by Eli Constant
He kisses the back of my neck and I squirm in his arms until I can face him. He’s let his beard grow out. It’s scruffy and manly and not at all like those lumbersexuals that I’ve seen in magazines. His is real—like he could, at any moment, go out and chop wood behind the house to keep our fires going. My fire is electric, but I still like the vision of him wielding an ax and being his inner outdoorsman.
“I know what you mean. My dad used to gripe that Bonneau had gone to hell because of the war. He didn’t like the cold very much.” Kyle kisses my neck again, giving it a little bite at the end. It’s the kind of good pain that sends my groin into overdrive. I’ve noticed, despite not feeling like I’m emotionally ready to give myself to Kyle sexually, that my body is beginning to get a little… hangry in that department.
“No?” I lift up on my tiptoes and he bends down so that our lips meet. It’s a quick and soft kiss, nothing out of control. It fills me though, in every way possible.
“He said it kept him from using his motorcycle and any place that did that wasn’t worth living in at all.” Kyle shrugs and touches the tip of his nose to mine, moving it back and forth in an Eskimo kiss. “Deep down, he loved this place.”
“Yeah, I think he did. Him and that motorcycle though. I feel like we should construct a statue in his honor. Maybe put a little plaque that says something to the effect of ‘I don’t need no stinking license’.” I normally go quiet when Jim is brought up, but now I join him in throaty laughter that seems to fall like a veil around us. It’s warm and wonderful.
I still feel it was my fault that Jim died; I don’t think I’ll ever feel otherwise. Kyle had asked me to handle his funeral. I’d wanted to refuse, but I hadn’t.
And I’d almost cried when Jim hadn’t risen on my table to say a few last words. I knew he wouldn’t. I’d seen him pass to the other side with my own eyes, but still I clung to the hope that the body I embalmed wasn’t just an empty, decaying vessel. He could be pulled back by force, but I’d never do that again.
My grandmother used to say ‘never say never’. She used to say that the fates took those words as challenge. And you never want to give the fates a reason to toy with your life.
Kyle smiles after our laughter fades. “Not a bad idea.”
“I’m full of good ideas in the morning,” I breathe out, leaning further into him until I think we might meld into one unified being, exuding repressed sensuality.
“Me too,” he murmurs and kisses me again. This time, it’s not so innocent. His hands stray down my back, moving to my sides as he continues downward. His fingers stretch ever lower and finally curl around the apples of my ass. He gives a quick, firm squeeze.
I place my palms against his chest and push away. “Not before coffee, you sexy mad man.” I walk away from him and make a beeline for the percolator; he’s set out one of my largest mugs and a smaller one that only recently made an appearance in my cupboard. He’s been doing that lately- leaving little things like a woman trying to edge her way towards an invite to move in. I don’t think that’s his reason or I’d talk to him about it. I think it’s just his way of showing he’s committed to trying this thing out, the very best we are able. So when I discover a second tube of different-brand toothpaste in the medicine cabinet or a little container of toothpicks in the spice rack, I don’t say anything. I just smile.
Filling the coffee cups—leaving only a little space at the top of mine for sugar and a lot of space at the top of his for cream—I suck in the scent of the dark roast and it zaps my brain cells with a little jolt of wakefulness.
Placing them on the little blue kitchenette table, I sit down on one of the chairs. It wobbles a little beneath me. “What good is having you around all the time if you can’t handle the upkeep?” I smile so he’ll know I’m joking and then I wiggle in my chair so he’ll hear the telltale squeak.
“How could I be so bereft in my duties?” He strides over and I gasp as he picks me up in the chair, lifts me so I’m smashed against his upper chest, and proceeds to move the chair leg to see exactly how loose it is. When he’s done, he plops me back down and I’m amazed the chair holds my weight. Actually, I’m shocked that he lifted me like a ragdoll. And I’m more than a little glad that I wasn’t holding my mug of hot coffee.
I’ve been working out and lost a lot of excess fat, but I’m still not a petite girl. I should be even smaller than am, but I’ve been lifting low weights and taking a self-defense course at the community center. It’s not the serious sort that Terrance would prefer, but he’s glad I’m at least doing something. Something to make me healthier, stronger, a better fighter.
Yet, working out means muscle. And muscle is heavier and bulkier than fat. I tell myself that the number on the scale is just that, a number, but it’s hard to see it not move when I feel I’m doing everything to make it so.
“Holy muscles, batman.” I breathe, my heart pitter-pattering like a frightened mouse. “Cute, but I’d rather you not do that again if I’m honest.”
“I got caught up in the moment,” Kyle’s voice is teasing as he moves towards the oven.
“Well, don’t let it happen again,” I tease, taking a long drink and letting the liquid burn its way down my throat.
“Scout’s honor,” but there’s a twinkle in Kyle’s eyes that says he’ll most certainly do it, or something like it, again.
My mantel clock clicks and then begins to ding softly.
I sigh. “I sometimes wish we could just have a normal Saturday morning together. Sleep in, make French toast, watch movies, go absolutely nowhere.”
“It would be nice,” Kyle says, pushing the already-cooked eggs around in the black pan. He’s looking rather gorgeous, his long hair—which is well past his shoulders now—is tied loosely against the nakedness of his back. He’s larger than he was when we first started dating, more muscled. He swears he hasn’t been working out more, though. I’ve been a little worried about him lately. He’s had a black out spell here and there. Some dizziness after, some memory loss. He’s been to a neurologist and they gave him a clean bill of health, chocked it up to all the life changes, the death of his dad, the stress. It sounded a bit shitty as an explanation, at least to me. Doesn’t seem to bother Kyle though. He says his grandfather had the same issue and that it would come and go, but he lived until he was 101. So we shouldn’t worry.
A girlfriend worries. That’s, like, our number one job. Well, number two maybe.
“But duty calls.” I know I’m pouting; I can’t help it. Kyle and I both know that the dead don’t work on the livings’ schedule. I work any day necessary. I don’t have proper weekends. “Someday, that clock and I are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting. And only one of us is going to survive.”
“At least have some eggs before you get dressed and go down. Although they’re not nearly as good as French toast and they’re likely bland as white bread. We really have to get you some proper spices,” Kyle turns off the burner and tilts the pan so that a generous portion of eggs plops onto the ivory plate he’s set out for me.
“Sounds appealing,” I laugh, “and I’ll leave the spices to you. I’m totally happy with my usual four.” And I am. I don’t really stray from onion powder, black pepper, salt, and sometimes oregano if I’m making spaghetti. Kyle though, he likes to show his fancy skills in the kitchen. Hey, sometimes I spring for a fresh lemon when I’m making fish. That’s fancy.
“Seriously, be ready. I’m afraid they’re less than egg-cellent.” He keeps a straight face, waiting for my response, but he breaks before I do—cracking into a toothy grin.
“Hush and give me some eggs. You’re terrible,” I say, stifling another laugh.
Kyle sets the two piled-up plates onto the table and sits down opposite me.
“Are you trying to make me gain weight back?” I say it as I’m picking up the fork and stabbing an entirely-too large amount of eggs onto the tines.
“Eat.” He admonishes, giving me a face that says ‘you�
�re perfect, Woman, and I’m just a little annoyed with you mentioning your weight’. I ignore the weight of his glance and chew my first mouthful of eggs. They’re salty, just the way I like them.
The cream and sugar are in two little bowls in the center of the table. I never use cream, but I’ve taken to poaching ten or so of those little shelf-stable ones from restaurants whenever I go. I’ve got quite the little collection now. Kyle takes three of the little pods and pops them open, one by one, until he’s made his coffee a beautiful pale brown. It is the color of Liam’s hair when he’s hiding his true form; it only needs the slightest hint of red to be that gorgeous cognac.
Liam, who I’ve not heard from in over two months. Kyle still doesn’t know about him. Liam was the reigning king of the vanishing act whenever necessary.
We’d spent many evenings together, with him formally tutoring me on the fae and so many other preternatural creatures I had no idea really existed. Like vampires. Vampires really exist, birthed from the lineage of Vlad Tepes. Liam said the dark fae court felt the wave of power in 1431 and they knew something dark had just been born into the world. It felt hard to believe, but then again necromancy hails from fallen Valkyries apparently, banished by the god Odin, and my ancestry leads to the Bager clan of Denmark and the origins of the Blood King.
A really real Dracula doesn’t seem so farfetched when put into that perspective.
I have several notebooks filled with information now. They’ve been added to the journals I’ve kept myself over the years, writing down what I’ve learned about my power—both from grandmother and from experience—as well as my grandmother’s ancient tomes. I’ve not shown anyone the last book. That large human-skinned volume that sends shivers down my spine. It is still hidden away…
The nights of study with Liam had brought us closer together in a way, but we couldn’t be physical again. Liam was hurt when he found out I was officially dating Kyle, even though he himself told me he wasn’t allowed to have feelings for me, that it was against his duties as my protector. He’d pulled away. Not me.
My gut told me that there was more to the story than what he told me, but whatever it was, Liam wasn’t expanding on the ‘why’ we couldn’t be together.
I don’t like secrets, especially from a man I’m intimate with. It’s the only time his cockiness truly melted away. We’d gotten too lost in the moment maybe three weeks after I’d been released from the hospital. Things had… headed in a bedroom direction. He’d stopped us and I could tell that it had taken all of his self-control not to continue, to quell the fire between us.
I hated him a little for that—for leading me on like we could actually meet the passion between us and bring it to fruitful life. The way men and women do when attraction reaches that peak point where one must fall into it or truly turn away.
He’d wanted to kiss me again after he’d stopped us. He’d wanted to pick up with the light touches and teasing. He said it was torture, but a taste of me was better than nothing. I got the feeling he risked much to touch me that way, but I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t raised fae and I didn’t understand love the way he did—where monogamy could take a back seat to carnality. I identified too much with the human world. If you loved someone, you loved them. There was no push and pull of emotions to keep you always guessing if it’s real and lasting.
Liam hadn’t liked the idea of having nothing between us, but that’s what I needed. So, he complied, doing it in less than a friendship capacity and more as a man having received an order from his Queen. So, he’d taught me about our world. We’d shared coffee, found a few laughs in between moments of tension. Then he’d left, without a word of explanation.
And I wasn’t going to chase after any man (or fairy) that put duty before love.
It made it easier for me, in the end, to give myself fully over to trying it out with Kyle. And I’m glad, because Kyle and I fit. Fit better than I ever imagined we would.
Before Liam left, I did get him to finally tell me how he and Braeden were related. They’re second cousins, as far as human family dynamics relates to the fae. They’d never even met until that night in the warehouse; they only knew each other through family histories.
A fae doesn’t choose the court it serves, you see. It is chosen for them. They are born into it or the magic within their bodies guides them to where they belong. Both Liam and Braeden were born into their respective courts and the magic inside of them agreed with the placement. Either way though, fairies are proffered no real choice in the matter. I’m not sure how well I like that. I’m not sure if there’s any way to change it, even if I am some all-powerful Blood Queen that will eventually preside over both courts. Maybe time will tell.
“Tori?” Kyle’s voice reaches for me across the table top. “Earth to Tori?”
I blink, coming back to life and realizing that I’m holding a forkful of eggs in midair. “Sorry, I’m a bit spacey this morning.”
He smiles and it is wide and warm and wonderful. His teeth are a beautiful white against his dark curly beard. It’s his guileless eyes though; they are what make my heart lose rhythm for a moment. “Well, come back to the ground for now. I promise to take you out of this world soon, even if we don’t actually leave the bedroom.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, scarlet and embarrassing. He’s patient as the grave, but also ready. “Hush, you.” I look away, putting a bite of food into my mouth. I want to say something else, something like ‘just do me now. Right here, right now. On the table. I don’t care if I get eggs in my hair,’ but this isn’t the time or the place. We’ve waited this long. When the time is right, we’ll know it. And it’ll mean something more than a quick screw in the kitchen.
Kyle doesn’t say anything back. He just sits there, eating his food and grinning like an idiot. I’m really, really glad that he can’t read my mind. If it were Liam across from me at the table, I’d be blushing a lot deeper.
I finish my eggs before Kyle, standing up and going to the sink to rinse. “Jesus, I feel like a cow now, but those were delish.”
“Tori,” Kyle says my name and pauses until I turn to face him, the water still running loudly, “You’ve got to stop that. You’re in great shape. You are beautiful. And… I’d care about you no matter what size you were. So, seriously, stop.” The grin is gone. I hate that I’ve done that.
“Sorry. Old habits die hard,” I say, giving him a smile I hope seems absolutely genuine and somewhat apologetic. I’m glad he thinks I’m perfect; it’s how it should be in a relationship, I guess. But I still see all the flaws, even though I’ve been able to banish my sixteens and fourteens to the back of the closet and bring my size twelves out from hibernation. Though, I’m too practical to get rid of the larger sizes all together. You never know when a bout of depression will send you down ‘eat your feelings’ lane.
Maybe I can’t block out the negatives because I’m wired to see the rot in people, the flaws they’d like to keep under wraps. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get past my own perceived issues. I suppose that’s all part of being human.
Because I am only human after all… sort of.
Chapter Two
“Thank you for seeing me today, Ms. Cage. I know you may have heard from a few other funeral homes in the area that my request might seem… strange.” The small, frail man in front of me takes out a yellowed handkerchief and dabs his eyes, fighting back the dampness in them. He doesn’t strike me as an easy crier—the kind that tears up at animal adoption commercials with melancholy music used to ramp up the sympathy factor. For the record, I cry my damn eyes out at those things.
He just seems broken and I feel in my gut that he’s only shed tears a few times in his life. And to do so, for him, means that something too tragic for words has happened. I know his type. I’ve worked with his type. For some reason, they make me sadder than the clients who grieve fully and openly, no matter the degree of loss.
“To be honest, Mr. Barrington, I don’t know anythin
g about your situation. Not yet. Even if I had heard something, I wouldn’t put any value to it until you told me yourself.” I fold my hands across my dark brown slacks and I give him my full, unwavering attention. I do it with a smile on my face that I hope is open and kind.
Mr. Barrington sighs, his body quavering a bit with the release of air. “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear you say that. I’ve been to six different funeral parlors and crematories. They’ve all turned me away and the last two didn’t even listen to what I had to say, because gossip had spread.”
I sit a little straighter, my interest piqued. “So, tell me what it is I can do for you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Call me Allen, if you don’t mind.” He fidgets a little and then stuffs his slightly-wet handkerchief into his pocket.
“Only if you call me Tori.”
He smiles; it’s genuine, but also small and shy. It’s the smile of a child who’s been abused trying to trust someone new. “I’d like to have a funeral for my son, Tori. No one will do it, no matter how much I offer to pay.”
Nodding, I lean forward and get one of my rollerball pens out of the little holder that’s shaped like a tree trunk; it’s even made of wood. “Okay, that sounds up my alley. When did he die?”