by Willa Okati
Eremand gave a mighty heave and loosed a scream as he came in hot, wet bursts over Keelan’s palm. Laughing wildly, exultant in his victory, Keelan rammed deep inside Eremand again, milking a second, smaller climax out of his fellow elf before spilling his own load of seed within the man’s ass.
Finished, both of them collapsed to the soft sedge grass beneath them like worn-out dogs, breathing hard. The sound of Nerys’ applause brought them back around.
“Twenty gold,” she cheered. “Twenty for me!” Then, as one of the few elves who would have the nerve, she turned to Black Malice. “I’ll have the coin, if you please.”
Keelan looked up in time to see Black Malice simmering at Nerys, no doubt casting her a foul look, the kind that once upon a time would have curdled milk in pans and caused women to miscarry. Nerys, being immortal and having her own powers, merely laughed and extended her hand. Grudgingly, Malice slapped a small, jingling pouch into the female elf’s hand.
Nerys merrily secreted the money somewhere in the depths of her bosom. An amazing feat, Keelan thought hazily, as the elf was all but naked, dressed in a fragment of cloth woven from spider webs. She had many deeply hidden depths to her, much more than met the eye.
Delighted with the results of her game, Nerys spun around and watched avidly as Keelan and Eremand got to their feet. Keelan summoned warm, soapy water and two cloths as Eremand reeled, shaking his head.
“No hard feelings?” Keelan asked. “It was fairly fought and fairly won.”
“You are a foul cheater. What did you anoint the toy with? Passion oil?”
Keelan paused in dipping the cloth into water and tossed Eremand a lazy grin. “A bit of something I picked up from an incubus,” he said carelessly. “I traded him a night of Elvish pleasure in exchange for a dram that he’d distilled.”
Nerys let out a low whistle. “An incubus, my, my. You’re keeping high company these days.”
“Ah, go on with you.” Keelan flicked soapy water at his friend. “He was pleasant enough. Called himself Liam.”
“Liam?” Black Malice uncoiled herself a bit and gave a snort. “Leave it to you,” she rasped, “to find the only sex demon in knowledge to have your own particular slant on sexuality.” She thrust her breasts forward. No elf in Keelan’s acquaintance had had the nerve to see what lay beneath Malice’s midnight robes, but apparently she held herself in high esteem, to flaunt her goods so.
“Belittle him not; Liam was good company.” Keelan attended to the business of cleaning himself off, then generously offered Eremand his own washcloth. The elf took it after a feint at Keelan, easily dodged. The Fey liked to play games, all the time, some more dangerous than not. Keelan prided himself on being able to tell the difference. This was merely Eremand grudging him the win, not a direct attack.
Then again, no one ever knew with an elf.
Eremand drew back. Quickly cleaning himself, he sat down cross-legged in the grass, naked and unashamed. “Liam. I’ve heard his name whispered on the wind recently. It would seem he’s up to his old tricks again.”
Keelan quirked an eyebrow. “And what would those be?”
Nerys wore a sly grin. “He has a habit of playing with mortals. Tsk. I’d have thought he left that sort of silliness behind years ago. Apparently he has not changed.”
“It is true,” Black Malice hissed, drawing her hands out of her sleeves. Ordinary and feminine down to the last knuckle, they hooked into wickedly sharp talons the color of blood. Looking at them, Keelan almost shuddered, but managed to hold the display of emotion back. The thought of bedding Black Malice, of having her scratch those nails down his back ... well, he thanked the Lord and Lady for his own personal inclinations away from the opposite sex.
They were an odd band, the four of them. Keelan and Eremand might have passed off their liking for male flesh as the occasional foray into licentiousness, but there were few among the elven women to tempt them. Nerys, who could have anyone she wished, preferred to shun other male attention and keep company with her two favorite misfits. As for Black Malice -- well, no other group would have her, and Keelan, Eremand, and Nerys didn’t have the nerve to say her nay when she joined them one night, black as a storm cloud, in their gathering circle.
“Liam rides again,” Black Malice went on, flexing her fingers. “The incubus plies his wiles among the mortals.”
Nerys lifted herself on one dainty elbow. “And how do you know? What the incubi do is not ours to question, and not gossip that travels in our circles.”
“Do you question what I know?” Malice hissed once more, a low sound like an angry cat. “I have heard, and I have seen. Anything that is spoken in the darkness reaches my ears sooner or later. And this is a fine game that Liam plays now.” She cackled, the sound like nails down a chalkboard. “Would you like to hear of it?”
Keelan, Eremand, and Nerys exchanged dubious glances. Malice’s rumors often brought more trouble to the listener than they were worth, but they had already entertained themselves with sex. Why not a bit of chatter about others to add spice to their night?
“Go on,” Keelan said after a moment. “What has Liam been getting up to?”
Malice loosed another of her eerie laughs. “He has adopted a band of hapless men, eleven of them, who share your own perverse inclinations, as he does himself.”
“Here, hold on, then!” Eremand burst out. Keelan held out a hand to stay his friend, although he understood the elf’s upset. For Malice to call anything perverse was a deep insult.
“Go on,” he requested politely. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of Malice. She had more than earned her name with good reason.
Malice flexed her taloned fingers much as someone else, elf or mortal man, would spread his hands. “It is his plan to take these men to the traveling club, Amour Magique, and find them all their own heart’s true love. He has,” she lowered her voice, “traded one of his mother’s Tears for the privilege of free passage in Amour’s shape-shifting halls, and he is using all his charms to bring lucky love to each of his friends.”
“Who will win the men? Has Liam picked them all out already?”
“Some say yes, Eremand. Some say no. I? I do not know.” Black Malice withdrew her hands back into her sleeves and looked arch. “But I would think another bet might be placed concerning this new development.”
Nerys, always eager for a wager, faced Malice with a delighted exclamation. “Oh, what? Do tell us.”
“Simply this -- one of us penetrates Amour Magique on the night when these men are to arrive and steals the heart of one for his own.”
Keelan and Eremand looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
“And what would Eremand or I do with a human heart? Lock it in a box and take it out to look at every now and then? Come now, Malice. It’s bad enough that we deprive the Fey women of my seed, especially as children are so rare and precious. What would they do if we laid permanent claim to a man not even of the elvenkind?”
Malice shrugged. “That, I cannot say. But to bite a thumb at the incubus and snatch one of his men -- well, this would be a fine feat for any elf worth his wine to boast of.”
Keelan leaned back, thoughtful. On principle, he liked to disagree with Malice, even if he kept his thoughts to himself, but he had to admit she’d seized upon a very good point. And mortal men were so willing, so warm, so eager ... they savored sex without the jaded air of the elves, who had lived so long that they needed to spice up their dalliances with wagers and cheating.
“Let us say that I, myself, gained access to Amour Magique,” he said after a moment. “It should not be too hard; I know of a portal that would lead me there. It’s been seldom used in centuries but should still open and let me through. How will I know which of the men who pack that place is one of Liam’s?”
Black Malice chuckled. She made a move inside her sleeve, then cast out twelve tarot cards, each with the face of a different man. “These are your prey.”
“Where did
you get those?” Nerys picked up one that showed an appealing young man, his face in the bloom of fresh maturity and his body posed provocatively against a dancing pole. Save for a small pouch to protect his genitalia, he was naked. “Ooh,” she crooned, stroking with one finger, “I wouldn’t mind a taste of him.”
“He prefers his own breed, as do Keelan and Eremand.”
Nerys pouted and dropped the card.
Keelan sorted through all the images and fanned them out. From a tall and cold-appearing man to a blond with glasses and a studious air, to a redhead with a wary look and a goatee growing in, all were most toothsome and sweet temptation. He held out the cards. “Do you think I could manage this feat? Am I elf enough to sneak in beneath Liam’s nose and steal one of these men, to make him a magic-struck thing?”
Nerys pounced with glee, as he had expected her to do. “A hundred gold says you cannot! Liam may pretend to being a giddy wee thing, flighty as the breeze, but he has more power than any of us can conceive of. If he has plans for all his men, he will not brook any intruders.”
“You think not?” Keelan gazed at the cards again. His cock, always anxious to play, tingled at the thought of sinking into warm, male mortal flesh again. He’d gone centuries without, and things had changed. Men could flaunt their desires now. To be with someone who had no shame in his lifestyle ... well, such a fellow would be quite the prize and, in his opinion, well worth risking the incubus’s wrath.
Besides, he rather favored the redhead, who had a certain foxiness to his features that reminded Keelan of the elvenkind, making him wonder if the man had a drop or two of the blood running through his veins. He tapped the card. “This one. I choose to invade Amour Magique and do all that is in my power to capture him and bring him back to our circle for an evening’s diversion.”
Nerys and Malice both hooted with laughter. It was Malice, though, who spoke first. “You cannot. Perhaps you can capture this man, but you cannot hold him.”
Sexual excitement made Keelan bold. “What is your wager?”
Malice rocked back and forth for a moment. “A thousand silver. True silver, not the golden scrip we exchange among ourselves in these small and petty diversions. My bet is that you may be able to seize this man, but you won’t keep him.”
Keelan just managed to hide his shock. A thousand true silver was a fortune in these times. The elvenkind were so rarely believed in that no more tributes came their way. For Malice to bet such an amount meant she truly did not believe in Keelan’s talents -- and that, as they all knew, was a grave insult. One he could not afford to let stand without rumor spreading of his cowardice.
“I accept,” he said hoarsely. “This man, this very one --” He waved the picture. “-- he shall be mine, taken from Amour Magique and woven into my web of elven-born charms.” He had no doubt that he could accomplish the feat -- furthermore, he had no thousand silver to pay Malice with if he lost, so he would simply have to win.
Malice laughed, a wicked sound. “Done, and be it on your own head.”
Eremand touched Keelan’s arm. “Are you sure ...?”
“Do not dissuade me; we have sealed our pact, Malice and I.” A hot surge of blood filled Keelan’s veins. “There is no room for discussion here.”
Nerys clapped her hands together. “The wager is too rich for my blood, but I am behind you, Keelan!” She winked lasciviously. “Although I am sure you would rather this man be in my place instead. Tell me, how will you find out which night the men are to make their visit?”
“Easily.” Black Malice tittered. “It is tonight, in point of fact. As the mortal clock runs, the men are about to enter Amour Magique right now. Do you still hold to the bet, Keelan, or do you wish to bow out?”
Keelan’s face flushed with angry pride. “I never back down from a challenge. I have no time to prepare, but so be it. Clear out, all of you, clear out. I want to bring him back here to seduce and bed him.”
“And if he will not come?”
“He will.” Keegan gripped the card hard enough to bend its edges. “Two thousand silver says he will be mine before the morning light.” It was a reckless bet, but one never did things by halves in Faerie. He didn’t have the coin, of course, but he could sell himself into the Queen’s service if he did lose the bet.
He did not, however, have any intention of not winning. Who could resist him? A mere mortal? Surely not.
“Before the morning light, eh?” Malice tilted her head. “Are you so sure?”
Eremand shook Keelan this time. “You deal with Malice!” he hissed. “Think, my brother, think!”
Keelan shook off Eremand’s grip. “The wager is made, and the night is wasting. Away with all of you, I say. I must dress myself and prepare to open the portal.”
“As you wish.” Malice rose from her dais with a whispery sound of rustling silk. Her face, hidden in the shadows of her cowl and hair, peeked out for a moment, just long enough for Keelan to catch the glittering of two red eyes. “It shall be on your head, so full of pride, that you have bet against Malice.” And she disappeared.
Nerys rolled her eyes. “So dramatic.” She gave a yawn and hopped off her own dais. “Come, Eremand. We’ll be off, you and I. Perhaps we can while away the night in the revels at court. I might even tempt you into a kiss.”
“You can keep on wishing,” Eremand informed Nerys, but followed her lead. He turned back to Keelan. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure.” Keelan gazed at the card in his hand. He traced the spidery English writing beneath the man’s picture, puzzling out the name. Laurence. “Let Malice do her worst. It will be as nothing against my best. Come morning, we will see who owes whom the silver coins.”
Eremand looked resigned. “Then it will be as Malice said and on your own head. Come, Nerys. Let us dance and drink the night away. We’ll see Keelan in the morning -- either richer by coin and a lover or a ruined elf.”
Nerys giggled as she drew Eremand after her. “Luck to you, Keelan! Perhaps you’ll make this man scream a bit more easily than our friend!”
Keelan ignored her. He stared at the image, memorizing Laurence’s face. The more he looked, the more he liked. So what if it meant going up against an incubus?
What was life without a little fun, and a few games?
Chapter Two
“... and then she just threw him, tossed him right down the stairs.” Laurence gestured with a candied cherry, sinking the red orb into his beer from a height of several feet. “Like he was nothing more than a stuffed doll.”
The bartender, a burly man with muscles stacked upon muscles and the ability to keep his mouth shut when he needed to -- or so Laurence had discovered -- shook his head to this statement. “Harsh, man.”
“Oh, yeah. Have you ever heard someone screaming just like when the monster under the bed has come out from hiding and wants to eat them? Like, like, like they’re walking on broken glass but they can’t stop? Doesn’t compare.” He paused. “Aw, hell. This cherry’s gonna make my beer taste like crap.”
“Not a problem.” The bartender selected a glass from the polished ranks behind his counter, stuck it beneath a tap, and expertly pulled another pint with a thick, foamy head. “On the house, seeing how you gunked up the other one in the interest of storytelling.”
Laurence cocked his head to look at the man. He’d introduced himself as Rocco, but Laurence felt pretty sure that wasn’t the guy’s real name. On the other hand, he didn’t feel inclined to question the veracity of someone who took a size 6X and didn’t have enough fat on him to grease a cake pan. Besides, Rocco had been a buddy so far, and Laurence didn’t like to look a gift bartender in the mouth. Er. Maybe he’d had one too many beers already.
Whatever.
After saluting the man, Laurence took a deep pull off the fresh beer and rolled the yeasty bitterness over his tongue, then swallowed with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. What’s the name of this microbrewery again?”
Rocco glanced at the k
eg and shrugged. “Na’am Thuul. Not a name I’ve heard before tonight. Bah, they’re always experimenting with my stock.”
“They?”
“They, them, the big cheeses.” Rocco waved his arm disdainfully at the ceiling. “Silas and his team of flunkies, the ones who ‘run’ this place.” He made quote marks with his fingers. “Run, my ass. More like get run over by.”
“No wonder you didn’t have Bud Light when I asked for one. Too mundane?”
Rocco hooted. “Ha! You might find some of that watered-down horse piss on a lower level, but not up here. Clientele’s kinda used to the exotic.” He rolled his eyes. “When they bother to show up, anyway.”
Laurence glanced around. Except for Rocco, he was alone in the whole of the large, roomy bar, a rosewood palace of a pub sunk back into an alcove. Cocooned inside, he could just barely -- if he tried -- make out the thumping beat of the music on Amour Magique’s main dance floor. Peace, sweet peace.
“Looks like they’re a no-show tonight.” He fished the cherry out of his abandoned beer and ate it. “Huh. Not too bad. I always did like these little things, though. Neon little bastards, though, aren’t they? Makes you wonder what they do to your insides.”
“You cuss a lot for a teacher, man.”
Laurence decided he could afford to give Rocco a pointed look. “Should never have let that slip. Look, I deal with a room full of fifth-graders all day long. Believe me, by the time I’m done with my working day I have to let rip with a blue streak to get the tension out of my system.”
“Fifth-graders, man.” Rocco shuddered. “Anybody under the age of twelve is a demon, man, and I know from demons.”