Cutie and the Beast

by E. J. Russell

  “Hey. None of that. We are not ruining this moment.” David kissed him, hot and sweet, then stood up, the moonlight gilding his skin. He ran his fingers across his semen-spattered belly. “How good is moss for post-sex cleanup?”

  “Unsatisfactory. But unnecessary.” Alun captured a drop of spray from the brook on his finger and blew on it.

  David glanced down at his now-clean skin. “Magical wipes? Nice trick. Now where the heck are my pants? I’ve gotta say, all this rustic bucolia is scenic as all get-out, but give me a bank of sixty-watts and a full-length mirror when it comes time to get dressed.”

  Alun rolled to his knees and captured David’s hands, pulling him close enough to kiss his belly, the cut of his hip. “Mirrors are overrated.” He skimmed his hands up David’s body, from his ankles to his chest, and his clothes were once again in place.

  David glanced down. “Uh . . . oookaaay. That’s . . . um . . . useful.” He cocked an eyebrow at Alun. “You’re still naked though. Not that I object, but it could make for a very interesting ceremony.”

  Alun grinned. By the time he’d gained his feet, his clothes were in place and as pristine as they’d been when he’d first donned them at his apartment.

  David propped his fists on his hips and glared at him. “If you can do this, why did it take you forever to get our pants off earlier?”

  “That way was more fun.”

  “Humph.” David fingered Alun’s sleeve. “Must save a lot of time in bar hookups.”

  “I haven’t hooked up with anyone in a hundred years, remember. Besides, with my curse active, I can’t access the power of Faerie.” He held out a hand. “Come. Royalty gets testy if you keep them waiting.”

  David’s skin still tingled from Alun’s touch and the pressure of his hand in the small of David’s back as they threaded their way through the throng of fae, whose diversity rivaled a hundred Kellogg’s variety packs. The dais at the far end of the clearing, where Gareth and his band had performed earlier, was bathed in a golden glow that didn’t come from any lights that David could see.

  Magic. Hunh. That crap must save a ton of infrastructure work.

  Alun stopped about two-thirds of the way through the crowd, next to an attenuated fae who looked like a cross between RuPaul and Dennis Rodman.

  “Wait here. I don’t want you too close to the ceremony.”

  David tried not to feel hurt. Did Alun want to hide their . . . whatever it was? Relationship? If so, he needn’t bother, considering the way the rest of the crowd continued to ignore David’s existence. David wished again that these pants had a pocket for his worry stone, because if ever he needed to focus his calm, it was while Alun walked away from him and mounted the stage.

  “Oi.” Mal appeared out of the crowd and handed David a pewter tankard with a stylized dragon handle, full to the brim with a golden drink that smelled of honey and cinnamon. “Drink up. Getting hammered is the only way to make it through one of these damned ceremonies.”

  “The pellet with the poison’s in the flagon with the dragon.” David sniffed the brew gingerly, then took an injudiciously large gulp and choked. For something that smelled like punch at a teetotaler convention, this stuff had to be higher proof than Bacardi. Mal pounded him on the back so hard that David lost his grip on the tankard. It tumbled to the ground, soaking the hem of the lacy gown of the tall fae, who glared at Mal and took one giant step to the side.

  Mal chuckled. “Don’t mind these yobboes. I’ll get you another.”

  “No. Really,” David wheezed. “I’m fine.”

  “Bollocks.” Mal retrieved the cup and buffeted David on the back again. “Facing this shite requires serious self-medication. Don’t move or I’ll never find you in this lot.”

  David opened his mouth to beg Mal not to leave him alone, but how pathetic was that? He was standing in the middle of hundreds, each creature more beautiful or fantastical than the last, yet he felt more alone than if he were the only one in the middle of a football stadium. None of them paid the slightest attention to him, as if he were invisible. I’m not even important enough to rate irritation. Even his tent-pole neighbor had only responded to the results of David’s clumsiness, not to David himself.

  Don’t take it personally—just imagine it’s a cosplay night at a club. No different than me on the dance floor, repelling everyone in sight with my horrific moves.

  He sighed as three tall, androgynous fae—and face it, all of them except the waist-high ones were taller than he was—stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the stage. He craned his neck, but gave up. To see around this bunch, he’d need stilts.

  White-blond hair that any of the LOTR elves would kill for rippled down each slender back in front of him. David ran a self-conscious hand over his boring brown hair. True, he had a rocking cut, but nobody in the whole crowd except Alun and Mal had hair shorter than shoulder length. Even Gareth’s soft mop of curls brushed his shoulders.

  “See you there?” the one in the middle said. “He returns as though his disgrace were naught.”

  “Perhaps. Worse has been forgiven, although not by him, the self-righteous Welsh bastard.” The one on the right tittered—an honest to goodness titter, but David was suddenly too interested in the conversation to roll his eyes at the incongruity of the sound. “Does his presence mean he chooses to revert to the old ways?”

  David willed himself more invisible. They’re talking about Alun. Is this what he meant about his history? What the heck are the “old ways”?

  The one on the left shrugged with a grace that David had only seen on ballet dancers and beauty contestants. “If he takes the oath, he must follow the tenets or be foresworn.”

  “Think you that will matter? More than a century or two in dreary exile is needed to cure an arse that tight.”

  “Will he take his place as Favorite again?” Righty, clearly the gossip queen, wasn’t about to let go of their through-line.

  “Why should he? He’s no better than any of the rest of us now.”

  The one in the middle sighed. “A shame. A Sidhe with morals was so refreshing.”

  “We have morals.”

  “Yes, but we’re never excessive about it.”

  They moved on, and David could see the dais again just as Mal returned with his refill.

  “Sláinte, mate.” Mal took a swig out of his own mug, but David gazed into the honey-colored liquid, swirling it until a tiny vortex formed in the center. The pellet with the poison’s in the twink who can’t think.

  “Mal, what do any of these people do?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “Party and gossip? That’s it?”

  “There’s the occasional tournament and jockeying for position, but yeah.”

  “Is it unusual for one of your kind to bring a—a human to one of these parties?”

  Mal lowered his tankard and squinted at David. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No. No tricks. But is it?” He peered around. “I don’t think I’ve seen another human here tonight. Only fae.”

  “Well, there’s Gareth’s bandmates. They’re all shifters.”

  David goggled at him, then belatedly took a sip—a very tiny sip—of his mead so he didn’t look like a clueless hick. “Really?”

  “Two werewolves, a jaguar, and a kangaroo.”

  “Kangaroo shifters? Seriously?”

  “Well, he’s Australian. They had a totally different evolution down under.” He took another swig of mead and grinned. “Makes for interesting business meetings.”

  David narrowed his eyes and poked Mal in the shoulder. “I think you’re dodging the question. Come on. What’s the deal with humans?”

  “Well . . .” Mal carded the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Sure you don’t want another drink?”

  “Mal. Give it up or I’ll never make coffee for you again.”

  “All right, all right. No need to get extreme. The thing is, we fae have a history of . . . well
. . . stealing humans who take our fancy.”

  “Steal them how?”

  “Take ’em across into Faerie and keep ’em until we—not that I’ve ever done it, mind you—get bored.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we chuck them out. Problem with that is that time in Faerie runs differently than time in the Outer World, and you can never predict exactly how. But you don’t have to worry about that. As long as we leave before dawn, we’re good.”

  “Is that what Gareth meant? About taking me home before dawn? I thought he was playing supernatural chaperone and forbidding Alun to have sex.” Thank goodness Alun hadn’t paid attention.

  “Nah. Gareth’s got a bug up his arse about that—his own human lover was kidnapped by the Unseelie before Alun was cursed. He’s never gotten past it, not really.”

  Poor Gareth. No wonder so many of his songs are sad. “Does he, you know, resent me because I’m human?”

  Mal snorted. “Not bloody likely. He’d turn human himself if he could, or do anything, including call down the Queen’s own curse, if it would keep him out of Faerie. But he’s the last fae bard. She’s not about to let him go.”

  David took another sip of his drink. “But she let Alun go.”

  “Aye, well, Alun’s not a bard, is he? He may have been her Champion and Enforcer, but he was only a warrior, same as any other Sidhe.” Mal scratched his chin—Where did his scruff go? He had it before we crossed the stream. “Although she’d likely have tried a little harder to save him if she didn’t have a spare in yours truly.”

  The same as any other? I don’t think so. Truth to tell, all this relentless fae perfection got on David’s nerves. Mal at least had the bad boy biker attitude going for him. Gareth looked like a postmodern Roger Daltrey. But Alun’s beauty beat any of the other Sidhe idling in the crowd because he was the only one who looked as if he had a purpose. Even with his beast-face, he beat them all because he wasn’t freaking useless.

  Suddenly, David needed to see Alun, to ground himself again, remind himself that this wasn’t his life, that the two of them had more waiting for them at home. Even if I have to whack his stubborn head to convince him. He edged around another cluster of oblivious fae until he had a clear view of the stage.

  Alun was standing to one side of the main group, whether by his own choice or because the others had shifted away from him, David couldn’t tell. His feet were planted wide apart, his arms crossed. Apparently two hundred years of grumpy was a hard habit to break, because his forehead was creased in a kinder, gentler version of his habitual scowl; he was the only man on stage who wasn’t wearing an expression of bland superiority.

  He was also the only one with sex-in-the-forest hair.

  The column of his throat gleamed in the golden light, and David caught the slight shadow of one of the love-bites he’d trailed up that perfect torso.

  Possessive pride surged through his chest, making him feel six feet tall instead of five ten. I did that. Me. David the Dork Evans. I had sex with the hottest man in all of freaking Faerie.

  As if Alun could hear his thoughts, his gaze shifted from scanning the other men on the stage and locked with David’s across the crowd. His scowl disappeared, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile.

  David’s heart lurched, and his skin went cold in spite of the balmy air. It wasn’t just sex. Not for me. I’m falling in love with him.

  But if he stayed with Alun—assuming Alun even wanted him to stay—would it mean effective house arrest for life? If Alun refused to go anywhere that his appearance would cause comment, what did that mean for their relationship? Never to walk hand in hand by the river. Never to take a cruise or a vacation together. Never to do anything as simple as going out for dinner or to a movie.

  What about friends? If these were Alun’s friends—and given the attitude some of them had thrown when he’d greeted them, David had his doubts—would they accept a human? So far, the supes he’d met—barring Benjy and his mom—had either ignored him completely or tried to get into his pants. Since he had no clue what prompted one behavior over the other, he was at a loss as to what to expect from the nonhuman contingent.

  He didn’t have a lot of friends himself—especially now that his social life had all but evaporated—but the ones from his club days had bitchy down to an art. They’d no doubt salivate over Mal or Gareth, yet ignore Alun. Or worse, be cruel to him in the way only pretty young twinks could be. He flushed, remembering the times he’d taken the easy path and gone along with their games, regardless of who they hurt. I’m better off without a social life if that’s all it amounts to.

  Could he face the life he’d have if Alun refused to come out of the closet he’d built from the shame of his appearance? David wanted Alun. The twist in his belly and pinch in his chest when he imagined life without him were almost more than he could bear. But he was a social man. Would Alun’s company be enough to offset the absence of everyone else?

  The expression on his face must have changed from caveman smug to deer-in-the-headlights, because Alun’s frown snapped into place again and he took a step forward as if to leap off the stage into the audience.

  But at that moment, a golden fanfare rippled through the air, like a symphony’s entire brass section, even though the only instruments in sight were Hunter’s Moon’s drum kit and abandoned guitars.

  Guess magic not only saves on infrastructure, it saves on personnel and equipment too.

  The crowd parted, shuffling David into close proximity with his mead-splattered neighbor again. He couldn’t see what was happening until everyone around them dropped to one knee, leaving him with a clear view of the Consort leading a woman with dark copper hair knotted in an elaborate braid that fell to her hips. Her face was perfect—whose wasn’t, in this crowd?—like the love child of Charlize Theron and Karen Gillen, with a little Helen Mirren strength of character thrown in around the determined jaw. Her gown was the color of new leaves, and David was interested to note that it was much simpler than the Consort’s elaborate outfit, although it was cut to fit her rocking body perfectly.

  Her Freaking Fae Majesty, I presume.

  “Hssst.” Mal dug an elbow into David’s thigh. “Down.”

  David glanced around wildly. He was the only one standing. Gah! Way to be unobtrusive. He dropped and huddled next to Mal. What were the chances no one had noticed his big giant faux pas? He’d been invisible so far.

  He sneaked a glance at the irritatingly beautiful faces around them. All of them were focused on the couple proceeding up the impromptu aisle. Thank goodness. Relief washed through him, and his fingers tightened around his mug. When he checked out the royal couple, though, he discovered that one person had definitely noticed. What a moment for my cloak of invisibility to fail.

  Although the Queen’s attention was directed at the stage and the men who awaited her there, the Consort’s gimlet glare was focused directly on David, and he didn’t break it until he’d have had to turn his head to maintain eye contact.

  Not. Creepy. At all.

  “You have serial killers in Faerie?” he whispered to Mal out of the side of his mouth.

  “Yes, but we call them warriors.”

  “Outstanding,” he muttered.

  The Queen and Consort reached the stage, and the audience rose in one graceful wave—except for David, who struggled to his feet in the backwash, always the last to get the freaking memo.

  The base of Alun’s skull buzzed with the warning of nearby danger. After two centuries of dormancy, though, he couldn’t pinpoint the threat, which might be nothing more than the usual political jockeying, petty jealousies, and vain ambitions that were part of any Court, fae or human.

  Trapped on the dais in the eldritch glow of Faerie light, he studied the eddying crowd in their ridiculous finery, searching for the out-of-place, the key to his nagging worry.

  Perhaps he was disturbed by the way so few fae paid any attention to David whatsoever, their gaze slippi
ng over him as if he were concealed by the glamourie of not-here. Considering how David drew Alun’s attention like a signal fire on a distant hillside, he found the crowd’s inattention odd and alarming.

  Standing next to Mal, David was wearing the same self-satisfied smirk as he had in the office, when he’d scored a point off Alun about his magazines or his potpourri or his blasted candy dish. Then, as he stared at Alun in the gathering of the cream of the Daoine Sidhe, his expression fell, nearly panic-stricken.

  Had he just realized that come the dawn, Alun would return to his usual hideous form? Now that he’d seen a different face, an unmarred body, would he always compare the beast to the man, and find the beast wanting?

  Alun wanted to abandon his place in the line, actually took a step forward, despite the futility of attempting escape after the Faerie light had engulfed the dais. But then the fanfare heralded the Queen’s arrival, and he had no choice but to stay put, forcing himself to remain still. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention, to remind the jaded crowd of who he’d been, of how he’d behaved, of what he’d done.

  He frowned at the flecks of gold that swirled in the Faerie light. Standing up here in a shower of bloody glitter wasn’t exactly the best way to remain unobserved. Why couldn’t the Queen conduct her business in her pavilion, the way she’d always done?

  As Queen and Consort wended their maddeningly slow way to the dais, Alun’s unease increased. The Consort stared at David—he would be the one who registered David’s presence, blast it—probably because of the implied insult in David’s delayed obeisance. The Consort had always been a stickler for demanding the respect he thought was his due.

  There’s danger here somewhere. I’m sure of it. Alun folded his arms and kept his gaze riveted on David until he lost sight of him when the crowd surged to its feet.

  When the Queen mounted the stairs—without the Consort’s assistance, although he offered his hand—Alun rapped his chest with his right fist and bowed with the others in the traditional salute. Her cool green gaze swept the line, no doubt cataloging alliances, slights, and political expediency in the brilliant, merciless brain that had engineered the Unification.