Cutie and the Beast

by E. J. Russell

  Of course, any visit to Faerie, especially for a human, was fraught with the possibility of disaster. Alun would have to be absolutely certain they left before dawn, or David could return to a world he no longer recognized.

  Now if only Mal would get here so they could get moving. The sooner the formalities of the evening were taken care of—his blasted oath of fealty to the Queen and her smarmy Consort—the sooner he could spend some quality time with David, preferably with clothing optional.

  On cue, Mal sauntered in, dressed in his Court finery, which wasn’t that different from David’s outfit, although Mal never deviated from black leather and white linen. His broadsword was hanging in a scabbard slung across his back, and Alun raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s not a ceremonial weapon. You’re going into the Queen’s presence battle-armed?”

  Mal flicked the hilt where it extended above his left shoulder. “It’s obligatory for me, remember—Enforcer and bloody acting Champion. It’s my job to make sure none of the supplicants attempt to stage a coup.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse for any coup, but I need to know how you plan to fool the gate into letting me through.”

  David frowned, his gaze darting between Alun and Mal. “Fool the gate? What do you mean? I thought you were required to attend?”

  Mal pulled a small linen-wrapped bundle out of the pouch at his waist. “Let me guess. My tight-lipped, tight-arsed brother hasn’t told you anything about the tenets of the Seelie Court, am I right?”

  “Um . . .” David glanced at Alun, obviously not wanting to agree if it would upset him.

  Alun spared him the distress, and stripped Mal of the satisfaction of announcing everything himself. “The Seelie Court has four primary mandates, and they’re non-negotiable. The first is honor, which we’re expected to defend to the death.”

  “Okaaay. Not planning on killing anyone, although Mal’s sword is a little alarming.” David glanced at Mal from under his lashes. “Hot too.”

  Mal grinned, the bloody bastard. “The second is looove. Want to test that one out with me, boy bach?”

  David laughed. “No. thanks, but I appreciate the offer.” He turned back to Alun. “So far, I don’t see the problem.”

  “Then there’s beauty.” Alun rubbed his misshapen jaw. “I don’t fit the requirements anymore.”

  “So you need to get special dispensation? Bribe the bouncer? What?”

  “Not so easy.” Mal set a tiny brown bottle on Alun’s desk. “Faerie isn’t a place as physical as this room, or this town, or even this country. It’s a magical construct, and as such, it has rules that are enforced by the spell that created it. If you don’t fit the standards of beauty encapsulated in the spell, you can’t get in. Period. Faerie simply will not exist for you, regardless of how many times you’ve been there before.”

  David scowled, rivaling Alun’s most disgruntled expressions. “That sucks.”

  “True. But it’s a fact we must deal with.” Mal pointed to the bottle. “There’s your ticket, brother. Drink up.”

  Alun picked up the little vial between his thumb and forefinger. “What should I expect from this?”

  Mal shrugged. “Not sure exactly. I got it from a druid I know. She swears it’ll make it possible for you to pass, but it’s only good for twelve hours. Since it’s the solstice, and night’s only eight hours long, that’s plenty of time for you to show up, abase yourself, raise a glass of mead or two, and scarper before somebody decides they need a piece of you.”

  “Druids,” Alun muttered. “Of course it would be druids.” He uncorked the bottle and tossed back the contents, nearly gagging as the bitter brew seared his tongue and bit the back of his throat. “Gwydion’s bollocks, would it kill them to make it taste less like hell hound piss?”

  Mal shrugged. “I imagine they don’t think the clientele who need this kind of potion deserve any extra effort. No need to tempt the palate.”

  Alun tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin. “Now what?”

  Mal shrugged again and tucked the square of linen back in his pouch. “Guess we go. You’re not wearing that, are you?”

  Alun glanced down at his dress shirt, tie, and summer-weight wool slacks. “Of course not. But I just finished work.”

  “Then go change.” Mal smiled and swaggered toward David, who’d been watching the whole show with wide anxious eyes. “I’m sure David and I can find some way to occupy ourselves. You needn’t rush.”

  “Wait.” David took a step back, one hand coming up as if to ward Mal off. “You said there were four tenets. What’s the last one?”

  “Oh that.” Mal flicked his fingers as if brushing away a persistent insect. “Equilibrium. Or as I like to call it—payback.”

  That’s when the cramps hit Alun’s belly and his head exploded in a burst of pain.

  “Alun!” David started forward when Alun clutched his head and doubled over, but Mal caught his shoulder, holding him back. He struggled in Mal’s hold as Alun face-planted on his stupid gray carpeting. “Let go, damn it. He needs help.”

  “You can’t do anything. This is the druid spell, doing what it’s supposed to. We can only wait until it’s done.”

  Alun’s back arched, and he jerked, his limbs flopping as if he were seizing.

  “Can’t we—” David swallowed as Alun curled into a fetal position, his body shuddering and jerking as if from invisible body blows. “This can’t be worth it. There had to have been some other way.”

  “Trust me, if I could have found a way around this without involving druid magic, I’d have found it. With druids, there’s always a catch—some shite about cosmic balance. Besides, fae and druids? No love lost there.”

  “Why?” Alun jackknifed, stiff-limbed, then curled again, tighter than before. God, David hated to see someone in this much pain, yet be unable to help.

  Mal slung an arm across his shoulders, but it didn’t feel like a come-on. It felt like comfort from a companion in adversity. “The ways of our people, David bach. Who’s to say how the feud began, but since we dearly love a good feud, no one feels the urge to uncover the truth.”

  “Then how can you ever fix it?” David leaned in to the embrace, counting the seconds in his head, determined to call 911, regardless of what Mal said, if this went on longer than another minute. “Equilibrium does not equal payback, no matter what you think. Once people start down that path, nothing ever evens out, because everyone on both sides is always convinced their loss is greater than the other person’s. So if you ask me, you’ve all broken a Seelie tenet. Why punish Alun and not everybody else? It’s so unfair.”

  “Shite.” Mal rubbed his other hand over his face. “You’ve got a point.”

  Alun groaned, his limbs jerking, and David pressed his fist against his mouth until he cut the inside of his lip against his teeth, tasting the metallic salt of his own blood. This has gone on long enough.

  But as he ducked out from under Mal’s arm to grab the desk phone, Alun took a giant shuddering breath, and the tension went out of his back and shoulders.

  He rolled to his hands and knees and shook his head heavily. “Damn druids. Always with the pain.” He pushed himself to his haunches and stood as if he were unfurling from a chrysalis.

  When he lifted his head and blinked at them, David’s mouth fell open and his eyes threatened to leap out of their sockets. Was this what Alun looked like before the curse? He’d thought Mal was gorgeous, but Alun beat him to hell in a go-cart.

  Dark, silky hair fell across a smooth forehead and framed cheekbones that would make any Abercrombie model weep. His nose, no longer fleshy, was straight and sculpted, his jaw strong and square, with the same cleft—although without the magical stubble—that his brother sported. His eyes were the same luminous hazel, but they were no longer shadowed by the oversized brow ridges. His lips—well, those hadn’t changed. Thank goodness.

  “Mother of us all,” breathed Mal. “That witch really knows her craft.”


  “What?” Alun’s chest still heaved in the aftermath of the transformation. “Is something—” He touched his face, and shock chased the weariness from his eyes. He swept his hands across his forehead, down his cheeks, over his jawline. “Shite.” He yanked his tie off and ripped open his shirt, scattering a handful of white buttons on the carpet like snowflakes.

  His chest was smooth, unmarred, hairless. He looked up, mouth working as if he couldn’t form any words.

  “If you’re done messing about, brother,” Mal drawled, “you’d best get ready to go. We can’t be late to the party—that’s just rude.”

  David had expected a longer trip to the gates of Faerie—or at least something a little less prosaic than pulling into the Audubon Society parking lot and hiking down a trail in Forest Park. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose—after all, if vampires and shape-shifters show up for regular psychotherapy sessions, anything is possible.

  Even so, as he followed Alun and Mal down the path, he wished he hadn’t left his worry stone at home. He was still off-kilter. Watching Alun’s agony had been horrible, yes, but ever since he’d been revealed in all his jaw-dropping glory, he’d been different. Distant.

  David could understand why. Why would anyone who looked like that—a lord of the freaking Sidhe, for goodness sake—want anything to do with dorky David Evans, temporary office manager and full-time screw-up?

  The two hulking figures ahead of him stopped next to a shoulder-high boulder. Well, shoulder-high to them. It topped David by a good two inches. Why hadn’t Alun seemed this tall before? Had he actually grown during the transformation?

  No, when he’d stood next to Mal that first day, David had noticed they were exactly the same height. Maybe the double dose of excessive male beauty just made him feel extra-small.

  Alun turned toward him, the moonlight that filtered through the trees dappling his more-than-perfect face. “We leave the path here, Dafydd. Can you see well enough?”

  He was still calling David by the name he’d first uttered in their second abortive closet encounter. That had to count for something. “Sure.” I’ll just follow the glow of your skin.

  “Take my hand.” Alun extended his palm, the full sleeve of his poet’s shirt billowing in the breeze. “Mal, you follow behind.”

  “No worries there. Nice pants, David.”

  Alun scowled. “On second thought, you lead.”

  “Spoilsport.” But Mal grinned and struck off uphill through the trees.

  Although David could have sworn the dense woods would inflict serious damage on their party clothes, Mal somehow led them down a path with plenty of clearance for his double-wide shoulders.

  For all I know, the trees moved aside for him.

  Mal paused by a narrow stream. “This is where we see if that potion is worth what I paid for it. Are you ready, brother?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Alun took a deep breath and blew it out, then turned to David. “You must do exactly as we say from now on, understand? You don’t know the ways of Faerie, and you might do something—”

  “I—”

  Alun stopped David’s protest by laying a finger across his lips. “—inadvertently to put yourself or the two of us in danger.”

  A fair point. David had no idea what to expect. “Okay.”

  “As we cross the water, watch my feet and only my feet. Follow in my steps exactly. We’ll know if we’ve succeeded when we reach the other side.”

  David eyed the stream. Mal and Alun could probably cross it with a single stride, although David would have to take a running leap. Were Alun and Mal pulling an elaborate prank on him? But Alun’s agony had been real, and his altered appearance was one heck of a persuader. “I’m ready.”

  Instead of stepping across to the other bank, Alun placed one foot on a flat rock in the stream that David hadn’t noticed before. He kept his gaze riveted on Alun’s boots, as per instructions, and followed. One rock. Two. Three. Wait just a fricking minute. Four? Five? They could have crossed the silly little brook and back three times by now, but Alun kept going—another ten stones before he finally stepped out onto a grassy bank.

  When David joined him, Alun was shaking, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Mal slapped him on the shoulder.

  “See? No problem at all.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Alun growled, but the expression on his face as he gazed around—And holy cats, where did that giant freaking hill come from?—was full of wonder.

  Mal nudged David’s ribs. “Not much farther now, boy bach. Up the tor, through the woods, and we’ll reach the ceilidh glade before you know it.”

  David peered up the steep, rocky slope to its distant crown of trees. “How many miles would you say?”

  “Distance is relative in Faerie, but we’ll never get there if we don’t start walking.”

  With every step up the tor and through the woods, Alun’s connection to the One Tree grew stronger. Power infused him, as if he were absorbing it through his skin, through the breath in his lungs. I’d forgotten. After so many years away, I’d forgotten the sheer intoxication of it.

  When they arrived at the ceilidh glade, already packed with the cream of Faerie, he faltered. After two centuries in exile, what kind of welcome could he expect, especially given the reason for his exile? He nearly turned around, but then David took his hand, his eyes wide and shining as he took in the throng.

  “Wow. It’s like the Waterfront Blues Festival crossed with Fashion Week and a little Game of Thrones thrown in for the cosplay.” He stood on his tiptoes, peering through the crowd to the dais on the other side of the clearing. “Hey, is that your brother? The Hunter’s Moon Facebook page said the band was playing at some festival in LA this afternoon.”

  “They were.”

  “How did he get here so fast?”

  Alun smiled down at David. “Magic. Do you imagine the way we arrived is the only path to Faerie?”

  “Cool,” David breathed.

  Mal bumped Alun’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t stand here like a bloody wallflower. Mingle. You’ll be less conspicuous that way.”

  Ah. Good point. Alun kept a tight hold of David’s hand and ventured out from under the trees. The glade was twice the size it had been the last time he’d been here—it expanded and contracted to fit the occasion. However, given how crowded it was, and how many fae, both high and lesser, managed to nearly run David over, Alun suspected tonight’s event might be challenging its limits.

  David pressed against his side, his hand bunching Alun’s sleeve. “Don’t look now,” he murmured, jerking his chin at a point beyond Alun’s shoulder, “but that guy in the overdecorated suit is glaring at you.”

  Alun snapped his head around, following the direction of David’s gaze. The Consort. He bared his teeth in a battle grimace that could pass for a smile—barely.

  David punched his biceps. “Way to be subtle. What part of ‘Don’t look now’ don’t you get?”

  He gazed down at David and stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Haven’t you learned, cariad, that the surest way to get someone to look is to tell them not to? Besides, in this company, it’s always wisest to face trouble before it ambushes you in the shadows.”

  David leaned into the caress. “Fine. So who is he?”

  “The Consort.”

  “The Consort? What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s not his name, it’s what he is. The consort to the Queen.”

  “If everyone refers to him by his function rather than his name, no wonder he looks so pissy. Does he at least have a name?”

  Alun frowned, trying to remember the last time he’d heard the Consort’s true name. “Rodric. Rodric Luchullain.”

  “No wonder he prefers ‘the Consort,’” David muttered.

  The Consort turned away with one last stony look at them, and Alun’s frown deepened as he tracked the man through the crowd. “I remember him being shorter. And less . . . blond.”


  Mal squinted at the Consort’s retreating back. “From your former exalted position, everyone looked shorter. That’s what an inflated head does for you.” He shrugged. “The blondness I can’t answer for. Maybe your color sense was blunted by . . .” By Owain’s radiant fairness hung in the air between them as if Mal had said the words. His habitual cocky grin faded, and he turned away, muttering “Shite. Sorry.”

  Alun waited for the gut-punch that followed any thought of Owain, but it didn’t come. Should I feel guilty that I feel less guilty? He’d think about it later—for now, he had David to consider.

  The fifth time David had to dodge a reveler, he tugged on Alun’s hand. “Is this just because I’m human? They think I ought to step aside for them without even an ‘excuse me’?”

  Alun pulled David behind him before a bejeweled courtier could knock him over. “No. This is unusual, but perhaps it’s because you’re with me. Often, when a fae is exiled, other fae aren’t required to observe the usual Court protocols. Sometimes that extends to ignoring the outcast completely.”

  “Like shunning?”

  “A little, although it’s more similar to the ‘cut direct’ in Regency England—they’re free to behave like supercilious arseholes, and the disgraced person has no choice but to swallow it.” Alun seethed at the unfairness. David had done nothing to warrant such rudeness. “I fear you’re being tarred with my unfortunate brush. I’m sorry.”

  “They’re dissing you because of the curse? You’re the one who has to deal with it, not them. Why would they care?”

  Mal scratched his chin—bare of his Outer World scruff since glamourie would be nullified in the Queen’s presence anyway. “You haven’t told him the story?”

  “No.”

  “Bloody hells, brother. Isn’t it time?”