The Prince finally cast his sapphire gaze upon me and I did bow then, thankful that the deep hue of my skin made it easy to hide my flush. Blood that he could not see rushed to my cheeks and prickled my nose and burned the tops of my ears. If he resented me, I, too, resented him. Training the Prince was not supposed to be so difficult as this.
He motioned toward the folder in my hand, knowing what papers it contained, impatient for me to hand it over—impatient to sign off and have me gone.
“It would be best if we could discuss them, Your Grace. To go through each case, one-by-one. It would be of great benefit to understand them, end-to-end.”
“Yet, you understand the crimes, Mr. Otxoa, do you not?” He took the folder from my hand and began to leaf through.
“Yes, Your Grace, I do.”
“And you are fit to bring them to resolution,” he continued.
His entire line of questioning was a trap. Baiting me in such a manner would be the Prince’s latest gambit to get me out. It wouldn’t be the first time he had schemed to cast doubt upon my capabilities. He’d harped on a mass impregnation at the South Abarra Kennel Club Dog Show that had happened on my watch, as if I—and not Count Cesar Quinto, the Cupid of Canines—had been the cause of the problem. The man wanted me gone from The Ministry. Expecting things of him made his life more difficult. He’d attempted to orchestrate my termination at least thrice.
“I do worry, Your Grace, of what might occur if I were away from my post. I would want to ensure that you were fully prepared.”
“Do you mean to imply that I am unprepared, Mr. Otxoa?” He arched an eyebrow.
His eyes did something spectacular when he was in a wicked mood. They narrowed and darkened and focused in bold confrontation. It was wrong of me to bait him when I knew well how to calm the waters. But I, too, had grown addicted to the thrill.
“Of course not, Your Grace.” I bowed. “I meant only to suggest that matters of such import to national security should only be left to hands as capable as yours. And that you, as the Minister, should be apprised of all serious matters. Wet Willie struck again just an hour ago.”
The tension in the Prince’s eyes softened and the corner of his mouth crooked up in a smile. The spectacular thing that his face did when he smiled was something else entirely.
“Is that so?” His eyes dropped to the tablet in my hand. The folder held paperwork that needed signature, but the tablet held the extended digital files.
“What’s old Willie been up to?” the Prince asked with a widening smile.
Duke Guillermo of Mutriku had the power to cause spontaneous floods. It came in handy during the occasional drought. That was one reason why the Ministry had strived to keep things with Guillermo—Willie for short—on good terms. Easier said than done given his penchant for showmanship.
“He got himself cast as Moses in a production of Exodus.” I tapped around on my device. “The scene about parting the Red Sea turned out to be a real show-stopper. It created a tidal wave that subsumed the crowd. The water rose so high, most of the orchestra pit wound up swimming to safety on the balcony. Nobody was killed, thank the gods.”
I took a step closer and handed the Prince the device. As he leafed through the photos, I knew what he would see: the sour faces of otherwise well-dressed victims who looked no better than sewer rats with blankets; the sodden interior of The Royal Theater with all but the bolted down chairs thrown askew; a photo of Guillermo, still in his costume of opulent robes and dry as a bone.
Since only royals had powers, they were not treated as common criminals when they were detained. Rather, they were chauffeured in an official Ministry limousine, served pintxos and wine, and loosened up quite a bit to soften the reprimand that was sure to come.
“Any injuries?” the Prince wanted to know.
“Minor ones,” I answered. “Flotsam from the rising tide. A number of theatergoers have called for his exile. The Marquess of Tuile thinks he ought to be sent abroad on a service mission—to revive dry riverbeds in countries where we wish to build diplomatic ties.”
“Not a bad idea…” the Prince murmured. “The Duke is back in his manor now, I presume?”
He looked through the photos, brow furrowed. It proved I had his attention. It proved something else the Prince worked hard to conceal: that he cared.
It had occurred to me more than once that he only hated his post because he felt helpless. His instinct was to prevent bad things from happening—to be out in all manner of literal and figurative field. He did not belong behind a desk. Every shred of sympathy I felt for him came from that.
If only he knew his real task…
But I was not at liberty to get into all of that. So instead I answered his question.
“On house vacation,” I confirmed. It was the polite term we used to describe the circumstance of a royal who had been escorted home and provided with a round-the-clock servant-slash-bodyguard who worked for The Ministry. When commoners were relegated to their homes, we called it by its real name: house arrest.
“I’ll leave you to consider the Marquess’s recommendation. At absolute least, I assume we plan to ban him from The Royal Theater? Next season’s production is King Arthur. Rumor has it he’s set to audition for Lady of the Lake.”
I directed him to the recommended immediate punitive measures that I had drafted.
“I’ve written it to address a broader set of circumstances. He’s already been banned from sporting events and concerts, public seasonal festivities, all municipal buildings and—after last year’s unfortunate incident at Queen Maialen’s birthday party—from the palace itself. His restrictions must become tighter.”
“Must we go to greater extremes?” The Prince had yet to scan the agreement. Instead, he looked at me.
“To keep people safe, yes.”
Despite all the rules and the registries and the warnings of the state, royals were an impossible group to control. They possessed wealth, power, ingrained entitlement, and they weren’t always the smartest. Most of those with wilder tendencies fell in line and curbed their powers eventually, but not before they had pushed audaciously at the limits. The worst repeat offenders weren’t the ones who couldn’t control their powers—they were the ones who could control them but thought they were above being dictated to.
“Anything else?”
By then, the Prince had handed me back the tablet and was walking himself—and the folder full of incident resolution forms—over to his desk. He began to sign them without reading them, a true test to my sanity. I could not comprehend his blind trust.
“Nothing active, but we do consider this to be a high-risk evening. We’ve got the alert level on Defense Condition Four.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay. I’ve been called away on business.”
“What sort of business?” I asked, and remembered just in time to slip in a “Your Grace.”
“My own,” he replied a bit curtly.
“My apologies, Your Grace. When you said business, I assumed that you meant something related to The Ministry. I was pleased in the notion that you had a case to work. I assumed that any Friday night outing would be strictly professionally oriented, seeing as how it has been your habit to miss so much time from work.”
I didn’t miss the light scowl on his face, as if I had said something terrible instead of something true. He did not always enjoy it when I chose to be blunt. But our standoffs were utterly necessary. If I did not challenge the Prince, what license he took would place the needs of the future beyond reach.
“I will return tomorrow afternoon,” he continued. “If anything happens, you are to reach me personally by telephone. Are you able to follow those orders?”
I bowed once more. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Keep the place together, Mr. Otxoa.”
-
Xabier
The journey to Palamos was a scenic drive when taken from South Dulibre, though mountains in the distance and ro
lling vineyards were difficult to see in the dark. Despite the late hour, my alertness rose the deeper I drove into the country. The weather outside was cold, but I kept the window of the car cracked, enjoying the smell of the air as it changed in pungency and in freshness. Some untold essence that it held rejuvenated me.
My childhood home was not far from here. These had once been my family’s lands—back in the days when feudal lords had ruled. The Duchy of Palamos was still presided over by my father. Mostly symbolic now, the title would one day pass down to me.
Fesik, for his part, was a childhood friend—the slightly older son of the late winemaker, Fasad, who had run my own family’s vineyards as a child. The two-hundred acre vineyards where Fesik now grew our wine had been a gift from my father to Fasad for decades of extraordinary service.
“You’ve come just in time.”
Fesik opened the door to my chauffeured car, not out of respect—out of urgency—before the car came to a full stop. The limousine—of the armored variety with both driver and bodyguard in the front seat—had slowed the deeper we’d gotten into the vineyard.
“Which lots are the worst?” He shuffled me directly into a waiting golf cart, jumped inside himself and put his foot on the gas. A quick lurch forward found my hand rushing to grip the pole that connected the roof and the dash.
“The ones on the western border,” he hollered loudly over the sound of the engine and the rushing air. The small vehicle—and we inside it—flew through the night.
As we reached the correct area, one that I knew even in the dark, Fesik slowed the cart and turned off the headlights, knowing well our routine.
“Cut the engine,” I instructed based on an instinct I had never been able to explain. When I reached where I needed to be, it always knew. It was half of the reason why some part of me actually enjoyed heading off a good frost. Inside my body, my power felt like heat.
Already, it burned in my chest, for now vaguely and with anticipation. It would grow more intense, but not much. The real heat liked to creep up my forearms and stretch to my fingers. It wasn’t a burning sort of heat—more like a restorative warmth that gathered in my palms and felt like life itself.
“These,” I proclaimed. Now it was my turn to hop out of the vehicle before it had even stopped. I stalked directly between the rows in the vineyard. The one to my left was planted with Garnacha—a fact I could tell as much by sense as by memory. They would need help this night, too. For now, I would begin with the Syrah.
It always started with a cluster. Instinct guided me to which one. I left it on the vine but held it in my cupped hands. I don’t know what others saw in such moments, but—in my own mind’s eye—the object of my focus was cast in a golden glow, as if a single ray of sunlight shone through the darkness. In that moment, I gave them warmth. Somehow I could taste juice in my mouth as I worked my magic and see it as the glow turned from golden to purple. I knew exactly how far I had to go, to get it to the right flavor. I could tell—right down to the last instant—when I had to stop.
Conscious of Fesik behind me, paces away to give me space, I dropped one hand from the cluster and beckoned him over. The warmth was concentrated to my hands but my whole body was alive. It was euphoric—drug-like—finer than the feeling of smoking opium and not without its own brand of withdrawal. When I did not do this, and often, I missed it.
That part of it was tragic to the extent that wine grapes did not need constant warming, let alone throughout the year. Now, we were nearing the end of the season. If the weather did as expected, this would be my last time.
Fesik flipped open the hood of his refractometer and plucked off a grape from the cluster that still rested in one hand. With my other hand, I took a grape as well. Fesik squeezed the juice of his grape between his fingers, hard, getting every drop onto the sensor of the small machine that measured brix and acidity and pH. At the very same moment, I slipped the fruit into my own mouth. I was already smiling—quite ridiculously, I imagined. Chewing the tiny sphere of perfection only made me smile even more.
“Yes.” Fesik’s voice broke me from my euphoria. I reopened my eyes against the night. He blinked quickly against tears. My frozen breath—now sweet with juice—were tiny clouds that seemed to glow a purple hue.
I nodded back, then raised my hands, crossing upturned palms above my head. In my mind’s eye I held every Syrah cluster in the vineyard, one as all in my warmed hands. I fed the golden glow in my palm, turning every Syrah grape in the vineyard until the energy in my hands grew purple. I swooned when it was all done.
By the time I finished with the last of the Tempranillo clusters, dawn was breaking over the vineyards. The temperature had stayed above the frost point all night, but just. Nights like this were capped by warm, wine-soaked breakfasts served reluctantly by Fesik’s groggy wife, Odelia, who had awakened in the middle of the night to prepare a feast not only for us but my chauffeur and guard.
“Your abilities….they are changing,” Fesik complemented, looking as energized as I felt despite the late hour. Under the house light, I could clearly see his face. He could not have been more my opposite. I was tall and athletic with dark ginger and blue. He was slightly shorter in stature, broader in the shoulders and burlier overall, with all dark, curly hair and dark eyes.
“Changing how?” I thought twice about picking up a fourth arraultza. Odelia was quite a good cook, which said a lot, considering my access to fineries all around.
“This time it was unmistakable. You’re not just altering the sugar content. You’re changing the pH.”
“Adding sugar always lowers pH.”
“By predictable levels,” Fesik agreed. “ Sometimes increasing the sugar lowers it too much. Out there just now…it didn’t lower as much as it should have.” He leaned in. “You’re becoming more powerful, Xabi. If this is how it can be, it means our streak has just begun.”
I picked up the arraultza, too thrilled by the notion to speak, and chewed thoughtfully around crostini and chorizo and egg. What made Odelia’s great was the way she caramelized the onion.
“Have you not felt it? Even I could feel it out there last night. Your power is getting stronger.”
Fesik set down his own wine and looked behind himself in paranoia. Odelia had retreated and my guard and chauffeur laughed at the other and of the table.
“You know how I loathe to stroke that enormous ego. The universe has given you more than your own fair share of gifts. But you, friend, are the wine god’s greatest gift to mankind.”
He motioned to a statue of Bacchus—one that had been displayed in my own home when I was a child—yet another gift from my father to his. There was something I had always admired about this representation—smiling, enraptured and gazing adoringly at the cup in his hand; head adorned with a crown of grapes.
I thought of Fesik’s question. Had I felt anything different? It was becoming harder to tell. I had chalked the heightened gratification from using my power up to being so pent up. I felt petulant even to think it, but it didn’t change the truth: these two years at the ministry had been the longest—the most trying—two years of my life.
“Perhaps it’s better to wait longer,” I mused, not liking this idea one iota, but voicing it nonetheless. I would continue to limit myself in this way if it made for better wine. I had been with Fesik in the vineyards at least twice weekly Before Queen Maialen had asked me to serve as minister.
“Can you do nothing to change the queen’s mind?”
Fesik knew of my woes. Now that the moment of panic had passed, and the grapes were saved, he was more even headed. All year, both of us had schemed around ways to get me back where I belonged. Fesik was one of the few people who I could turn to, to vent. On one hand, I wanted this duty. The role was of great importance and some part of me had always felt a call to lead. Only, it turned out that I was terrible at the job.
I was a man who did not like to lose. Things I couldn’t master gave me anxiety. Some days, I didn
’t know what I wanted more: for Queen Maialen to relieve me of my duties because I was incompetent, or for her to release me back to my true calling: being here in these vineyards, making wine.
“The Queen has spies everywhere. She must have an inkling that I am not suited to The Ministry.”
“Anything is an improvement over Duke Grimaud.” Fesik threw me a knowing look. The former minister’s reputation couldn’t have been worse.
“Yes,” I conceded. “By comparison, I do seem quite competent. Though, I am reminded every day that such an assessment would be false.”
Fesik chuckled, his good spirits indelible owing to my having saved the wine. “The pencil pusher?” he asked. Fesik was not skilled at remembering people by name. He was skilled at knowing who was who based on what they did. I had complained enough—and specifically enough—about Zain Otxoa, that Fesik had given him a name.
“He’s become more tolerable,” I admitted. “But he still likes to hold me to task. He’s all by the book and policies and procedures.”
“That’s not your style,” Fesik murmured under his breath before piping up. “And you’re the boss. Why not have him fired?”
“I tried to have him reassigned,” I admitted with a chuckle of my own. “But he’s been surprisingly resilient.
That was one word to describe Zain Otxoa. Every other word that came to mind was too revealing to speak out loud. Zain was excellent. Unflappable. Gorgeous. He gave as good as he got and fuck if that didn’t turn me on. I could count on one hand the number of people who had been quick to garner my respect. None of them had a tailor as skilled—or bone structure as flawless—as him.
It nettled me that he was also the one person who fully knew how unworthy I was of my post. It had always made me uncomfortable—not the sheer notion of being judged, for, to be a public figure was to be judged every day. Zain had been more patient than I deserved. But few others had ever made me feel so inadequate. Even moreso than I, the man loathed mediocrity. He was admirable. And I was a disappointment.
The Prince and the Pencil Pusher: A M/M Superhero Romance (Royal Powers Book 7) Page 2