by Ariana Nash
Trey flashed a smile back at him, leaned against the desk, and ran a hand through his hair, or tried to. His fingers snagged on a knot.
“You, er…” Conor gestured. “You have a little… can I just…?” He reached out tentatively and plucked a leaf from Trey’s hair. The position brought him close. “There. All fixed.” Warmth touched Conor’s face. He drew back and looked for somewhere to deposit the leaf before deciding to set it beside a roll of parchment.
“I had a run-in with some thieves.”
Conor’s deep brown eyes widened. “Ah, you’re the messenger Venali saved. We heard about that.” The male gave him a second, more thorough visual assessment that ended in a raised eyebrow, making Trey question exactly what Venali had said.
Being saved by Venali made it sound like he’d been some helpless elfling alone on the moors rescued by the dashing sentinel.
Trey cleared his throat. “I was saving myself before Venali showed up.”
“That’s not how he told it,” Conor muttered, cheeks warming some more. He concentrated on emptying the packages and letters, logging each one and its recipient on his parchment. His attention elsewhere, Trey stole a moment to admire Conor and his physique more suitable to manual labor than file shuffling. His warm skin tones suggested Conor enjoyed long periods outside in the sun. The warmth stayed with him out of the sun, too, and Trey found himself wondering if the male’s blushing and long glances were an indication of more than a casual interest. One he might be open to exploring later.
“Do you have somewhere I can get cleaned up?” Trey asked.
“Of course. We have lodgings set aside for you.” Conor produced a wooden key and slid it across the desk. “You’ll find things have much improved since your last stay. We have hot running water and we’re working on a supply of electricity, but until then, our lights are all oil-fueled, so please do ventilate your room by opening a window. Thank you for your messenger service, Trey. It really is appreciated.” Conor smiled again, warming Trey through. “We’ll have another delivery ready for you in two days. Do you know how to get to the residential area?”
“Yes, thank you. And I’ll maybe see you ’round Ashford before I leave?”
Conor’s gaze heated too. “I’d like that.”
Trey pushed off the desk, body thrumming warmly now that he was in the safety of Ashford and its people. He sauntered through the sunlit, main atrium, soaking up the warmth and heat before heading deeper into Ashford.
Previously blocked off doorways and floors had been opened, linked by open-plan staircases and landings. Signs pointed to trading areas and council chambers, recreational zones, and various other gathering places. Ashford had tripled in size. Now that the settlement’s existence was widely known, more elves had moved in. Traders’ stalls had sprung up in some of the larger alcoves.
Trey found the residential block and let another admin helper lead him to his room. The window was the first thing he noticed, and then the light spilling inside, filling the space. All windows had been blocked up before. All but the main atrium’s glass ceiling, and even that had been half-hidden behind shrubs.
In a small side room, he found the bathing and toilet facilities and tested the water, finding it remarkably warm. He climbed into a closet, the type he’d heard humans call a shower, and marveled at the feel of hot water washing over him. After weeks on the road, a waterfall of warm water was a luxury he could get used to.
Skin tingling and steaming, he dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and emerged from the bathroom to find a dragonblade dagger stabbed into the inside of the main door, holding a note in place.
Someone had been in his room.
His own blade still rested on the bed next to his unpacked bag. Nothing had been disturbed.
He pulled the dagger free of the door and opened the note.
Midnight at the library.
Bring the blade.
The dagger was a fine piece of work, clearly an Order blade. He frowned at the blade and note. Padding barefoot back to the bed, he tossed the dagger onto the top sheet next to his own sword.
Daggers and notes? This wasn’t an official Order summons. This was something else. Something interesting. Trey smiled.
Nobody seemed to know Ashford had a library, and with no signs to point the way, Trey headed toward the entryway desk to ask Conor. A helpful female told him Conor was off-shift, but she reeled off directions to the library with something of a strange, knowing smile, leading him deeper into the heart of old-Ashford.
Libraries were meant for books and quiet contemplation. Trey had heard that much about them. Although, he’d never actually set foot in one. There weren’t enough books left in the world to warrant rooms dedicated to them. But the room he approached down the end of a corridor wasn’t quiet. Behind a stocky male blocking the way, he caught sight of oil lamps glowing in nooks. Racks of shelves that may have once held books now held rows of colored glass items, bottles and bowls, most broken at one time and haphazardly fixed together with tape and glue. When the flickering light from the oil lamps hit the strange ornaments, colors danced on the walls. Music flowed, too, just enough to tempt Trey forward.
A boulder of a male stepped into his path and grunted, “Blade?”
Trey handed over the dagger and underwent a head to toe assessment. The guard grumbled, “I’ll see this gets back to its owner,” before nodding Trey through.
Laughter peppered the air. Trey’s nose twitched at the sweet smell of wine and incense. A small group of musicians played a lively tune, brightening the atmosphere, making toes tap, automatically lifting Trey’s lips into a smile.
He’d only managed a few steps when someone planted a cup of something into his hand, patted him on the shoulder, and moved off through the crowd before Trey could thank them.
He tasted the wine, finding it sweet and strong. He really could get used to this. Drifting about, he caught a few curious glances cast his way, most female, some male. All wore their Order blades, blades that had been soaked in dragon blood, blades no longer needed in a time of peace. He raised the cup to his lips and drank deep, beginning to understand the draw of such a place to those like him. Every single soul here was an Order assassin. They had lived and breathed and dreamed killing for as long as they could remember. Trey wasn’t entirely like them, he hadn’t been raised to kill dragons, but he felt a kinship all the same.
His cup ran dry too soon, but he’d ambled to the bar by chance. The female pouring drinks noticed his empty cup and waved him over.
“You’re the messenger,” the female at the bar grinned, taking his cup and refilling it from her jug.
“I don’t have payment, but I—”
“All assassins already paid.” She winked. “Trey, isn’t it?”
There had to be almost seventy elves here and she’d recognized him among them and under the shifting light? “Am I that obvious?”
“A few of us saw you arrive. Saw you with Eroan at the battle too. You were part of Eroan’s pride. Ashford would be nothing but ash without your assistance. A better question is who doesn’t know you.” She offered her hand. “Kalie.”
He shook, humbled and slightly uncomfortable with the praise. He’d just done the same as any elf would. He’d done what was right. “So, what is this place? It doesn’t appear to be much of a library.”
“But it is something.” She filled a few more cups and sent her patrons off with a genuine smile. “This is a safe place for retired blades.” She picked up a towel and wiped a cup clean, her hands working fast with familiarity. Her blond hair was cropped short into a bob. She wore it tucked behind her tipped ears, showing off an impressive collection of trinket earrings. Tattoos like Trey’s snaked down her neck and shoulder, traveling beneath her thin-sleeved top. Cheen elves marked themselves that way to remember the lost. Hers looked recent.
“Did you skewer the note to my door?” he asked.
Her grin turned sly. “Could have been any one of
us. We look after our own and we couldn’t have you spending the night alone.”
Trey scanned the crowd, recognizing faces he’d fought alongside. Without dragons to kill, elves who had trained their entire lives to bring them down suddenly found themselves without a purpose. He knew what that felt like, hence falling back into wandering. But most of these assassins had nothing else to fall back on. So clearly they came here, and as the musician’s music grew louder, they led their partners to a small, clear area and danced to the toe-tapping music. Others found comfort in company and wine. He briefly wondered what Eroan would think of such a place. When he’d first met Eroan, he’d have loved a place like this, but the assassin had hardened over the years. They all had. Still, lately, Eroan had brightened again. He’d approve of this place. Trey’s teacher, Nye, would not have.
Trey offered his cup for a third or fourth refill, hoping the alcoholic haze might smudge away some of the more painful memories.
“We’ll have you dancing in no time,” Kalie said.
He hadn’t danced in… months. He might yet be persuaded, with more wine. He lifted the cup to Kalie. “To the Order.”
Kalie picked her own glass up and chinked it with Trey’s, then downed her wine in one gulp, barely wincing. “You must get around as a messenger, huh? All those different places, different folks too…” A mischievous glint made her eyes shine. She leaned in, fixing Trey beneath her sultry gaze. “I heard you messengers pick up all kinds of talents from your travels.”
“Oh, we do.” He leaned closer too. It had been a while since he’d played loose and free with his desires. Working as a messenger had allowed him a great deal of sexual freedom. Maybe it was time to take up that pursuit again, but not with Kalie. Lowering his voice, he added, “If females were my preference, I’d show you exactly the kind of talents I’ve collected.”
“Well, damn.” She pouted, but her smile quickly sprang back.
“I’ll take you up on that dance later, though,” he said.
“I’d like that.”
A ripple passed through the room, flowing outward from the main door like a bow wave. Trey felt the shift in the atmosphere as much as saw it on the faces of the crowd. A pride of three had arrived, already laughing and sprawled over one another. At their center, the star they revolved around was Sentinel Venali. Trey had to look twice to be sure this was the same stern, reserved male he’d seen on the battlefield and on the moor. He wore layers of autumn reds and golden browns, the clothes tailored to fit like a second skin, highlighting a long, lean frame. His waistcoat was a delight of embroidered red roses against black cotton. He said something to the female hooked under his arm, making her laugh aloud. Mirth animated his face, made him come alive and shine. He knew how to attract the attention of everyone in the room, and he clearly reveled in it.
As Trey watched, a male peeled from the crowd, clutched Venali’s face in both hands, and kissed him long and deep. This was no chaste kiss of friendship. Venali threaded his fingers into the male’s hair, clutching him close and devoured him where he stood, kissing him like they were both starved of the other.
“Close your mouth, Trey.” Kalie snorted.
Heat warmed Trey’s face. He turned away and downed the wine in one gulp, catching Kalie’s knowing smirk.
“I hear you know Venali,” she said, clearly fishing for more.
“We met.” Every cell in Trey’s body ached to turn, to see, to watch the commotion behind him. He could hear their laughter and raucous behavior and a part of him wanted to be among it—the old, free-loving, careless part of him that went away during the war, or maybe before then, when he’d stopped wandering.
The atmosphere crackled, the crowd getting louder to match Venali’s ego. Even the band seemed to sense the change and switched their music to a faster, brighter beat.
“Bit of a shock, huh? You’ll find him quite different when he’s not working,” Kalie explained, lining up three fresh cups.
Trey glanced back. Venali had lost the male he’d used his tongue to examine but had gathered a small crowd around him. He talked and laughed and gestured as though utterly at ease with an audience. “I can see that.”
“We each have our way of coping,” Kalie quietly added, like an after-thought.
Venali extracted himself from the grip of his companions and sauntered over, walking like he knew every person in the room admired him.
Trey briefly found his cup fascinating, fighting not to fall into the same spell as everyone else here and just look. He was fucking gorgeous.
“Sentinel.” Kalie reached beneath her countertop and brought out a green bottle of something dark. “Look what I found rattling around the archives.”
Venali made an appreciative humming sound that apparently had a direct link to Trey’s much-neglected cock. This was not the time or place for such thoughts and certainly not with a raging self-centered prick like Venali. Trey focused on a knot in a wooden support beam, diverting his thoughts far away.
“Kalie, darling… Did you steal it from Alador?” the male purred.
On the moor, Venali’s tone had been rock-hard and unforgiving. It still held that same hardened edge now, but with an added grumbling purr that rumbled through Trey and made him acutely aware of the sentinel’s powerful presence beside him. He didn’t even like the asshole.
“As if I would do such a thing, sentinel!” Kalie dumped the bottle on the counter. “On the house, for finally tracking those murdering bastards down.”
“Much obliged, Kalie.” The bottle was gone and Trey figured he’d escaped without being seen until the weight of Venali’s gaze landed on him. His skin prickled. Maybe he didn’t have to look, maybe he could just ignore him and he’d go away.
Trey looked.
Elves didn’t have magic, but Venali had something, and now Trey was snared in Venali’s ocean-green eyes, unable and unwilling to break free. Long auburn lashes framed the kind of eyes that saw everything.
“Did you bury them?” Venali asked, leaning a hip against the bar.
“Yeah.” Trey lifted his chin, trying to scrabble around his own thoughts for something else to say, but the longer he delayed, the more Venali’s attention set his veins ablaze. And the more Trey’s heart raced, the more annoyed he grew. Was this asshole just going to stare at him all night? If he was trying to shame him for doing the right thing, he’d be waiting a long time.
Trey stared back, deliberately skewering Venali with his own kind of stare, pinning it to his face. If he hadn’t, his attention might have roamed over the male’s figure, drinking him in like a glass of cool water on a hot summer day, admiring how that fine waistcoat tucked in around a thin waist. He wore gloves, Trey noticed, and now thinking back, he’d seen him wear what looked to be the same gloves on the moor. Supple leather fit snugly around long, careful fingers. Fuck. Trey’s cock twitched.
“Did you bury them for you or them?” Venali asked.
The question tripped Trey’s thoughts over. Before he could think of an answer, Venali pushed away, raised the bottle to a wave of appreciative howls, and fell among his adoring people. His entourage swallowed him up, and Trey let out a breath.
With Venali gone, the background music and laughter trickled back in. Venali’s attention had made it seem as though, for those few moments, they’d been alone. Clearing his throat, he turned toward the bar. Getting hard in public for any pretty face and a honey-smooth voice? If someone like Venali was turning his blood hot, he really needed to get laid.
“Venali’s intense,” Kalie said. Her raised eyebrow suggested she might be fishing for a reaction.
“That’s one word for him.” Trey had too much gravel in his voice. Alumn, it really had been too long.
She poked her tongue into her cheek and nodded toward the rowdy group. “Venali is… complicated.”
“No shit.”
“It’s just—”
“Thanks for the drinks, Kalie. And for the invite.” He left his glass at t
he bar and headed for the door. With any luck, he could slip out, go take a cold shower, and call it a night.
Then the musicians started playing a fast, jolly tune. A young male voice rose above the conversation, singing about a girl on her wedding day, and almost half the crowd moved to the dance area, arms looped together, boots tapping against the hard floor. Hands clapped, and a flute player started up, joined by the fiddle.
Trey’s pace toward the door slowed.
Some in the crowd took up the singer’s words, joining in with him, and Trey’s torn and battered heart lifted. So maybe he could stay a little while. He’d be on the road again soon, and as much as he enjoyed the quiet, he needed company too. He’d once played hard in every settlement he’d passed through because, in those days, the next day might be his last. Now, he wasn’t as likely to die on the treks between villages, but a part of him still ached for that careless thrill of no commitment or responsibility.
“Leaving so soon?” Conor emerged from the crowd. His smile was the same warm, inviting grin he’d worn at the desk, but now the wine had added a dash of heat to his cheeks. Brown eyes captured the shifting light, warming those too.
A sense of relief at Conor’s company cinched it. He’d been alone too long. This was exactly what he needed. “Not just yet.”
“Wanna dance?” Conor blurted, wine making him bold.
“Always.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of song and dance and wine, so much wine, and with every hour, Conor’s touches grew more adventurous, migrating from Trey’s shoulder to his thigh, and later, pressed against a wall, hands on Trey’s ass, tongue teasing, luring him deeper. Alumn, it felt good to be free again. To not be tied down by responsibility. He’d spent too long in the Order, too long fighting, he needed simple pleasures.
Conor had found some corner of the library and tucked them out of sight from much of the crowd. He’d pulled Trey into it, but it was Trey who pinned the male to the wall, held his wrists at his sides, and lavished the kind of attention on him that would surely see them get thrown out if they were seen.