He folds his arms. “The Cobalt Order. You want me, a loyal subject of Her Majesty’s court, to give information on an internal matter to a Coyote.”
“I introduced you to the Ra’keth.”
“You told me where he works, and that was payment for another debt.”
Namely, telling me that a lot of vampires in the City are vulnerable to gold or “sunmetal”.
“Have you met him, at least? I didn’t even warn him ahead of time that you were coming.”
Rourke sighs. “It would seem that we have met once before.”
Obviously the pause has a bun in the oven.
“Come again?” I need a few beats so I can use my words. “Seriously? Seriously? What the hell is it with James and Fae, huh? Huh?” I poke Rourke hard in the chest. “Jesus, his boyfriend’s murdered so I tell him to go get drunk and he fucks some sidhe in a Trans-Am like it’s Prom Night 1984. I tell him ‘Hey, try to get over Cale, be happy, there’s more to life than mourning!’ What does he do? Hops in the lap of some Dwarven grease monkey just because he knows what ‘thack-oh’ is. And now? Apparently he’s fucked—”
My mouth is covered by his hand, his expression rather cross.
“He was a child when I met him, Spencer. That is…revolting. Repulsive.” He shudders visibly.
“Well, thank God for that. That’d be… Not that I’d mind if he were older and…” Yeah, that’s a lie. Best to get back on track. “Just know that you’re not going to trick him, okay? If anyone’s going to trick him, it’s gonna—” Hand on mouth again.
“I’m not going to trick him, Spencer. I gave him my word.”
“And the King of the Phouka, a clan of tricksters, isn’t going to go for an Emerald in the Snow because…?” I just need to keep him talking, let my Bard thing do its, uh, thing. This is probably good info.
“I met him on the Sullivan estate. He was…dressed in a bathrobe, pretending to be a noble sorcerer. A child. It’d been so long since a child knew anything about the Fae that I…misstepped.”
“Misstepped?” I’m more wondering why he’d include the name of the family, but these things you have to handle right. A lot of the time you can steer the conversation if you need to, but you want to be careful and just let it go where it’s going sometimes.
“I was tricked, no…I tricked myself, stumbled out of pride into three promises.” He hmphs, folding his arms. “He called me a braggart.”
“That seems like reason to trick him, not leave him alone.”
He shook his head. “He was on that estate, in my fields, on my day. Fate is always working, Spencer, you should be well aware of that.”
“On the…Sullivan estate, you called it? Why does that matter?” I think we’re getting there now.
“It’s not the Sullivans who concern me, it’s the boy’s maternal grandmother who does. Bridget Sullivan.” He meets my eyes. “Nee O’Rourke.”
Oh shit.
Rourke had a son. A son who was a Ra’keth.
The way Rourke tells the story, his son wasn’t always on the road to being a supervillain. He was a good man, once, who fell prey to feelings of inferiority, that he’d never be powerful because of his mixed blood. And he blamed Rourke for that, became something darker, gave in to baser instincts, abused the power he had and was on the verge of bringing about the end of existence. Rourke had to do something.
So Rourke killed him.
He stabbed him in the heart, and held him in his arms as he died. Rourke told him he loved him, that he’d always be his little pup, that no one should ever have to die alone and afraid.
And his son died accepting that.
To show a Ra’keth that they’re human, not an infallible force beyond anyone’s reach, that’s the purpose of the Emerald in the Snow, and that Emerald was the Phouka’s first and only.
But there’s one part of the story I never asked about.
“Your son, Rourke, I know it’s a sore subject, but he did have children, right?” Because Rourke never had children again, and all the Phouka had to come from somewhere.
He nodded.
“So you’re not going to trick James because you don’t trick…” It finally hits me. “You don’t trick family. Because the last time you had to do that…” I don’t finish the sentence. I feel bad enough about bringing it up. “So James is descended from your son, a Ra’keth, whose mother was a Ra’keth, so is that why he’s a…”
“I have suspicions as to who James really is, given his heritage. Humans have an obsession with cataloging familial records. If he is who I believe he is, that would be enough to bring out my son’s heritage instead of my own.” He shrugs. “I would not be surprised if there have been Phouk amongst his family line.” Rourke then sits down on his couch, and I’m getting the feeling that all of this is weighing heavier on him than my own concerns.
So I sit down next to him, no moves, despite what we’d both done on his floor a few minutes before. If you’re going to do the whole sex-with-the-ex thing, you might as well make an effort to be one of the good exes. “I won’t tell anyone. Or him, if you want. Something like that should probably come from you, don’t you think?”
“I told him we would never darken his doorstep. I gave my word.”
I reach over, take his hand. “He doesn’t have any family, Rourke. None who know who he is, anyway. Be honest with him, actually honest, not Fae honest. He could probably use that. Hell, I think both of you could.”
“I find it odd that a Coyote would try to talk me into a position where I could attempt an Emerald in the Snow.”
“I’m not. I’m interested in keeping James in a place where he’ll never deserve one.” I squeeze Rourke’s hand.
A moment passes before he squeezes back. “Spencer, why do you need to know about the Cobalt Order?” He leans against the back of the couch, inquisitive. “They are not an issue for non-Fae.”
I get up to face him. “Because fuck the Feud. That’s why. These people are bigots who kill people, and someone should stop them. It’s the right thing to do. I’m on the outs with the clan, so I’m a free agent. You know this, otherwise you never would’ve let me in the door, given our history. For God’s sake, Rourke, this isn’t a game.”
“But it is. A dangerous one, but it is always a game when the Fae are involved. This is a game, and I am a king. Which piece will you be?”
“None of them. I’m not a piece, I’m a hero.”
Well, James’s hero, at least.
He sighs at that, getting up as well. “So you’re a pawn.”
“I’m not a—”
“You’re doing this because you were in the right place, at the right time, and you immediately assume that Fate must be involved.” He looks away. “Coyotes. So convinced the world exists to provide them material. You’re being moved along your path, never stopping to question. What other piece would you be?”
“I’m not a chess piece, damn it. Being a Coyote means being fluid, adapting on the fly to any trick, not getting bogged down in analogies. You know what happens when you can’t make an analogy work? You change your life to fit it, or change the analogy to make it fit you. You come up with exceptions, excuses, bullshit, so you don’t see you fucked things up eight steps back. And what do Coyotes do? We free you from that bullshit. You think we’re idiots, but you should be thanking us. Because at the end of the day, the Feud is just another steaming pile of bullshit people devote way too much of their lives to so they can plant their flag on top. You know what’ll happen if I pull an Emerald? The Coyotes will have two, and James will likely be dead. I don’t give a fuck about the former but the latter certainly has all my attention.”
“Because you love him.”
“Yeah, you’d love for that to be true, wouldn’t you?” I roll my eyes. “For me to end up with a Phouk anyway after all this.”
“He’s not a Phouk, Spencer, though being a Phouk is much like being a Keth. It’s simply in the blood, and if it awakens, it awakens, and you’re Phouka. There is no halfway. We are Fae insofar as we pledge fealty to Her Majesty, but not even iron wounds…” He blinks at me. “May you be cursed with the itch and have no nails to scratch with, you sneaky Bard.”
I hold my ground. “Tell me everything about the Cobalt Order, and I don’t go shouting that from the rooftops.” I force a weak smile. “You wanted me to play the game, Rourke. We could’ve done this civilly, but you wanted the Feud, so if that means using the advantage Fate gave me, I’ll use it. You know I don’t want to spread that around. I hear enough down at Under the Bridge about what the sidhe think of the Phouka getting back into the Feud. They don’t like it because it invites situations like this: a non-Fae poking his nose into Fae matters. I felt Fate tugging my string, Rourke. You know what happens to Coyotes who give Fate the finger.”
In simple terms? Bad things.
“Just give me the CliffsNotes, I’ll settle for that. Who they are, who’s in charge, who they target, what I should watch out for, maybe a little relevant history. Anything to let me guess why they’d so brazenly attack a commoner bar.”
The King of the Phouka closes his eyes. “What do you plan to do, Spencer?”
“Stop them.”
He looks at me now, worry in his eyes. “How?” He doesn’t let me answer. “Because what this might require is something you’ve sworn you’ll never do. For a Coyote to involve himself in an internal Fae matter, if it were to draw the attention of Her Majesty…” He takes a breath. “Spencer, the Feud is the Feud, and that is all it must be, no matter your opinion of it. Even if you are no longer counted among your clan, you are still a Coyote, and you could invite war. Is that what you are willing to risk? For Fate?”
I wish I could be firm about this. Well, part of me is, but that’s the consort in me. Being the hero is having to stand at the cliff’s edge and make these kinds of decisions. A fool does the same while whistling a happy tune, and there’s a dog there if the Tarot card is anything to go by. A Coyote, well, we’re the worst kind of heroes and the best kind of fools, it’s how Fate made us.
But if I’m reading Rourke correctly, he’s telling me that people are going to die. That I might have to kill someone to make this stop. Right now, all this is, is an isolated shooting at a bar in Beckettsville. When Rourke tells me what I need to know, it’s going to get bigger, I know that. It’s something I’ll need help for, I can tell that already, something I’ll have to drag James into and, knowing Fate, my father.
I don’t want to kill anyone.
Hell, I’ve got issues with killing zombies, and those aren’t even people.
But just because Rourke can’t lie, it doesn’t mean it’s the truth. I’m not required to take a life just because he says it’s a possibility. We may be guided by Fate, but we’re not slaves to it, and a con man never has to kill anyone if he does the job right.
So I’ll figure it out.
“Okay. Tell me.”
Chapter Nine
James
December 19, 6:32 pm
I awaken to music, acoustic guitar with an easy melody, a song you listen to while luxuriating in a clawfoot bathtub, possibly by candlelight. I’m in a comfortable bed, the kind that’s so soft you know your back will pay the price, but you can’t be arsed to care. Warm hands gently stroke my temples, sensual, relaxing. Putting me in the mood, to be perfectly honest.
“Oz, I just had the worst dream. But if this is how I’ll be waking up from them, I say bring on the nightmares.”
What follows is increased pressure on my temples, which quickly departs pleasurable and shoots right across the pain divide. I open my eyes to a man’s face with ruddy skin, deep-red hair. He’s wearing a crimson T-shirt and nothing else.
“My liege.” His tone doesn’t imply deference at all.
“Fluffy.” I get up, or try to, but he holds me down firmly. “My apologies. Stuffington.” I believe I’ve mentioned that I once named a dragon. This would be him. “Let me go. And tell me where the hell I am. Now.”
He removes his hands, and I get off the bed. Aside from the bed, which has cherry headboards and vermillion satin sheets, there are a pair of matching night tables, a small mahogany dresser, the floor a darker wood, the walls painted deep red. I’m sensing a theme here. The room doesn’t have any windows, so I could be a mile underground or a hundred floors up. There’s no telling with dragons.
“Why am I in your apartment?” I make sure to put distance between him and me. “And you damned well better not have done anything while I was asleep.” Just because my clothes are still on doesn’t mean anything.
“I am hardly a satyr, my liege.” He shimmers and is wearing the crimson suit from when I first met him in his human form. “And you are here at the request of the Ra’saar. I am to look after you and tend to your needs.”
“Tend to my needs?” I crack a smile. “Don’t you hate me?”
His jaw sets. “You have humiliated me not once but twice before the assembled court.”
“Twice?”
“You chose an Azure over a Crimson. That alone was an insult to me, but one I could hope to bear had you not branded me with…” he growls, “…Stuffington Fluffypants the Third.”
“Esquire. I made you an esquire as well.”
“I despise you.”
I shrug. “Tough shit. I’ve faced down two psychotic Ra’keth, you think you or your king make me nervous? I haven’t chosen a protector, I’m not choosing you. Now open that door, let me out, or I start blowing out walls. And then I kick your ass.”
He grins, showing teeth. “I welcome the opportunity.”
“Salondine.” A new voice, behind me, and I turn to find a man in his forties, an inch taller than me, chestnut-brown hair, no facial hair, blue eyes, wearing simple gray robes. He waves Sal off, his hand adorned with two simple rings, one on the ring finger, one on the index. “Leave us.”
The dragon bows his head and exits the room swiftly, silently. The man gestures beyond me with his other hand, which has similar rings on the same fingers. When I turn, the bed is gone, replaced by two wooden chairs. “My apologies for him, the young are often…driven.”
The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. I’d felt magic, and despite dragons being magical powerhouses in Dungeons & Dragons, I’d yet to meet one in real life who could manage it. This one was old.
“The Ra’saar, I take it?”
He smiles, and it’s a genial, almost grandfatherly smile. “In a sense. I hardly go by that name in this form. As you can imagine, it has been some time since I’ve been this…small.” He takes a seat, and a table shimmers into existence. “Tea is still a customary activity, I hope?”
Carefully, I sit down in the opposing chair. “Last I checked, yeah. You understand I might be pissed, considering your errand girl knocked me out, stuffed me in her trunk and brought me here? That’s kidnapping, so, no, I’m not in the mood for tea.”
“My apologies for Codacintha. All of them are eager to impress. They take the possibility of serving as your protector quite seriously. As do I.” He waves a hand again, a tea set appearing.
“How did you do that?”
“I follow the laws set for dragons and Ra’keth, of course.”
“No, I mean the tea. I barely felt you conjure that, and nothing in the room is gone, unless you’re drinking the bed.”
The dragon shakes his head. “I am not. Conjuration is not nearly as complicated as it seems. How do you conjure, if I may ask?”
I shrug. “Like, tea?”
He nods, and I search my mind for a memory, the only one of note being of Cale creating some when we first met. One of the arms of the chair dissolves partially, the energy flowing into me, through the memory and then e
xiting my outstretched hand, a cup of tea appearing on the table, which I pick up and sip.
“It takes that long for you?” He seems concerned. “But…you are Ra’keth.”
“Well, how do you do it?”
“Tea.” Again, the feeling of magic is in the air, but it’s subtle. There’s no mistaking the Sigil, though. A steaming teacup, identical to mine, appears with a shimmer of light.
“It’s really not fair when you’re doing that better than I am.”
At that, he smiles. “I have centuries of practice, Miles.”
My blood goes cold. No one is supposed to know that name. Because of Cale’s decree, everyone normal should have forgotten that name, my real name. Only one person other than me remembers it.
Static begins to jump along my skin, and noticing this, he holds up a hand. “The Frozen River was observed addressing you as Miles. As you were informed, the dragons endeavor to be aware of the dealings of the Ra’keth. We know what he called you, your history with him, and his plans for my dragons. I must thank you for preserving the name of dragonkind. I would suppose from your reaction you prefer James?”
I nod.
“My apologies for the offense then.” He sips his tea. “Would my intelligence be accurate that you served as apprentice to the Recluse?” To Cale.
“Yes, that’d be right. Why?”
Again, a grandfatherly smile. “It would explain your lack of skill in conjuration. The Recluse had no modern equal in divination and scrying, but his conjuration outside of small items was limited. I understand you’re studying enchantment at the moment? Learning from a Dwarven dialect? I understand you’ve…bonded with a dreamblooded?”
“There’s that term again. Why do you call them that?”
“What would you call them?” He leans forward, interested.
“Fae. I grew up calling them the Fair Folk. My mother told me some legends about dealing with them. Why call them dreamblooded?”
“They were crafted from dreams and nightmares, to be living embodiments of such. Every mythic was made for a purpose.”
Breaking Ties Page 8