The Musician and the Monster

by Jenya Keefe

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “No one needs this much. You could fill a bathtub.”

  Oberon murmured wordlessly, clearly dazed.

  Ángel climbed into Oberon’s lap, straddling him. “This is the best part,” he said roughly, and grabbed his face and kissed him, open-mouthed, tonguing the taste of Oberon’s come into Oberon’s mouth. Their bodies ground together, tongues tangled. Oberon moaned again, and Ángel felt another pulse of semen surge out of him onto his own legs.

  They stayed in the chair afterward, cuddling for a few minutes, until Ángel tried to mop the drying come off his face with his shirt, and found that it was already saturated. He began to laugh again.

  “I have . . . In there . . .” Oberon gestured with an enervated hand toward a desk drawer, and Ángel opened it to find folded clean towels.

  “I see,” he said, pulling one out and wiping his face and hands. “What do you do in here all day, Oberon?”

  “I have sometimes amused myself.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’ve sometimes amused myself too.”

  They tidied themselves and the chair and desk, but Ángel really needed a shower and a change of clothes. Te amo, he thought, kissing Oberon, before sneaking upstairs.

  When he came back down, clean and de-jismed, he could feel a change in the air. Something was different, some sort of singing quality—not a sound or a smell, but a feeling, happy and electric.

  “What’s happening?” he asked Lily.

  She was making lunch: macaroni and cheese, and a salad with apples in it. “What do you mean?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” he asked, bouncing slightly on his toes.

  She shook her head. She’d been a little shy around him lately, probably not sure what to make of his relationship with Oberon.

  “Really? You can’t feel that? It’s like Christmas morning.”

  “It’s November eleventh.”

  “No, I mean—” What did he mean? Was he actually feeling something real, some magical signal that Oberon was emitting? “I think something’s happening. Is he in his office?”

  She nodded. “Lunch is almost ready. Wait a minute, I’ll give you a tray.”

  So he waited while she fussed with bowls and cutlery. “What’s this green stuff in the mac and cheese?” he ventured, hoping to tease a smile out of her.

  “Bok choy. It’s very good.”

  “Sure, in a salad or something. Not in mac and cheese.”

  “Green vegetables are good for you. You need vitamins in the winter or you’ll catch a cold.”

  He smiled at her. “Will you take care of me if I get sick?”

  “No. I’ll stay away from you so I don’t catch it.” But her dimples had reappeared as she handed him the tray.

  He took lunch to Oberon’s office, where the electric hum in the air was stronger. Oberon was writing, his pen scratching swiftly across the paper; his body seemed taut with concentration.

  “Is something happening?”

  “A message,” said Oberon. His voice thrummed like a beehive. “From the rose bush. In the middle of the day.”

  “Is it good news?”

  “If true . . . Beloved, I cannot say. I cannot eat. Leave me, won’t you? Forgive me. I must—” He waved a hand, eyes on his work.

  “Okay,” said Ángel, backing toward the door. “Oberon—I hope it’s good news.”

  Oberon’s gaze flickered up to him. “It might be the best news,” he breathed.

  Ángel didn’t find out what was going on until late that night. He was up in his room, on the purple chair, playing his guitar, when Oberon came in.

  Oberon dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of Ángel, his big hands gripping Ángel’s thighs.

  “Ángel,” he said, his voice rough with excitement. “Ángel.”

  Ángel carefully put the guitar aside, leaning it up against the wall, because Oberon was all but shaking him in his excitement. “It’s true, then?” he asked, smiling, putting his palms on Oberon’s shoulders. “The good news?”

  Oberon yanked him into an embrace, then stood, lifting Ángel off the ground, and spun. He was saying something in his own language, a rapid, melodic run of syllables as he held Ángel tightly and twirled them around the room. Ángel clung to him, gasping a little for breath, laughing. “What is it?” he demanded, tugging Oberon’s hair. “Put me down and tell me!”

  Oberon set him gently on the floor. “I almost cannot believe it. They are sending another envoy. They are sending me another fae.”

  Ángel blinked up at him. “What? Really?”

  “The roses gave me another box. They’re pleased that I’ve lived so long, so they’re beginning the spell to send another. He is a biologist. He is coming here to study plants.” Oberon’s voice was resonant with excitement.

  Ángel stepped backward, and when his legs contacted the purple chair, he sat in it. “When will he get here?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” repeated Ángel, dumbfounded.

  “They are beginning the spell tonight. I don’t know if he’s coming here, or to Atlanta, where I went, or somewhere else. Oh Ángel—Oh Ángel!” Oberon dropped gracefully again, kneeling in front of the chair, and Ángel found himself squeezed warmly against his chest. “What would you say? You would say, ‘Oh my God.’ Ángel, how will I wait?”

  Ángel’s hands had gone cold. “That’s—” he started to say, but his voice sounded funny. Pull yourself together. But he was so shocked his lips were numb. “That’s wonderful.”

  Oberon hugged him tightly against his chest. “I will have someone to talk to at last.”

  Ángel bit his lip.

  “Will he live here with you?” His voice had gone a little high and thready, and he cleared his throat.

  Oberon didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know. Perhaps. At least for a while. The DOR did not know he was coming, either, so they are not prepared at all. There is already security here. Perhaps they will make other arrangements for him soon, though, because he must travel the world to look at plants, and I will go wherever he goes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, we have never met. He is younger than I. But soon we will meet. Perhaps tomorrow.” Oberon cupped Ángel’s face in his hands, and the touch of his skin was like champagne bubbles. He was all aglow.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  Whether it was his voice, or the way Ángel felt beneath his hands, but something seemed to alert Oberon. “You aren’t happy,” he said. “Why?”

  “I’m— No, I—” Ángel flushed, horrified, but there was no way he could lie to Oberon. “I am. But I’m very self-centered, you know. I liked having you to myself. But that’s—”

  “Oh, but I will introduce you,” said Oberon, grasping his hands and squeezing them. “I know he will love you too.”

  “Thank you,” Ángel whispered. “I’m sure . . . I’m sure that will be . . . That will be nice.”

  There was a long pause, while Oberon stared at him, and Ángel wanted to sink into the ground.

  “You’re weeping, beloved,” said Oberon. “Why are you sad? Don’t you see how good this is? The isolation, it was torture for me.” He stroked Ángel’s hair out of his face. “Any shock, any grief could kill me. But if I have another here, if I have a friend, I will live long. Don’t you see?”

  “I do. I do. I’m glad, Oberon. I really am.”

  Oberon ran his fingertips through the tears that, despite Ángel’s best efforts, were spilling down his cheeks. “Why are you sad?” he repeated.

  Ángel looked away. “It’s just a big change,” he said, inadequately. His voice was harsh, forced past the aching lump in his throat. “Maybe I’m reacting because it’s a big change. It’s okay.”

  Oberon kissed his eyes. “I want you to be happy.” He kissed his mouth, and Ángel sobbed into the kiss.

  This was humiliating. It was awful. He ached to be alone. To escape from Oberon and his gentle touch and his sweet kisses
and his knowing skin, just for a while.

  “Stop.” He pushed Oberon away, tried to escape from his all-seeing touch. “I need, I think I need privacy tonight, Oberon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry. Leave me alone. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No,” said Ángel. “We don’t get sick from emotions. Not really. We just—we sometimes need to be alone.” Oberon wasn’t moving. “Oberon. You know this.”

  “But something is wrong, and I can’t tell what it is.”

  “And you won’t,” said Ángel, his grief coming out in sharpness. “You won’t ever be able to tell what it is. Not with me.” He shook Oberon off, got to his feet, and stumbled away from him. “Please,” he said. “Please go away. I’ll be better in the morning.”

  Oberon remained kneeling, looking up at him, the lamplight on his still face.

  Ángel made a frustrated, sweeping gesture with his hand. “Would you just go?”

  “All right,” said Oberon, softly. “But—” He rose gracefully and stepped toward Ángel, hand extended to him again.

  Ángel shrank away. He stumbled into his guitar where it was leaning against the wall. Oberon reached to catch him just as Ángel was trying to dance away from the guitar; he twisted, and the neck of the guitar seemed to rise up between his ankles.

  Ángel fell. His full weight came down on the body of the guitar. There was a crunch-snap, the sharp singing cry of guitar strings, pain as his hip drove straight through the wooden box to the floor.

  He rolled to his knees, stared down at the wreckage.

  “Ay, my baby,” he whispered, as he gently picked up the guitar: not a guitar anymore, but a collection of broken pieces of wood, held together by strings. The spruce soundboard was splintered, one curving maple side shattered, the head snapped right off the neck. Struts and braces, which should be hidden away inside the box, were exposed like broken ribs.

  Hopeless. Beyond repair. Poor dead thing, like a bird struck by a car. His eyes blurred with tears. My fault, he thought. Mi culpa, lo siento. I didn’t take care of you, and now look at you. Pobre cosa muerta.

  Oberon crouched beside him. He drew a breath.

  “Please go,” whispered Ángel. “Please. Please go.”

  Oberon rose without a word and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Ángel cried easily, but it rarely made him feel better. He knew that some people felt cleansed by it, but after sobbing over the corpse of his guitar for half an hour, he just felt thick-headed and stupid and in as much pain as before.

  He was a terrible person. Selfish, selfish, selfish. In the face of Oberon’s uncomplicated happiness, he was bitterly disappointed.

  Oberon wouldn’t need him anymore.

  And he’d killed his guitar. There were other guitars in the world—better ones, and he could afford to buy them. But this guitar, this old sweet-voiced Martin, with the cutaway and the mother-of-pearl inlay, and the cracked tortoiseshell guard and the loose pickup—now it was gone.

  Sniffling, he eventually got up and went downstairs. It was the middle of the night, and the house was dark and still, but he needed to walk. So he pulled on his coat and boots and went out the front door.

  It was the middle of the night, moonless, and truly cold. The wind cut right through his heavy coat. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and the wind combed icily through his hair, froze on his swollen face, frosted his throat and lungs as he breathed. Not paying attention to where he was going, he slogged through the deep snow.

  He’d been so careless, so stupid, so overwrought. How had he let the situation—relationship, love affair—with Oberon so overwhelm him that he failed to take the most basic care?

  He trudged in a straight line until he reached the wall. He didn’t know how long he stood there, leaning against it, slowly turning into an icicle. Too upset to go back to the house.

  Oberon was there. Oberon, who was brave and radiant and gorgeous and so, so alone. Oberon said he loved Ángel, and maybe he did. But Oberon was about to not be alone anymore.

  Would Oberon and the new envoy be lovers? Would they communicate with touch, making beautiful magic together as they stroked one another’s skin? How soon would Oberon realize—if he hadn’t already—how pitiful a substitute Ángel was? How inadequate Ángel was at giving him the companionship he needed?

  What he and Ángel shared could never compare with what he could share with a member of his own kind. And Ángel would be discarded again.

  His mother hadn’t wanted him, and his father had thrown him away in disgust. His brothers were friendly but distant, his lovers temporary. Even the ones he thought liked him ended up writing angry songs about him. The Church certainly didn’t want him back. Oberon, too, would find that Ángel was just not good enough.

  Ángel was crying again. He was being self-indulgent, self-pitying. Drama queen. He promised that he would be brave tomorrow. Tonight he would give himself over to wallowing, and then tomorrow he’d be brave and considerate and happy for Oberon. And welcoming and polite to the new envoy.

  Or, oh God. Maybe he was expected to have sex with the other fae as well? Oberon had promised to introduce him. They were a polyamorous species. They lived in colonies, and made love together, and their magic combined like symphonies.

  But no, Oberon and the other one, the only two fae on the planet, they would grow together. Oberon had even described the process. There could be no need, no room for someone like Ángel in that union.

  Tears were freezing on his eyelashes, inside his nose. It was gross and uncomfortable. The sky was empty; the wind cut like a knife. He should go in.

  No one was around. No one for miles. No one knew he was here.

  So what was that noise?

  It sounded like voices. In the woods, on the other side of the wall. Voices, the rustling crunch of footsteps in the snow. A metallic chink.

  Ángel watched, numbly, as four men in helmets and goggles appeared at the top of the wall, about twenty feet to his right. They crouched on the wall like gargoyles, silhouetted against the windblown sky.

  Four goggled faces turned toward him.

  Fuck.

  Was he in the security blind spot that Chandler had shown him? He was. How had they known to come over the wall right here?

  They rappelled down the wall on thin lines, like bad guys in a James Bond movie, and, while he stood frozen and watched, two trotted through the snow toward the house, and two came toward Ángel.

  Ángel spun and ran.

  Someone shouted.

  He didn’t look back. He ran toward the gatehouse. Toward the security team.

  He was in pretty good shape from running on the treadmill and walking the estate, and he ran like a deer: that is, in a clumsy, leggy, too-slow scramble through deep-drifted snow. A darted glance over his shoulder showed that they were chasing him. He ran, stumbling through snow, his legs burning. Hair and snow were in his eyes, cold air bit his lungs, and the sound of his pursuers was loud in his ears.

  It was too far. He’d never make it.

  He veered and ran back toward the house—toward the pool. Chandler monitored the camera by the pool.

  It was like a bad dream: chased by an unknown enemy, and he couldn’t run fast enough because the snow weighed him down, clung to his legs, slid beneath his feet.

  He could see the floodlights around the pool, and the nude statues, transformed into inhuman shapes by the mounded snow, silhouetted against the light.

  He’d reached the edge of the patio when two fists struck his back—and then he was facedown in the snow, convulsing, screaming as agony ripped through his body. He thrashed and tried to get up, but his legs had gone rigid, muscles locking up, useless.

  Chandler. Help.

  But maybe Chandler was the one who told them where to come over the wall.

  He might have passed out for a moment. When he came to himself all he could see was the booted feet of two strangers,
who were having a semi-panicked argument about what to do with him. He ached in every joint and muscle, and the snow was painfully cold on his hands and face. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he flexed his arms and legs while listening to the argument going on above him.

  “The fuck did you tase him for?” whisper-yelled one of the guys.

  “He was gonna raise the alarm.” This guy’s voice was a deep rumble, and despite his correct defense, he seemed unsure. “Needed to buy Logan and Tommy time to finish the job.”

  Ángel rolled onto his side, to get his face up out of the snow. It hurt, and a little groan escaped him.

  “Stay down,” said the deep-voiced guy, prodding him sharply with a foot. Ángel collapsed back into the snow.

  “So what do we do with him now?”

  “Leave him.”

  “He’ll die out here.”

  “What the fuck do we care?”

  “Guys,” called someone. “Come on. We gotta go.”

  The voice was familiar. It belonged to one of the security team—Logan the goon, the one who’d strip-searched him ages ago. The one who’d said Oberon gave him the willies.

  “Is it done?” asked the deep-voiced man, and his companion added, “Where’s Tommy?”

  “Come on,” said Logan, striding toward them.

  Ángel curled his shoulders and ducked his head, hoping to not be recognized. Hopeless. “Is that the boy toy?” demanded Logan.

  “No,” said Ángel into the snow.

  “He was going to give us away, so Aaron tased him.”

  Logan rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ. Shoot him and let’s go.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence from everyone. Ángel shrank down into the snow like a rabbit, his heart stuttering. Then the deep-voiced guy said, “Fuck you, Logan. What happened, and where the fuck is Tommy?”

  “Tommy’s dead,” snapped Logan, a ragged edge to his voice. “The elf killed him. We’re fucked, and this little fag knows my face. So we need to kill him and get out of here. That okay with you, Aaron, or do you want to stay and talk about it some more?”

  Ángel lay folded in on himself, trembling so hard his teeth chattered, waiting for death.