The Druid Next Door

by E. J. Russell

  “Heilyn? I don’t know.”

  “To reunite with its young,” Alun said absently, his attention on the King and Eamon. “They’d been separated for almost too long.”

  “Ah. Right.” Mal studied the King, who was holding his crown on his head with both hands as if he were afraid it would fly off. “Does His hysterical Majesty look smaller to you?”

  “Pay attention, brother. I think we’re about to see something that hasn’t happened since the dawn of Faerie: the succession of a new Unseelie King.”

  “No!” he shrieked. “I am King. I wear the crown.”

  “The crown is but a token.” Eamon was as unruffled as usual. “Faerie confers its own honors, and you have failed in your covenant with your land, your people.”

  “You think to usurp the throne, but you can’t. Not as long as I hold the Seat of Power.”

  “But you do not.” Eamon reached into the recesses of his cloak and pulled something out. He unfurled his fist to display the little stone Bryce and Mal had recovered the first time they’d ventured into Faerie. “I do.”

  The King goggled at the rock. “It’s a trick.”

  “Is it?”

  “You haven’t been in this room since I banished you. You’ve had no chance—”

  Eamon merely smiled, which sent the King over the top. Still bawling curses at the top of his lungs, he staggered to the throne and fell to his knees, scrabbling underneath the seat.

  Good luck with that, mate. You’ll not find a bloody thing.

  Hold on though—if the Seat of Power was so crucial to Unseelie sovereignty, would His paranoid Majesty have risked including it in a spell that could result in its loss?

  Steve, you bloody bastard.

  Mal stalked across the floor until he could look Eamon in the eyes—much less alarming now that said eyes were the blue of a midsummer day and not glowing like infernal coals. “The Seat of Power. That wasn’t one of the tasks you needed to break your curse, was it?”

  A slight smile curved Eamon’s perfect lips. Mal hadn’t missed the surreptitious glances the Queen kept stealing at him either—shite, he was handsomer than Rodric Luchullain could ever hope to be. “It was not.”

  “Damn it, man. I mean, Your Highness. You had no right to risk Bryce’s life just to retrieve some random royal trinket. I may have entered into a bargain with you, but he never did.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “So you could stage a coup and overthrow your psycho father?” He jerked his thumb at Rodric, moaning on the floor, handless arm clutched to his chest and Alun looming over him like a well-muscled brick wall. “Not to mention his even more psycho minion?”

  “Would you have preferred these two remained in power?”

  “Are you mental? Of course not. But I’d have preferred not to have gone unarmed into an enemy court without a damn good reason either.”

  “The destination was unimportant.”

  “The hells you say.”

  “I do. The recovery of the Seat of Power was a bonus. If you had not recovered it in the allotted time, I could have found another way to depose my father. The task, the one you succeeded at far more brilliantly than I had hoped, was in the journey.”

  “Say what?”

  The King stood and faced Eamon, his face a feral mask. “It’s gone. You traitorous whoreson. You filthy—”

  With a zhing of metal, the Queen stepped forward to lay her sword against the King’s throat. “Say no words that make me regret not depriving you of your tongue.”

  Mal blinked and shared a dumbfounded glance with Bryce. “Did she just refer to herself as ‘me’?”

  “Yeah. Has she ever done that before?”

  “No.” Mal marveled at the heated glance she exchanged with Eamon. “Maybe this wasn’t only politics after all. For the first time, I think she’s made a choice just for herself.”

  Mal glanced between Eamon, who was regarding his father with somber eyes, and the tapestry behind the throne. The fellow standing under the One Tree looked a lot like Eamon. Had there been a family resemblance before the King had disintegrated into the death’s-head mockery he was now? Or was this another magical verification of Eamon’s right to rule?

  “Father, by your actions, by your poor stewardship, and by your cruelty, you have forfeited the right to any mercy. Yet I would not begin my reign with patricide.”

  The King sneered. “You mean regicide.” When the Queen’s sword nicked his jaw, he stilled.

  “And you, Rodric Luchullain, who aspired to a position far beyond that which your character warranted, do you think you deserve to live?”

  “As much as you or that—” Rodric gaped, his remaining hand clutching his throat, his eyes bulging.

  Eamon observed him coldly. “Since you are unable to speak civilly, speak not at all.”

  Rodric tried to lunge at Eamon, but Alun yanked him back.

  Bryce turned to Mal, his eyes wide. “Did he just—”

  Mal nodded. “Cursed the bugger. Handy fellow with a geas, our man, Steve.”

  “Does he borrow all his curses from the kindergarten playground?”

  Eamon glanced at Bryce, his head tilted to one side. “An interesting notion, Sir Druid. Shall we borrow another?” He faced the King. “Since you consigned your own son to slavery in the underworld forges, you will now take his place. And you, Rodric Luchullain, who snatched at glory by clinging to the coattails of the more powerful, you will share his fate as you would have shared his favor. Indeed, the two of you are well-matched.”

  “Wait a moment.” Bryce nodded at the now-mute Rodric. “You struck off his false hand. Can you give him a flesh and blood one in its place?”

  “You refer to the terms Lord Maldwyn’s curse, I take it.”

  “You’re damn right I do. He did everything you asked, but it seems you aren’t keeping your side of the deal.”

  “But if I grant Lord Luchullain his hand, how will Lord Maldwyn satisfy the terms of his curse? My promise was for the curse to be lifted—not that I would do it myself. As you well know, Sir Druid, curses are tricky things.”

  Bryce lifted a skeptical brow. “So, apparently, are Unseelie princes.”

  Eamon gazed somberly at Mal. “You do not have the authority to execute Lord Luchullain. However, now that I have the full authority of the Unseelie throne, I can grant you the power of Dian Cecht, of Creidhne, and of Miach.”

  Bryce turned a bewildered gaze on Mal. “Who?”

  “The blokes who gave Nuada his silver hand, and the one who later made it flesh.” Mal glowered at Eamon. “Was this your plan all along?”

  Eamon inclined his head. “It is the best solution.” He glanced at the Queen. “Do you agree, my lady?”

  She studied first Mal and then Rodric. “It will serve. I commend you.”

  “Well I don’t,” Mal said. “You could have told me.”

  “It would have changed nothing. Do you wish for this? Miach’s spell will transform the silver hand to flesh over nine days and nights. As his hand transforms, so will yours recover. The process,” Eamon said drily, “will not be painless.”

  Mal shrugged. “Pain isn’t an issue.” Rodric whimpered. “Bring it on.”

  “You should consider this carefully, Lord Maldwyn.” Eamon’s deep voice echoed in the room. “When Lord Luchullain is again whole, the chances of him doing harm in future would be increased. Would you take that risk, if it meant being restored to your former estate?”

  Ah, shite. A catch worthy of a druid. Mal glanced down at his hand, joined with Bryce’s. Considered their neighboring houses next to the wetlands in the Outer World. Swallowed hard at the memory of the connection he’d discovered—no, reveled in—with the familiar bond. “No.”

  “What?” Bryce released his hand and grabbed his shoulders instead. “This is what you’ve wanted from the first. How can you pass up the chance to do it now?”

  Mal shook his head. “The blighter did enough damage with one hand
. I can’t take the risk.”

  “Mal—”

  “He would have destroyed both our worlds. You want to reward him for that?”

  “No, but—”

  Mal faced the Queen. “What about you, Your Majesty? Are you inclined to grant your former Consort that much clemency?”

  Her gaze, fixed on Rodric, was stony. “No.”

  “Well, then. The nays have it.” He turned to Bryce. “This is what I am, love. What I will be forever. Can you live with a damaged familiar?”

  Bryce grasped the back of his neck in a firm hold, and Mal’s eyes closed. This. So right. “You aren’t damaged. One-handed or not, you’re perfect. And screw the familiar shit.” He looked over Mal’s shoulder to where Eamon waited. “If you can do that kind of big magic, can you reverse the familiar bond between druid and fae?”

  “I can.”

  “Then do it.”

  Mal stomach plummeted. “Hold up. You want to be shed of me now? I thought—”

  “Hey. I want to be with you. For us to be together. But I want it to be your choice, not some random act of genetic manipulation.”

  “My choice, eh? Then why are you deciding to sever the bond unilaterally?”

  Bryce frowned. “I just assumed . . . I mean, you hated it so much.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. This connection, this belonging. I’ve never had this with anyone before. Not even—” He cast an apologetic glance at Alun. “Not even with my brothers. If you want me, you’ve got me, mate.”

  “I—”

  “Perhaps we could table this discussion also until after we’ve dispatched our villains.” Eamon’s tone was dry.

  Heat rushed up Mal’s chest, and judging from the red cresting Bryce’s cheeks, he was feeling the pinch of embarrassment too. Shite, what was he thinking? Airing their private affairs in front of anyone, least of all the Queen and—Goddess help him—his brother.

  “Right, then,” Mal said. “Take it away, Your Majesties.”

  “Yes. That is the issue isn’t it?” Eamon studied Mal and Bryce, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, I think it will do.” He held out his hand. “My lady, if you would be so kind as to assist?”

  “Certainly.” The Queen laid her right hand on top of Eamon’s left, her palm to the back of his hand. Together, they slowly curled their fingers, forming a double fist. “Now.”

  They jerked their arms back, and Mal felt a tug in his belly as the hook of Cassie’s tether came loose. “What the bloody hells?”

  “A druid tether, ready-made to hand. Most expedient.” Eamon nodded at the Queen, and they gestured at Rodric and the King with their joined hands. “There. These two are bound together in their punishment as they were in their crimes.” His hand sketched a loop between the two prisoners and the throne. “They will remain safely shackled to the throne until I can escort them to their new home in Govannan’s forge.”

  “Do you need to do so personally, my lord?” the Queen murmured. “My champion would be pleased to escort them.”

  Alun saluted with his right hand on his chest and bowed. “It would be my honor.”

  “I thank you for the offer, but I have a brother to rescue, and wouldn’t yield that duty to another.”

  Duty to a brother? That, Mal understood perfectly. Maybe he and Eamon were more alike than he knew.

  While Eamon and the Queen made sheep’s eyes at one another, Bryce decided he wouldn’t hold Mal to his decision to retain their bond, regardless of what it did to his own heart. Today was full of drama and excitement and near-death experiences. Mal couldn’t be thinking clearly, or surely he’d have jumped at the chance to sever their inconvenient accidental bond. Now that the two of them weren’t forced to stay within ten feet of one another, Mal would be free again. Should be free. Free to resume his place in Faerie, his old duties, his old life.

  But to be completely free, he needed to get rid of his fricking curse.

  Bryce took a step closer to Eamon. “Excuse me . . . uh . . .” What was the accepted way to address fae royalty if you still weren’t sure if the crown had been passed? Bryce settled for clearing his throat. “Could you have lifted Mal’s curse yourself, without the new-silver-hand-regrowing-the-flesh mumbo jumbo?”

  “No, I could not.”

  “Then it seems like you made the deal in bad faith—and you led him to believe you could help him.”

  “Bryce. It’s all right, mate.”

  “No, it’s not. You did everything he asked, even when it wasn’t necessary for his curse or yours. He should have told you. And, speaking of that, what the hell did you mean about the journey being the task?”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Eamon’s face. “Ah. I thought we might come back to that.”

  Bryce folded his arms. “Well?”

  “The key to lifting a curse is always contained in its casting. Because my father believed me intractable and disloyal, my curse could only be lifted by three acts of unimaginable cooperation and trust.”

  “The dragon shifter scale,” Mal murmured.

  “Just so. A dragon trusts no one with his scales, sometimes not even himself. That he should cooperate so fully with another race as to relinquish one? That is magic indeed. Tell me, how did you manage that?”

  Mal shrugged. “That was the easy one. My brother-in-law is friends with the dragon prince.”

  “Extraordinary. I knew I made the right choice. I nearly chose Lord Cynwrig at first.” Alun straightened, his hand going to his sword hilt, and Eamon chuckled. “And that reaction is why I did not.”

  Of course. “Cooperation between races that have every reason to distrust one another, like fae and druid.”

  Eamon inclined his head. “As you say. Lord Maldwyn became the perfect choice after you and he became associated. While Lord Cynwrig has the full trust and . . . cooperation . . . of the last-known achubydd, his moral center would not have allowed him to negotiate for me in the last task.”

  “You make me sound like a bloody prig,” Alun muttered.

  “You are a bloody prig, brother. But you’re getting better.” Mal cleared his throat, eyebrows raised at the way Eamon and the Queen ducked their heads and peeped at each other from under their lashes. “I take it that the final act of cooperation—”

  “Seelie and Unseelie, in the act of ultimate trust. While you gained me the opportunity, only Her Majesty could grant me success.” Eamon reached out and took the Queen’s hand. For all that the Queen was nearly as tall as Bryce, Eamon’s hand dwarfed hers, his brown skin contrasting beautifully with hers, like a yin-yang handclasp. Not that that would be a concept for such relentlessly Celtic sensibilities. “Dare I ask, or am I too forward, that you would allow me to woo you in earnest?” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

  “As far as we—as far as I am concerned, the wooing occurred in the night.” She turned his hand over and kissed the center of his palm.

  Immediately, wind swirled through the room, like a miniature cyclone with the two of them at its eye, setting tapestries twisting and detritus flying. Bryce inhaled a lungful of dust and had to release Mal to cough as the wind died.

  “Holy shite,” Mal whispered. And grabbed Bryce’s shoulders.

  With both hands.

  If he hadn’t been holding on to Bryce’s shoulders, Mal would have fallen on his arse as his link to the One Tree surged into him, the rush nearly buckling his knees.

  A grin dawned on Bryce’s face. “Your curse. It’s gone?”

  “Yes. But how—” He smacked his forehead with his palm—his right palm, Goddess be praised. “‘Make whole what you cost us this night’—those were the words. But it wasn’t Rodric I had to make whole. It was you.”

  “Not me precisely,” the Queen said, her hand still in Eamon’s. “But the aspect of me that is Faerie. It relies on balance, and without a helpmeet, the balance cannot be maintained. Although that one,” she cast a disdainful glance at Rodric, “was a most unsatisfactory Consort. The realm suffered before yo
u and your brother exposed his treachery, and it suffered afterward. It suffers still. I trust that this union will provide a new hope for both Seelie and Unseelie.”

  “My lady, I am loathe to leave you, but I must convey these two to the forge.”

  “I will come with you. It is too long since I’ve greeted Govannan, and if we ask of him this favor, it is only polite to do so in person.”

  Mal chuckled. “Fine talk, Your Majesty. You just want to see Rodric sweat, don’t you?”

  A small sly smile tilted her mouth, and Mal realized it was the first he’d ever seen. A miracle indeed.

  Alun pulled the King and Rodric to their feet. “Mal. We’ll talk later.”

  “Your threats don’t frighten me anymore, brother. Talk we shall.”

  Alun herded the prisoners out of the throne room, the Queen and Eamon—although he should probably start referring to him as the King—pacing behind in stately procession.

  “Gwydion’s bollocks,” he muttered. “Must be a right pain to be royal.”

  Bryce moved up next to him. “Why’s that?”

  “Because you have to be so bloody proper all the time. You’d never be able to do this.”

  Mal turned and grabbed Bryce’s head, launching into a kiss that curled his toes inside his boots and raised his cock to half-mast. Bryce growled into Mal’s mouth, his hands cupping Mal’s ass as his tongue dove halfway down Mal’s throat.

  Goddess, yes. I want this. All of it, and more.

  Bryce backed him up until Mal’s arse hit the edge of the refectory table, his boots crunching in broken porcelain. Then Bryce pulled away, and Mal whimpered. “Come back.”

  “Much as I’d like to, I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t hump each other in the Unseelie throne room.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “We could go home. I know we’re not attached at the hip anymore—”

  “No, mate. We’re attached at the heart.”

  Bryce’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Mal Kendrick, that is the sappiest thing I have ever heard in my life.”

  Mal grinned. “Don’t care. It’s true. Far as I’m concerned, the tether we forged together, that we chose?” He gestured between their chests and then laid his hand over Bryce’s heart. “This one is permanent and stronger than anything the elder gods in their infinite busybody wisdom could cook up.”