by Amy Hoff
***
“You’re a long way from home, Iain Grey,” she said. She slid a dram of whisky across the table to him. “Drink that, it’ll warm you up.”
“I ran away,” he said, accepting the drink. He took a sip and leaned back as the warmth spread through him.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“I can’t fall in love,” he murmured. “And I don’t want to.”
Desdemona sat back, regarding him with renewed interest.
“That’s unusual for one of your kind,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s ever happened before,” he replied. “Thank you for saving me. Who are you?”
She smiled.
“My name is Desdemona,” she said. “I’m the commander of the Fae army.”
The reaction to this information was startling to see. Iain’s entire composure changed, from meek and quiet to hard-eyed and intrigued in a heartbeat.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
“I just rolled you out of the sea half-dead, what good would you be?” Desdemona asked.
“I’ll stay out of the way,” he said. “I’m a fast learner. I can’t go back there. Please.”
Desdemona leaned back and examined the ceiling. She rubbed at the pipestem between her fingers.
She sighed deeply, with the sense that she was doing something irreparably foolish.
“All right,” she relented. Iain’s face radiated joy. She pointed her finger at it.
“But you stay by my side, do you hear me?” she asked, and Iain backed down, nodding. “You make sure your sealskin is kept well-hidden. I’m not going to lose you halfway through a battle because someone stole it. Understood?”
Iain nodded eagerly.
“Now, as much as it pains me,” Desdemona said, “I think we need to get you some clothes.”
Desdemona thought this choice would one day come back to haunt her. Instead, Iain remained the most steadfast soldier in her army for centuries. If Desdemona was there, Iain would be lurking somewhere nearby; he was her shadow and her most loyal soldier. Near the end of the war, only she outranked him, as he had now carried the title of Lieutenant General since time out of mind.
***
Seal-Hame was a place most humans could not expect to see in their lifetimes. As Robert had once said, their kingdom was underwater. Leah Bishop would manage to be one of the very few humans who had ever laid eyes on the home-place of the seals.
The palace of Seal-Hame was one of the great follies common to aristocracy everywhere; it was a palace and wanted you to know it. The decorations involving Neptune and other ocean-related themes meant that it also wanted you to know the palace belonged to some great undersea dynasty.
The king of the Selkies stood in the Great Room of his palace, the windows pouring water-refracted sunlight in on him and another young man of shorter stature.
No one could fault anything in the Selkie King’s appearance. His clothing was of bright blue and silver to match the ocean, and his long black hair fell in a straight cascade over one shoulder. His large, dark, expressive eyes observed the world with a serious gaze. He wore a tear pendant, as did the most traditional of the seal-people; he kept it over his heart, a bond and promise. The Selkie King was a man of ethereal beauty, as they all were. Servants to love, the selkie people cultivated beauty in themselves and riches in their surroundings. Many were the times the Selkie King sat surrounded by cushions, his beautiful body bent in a bow-shape behind the gauze curtains of an alcove in his castle, his long hair across his slight frame as he painted gifts for his absent wife – a woman he’d seen once every so often, a woman to whom he was dedicated, heart and soul, as she had been to him. She was long gone from the world now, but he had achieved Last Breath with her, which was not a common occurrence.
It was the King’s beauty among the seals, along with his wife’s dedication to him in return, that was said to be responsible for the creation of Iain Grey.
Iain was the most beautiful seal that had been produced in memory, living or otherwise. He was the kind of seal that painters gave up on reproducing the features of, just like human painters had once given up on Helen of Troy. His loveliness was so intense that seals came to see him from miles around, just to lay eyes on such magnificent beauty. The Selkie King’s right to the throne was assured to remain in his family by virtue of his son being the most intensely gorgeous specimen of seal-kind ever born. Many seal families whispered about him, and the kind of human he would attract as his life-love. They were excited to discover who would call him to be Taken, as it was not so much his own beauty that entranced them, but that of the kind of human love he would be able to attract. Surely a seal of his exquisite beauty would bring them the most beautiful and interesting human alive, and they all waited with bated breath to see who he would be lucky enough to fall in love with.
Unfortunately for them, Iain didn’t fall in love. He had other plans for his life.
So that made the current situation disturbing indeed for a young seal with different aspirations.
The Selkie King looked down at Iain, smiling, indulgent.
Iain stood straight, his military bearing learned from Desdemona, a look of pure terror in his eyes. The more he spoke, the further the horror in his eyes deepened, as if he could not help his words but fought against them in his heart.
“I am so glad you’ve returned to us, my son,” said the Selkie King in his deep, ponderous tones. He took in his son’s military uniform, the cloth stained with the blood of a thousand battles, the buttons shining brightly. “You were once broken. Now you are made whole.”
“Father.”
“They still sing of you,” said the Selkie King. “The most beautiful of all the selk.”
“I look forward to greeting the people.”
“Your subjects, my son,” he said. “You must get used to thinking of them that way.”
“I will do as you ask.”
“I’m so glad we found a cure for you,” said the Selkie King. “We thought you were lost to us – broken. Now you are made whole. Soon you will be called, Taken like the rest of us. Love is our highest calling, Iain. Never forget.”
“I look forward to that day.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DORIAN GREY
The tip of a cane clacked along on the rain-wet sheen of a pavement in Victorian London.
The shadow of a thin blade of a man, dark hair tumbling over his shoulders.
A pocketwatch glinted in the gaslamp light. The man was clearly late for some engagement of debauchery.
Observed, the man’s features were preternatural; with an air of the portraits of long-dead kings about him, an aristocracy to the tilt of his nose, the curve of his chin, the bend of his cruel mouth. He used his looks much like he used his money: in trade for the things he desired.
“E – excuse me, sir,” stuttered a voice near his feet, in a thick Irish accent.
The rich young man in all his finery didn’t even look down, at first; why should he? He lifted his cane to beat whoever had been so bold as to address him, and just as it began its downward trajectory to rain blows upon the upstart, something stayed his hand.
The young man kneeling at his feet was filthy, his face a mess of coal-soot underneath a flatcap, his body barely-stitched-together skin and bone. But his eyes, oh his eyes – they were large and dark and sad and wanting, hurt and hurting, and the beautiful man in the exquisite clothing with his curling black hair falling effortlessly over his shoulder was instantly transported to the peat-scent smoke of home, home, the sea and the islands, the desolate winds rushing through the heather, the sunlight shattered skystriped across the long rolling greens and the mist as the train brings us as the sea once brought us home, home, to the Highland hills –
The young man wasn’t a selkie, not a selkie like him; just a poor Irishman washed up into the place where all people must go; once Rome, now London, where all roads lead. And yet, those great begging eyes caused Dorian Grey the first p
iercing feeling of compassion he’d experienced in centuries of bored living. For truth to tell it, he had everything he wanted, all the time, so the world often seemed dull to him, dull and wanting.
“Come with me,” said Dorian Grey, startling even himself, and he held out his hand.
***
One of Dorian’s favourite haunts happened to be nearby, and he’d taken the young man there to get washed up and dressed in proper clothing; a man of Dorian’s status could afford anything he pleased, and this pleased him.
Dorian awaited the young man at table. When he emerged, scrubbed clean and in fresh clothing, Dorian had to suppress a gasp. This was no waif, but a man; his extreme thinness had belied his age. The young man was handsome, rakishly so. He was clearly built for mischief. Dorian’s heart beat fast in his chest. He did not recall having such a reaction to any of the men or women he spent his time with, and he had spent his time with many.
The young man sat down in front of Dorian.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.
“Please, call me Dorian,” said Dorian Grey.
The young man looked at his sumptuous surroundings, from the chandelier to the dark walls to the white of the table, and clearly felt out of his depth.
“Aidan Blake,” he said, for want of something to say. Dorian nodded.
“Order whatever you like, Aidan,” he said, surprised at his indulgence.
Aidan’s initial reticence disappeared as he ate; meats, cheeses, and fine champagne were all as one to him. Dorian smiled indulgently but worried he might make himself sick. He understood that the young man was getting the most out of his unbelievable luck in case it ran out quickly. Little did he know that in the depths of Dorian’s cold heart, something was slowly turning him warm and red-blooded again.
“So then, I said, I’ll be grand,” Aidan was saying, “and of course I wasn’t, so. I’ll have to tell you about the time my da caught one of the biggest fish in Ireland.”
His eyes were merry, with the drink or with the food, Dorian didn’t know. He only knew the pleasure of the young man’s company.
“Is that so,” Dorian smiled, and wondered who had suddenly replaced him with a new and kinder person that suddenly and inexplicably gave a damn about other people.
“Oh, aye,” he said, winking, and how Dorian’s heart ached for Scotland in that small phrase, “Absolutely, God’s truth.”
He dug his fork into the steak in front of him.
“What brings you to London, Aidan Blake?” asked Dorian.
“Mm. I’m a dancer,” he said through a mouthful of food. Dorian stared at him in astonishment. “Nah, it’s true! Really true, this time. Not much call for the ballet in Dublin, but London, well, that’s where they said I should go. Turns out it isn’t so easy to get auditions.”
Dorian knew, then, a way that he could see the young man again; an offer he could make him that would ensure a future meeting. Dessert was served, a slice of red velvet cake larger than any he’d ever seen before. Aidan dug into this gleefully too.
Dorian cleared his throat.
“I could get you an audition,” he said, scarcely recognising himself now. “If you have the talent.”
Aidan froze, a piece of cake halfway to his mouth.
“Oh, no, no sir – Dorian – you’ve already done enough – I’d be,” Aidan stammered.
Dorian took a chance and laid his hand over the young man’s, whose mouth shaped an O of surprise and then blushed dark red.
“It would be my pleasure,” Dorian reassured him.
And it was Aidan who looked at him with that same awe and wonder as they made love, as Dorian moved in him, as they walked close together in Hyde Park but not too close, as Dorian caught his lips on a moan, as his fingers clutched his own when he found the height of his own ecstasy...
Aren’t you eating, Dorian? He’d asked, so sweetly, all concern. No, Dorian had replied, but I enjoy watching you eat. Aidan laughed and said, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a vampire, what with everything. Dorian’s brow had creased in anger; there was animosity between those races for a long time. Aidan saw it, laughed, and fell into his arms, kissing away the crease between his dark brows.
And against every recrimination he could muster within himself, Dorian Grey fell in love.
Aidan was still talking, but he wasn’t listening anymore.
Because the haunting voice had come back to him again.
What if Aidan never really loved you? What if you were his best option, the moneyed fairytale prince come to save him from a life in the gutter? Did you really think that a talented, young, handsome Irishman loved you for you alone and not that pretty pocketwatch you had dangling from your fingers the day you met? You don’t think he found an easy mark in a man foolish enough to fall just then, just there, what perfect timing? You gave him fame and riches and love and then you left, just like he had probably been praying for since the beginning. He never wanted you, Dorian Grey, nor did you deserve a light like him in your life, and he got everything out of the deal without having a sad, dopey seal-man tagging along. Fame and riches, no strings attached, that’s Dorian Grey’s promise to you! His pathetic love, well, you can put up with that for a while; he’s going to get Taken one of these days and then you’re scot-free. In every sense of the word.
Dorian couldn’t breathe. Aidan looked up.
The cake was bleeding, on his plate. Slowly seeping out from underneath all that red, red, red, was a red much darker still, was the slight and strange pulsing, the beating of a heart, and Aidan lifted the fork to his lips, his lips dark stained red with the leftovers of Dorian’s heart.
Aidan never really loved you, came a voice that Dorian didn’t recognise as his own, despite voicing a similar sentiment. Not really, poor little rich boy.
“Aidan,” Dorian cried in anguish.
“Dorian,” said Aidan, and smiled with red teeth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOST AND FOUND
Dorian,” said a voice again, and this time Dorian thought he knew that voice – but it couldn’t be. She wasn’t – she wouldn’t – not for years.
“Dorian Grey you wake up this fucking instant or I’ll have you,” snarled Leah Bishop in his ear.
Dorian stood and brushed himself off, turning to look at the angry woman standing in front of him. Her scarred face, her clothes...what were her clothes?! She looked ready to spit tacks.
“How dare you speak to me,” Dorian said, despite something inside him warning against it. Leah’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline.
Suddenly Robert was there between them.
“He doesn’t remember you,” he whispered urgently. Aloud, he said, “Your brother sent for you, you have to come with us.”
“Dear God! Magnus sent you?” he asked, looking at Leah. Leah did not punch him out.
“Robert!” Dorian cried, as though he’d just realised it was him. “How good to see you! Where’d you get the toffer, anyway?”
“What the hell’s a–” Leah began.
“Er. Dorian,” interrupted Robert. “This is Leah, your partner. Don’t you remember?”
Dorian gave Leah the good old once-over and returned to the starting point unimpressed.
“Not. Likely,” he fnarred.
“Your partner in the police,” Robert clarified. “You have to remember.”
Dorian turned to Aidan, who faded away into nothingness right before his eyes, as though he’d never been there at all.
Leah turned to Robert.
“Are you sure this is Dorian?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s him,” said Robert, with a long-suffering expression. “He was, er. Different. Back then.”
Dorian suddenly looked as though he was struck by the best idea he’d ever had in his life.
“Oh! I do hope we’re passing an opium den on the way!” chortled Dorian like an absolute arsehole. “You wouldn’t begrudge me a smoke, would you, Robert?”
“I say, what is this?” Dorian cried, scandalised. “Unhand me this instant, woman!”
“I’ll fuckin’ backhand you, pal,” muttered Leah like a good Glaswegian.
A candlelight in the corner flickered suddenly, sputtered, and went out.
Long talons scratched divots into the arm of a chair, and Leah caught sight of two green eyes glowing like twin lamps in the darkness.
“Time to go, boys!” Leah shouted, and pushed them both out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
***
The three of them found themselves outdoors again.
The park in front of the Botanic Gardens was full of people, as if it were the middle of the day. Iain sat on a picnic blanket with a young woman whose makeup was garish, as was her dress. She was strangely incongruous; too bright, too white, her teeth and smile too sharp and large. Iain poured champagne, his grin plastered on in a rictus. They sat stiffly together, Iain still wearing his military uniform. She took his hands and grinned with lipstick teeth.
Robert walked into this scene, puzzled. It moved oddly around him, a sentient still life.
“What’s Iain doing here?” he asked.
“Probably lost, like the rest of us,” said Leah, pushing Fludge out of the way where he’d hopped onto her shoulder.
Dorian marched over to Iain and waved his cane in the young man’s face.
“Iain? I say! Iain!!” Dorian shouted, then turned to the other two and shrugged.
Robert got in as close as possible to Iain.
“He hates me,” Robert announced. “This ought to wake him up. Iain!”
Iain’s hand was around Robert’s throat before he registered his own screaming.
His mouth fell slack as he recognised the object of his dislike.
“Thank God,” he said, with feeling.
Iain stormed off, leaving the others to chase after him.