The Prince and the Pencil Pusher: A M/M Superhero Romance (Royal Powers Book 7)

by Kenzie Blades

  “He could be an ally…” Fesik suggested. “Get him to agree you’re the wrong man for the job. Get him to back another horse. He must adore old Ollie.”

  I thought of my cousin, the Deputy Minister of Powers, technically, my second in command. Why hadn’t I thought of finding my own replacement?

  “He’s too by-the-book for something like that,” I mused. “Even toward a plan that would likely serve his interests.”

  Zain’s life would be fathoms less infuriating were I simply gone. Less entertaining as well, I surmised. I tried to do at least that, whenever I could, though, for me, seeing him each day had become sweet torture.

  “Speak to Ollie, then. ” Fesik continued to think aloud. “For a man in his position, replacing you could be a win-win.”

  “Grooming Duke Oleander, then …” I repeated aloud. It wasn’t a bad plan.

  -

  Zain

  “This is not a good plan.”

  It was Tuesday afternoon and we huddled at the Prince’s desk, which was so large and deep that poring over the same paperwork at the same time required being seated on the same side. I perched on one of the guest chairs, my right shoulder a foot away from his left, at the edge of my seat. My reaction was utter horror as I scanned his proposed plan for Serafina Calavia, the squirrel-taming Duchess of Calavera.

  “Let the punishment fit the crime,” the Prince argued in calm indignation, a tone that he had used with me before—one that he knew pushed my buttons, as did this constant repetition of his pat rationale. Midweek, when daily incidents were at their lowest, we spent half days in his office working on long-term remediation plans.

  Royals with a series of offenses had to be put on plans. It was ultimately the Prince’s decision to determine actions. I was intended to lend consultation to ensure that plans conformed to the rules.

  “She assembled a mob of fifty-seven squirrels,” I practically shouted, “and commanded them to storm Lady Helene’s yard. There were barking complaints for a radius of a mile.”

  “Come, now…do squirrels really bark?” The Prince picked up the folder with the original incident report. “This makes it sound more like a cacophony of squeaks.”

  I ignored his quibbling and went on. “You think that a woman who got revenge on a poor old lady and her rooster by sending fifty-seven squirrels deserves a proportional response?”

  On the date in question, the Duchess Serafina, who could bend the will of squirrels to her whim, had decided that she’d had just about enough of Lady Helene D’Orange’s pet rooster waking the whole of their posh Dulibre neighborhood before dawn. She had commanded these scores of beasts who lived in the trees of nearby Rhone Square to descend upon Lady Helen’s yard.

  “It was an unauthorized rooster. Urban zoning and all,” the Prince was quick to point out. “And we’ll have no fear of the Duchess repeating the same stunt again. I doubt any other neighbors would keep a rooster in the future. Lady Helene’s hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

  “And, still,” I repeated. “Yours is an awful plan. Insisting that each squirrel she commands be officially registered and harnessed practically begs her to keep them as pets, which sounds to me like an engraved invitation to build a full militia.”

  The Prince kept his lips tight, but his eyes crinkled and sparkled in a way that let me know he had been pranking me all along.

  “Is this not a bureaucracy? And am I not the biggest and bureaucrattiest bureaucrat of them all?” He kept up the ruse. “She will stop this foolishness if we tie her with red tape.”

  “Yet you know that we must abide by the guidelines put forth in the Ministry Rule of Law. It’s all in Section Ten, Article Twelve, Letter F: no animals may be harmed or confined in carrying out a disciplinary action. Not to mention South Abarran law, which prohibits the ownership, sale, purchase, trafficking and domestication of rodents in the Sciuridae family.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Seriously. How do you even know that?”

  The truth was, I didn’t. But I was good on my feet. And the point wasn’t where the rule was—it was that such a rule existed and that the Prince really ought to be busy familiarizing himself with The Ministry’s laws.

  There were three ways to stop the ruling class from raining destruction with their powers. Prevention was presided over by The Ministry’s regulatory arm. They took care of most of it—assessing, monitoring and explicitly dictating how supos were and weren’t permitted to use their powers. Royals who had demonstrated problematic behavior were each assigned a case worker, mid-level employees who kept meticulous logs of abuses of power and speculated on worst-case scenarios should the will for destruction be unleashed.

  Scores of Case Workers clocked in every day, reporting to cubicles on the fourth-through-ninth floors. They were analysts and assessors of risk. But decisions about long-term sanctions needed sign-off by the minister. Handing out punishments to an entitled, elite class who resented the ministry and would inevitably complain was touchy work.

  “Something must be done about the Duchess.” My voice was quieter this time. I abandoned procedure and hoped to appeal to him on the basis of common sense. “This is not an isolated incident and squirrel-related havoc can become quite severe.”

  The Prince nodded, relenting. I saw the moment when he put all joking aside. “What would Duke Oleander do?”

  “Duke Oleander is not the minister,” was my cautious dodge.

  “Yet, he has made decisions in my stead when I have been out of pocket. And he is more experienced.”

  Was he looking for me to agree? Was this another trick to get me out? Yet, some true vulnerability shone in his eyes.

  “He, too, had to learn,” I pointed out. “I ask but that you try.”

  “He is suited to the position, is he not? A follower of rules in a way that I never will be,” the Prince pressed.

  I bit my tongue against what I knew. This was the part of the job that I hated—part of what made me angry all the time. The Prince’s resistance to learning doubled my workload and caused me endless stress. Given the sad state of my social affairs, I resented him for being so sexy. But I liked Xabier—at least the part of him that didn’t drive me bonkers. And I didn’t like lying to him.

  “We all have a role to play.”

  “Easy to say for a man who was called to do exactly this.” The Prince’s voice lowered. “Consider yourself lucky that you cannot fathom the call of a power such as we royals have. To be separated from such an instinct is a curse. It is visceral—the instinct to nurture one’s power as a father nurtures his child.”

  “No.” I lied through my teeth. “I cannot imagine.”

  -

  Xabier

  Oleander Zabala, Duke of Shrubs, son of Ezkerro Zabala and second cousin to me was twenty-third in line to the throne. He lived a solid hour outside of South Dulibre and commuted to The Ministry each day from an estate with gardens befitting his name. The half-timbered, half-stone-built residence, with its gently sloping roofs remained true to the style of the region. Though stately in size and upkeep, its lines were undramatic and—like Ollie’s personality—the building was a bit bland.

  The gardens were its saving grace—its pièce de résistance, the crown jewel of the property and Ollie’s pride and joy. It was where he hosted guests on the rare spring occasion when he entertained. There were five, each with a different theme: one rose garden; one completely full of oleander, with its oranges and reds and whites and yellows and pinks; one bursting with other colorful blooms of I-couldn’t-tell-you-what; closest to the residence was the topiary garden, which featured only Alice in Wonderland designs, stretched a long runway beyond the back steps. At the far end of his property was the fifth garden: the maze.

  “Delighted that you’ve come for a visit,” Ollie remarked jovially. “It’s seldom that we have a chance to see one another outside of work.”

  “I’m afraid my social life these days is lacking,” I admitted truthfully. “Plus, opp
osite shifts, and all. Do you still see Vitts?”

  I asked after the closest cousin-friend we’d always had in common. He and Vittoria were first cousins, but she and I were closer in age.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Ollie admitted. “Second shift and all.”

  If there was anyone who I should have felt sorrier for than I felt for myself, it was Ollie. It was only for the lucky fact that he enjoyed the job that I didn’t. Even with the hours he worked, he performed with relish and did not complain.

  “Plus,” he continued. “She’s none too diligent about keeping her little habit in check and she knows I’m by the book.”

  I couldn’t help but to chuckle at that. Vittoria had the power of mimicry. She was like a walking sound effects machine. That, combined with a wicked sense of humor, made for great fun at parties and in crowds. She’d won me over at the tender age of ten, when she’d convinced our entire class that a boy who bullied me had an incurable case of flatulence. She’d even gotten our distant cousin, who could create spontaneous smells, in on the joke.

  As an adult, she’d only somewhat settled down. In the company of those who knew of her power, she was still good for crickets during awkward silences and other such smart assery. Get her in a room full of strangers, and she really had her fun.

  “I must admit,” I began slowly. “That I quite envy your reputation. You do your post an honor inasmuch as you are known for being steadfast.”

  Duke Oleander looked distressed by my self-deprecation. “You are in a difficult position,” he replied. “Few other than ourselves are burdened to know the stressors of the job. As The Minister, all actions done by people within the agency—good or bad—fall upon you.”

  “Duke Grimaud handled things far more gracefully, I’m afraid,” I said truthfully.

  “Duke Grimaud had two-and-a-half decades on the job before he passed on,” Ollie countered. “Even with that experience, he did not leave The Ministry in good regard.”

  “Yet you have been a constant force, behind the scenes, lending your wisdom and skill to the running of the Ministry, without receiving an ounce of credit. It is no secret that it is you who was expected to have been appointed to the post I was granted.”

  His response was predictably neutral. “Men of duty can harbor no expectations.”

  “Come now, there must be more to it than that.”

  We were not so close that I expected him to speak freely without a bit of prodding. The Duke seemed to carefully weigh his words.

  “Had Queen Maialen called upon me to fulfill this duty, I would have done so without hesitation.”

  “Is it not the truth that you are qualified to be a better Minister than I?”

  Ollie stopped in his tracks and turned his gaze to me in panic, his features a mix of horror and shame.

  “Cousin—“ he stammered as his face reddened and he grasped for a reply. What remaining doubt I’d held about his aspirations were eradicated by the look on his face. “I’ve never meant to…if I’ve ever indicated…” I waited patiently for him to calm.

  “I apologize if I have said or done anything to give the impression that I have designs on your role as Minister,“ he said shakily as he finally straightened himself. “I am, as ever and always, your humble servant.”

  “And for that, I am grateful. It is because of your humility, and your sense of duty that you have earned my trust. Can I trust you now to hold my confidence on an important matter? It is one that involves the both of us.”

  Ollie blinked again. “Of course, cousin. I can only hope that it is nothing dire.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back and resumed walking.

  “I don’t see any shame in having ambitions. Passion is the hallmark of all great men. When we care about something deeply, we excel. Look around us.” I motioned my hands to indicate his sculptures which—despite his unfortunate choice of subject—were quite exquisite. “Only a passionate man could have invested the time—the sheer patience and precision—to create this.”

  Ollie was, as ever, sincere. “It doesn’t feel like work. When I’m trimming, everything just…flows.”

  “I’m told that you have demonstrated similar talents at The Ministry.”

  “What has been said of my talents there?”

  “Not merely that you are diligent and efficient—that you have a natural talent for the work that can’t be explained.”

  Ollie quieted as we continued our walk.

  “I will admit—I have seen it as well. Perhaps have even been jealous of it. You possess a passion that I lack. And though you have done nothing to indicate that you are anything less than loyal to me and your position, I can’t help but to think that you may be better suited to the Minister of Powers position.”

  “You flatter me,” Ollie said simply in a dejected sort of way.

  “Then why do you sound so glum?”

  “Because talents and passion can be cruel when pitted against expectations. Our duty is what it is. Some of us are lucky enough to see our duties coincide with that which we love. But many of us—like you and I—simply aren’t.”

  His words rang so true that they threatened to throw me down a pit of melancholy. But I had to remember my task.

  “What if we stopped leaving it up to luck?” I challenged. “What if—together—we could persuade Queen Maialen that we were each called to do something else?”

  “But The Ministry…Queen Maialen has entrusted you with national security. I can only imagine that she has done so because she trusts you immensely. Can such preferences truly be second-guessed?”

  “I am beginning to fear that my role as beloved nephew to our Queen is clouding her judgment. It pains me to say that she may have overestimated me.”

  Ollie gazed at me in earnest as he gave his response. “You do yourself a disservice to speak of your abilities in this way. You are five years my junior—and six years less tenured within The Ministry. Now is still the time for you to learn.”

  “No, cousin,” I corrected gently. “I do the country a disservice by not admitting when I am out of my depth. National security is nothing to trifle with. If the queen overestimates me, it is my duty to let her know.”

  “Have you felt this way for a long while?”

  We were just coming upon a table that had been left for us to sit. It was set with several small plates—local delicacies and wine.

  “I have raised the issue with the Queen before,” I admitted.

  “And what was her response?”

  Ollie motioned for me to sit first. The table was in the shade of an enormous tree that had been trimmed in such a way that its canopy was the perfect rendition of an umbrella.

  “Similar to yours, I’m afraid. The Queen believes that it is merely a matter of learning and not a matter of skill. I am humbled by her confidence in me, I’m almost certain that it will do us harm. Just last week, Chester the Molester struck again, on my watch.”

  Chester the Molester was the common name we used for Sir Arthur Pintxo, Earl of Ferulia, a randy teenager with the power to disrobe anybody he meant to by command of his thoughts.

  “Good gods,” Ollie blurted with distaste. His hand halted for a moment in mid-air, holding the napkin that had been en route to his lap. Both of us were now seated at the table.

  “Seems someone’s hot for teacher,” I murmured cheekily.

  “What was his punishment this time?” Ollie wanted to know.

  “That’s just it—it still hasn’t been decided. Half the time, when a disciplinary decision is in my care, I’m told that policy would prohibit me from exacting justice in the way that I would prefer.”

  At this, Ollie gave a smile. It prompted me to ask, “What?”

  “Swearing Salvador,” he said with continued amusement. “Word is, you had him followed ‘round by a launderer under orders to wash his mouth out with soap every time he used salty language.”

  “It was a good punishment,” I insisted before murmuring, “…eve
n though it only lasted for a week. How did you find out about it?”

  “Zain Otxoa,” Ollie reported with an easy smile before popping a bite of sausage in his mouth and chewing thoroughly. “Not that he blabbered. Actually, he was quite discreet.”

  Famished after my long ride, I’d had it in mind to take my own bite of sausage, but something inside me went cold at his words. Which part unnerved me more? That my adversary had been loath to spread the details of our tense exchange or that my cousin knew him casually? I decided, in a second, that it was both.

  “And what did he tell you?” I prodded because, unlike Mr. Otxoa, I was not discreet.

  “That you were still learning and that once you informed him of allowable punishments per the procedural manuals, that you were able to choose a more appropriate penalty.”

  I did take a bite of sausage then, mostly to stall myself from talking. For as much trouble as I gave him, I was certain that Zain Otxoa would curse me to high heaven, with a vitriol and skill that rivaled the skills of Salvador himself. I had never heard explicitly that he badmouthed me, but even if I had, I would not have reprimanded him for it. Anything he said about me was true, and well-deserved.

  “I hear this is a vintage you enjoy?”

  Without me having to say a word, Ollie picked up the wine which I had insinuated that I would very much like to see on the table. For men in my position, the indulgence of one’s particularities was commonplace.

  “Yes…” I watched him pour the Ichor, enjoying the process of watching the liquid fall into the glass. Its color was the perfect mix of amethyst and ruby. Even without tasting it, I could smell it faintly and I enjoyed the way it awakened my senses with just one whiff.

  “Have you tried the Ichor before?” I baited.

  Ollie gaped in disbelief. “Have I?” he repeated, more comfortable now. “You won’t believe what I had to do to snap up the ten cases I got. It’s magic in a bottle.”