jacob and decided they would have them.
The question of souls was not one Jacob could ever answer. But he wondered all the same.
He came around the bed slowly, putting his glasses on the nightstand. He shivered once he was beneath the covers, and stayed where he was so his shudders wouldn’t disturb Kaz.
“Sang for you before I knew you,” Kazimir complained, voice thick with sleep. He was probably not awake. “Why do you stay away?”
Jacob was almost tempted to peek beneath the pillow. “You’re dreaming, I think.” He reached out to pull that arm over his waist.
A hand tightened on him, drawing him closer. “Am I?” Kaz wondered with no urgency, burrowing deeper beneath his pillow and yet coming near enough for Jacob to feel his breath on his shoulder. “If weres can wait, why can’t I?”
“The obvious answer to that is that you are not a wolf, golden bird.” Jacob spoke softly. He wanted to wriggle his hands under Kaz’s body, but his fingers were still frozen, and he didn’t want to jolt Kaz into real wakefulness. Kaz was precious this way, even with his knees almost pressed to Jacob’s stomach.
“I am here for each age,” Kaz scolded, muffled and slow. “All I do is wait for you.”
Jacob took a deep breath. He licked his lips again, found them once again dry and cold, his spit like metal. “I am supposed to be the drunk one,” he answered despite that, “Did you drink before you came to bed?”
Kazimir was utterly still one moment, then unfurling like a new butterfly the next. He straightened his legs and arched his back in a stretch before emerging from his pillow. His hair fell over his partly shut eyes. His cheeks were flushed and darker than the rest of him.
“Yasha,” he said, surprised or displeased. He narrowed his eyes in sweeping judgment.
Jacob set his jaw and took it, although machine guns were kinder.
Then a hand settled on his cheek. “You did not shave today,” Kaz fussed gently. “And did not eat? Must I draw the water for your baths myself?”
He enjoyed doing exactly that, and perching on the edge of the tub with hot eyes and roving hands. It was the solitary facet of Jacob’s life now thatdidmake him feel kept, although Jacob couldn’t make himself mind too much.
“If you like,” Jacob replied at last, pleased his voice didn’t break like a young boy’s. He cleared his throat. “You should go back to sleep.”
Kaz ignored this, although he undoubtedly had a headache. “You wrote today. That was not editing work.” He petted Jacob’s cheek and the bow of his lip. “Will you share it with me?”
The shudder tore through Jacob despite himself, made him close his eyes. Kaz bussed kisses across his eyelashes, the unkempt curls at his forehead.
