The Water Thief

by Jane Kindred

  “He won’t know me,” I said after a moment. “Let me go with Dafydd to set the trap.”

  “What good will that do, Sebastian?”

  “I need to see for myself what his intentions are. If he’s really planning to continue where Emrys left off, you’re right. He has to be stopped.”

  What I really wanted to see was if he’d ever loved me at all. If I’d been as complete a fool as I felt. I needed to know if his desire had been for me or for the power inside me that he’d coveted like everything else that had once belonged to me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Macsen

  With Emrys gone, Macsen had hoped never to have to think of the upper realms again. But in the execution of Emrys’s estate, it had become clear that he couldn’t simply pretend the other realm wasn’t there. According to Emrys’s books, clients in Cardiff were awaiting the delivery of the product he’d promised. Emrys, it seemed, had kept a stash of his “elixir” hidden in the upper realms as well. The thought that someone might have access to even a single vial had nagged at him. Macsen had to find a way to resolve the matter once and for all.

  The means had presented itself when he chanced to wear the trousers he’d had on the day he’d come across Emrys’s relocated stash of Sebastian’s magic in the crypt. Something cool and slick and hard had met his fingers when he’d slipped his hand into the pocket: a cylinder of glass. Macsen took it out and held it in his palm, feeling the lost, familiar ache. If only he’d taken it that day and gone back to him. He curled his hand around the vial, clutching it as though he clutched Sebastian’s hand. It even seemed to emit a ghost of Sebastian’s warmth. It was all Macsen had of him. But he had to let it go.

  He would use it to travel to Cardiff and dispense with the vials Emrys kept there, saving one for a final return trip. It had to be done, but still he’d put it off as long as possible. The thought of destroying the last of Sebastian’s magic was like destroying Sebastian’s memory. In a very real sense, it meant eradicating what remained of him from all possible realms.

  But Macsen had mustered the courage at last.

  He made his final journey to the upper realms as winter gave way to spring, presenting himself at Emrys’s offices in Cardiff to inform his colleagues that Emrys was deceased. He’d been prepared for a fight, but instead, he found that here, too, he was the executor of Emrys’s will—and his sole beneficiary. It seemed Emrys had left him everything.

  * * * * *

  They were, at least, used to conducting business primarily in Welsh. Macsen sat in the conference room of Emrys’s office building in Cardiff, stunned by what he’d read in the will. After having denied his parentage for most of Macsen’s life in Cantre’r Gwaelod, Emrys had named Macsen as his son without hesitation. A private letter to Macsen was included.

  This is a different world and a different time. In Cantre’r Gwaelod, it was inexpedient to admit to fathering a mongrel child on a common woman. In this world, a man can father his children on whomever he pleases and recognize his offspring as he likes without moral stain. I had to be hard on you there, Macsen, where everyone would have known your place, and so you had to know it. Despite that, I gave you what even I had been denied by letting you take what belonged to Sebastian Swift. There, it is all about one’s ‘issue’ and legitimate lines of inheritance. While there still exists a similar structure in this world with regard to land and title, a man may leave what else he desires to the delegate of his choosing, and so I have left all that I have in this world to you, my only son.

  My only son. Macsen stared at the letter, uncertain how to process these words. He’d wanted this acknowledgment all his life, had ached for it as a young boy, and had felt it was owed him as a young man, bitterly determined, but he’d never expected to receive it. He didn’t know how to feel. There was no mention of how Macsen had disappointed and disgusted him. It had either not mattered to the dispensation of Emrys’s will, or he hadn’t had the opportunity to change it after finding out about Macsen’s relationship with Sebastian. As if one could call such a brief encounter a relationship.

  And now everything Emrys had owned belonged to him. Including his business. Which meant clients who were impatiently awaiting delivery—delivery of a product that would make Macsen the richest man in the world.

  * * * * *

  While several clients had left messages Macsen was avoiding answering, the first to demand an audience with him—or a meeting, as they called it in this realm—arrived in Cardiff that morning, having seen Emrys’s obituary in the newspaper. It seemed there was nothing Macsen could do but see them. The glass walls surrounding his office—which had apparently given Emrys status but only gave Macsen the willies and made him feel he was being watched—revealed all too clearly that Macsen was in.

  “I hope they speak Welsh,” he murmured to the secretary who announced them. He wasn’t expecting her to answer, but she did.

  “Of course, sir. Your father made that a condition. All business transactions are to be conducted in Welsh. If a client doesn’t speak it, we have interpreters.”

  His father. It sounded so odd to hear others casually acknowledge this when Emrys himself had never once while he lived.

  “Sir David Abernathy and his associate, Mr. Wyn Davies,” the secretary said more audibly as she ushered them in from the waiting room. “Please have a seat, gentlemen. Can I bring either of you a beverage?”

  “Just water,” Abernathy said with a knowing smile. The smile faded to one of kind concern as he sat across the desk from Macsen. “My condolences on your recent loss, Mr. Pryce.”

  “Thank you. It’s Finch. Macsen Finch.”

  “Of course. My apologies.”

  Was there a veiled insult in that slip? Macsen couldn’t be sure. He turned his attention from the gray-haired gentleman to his companion, a smartly dressed and rather handsome man. There was something about him… His fair hair and blue eyes, and his trim mustache and beard, were nothing like Sebastian, and he was a considerably larger man, and yet there was something in the way he looked at Macsen that made his heart leap. The man wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. Macsen was being foolish.

  He turned his attention on Abernathy. “I understand you had an arrangement with Lord Pryce,” he began, and then remembered Emrys had not been a lord here. “Mr. Pryce.” Abernathy was regarding him peculiarly. He was making a fool of himself. “My father had many business deals pending when he died, and to be perfectly honest, it’s going to take me some time to go through all of his paperwork.”

  Beverly, the secretary, arrived with two glasses of water, though Abernathy’s quip had obviously been about the product. Davies seemed to give a small shudder and shook his head when she tried to hand a glass to him. The shudder inexplicably aroused Macsen. He was losing his mind.

  “I’m sure Mr. Pryce had a great many clients,” said Abernathy. “But I’m the only one sitting before you. I’m in urgent need of the elixir. My daughter has stage four leukemia. I will pay you anything you wish to forgo the paperwork and honor your father’s arrangement with me.”

  Macsen forgot his inappropriate arousal and forgot Davies entirely. “Leukemia? You’re not a distributor?”

  “I am not, Mr. Finch. I’m a desperate man trying to save my child.”

  Macsen wasn’t prepared for this. He’d thought of the deals Emrys had made in terms of greed and profit, not life and death. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he heard himself say. A platitude. When he could be giving the man the cure for his child’s terminal illness.

  “You can spend all the time you like going over figures and inventory for the rest of your clients,” said Abernathy. “No one else need know of our arrangement. This is between you and me.”

  Macsen glanced at Davies who seemed to be giving Lord Abernathy a look of dark disapproval. Abernathy was lying. “No one but Mr. Davies, you mean.”

  Abernathy looked tak
en aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All right,” said Davies gruffly. “You’ve caught us.”

  “Wyn—”

  “We’re prepared to offer you a great deal of money. Who cares what it’s for?”

  “Wyn.” The older gentleman spoke sharply, but Davies was determined.

  “This is business, David. I’m sure Mr. Finch understands us.” The bright blue eyes focused at last on Macsen. “Just tell us what you’ve been offered by the other parties, and I assure you, Sir David can match it and provide a significant bonus.” There was something about the way Davies spoke that was different from his partner. Perhaps it was only due to the differences in their ages and social standing, but Davies seemed to speak a bit too carefully, as though his mannerisms were an affectation.

  “Perhaps we could see a sample of your product,” Abernathy put in. His teeth were tightly set. Davies had clearly spoiled his scheme.

  Before Macsen could decide how to answer, Beverly had gone to the cabinet and retrieved one of the bottles Emrys kept as samples. It looked perfectly ordinary, not like the glowing vials of Sebastian’s magic that had facilitated its import.

  Davies was quiet and subdued once more as Abernathy took the bottle and examined it, giving the younger man a look that said he’d somehow put him in his place. Macsen couldn’t fathom the intricacies of their silent communication.

  Abernathy shook his head in amazement. “And this one bottle… This could cure hundreds. Just a dram is all that’s needed, is that correct?”

  Macsen sighed. “I have to be honest with you, sir. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know if it works at all. My father was a rather unscrupulous man, and I’m afraid I don’t feel comfortable selling any of his elixir until I’ve had time to do some testing on it myself.” He rose to indicate they were being dismissed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to attend to in executing my father’s estate. I’m sure you understand.”

  Abernathy started to object, but Davies held up his hand. “He’s given us his answer, David.”

  The older man gave Davies a look of disapproval before rising with reluctance and bowing in Macsen’s direction. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Finch. We’ll be in touch.”

  Davies didn’t get up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Mr. Finch alone.” After a firm gesture with his eyes toward the door and a slight shake of his head were ignored, Abernathy took his leave.

  Macsen remained standing. “I’m not sure what else there is to discuss, Mr. Davies.”

  “You passed David’s test.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He tried his best to tempt you with personal gain, individual compassion and even the greater good. He wanted to see if anything could persuade you to sell the water of Cantre’r Gwaelod.” Davies was no longer speaking with that perfect, modern pitch. His voice was softer, his words faster and more lilting.

  Macsen stared at him. “Cantre’r Gwaelod?”

  “I’m not going to ask why you never came back. I just want you to go home. Leave what Emrys took and forget it. David and I will see that it’s destroyed. Llys Mawr is yours. That ought to be enough.”

  Shock and pain and anger washed over him, tumbling together with fear and sorrow and heartache in a maelstrom of emotion. And all of it was drowning him under a breathtaking tide of relief. He couldn’t get air. They were under the water together once more, waiting for the magic to expel them into another world.

  “Sebastian,” he managed.

  “I take it back. I am going to ask why you never returned. I don’t understand—”

  Macsen cut him off by sweeping around the desk and pulling him to his feet. He was taller, somehow, their eyes on a level. The eyes were blue. But it was Sebastian. He trapped the bearded face between his hands, thumbs against the smooth temples, and kissed him. For a moment, Sebastian resisted before the soft lips opened and admitted him. The icy tingle of magic began where their tongues embraced, flowing into Macsen as Sebastian’s arms slipped around him and held him in a tight, possessive grip as if he feared Macsen would dissolve into the magic and disappear.

  Macsen finally had to pull back, faint with the lack of air, and he laughed at Sebastian’s disappointed look. “Were you hoping to drown me?”

  “You were limping.” Sebastian had always excelled at changing the subject. “I saw it when you came around the desk. What happened?” Though they were no longer kissing, he hadn’t let Macsen go.

  “You’re standing in front of me, raised from the dead, having grown two inches and changed the color of your hair and even your eyes. And you’re going to pester me about a little limp?”

  “Macsen.”

  He sighed. “A gift from Emrys. When I destroyed his vials.”

  Blinking rapidly as though his eyes were irritated, Sebastian slipped one arm out from under Macsen’s and rubbed at his eye. When his hand came away, a blue plastic disc rested on the tip of his finger.

  “These are driving me mad.” He tossed the disc down and followed suit with the other, and then met Macsen’s eyes once more, anger and sorrow flickering in the warm brown of his. “He had you beaten?”

  “He went for the personal touch, actually. Flew into a rage and came at me with an iron poker. He broke my leg.”

  “By all the Fates. Macsen—”

  “I’d like to say that’s the reason I didn’t come. It took me several months to get back on my feet. But the truth is I didn’t deserve you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true. The moment I was back in Cantre’r Gwaelod, I wanted to be who I was there. Namely, you. I was going to go along with Emrys’s plan. I wasn’t going to come back to you.”

  “But you destroyed the vials.”

  Macsen shrugged. “Yes. I’m not sure what came over me. I’d made a promise to you, and despite the conflict in my head, I decided to keep that part of it. But then Emrys told me you were dead. And he went away. So there was no reason to leave Cantre’r Gwaelod again.” He lowered his eyes, no longer able to look into Sebastian’s. “If I’d known,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “If I’d had any idea he was hurting you again…”

  Sebastian was swaying against him in a gentle rhythm.

  Macsen looked up. “What are you doing?”

  “Dancing with you.” A sly smile lifted one corner of the sensuous mouth. Sebastian pressed his groin against Macsen’s, leaving no doubt about what he meant.

  “Everyone can see us. Including your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, you wanker. He’s August’s.”

  “Just to be clear, you, then, are not August.” Still swaying against him, Sebastian grinned and nodded. Macsen hooked his arms around Sebastian’s neck, draping them against the firm shoulders. “You’re leading.”

  “I’m two inches taller and blond. I’m full of surprises.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It took some persuading to convince Dafydd that Macsen could be trusted, but having him take us to Emrys’s vault and voluntarily relinquish his inventory—including dozens of vials of my magic—went a long way toward ameliorating Dafydd’s suspicions.

  “I came here to destroy it and dissolve Emrys’s business,” Macsen assured him. “Not to take over where he left off.”

  August proved easier to win over. Despite all her misgivings, it seemed she’d been hoping Macsen would surprise us all. The existence of his Welsh identity had come as a complete surprise to him upon executing the will, established years ago without his knowledge. It seemed Emrys had meant to acknowledge his son here after a lifetime of neglect in his own world. After learning that Emrys had died in the struggle with Macsen after he’d thwarted Emrys’s final effort to restore Cantre’r Gwaelod to the upper realms, Macsen was welcomed as if he were one of the family.

  * * *
* *

  “She was prepared to shoot you,” I told Macsen as we undressed that night.

  His brow lifted as he unbuttoned his crisp white business shirt and slipped it off his shoulders, effectively distracting me. He was even harder muscled than he’d been a year ago. I slipped out of my boots and stood to unbutton my jeans, leaving no doubt at all that his body aroused me.

  “I’m glad you’re not really taller,” said Macsen, admiring me, though his eyes didn’t seem to be taking in anything above the waist.

  “Are you, now?” I stepped out of the trousers and stripped off my shirt, displaying my own new physique. “Disappointed that this is real?”

  “It’s different.” Macsen stepped close to me and slid his arms around my waist, smoothing his hands over my hips and around to my bum. “But I wouldn’t say disappointed.” He kissed my neck, nudging me backward toward the bed. “I hate your hair.”

  I shivered as his lips moved down my neck. “I hate it too.”

  “Nothing to grab on to,” he said, and flipped me over as we reached the bed, climbing on top of me still wearing his suit pants. “Do you…?” Macsen didn’t bother to finish the question as I reached for the bottle of oil. “Did you have this here for that diawl?” he growled in my ear.

  “You mean Sven?” I gasped at a cool dribble of oil on my ass. “No, I didn’t.”

  “But it wasn’t for me.” Macsen’s slick finger traced the oil down between my cheeks. “You didn’t think I’d come back.”

  It was difficult to concentrate given what he was doing with that finger. “Maybe it was wishful thinking,” I moaned.

  “So you didn’t have anyone else.”

  “Never.” I shivered. “Did you?”

  His breath was warm on my neck, and I forgot what we were talking about—or that we were talking about anything—as he nipped at my shoulder and replaced his finger with the firm, slick head of his cock.