Fox's Folly

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Paul followed that honey-and-bourbon voice back to warmth, to life.

  To Tag.

  Coming back to normal consciousness in the arms of a handsome man did little to relieve Paul’s unwelcome erection. But it didn’t hurt as much now. It seemed right. Why wouldn’t he be hard and aroused because Tag held him? They’d just met, but there was no denying the potent erotic connection.

  “Was I the only one who felt that?” Paul whispered. His voice sounded shredded, as if he’d spent the last four hours helplessly screaming.

  “I experienced terrible, lonely cold, like saints once described the separation from God.” Mr. Aisling sounded as though he’d known the saints in question. Paul jacked up Mr. Aisling’s age by a millennium or so. “I felt a wave of something similar at the time these poor mortals must have died, but I thought it was their souls departing. That is alien enough to be unsettling even to me. Feeling the sensation so intimately just now was still more disquieting.”

  Tag pulled Paul even closer. “I felt something, but not what you did. Something sniffed at me and decided I wasn’t the prey it wanted at that moment. I couldn’t move, not until you fell and I knew I had to do something. And at the same time, it was like every show girl and tight-bunned waiter in town was gropin’ me…which should have been sexy, but under the circumstances was just nasty.”

  “Like whatever it was wanted to fuck and murder at the time. And Mr. Aisling and I figure it must shape-shift, or at least project a very convincing illusion.” Paul struggled to his feet with Tag’s assistance, assistance that seemed deliciously warm and caring after the frigid lust. “I think I know what we’re facing, Mr. Aisling,” he said, hoping the fae couldn’t pick up how much he was leaving out—like the fact that he had a pretty good idea what their enemy was but no idea how to defeat it. “I need time to prepare, to meditate. And Tag and I should not be here when the authorities arrive.”

  Aisling smiled. Paul always found the fae’s smiles creepy, since they looked like a learned response rather than a natural one, but this one was especially unnerving. “Duals and normy police do not mix well, and the son of a famous family at a crime scene will raise distracting questions, the sort that attract reporters. I understand. Go.”

  He waved them away, a king dismissing his subjects.

  Chapter Six

  Paul could almost walk on his own by the time they made it back to his room. Still, he was relieved to collapse into the decorative but none too comfortable arm chair. “My mother should be here,” he muttered. “She could solve this, set the spirits to rest and still catch a midnight show.”

  “It’s 11:15.”

  “My point exactly. Mom is one of the most powerful witches on the planet, and she talks to dead people as easily as I’m talking to you. I’m good. Don’t get me wrong. But my areas are more healing and telepathy and sex magic. I am way out of my depth here.”

  Tag perched on the chair arm, his arm around Paul. The heat off his body, dual-warm and amber-scented, snaked through Paul, teasing him with thoughts of dragging the fox over to the bed and licking and biting every hard, delicious square inch of his body until he finally got around to feasting on Tag’s cock.

  Which would have been tempting any time but even more so when what he actually had to do was grim and dangerous and not likely to work anyway, leaving a murderer on the loose and his family still in debt to the fae.

  “No offense, but if your mom talks to ghosts, why isn’t she the one trying to solve the supernatural murder?”

  Paul laughed. He had to laugh, because the answer sounded loopy even to him, and he was used to the way things worked in the witch subculture. It would probably drive Tag away screaming (although if corpses, seriously dark magic and the eerie Mr. Aisling hadn’t done so already, he didn’t scare easily). “I’m here,” he said, willing the laugh to stay light and not turn into the kind of desperate, crazy laughter that was a hair away from hysteria, “not just because my family thinks I should get out more. No, it gets weirder. It’s also because my grandmother’s ghost indicated I was the one who should repay the debt, and because I’m a true dreamer, and I kept dreaming myself in Las Vegas, battling something huge and winning. To top it off, my twin sister Portia, who’s one of our most powerful psychics, announced it was my destiny to come here, and it would change the direction of my life.”

  Tag whooped. “Then you know we win. Get your ass to sleep and see if you can dream up how.”

  “I don’t remember…” he started to say.

  And then he stopped, because he did remember. Remember that he won in those dreams, though he still couldn’t say how, but someone else ended up still and white on the ground, either dead or badly hurt.

  He had an awful feeling it might be Tag.

  Portia had said this trip would change his life. She’d been sure the change would be positive, that he’d find a focus for his many scattered gifts or meet the love of his life or maybe both. That hope, as much as anything, was what had convinced him to make the trek to Las Vegas. But what if he found someone who might be the love of his life, or at least a good friend—and caused his death?

  “It will be dangerous,” Paul said slowly, trying to find the right words. Much as he wanted to flat-out tell Tag to stay away for his own safety, Tag had a personal stake in this, had been willing to take on whatever it was on his own, without any powers other than his own wits and strength and turning into an animal form that, however wily, was the size of a large housecat. Tag had the right to choose for himself, armed with what little information Paul had. “I know I’ll survive, based on the dreams—but there’s a good chance someone else will die. I don’t want that to be you.” He grimaced at his own word choice. “I don’t want it to be anyone—enough people have died already—but I really don’t want it to be you.”

  “I promise not to die. I’d hate to upset you. And I’ll be tricked if I let the critter take someone else in my place.” Tag paused. “Do you see what happens to the person who dies in your dreams? Maybe it’s something we’re supposed to prevent—a warning.”

  “Maybe.” At least he hoped so. The dreams weren’t always clear, and often he didn’t remember them in enough detail to be useful. “It could have been saying there would be more victims before I solved the mystery, which there already have been, or a warning to be cautious fighting the thing, or one possible outcome that I should strive to present. But there’s no need for you to put yourself at risk, Tag. I think we’re up against a demon. If we are, there won’t be much you can do to help in the final confrontation, without magic. You can’t just shoot a demon.”

  “I reckon I could. I’m a good shot. Not as good as my mama, but I’m good.”

  Despite the seriousness of the conversation, they both laughed. Through the laughter, Paul conceded, “Okay, you could shoot a demon—but you’d just piss it off. Seriously, though, this is likely to be powerful magical shit. I’m not sure I’m up to handling it and keeping myself safe. I’m worried about you.”

  Tag stretched. “Trickster’s tits, I’m worried about me too. I was in over my head when I thought only my uncle had died and the killer was some ordinary Different with a trick the cops hadn’t picked up on. I hadn’t figured out what I was going to do if I caught the guy, other than knock him down and sit on him while I called 911—or Uncle Randolph’s wolf friend in Barstow and her big biker brothers.”

  “Wolf bikers? If it turns out we’re not dealing with a demon, call them.” Paul had an image of wolf-dual bikers meeting the urbane Mr. Aisling and snorted. “Maybe we should call them anyway, just in case. Mr. Aisling said he’d comp a few more rooms if I thought of someone who’d be useful.”

  Tag got it immediately. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.” He laughed. Then the laughter stopped. “I’m scared, Paul,” he admitted, his accent thicker and smokier than before, as if the real him broke through any show. “I’m not backin’ down, not unless we get to a point that I’m distractin’ you while you and
the critter are gettin’ all special-effects on each other, but I’m scared.”

  “I’m scared too. I don’t want you to get hurt, but I’m selfish enough I’m glad you’re with me, to back me up and to brainstorm and…stuff.” He couldn’t help himself. His voice dropped to a throaty sigh at “stuff”, and he pulled Tag closer.

  “Stuff,” Tag echoed dreamily.

  Then they were in each other’s arms, and all the tension of the last few hours exploded into passion.

  Lord and Lady, the man’s lips were sweet. Rough and fierce and sweet all at once, a combination Paul hadn’t known he’d craved until today and now couldn’t imagine doing without.

  Paul ran his hands down Tag’s back, appreciating how his muscles moved beneath the skin, until he reached the man’s fine, muscular ass. He grabbed it and clung like it was a life preserver. Red magic pulsed through him, a hint at first, but quickly building. The room blurred so all he could truly see was Tag—because Tag, at the moment, was all that mattered.

  Tag was the first to pull away. His voice was thick with desire and regret as he panted, “Just remembered. Something important to tell you.”

  Addled by lust, Paul thought of a wife or husband Tag had conveniently forgotten until now, something to do with the moment.

  “Those people, the ones who died…I saw them earlier with another woman. Bottle-blonde, pretty—and she slipped me a business card.”

  He squirmed so he could fumble in his back pocket.

  “She had on red lipstick. If we can find her, maybe she’d know something—although I’m afraid we might find another body at this point.”

  He pulled out the card, handed it to Paul. “What’s the number? I’ll call. I didn’t look at the card too closely, but the name on it sounded like a polite name for an escort service.”

  “It’s blank.”

  “You’re shitting me! Who’d give out a blank business card?” Tag snatched it back. “No, there’s something on it, but it’s smeared.”

  “What? It was definitely blank.”

  When Paul’s hand touched Tag’s holding the card, the blurred writing burst into cold silver flame.

  Tag jumped. Paul spat out what sounded like a curse in a language Tag didn’t recognize. Both let go of the card.

  Before it hit the floor, silver flame engulfed it. It vanished in a puff of steely silver that threw off no heat.

  “What the hell?’

  “I think our murderer had you in mind for a future target. It’s probably why it was hard to remember meeting her too. Once you decided not to call, you were supposed to forget the encounter until you saw the card again, but you’re a dual and were too damn stubborn for the spell to work perfectly. I don’t know if you would have tried to hook up with her, but it’s a good thing you ran into me instead.”

  And how. Tag shuddered. He hadn’t been planning on calling the woman, and as soon as he saw Paul, her pretty-enough face and body became a dim blur. But still, creepy. And that silver fire…

  “The card must have been bespelled so it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands. Obviously, I’m the wrong hands, and the two of us together definitely are. The creature must know it’s being tracked.”

  “Creature? Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Succubus,” Paul said tightly, his voice remote. “Or incubus, depending on who it’s targeting. I thought so, but wasn’t sure until now. The magical signature on the card confirms it—that was demonic magic.”

  Then Paul shook his head. “It’s odd, though. They don’t usually kill their victims outright, not unless they visit the same person so often the victim becomes ill from exhaustion. But that same magical signature was in the victims’ room tonight, and we both felt magic of a sexual nature while we were investigating.” He cursed again in the unknown language.

  “My poor uncle was buck naked, tied facedown to the bed, with a butt plug in his ass. It looked like someone had been paddling him.” Bubbles of nervous laughter rose in Tag’s throat, but he swallowed them.

  “Do you think it was consensual?”

  “One of his wives got drunk at the funeral picnic and started laughing about him going out like he’d lived.” Tag grimaced. “Which is too much information about my own uncle, if you’re askin’ me. I’m all for people getting their freak on any way they please, as long as everyone’s having fun, but if they’re my own relatives, I don’t want to know the details.”

  Paul’s blue eyes widened. His face reddened. His lush mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh.

  He lasted about two-point-five seconds. “Lord and Lady, that embarrasses me, and I’m a red witch raised by red witches. I can’t imagine…”

  “I try not to.” Tag let loose the laugh he’d been suppressing.

  Then something snapped, and he began to cry.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to cry for Uncle Randolph. He’d been too busy being furious, getting his predator on. But Trickster’s beard, boobs and pretty pink-painted toenails, he’d miss the old fox.

  Paul wrapped his arms around him and snuggled Tag against his chest as naturally as if he had men start crying in his lap all the time. Some part of Tag’s hindbrain told him he ought to be embarrassed about crying in front of a guy he hardly knew. Never mind he’d be perfectly happy to fuck Paul knowing him as little as he did; crying was something else.

  But his fox blinked, puzzled by the concern, and as the tears let go, so did the tension he hadn’t been aware his wordy form was holding. It might be more manly to let his grief go in private, preferably while drinking beer with bourbon chasers like something out of a country song, but it felt right to break down here and now, with Paul. Paul, who didn’t smell of discomfort or disgust, simply warm concern and a need to comfort that was closer to a compulsion.

  And sex. Even when dealing with murderous demons and a hookup who was bawling like a six-year-old who’d dropped his ice cream, Paul smelled like sex.

  “At least this way I won’t wind up with a hangover,” Tag muttered, although it would make no sense to Paul.

  “Do what you need to do,” Paul soothed, apparently reading his thoughts. “We’re Irish. I know half a dozen spells to cure hangovers.”

  Maybe it was witchcraft or maybe they were just on the same wavelength, but Tag could get used to it.

  It didn’t take long for Tag to cry himself out, but he wasn’t exactly eager to pull away from Paul. Paul felt too damn good.

  “Stay with me,” Paul whispered. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  “With an incu-succu-thinger running around killing people, neither should you.” He forced a sexy smile, even though he was too drained at this point to feel it. He still wanted Paul, but right now it seemed more theoretical than urgent.

  “You’re right.” Paul stroked his hair. “For what it’s worth, I’m not saying this just because I want to ride you into the sunset. I mean I do, but the demonic calling card broke the mood for the moment.” Tag was silently grateful Paul didn’t mention the tears as a buzz-kill. They had been for Tag, at least, but it was nice of Paul to pretend it hadn’t happened. “If you stay, we might get the mood back.” Paul smiled. “Or we might both pass out from exhaustion, but that’s okay too.”

  “That’s good. I think a good night’s sleep in good company is all I can handle.” Tag normally would haven’t have admitted such a thing, would have tried to bluff himself back into the mood for the hot man’s sake. But like crying in front of Paul, admitting he wasn’t a non-stop sex machine in front of Paul seemed safe.

  Pathetic too, but between deaths and demons and facing suppressed grief and a day that started before the ass crack of dawn two time zones away, Tag’s body was clear about what it wanted. Sleep.

  Luckily, curling up next to Paul was almost as enticing as having sex with him—and given Tag’s level of fatigue, maybe more so.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is the first time I’ve ever done the Walk of Shame without having done an
ything to be ashamed of.” Tag chuckled to himself, then added, “Although ‘smug and pleased’ is usually more how I feel, not ashamed. If you’re ashamed, you’re doing it wrong.”

  “Normies are odd, aren’t they? Walk of Shame isn’t something a witch or a dual would come up with, unless it’s being ashamed of not planning better so you’re all scruffy and have terrible morning breath.”

  “I’m only ashamed I didn’t jump you this morning.”

  Paul smiled. “You haven’t jumped me yet, you mean. I still have designs on you, my foxy friend. But we have an incubus to stop first.”

  As Tag put the key card in the lock, he wiggled one red eyebrow. “Aren’t they attracted to sex? Maybe we could lure…” He pushed open the door and gagged on a cloud of foulness that his fox nose broke down to a combination of dead things rotting in a swamp mixed with twofer night at a seedy brothel, in a time and place where personal hygiene wasn’t a priority.

  The room was destroyed.

  It wasn’t messed up and disorderly, as if someone had been searching it. Every piece of furniture was reduced to matchsticks except the bed. The bed was simply gone, leaving nothing behind but flaky ashes. Scraps of fabric that used to be Tag’s clothes were snowed everywhere. The mirrors had returned to the sand from which glass was made, the marble sink surround a pile of chips the size of decorative garden mulch. He thought he spotted what was left of his laptop, a snarl of wires and chip fragments amid the wreckage.

  Tag took one step forward toward the havoc before Paul’s right arm shot out, blocking him. “If there’s magic contained by the doorway,” Paul said, “you’ll break the seal.”

  Tag jumped back, shuddering at the notion of that destructive energy tearing him and Paul into little scraps like his favorite shirt and his one and only suit.