Kneel at Your Feet

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“Sorry,” the big, broad, bald man laid out, leather-clad and face-down in a sprawling pose on the low bed beside her, yawned as Reena Lathan stripped his feet of their heavy, black, lace-up, work boots and thick, sweat-soaked socks, “they’re a little gross.”

Reena just smiled as she took one foot in her hand and began to tenderly wipe every inch of his feet with rubbing alcohol. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I’m used to it,” she said. Truth be told, she liked it.

“You’ve been doing this all night?” he asked, his face half-crushed into the pillow at the other end of the bed. “What a way to ring in the New Year.”

“It’s my volunteer hours,” she said as she switched feet. Donovan’s annual “Spank in the New Year” celebration was coming to a close. Well past midnight, the numbers were in and people were saying it’d been one of the club’s busiest nights. And Reena believed it. “I’ve been here since ten, offering post-scene foot massages.” To Dommes with tired, over-arched feet in impossibly tall stiletto boots. To bottoms with sore heels and blistered balls from standing and struggling and teetering on bare, abused feet. To Doms whose feet sweltered beneath leather and steel toes. And it had been a long night.

Don’t get her wrong, Reena was a fan of feet—finding the ridges and planes, the bones and veins, the arch and heel and toes a fascinating study of where a person was, had been, and was going. But, after three hours of after care service—three hours of bathing and rubbing and massaging feet of every kind—even her appreciation was being tested.

Even so, she thought as she watched the last few dungeon scenes dwindle down from crescendo-ing strikes to soothing strokes. She had a job to do and she took her duties seriously. Donovan’s was a highly exclusive, highly elite club; one that, by all rights, someone like her—who was still paying off student loans and barely brushing off the bottom of the mail-sorting, coffee-fetching office ranks—should never have been able to belong to. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford her loans, her rent, food, and the club dues. But thankfully Donovan’s offered discounted rates to those who volunteered at the club.

All in all, it was a great deal. Three hours, three nights a month got had her monthly dues reduced by more than half and allowed her to attend events she’d never have been able to afford a ticket to. It was a great way to pay back a club and a community that gave her so much.

“Three hours of feet, huh?” the Dom whistled as he shook his head as much as his prone position would allow. “I couldn’t do it. Hat’s off to you, girl.”

Reena shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said before she flexed her hands against a raging cramp that had settled in half an hour ago that now burned along the base of her left thumb. “I’m happy to do it,” she said as she started to rub his large feet with her homemade foot oil.

“You got a thing for feet?” the man asked, bending a bit at the waist so he could curl and curve around to look at her.

A fetish. He meant did she have a fetish.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head, “I don’t have a thing.” She liked feet, sure, but it wasn’t, like, a fetish or anything. She just liked them. That’s all.

Reena closed her eyes and breathed deep, the scent of skin, sweat, and wear mixing with the oil’s sweet citrus and cool mint both calming and invigorating at the same time. She inhaled as she let the scent waft up to her as she worked it into the toughened flesh. She knew that most people hated the smell of feet, found the idea and the odor of overworked soles offensive. Knew that she ought to too. But there was something indescribably earthy about that scent that intrigued her.

“Oh God,” the Dom groaned in relaxed relief as her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his foot. His feet flexed in her hand, the flesh arching deep, as the rest of his body followed suit, his back bowing and his head thrown back as he moaned almost ecstatically. “Thing or not, that is good.”

Reena smiled as she pressed her thumbs hard into the heart of his foot, eliciting more low growls of pleasure. She may not have a fetish, but she did have to admit that there was just something about feet that drew her. In the strong, sharp knuckles of his toes, the way those bones snaked like gnarled roots up the rise of his foot. In the coarse, dark hair spattering in patches—thin and sparse as ankle became arch or along each toe—that tickled her palms. In the variety of textures—smooth sole, callus-capped heels, fragile flesh that thinly covered yet securely held the bony bridge together...

Please check out this anthology from Cleis Press, which was an NLA-International Writing Award Finalist for an Anthology and a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for LGBTQ Erotica, as well as took Gold for the Independent Publisher Book Award for Erotica.

Everyone has secrets, especially secret, kinky desires. Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink is guaranteed to trigger that hot flush that comes with the discovery of a new, sexy, sometimes unmentionable desire and that insatiable hunger that is left wanting more.

D.L. King, prolific writer and editor of fourteen anthologies, including the Lambda Literary Award-winning The Harder She Comes, presents twenty new unspeakable stories designed to make you cringe a bit before you come. This eclectic mix of kinky tales features established authors like Sacchi Green, Annabeth Leong, and Kiki DeLovely and new-“comers” like Pascal Scott and Sonni de Soto, among others. With stories exploring edge play, CBT (yes, even CBT), genital bondage, whips, foot fetishes, carnies, pony play and much more, these masterful storytellers will fuel your sexual dark side with new fantasies or your passion for well-loved kinks!

Like I said, this great anthology took Gold in the Independent Publisher Book awards









And has been nominated for the Lambda literary and NLA's Samois anthology awards as well

Available:

ebook & Print

 

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The Struggle to Be Seen

This interview is so good. It speaks to a lot of the concepts I really wanted to explore in my novella Thing of Beauty. Especially the idea of what it’s like, as this interview says, to be SO ubiquitously seen as this object of scrutiny and yet feel so helplessly invisible as an individual person. And how the struggle to redefine yourself is both rewarding and necessary.

 

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The Elysium Estate - Part Two

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Chapter Two: The Elysium Estate - Part Two

Lenten

Lark Lenten—just Lenten to just about everyone now—mentally winced as he heard the door shut. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hated this part of being hotel manager. But it, like the rewards, came with the job. And someone had to do it. So he straightened his shoulders and stepped forward.

“Rowan,” he began. “May I call you ‘Rowan?’ ” he asked before being interrupted.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” the boy said, “but you don’t understand.” He shook his head and shoved aside the sheets, even as Mei tried to push him back down into the shelter of the large, quilted comforter. “I have to go home. My family, they need me.”

Lenten stared at the frantic and pleading boy, thinking that there was something about Rowan that struck him as odd.

He felt familiar. Like an old acquaintance or a flicker of a dream. He felt like something remembered from another life.

Not that Lenten subscribed to such things as past lives.

He met the boy’s glinting, green eyes with a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Good God, he knew why he felt as if he knew the strange new guest.

Though they looked nothing alike, Lenten sensed a familiarity—a similarity—in the kid to Ash, his brother. There was a flicker in his eyes that Lenten had never seen in anyone other than Ash.

This boy loved his family, Lenten could see that, more than anything else in his world. And, just like Ash, it lent him this incredible strength and wide-eyed determination that seemed to radiate, strong and sure and pure, out from within him. Rowan had the look of someone who still believed in happy endings and good’s eventual triumph over evil.

It was the same look Ash had always had before a dark pain and deep hopelessness had claimed him without warning or explanation, changing him into someone Lenten hadn’t even recognized until everything about him—and eventually even his brother himself—had gone missing, just another cold case in some forgotten police file.

“I have to save my family,” the boy’s impassioned cry shook Lenten from his wayward thoughts.

The man let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding before he studied Rowan again, looking past the bright hair and the freckles.

No wonder Olive had instantly liked the new guest, even before he’d so much as opened his eyes. The strange recognition—like a shared soul between the boy and his brother—was startling. Undeniable. Would have been refreshing, if it wasn’t so difficult to look at. Difficult to remember.

Lenten took a steadying step back, swallowing hard.

He knew he should go to the boy. Calm him somehow. Talk to him softly or something—like what Mei was doing now.

Instead, he coughed. And then again before sniffing as he folded his hands behind his back and studied the books on the hotel shelves. “I wish I could send you home,” Lenten said, meaning it much more than he appeared to. “But I can’t.

“As I said before, I do thank you for all you’ve done for me, but I have to go home now,” the boy insisted as he resisted Mei and stood. “My family, they’re in danger. My grandfather died. They—someone, I don’t know who—killed him. And I… I couldn’t…” He gripped his head as if it were throbbing painfully. Lenten was willing to bet it was. “There was nothing I could do. He was already dead.” Rowan let go only to fist his hands in the tangled bed sheets. He looked up at Lenten and then Mei, his green eyes desperate and sad.

Lenten, turning stiffly, made a mental note to have hotel services launder and change the sheets this afternoon.

“But the others,” the boy continued, “I can still help them. They don’t even know yet.” A sob broke from the young boy’s throat even though his eyes were still dry—not that they’d stay that way long. “Please, Lenten, my parents. My brothers. My baby sister. I can’t stay here.”

Lenten blinked hard as he met the boy’s gaze. Rowan had such conviction for someone who, while not nearly as young as he appeared—Lenten was sure—was still so very young in so many ways. He would do anything, give anything, to get back to the people who loved him. The people whom he loved. Lenten could see that plainly.

The Elysium manager looked away. He didn’t know what to say to him. After all, nothing he could say would fix anything for the boy. Lenten took a deep breath and stabbed for the words—any words—that could explain the situation the boy now found himself in. “I am sorry, but you don’t have a choice,” the older man stated, inwardly cringing at the flat, rehearsed-sounding words. “None of us do.”

“If it’s about money,” the boy said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, “my family will pay—”

“It’s not,” Lenten assured him, vaguely insulted even though he understood the sentiment. “Believe me, Rowan, this isn’t a kidnapping. We didn’t bring you here. We found you. Helped you.”

“Then let me go,” the boy reasoned.

“We can’t,” the man said solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“My family,” Rowan repeated slowly, emphasizing each word carefully. “ is in danger. I have to go. I have to help them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you don’t let me leave,” he exclaimed, “they’ll die. I’m the only one they’ve left.”

Lenten sighed, taking off his glasses to peer through the smudged lenses. The Elysium had been a good a home for him and Olive for over thirty years now—for Mei, many more than that—but sometimes it did seem like a very cruel place. He put his glasses back on. “I am truly sorry, Rowan.”

“Stop saying that!” Now the boy held his head between both hands, his eyes squeezed shut as his hands fisted in his hair. Lenten watched as those vibrant red strands flowed between the boy’s fingers. He could feel every quiver of the boy’s voice like a cut. “If you were really sorry, you’d let me go. If you were any kind of human being, you’d let me save my family instead of condemning them all.”

Lenten stood silently, avoiding Mei’s questioning eyes. He was doing this wrong and he knew it. But this boy was different than the others. He had somewhere to go back to. People to go back to. And what was worse, he wanted to go back. What did you say to someone who thought himself trapped? Someone who had trapped himself?

Lenten huffed and locked his jaw a bit. The boy shouldn’t even be here. It just wasn’t right. Why was he here? Why?

“Say something!”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” Lenten continued, stoically, “but you can never go home again.”

“No,” the boy said stubbornly. “No! Shut your mouth.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” the rigid manager said, his gaze locked on the slightly stained carpeted floor. He really needed to have a word with hotel services. This was disgraceful.

“You can’t keep me here,” the boy yelled as he pushed the older man aside and ran for the door. “You can’t.”

The kid was small, slight really, and weakened, and Lenten could have stopped him easily. But he let himself be brushed by. He let the boy turn the doorknob. “You can leave this room,” Lenten said quietly, still staring, engrossed with the stain marring the carpet as Rowan yanked open the door, “but you can’t leave the hotel.”

The boy paused but didn’t turn. “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” he asked, confusion and anger warring in his voice.

“No,” Lenten answered with a fatalistic tilt of his head, “but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

The boy’s head swiveled slowly in curiosity as well as in defiance. “I am going home,” the boy stated. “You can’t stop me.” And with that he left, tearing down the hallway and out.

Lenten waited until he could no longer hear the boy’s footfalls. “I would never try.”

Cringing, Lenten heard the door shut slowly and softly—just a muted click. He thought he might have preferred it if the boy had slammed it.

He removed his glasses to rub his suddenly tired eyes with a disgruntled shake of his head. What was wrong with him? He’d done this before—lots of times—and never, not even the first time, had it gone so wrong. He sighed and, since he wasn’t good for much else, piled the still full soup bowl, tea cup, and bread plate onto the silver serving tray before wiping up the spilled mess on the bedside table.

Reluctantly, Lenten turned to Mei, who was making the now abandoned bed. He winced. “Please don’t do that,” he begged. “I’ll call hotel services.”

She continued to do as she pleased. “I don’t mind,” she told him, knowing full well that this was not the conversation they ought to be having. She was waiting on him. And he knew it.

He growled uncharacteristically, running a hand through his meticulously managed hair. “I handled that poorly,” he admitted.

Mei tucked in an impeccable corner, tilting her head in sympathetic acknowledgment. “It could have gone better.” She leaned over and smoothed the sheets with a kind of quiet that expected a response.

“We should go catch him,” he grumbled, irritated with his own ineptitude.

She shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t think he wants to be caught.”

No, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? Most people who came here were running from something. They had lost and were lost. They were alone and hurting. These people were homeless in the most elemental of ways. And the Elysium served as a refuge for them. It was their safe haven. They belonged here because they had nowhere else to go. And for Lenten, that boy’s presence—with his ties to family and to home—seemed profoundly profane.

Rowan had a home. And it wasn’t here.

Even so, they couldn’t very well leave him running around the Elysium all afternoon and they both knew it. So he led Mei outside and down the winding path from the hotel to the wrought iron gates.

The weather was warm and sunny with a slight breeze that carried on it the earthy scent of horses. If he listened carefully, he could hear soft neighing almost out of earshot. If he looked toward the horizon—all green and flat pastures—he thought he could see the ghosts of horses grazing happily in the world beyond the Elysium.

He turned away and gripped Mei’s hand in his.

“You’ve been here a long time now, Lenten,” Mei commented as she sidestepped a rather questionable pile of dirt.

“Yes.”

“Do you miss the world?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, absently rubbing his thumb along the smoothness of her skin much as one would with a favored lucky charm. “I miss the way the world used to be,” he told her, still thinking of Ash, “which was nothing at all like what it’s like now.” His gaze swept the hotel grounds as they moved closer to its edge. “This is my home now. The world holds little for me.”

She nodded as they walked silently.

“What about you?” he asked when she was silent for a long moment.

He regretted asking almost immediately though, when her grip on his hand faltered for a moment. But, before a quick apology could tumble from his lips, her grip resumed its quiet, reassuring strength as they approached the small, white, iron garden table that sat just north of the hotel gates with a full view of the grassy planes that surrounded them.

She was quiet for a while longer, as Lenten pulled out a chair for her to sit. With her back turned to him as she settled in her seat—Mei finally answered. “It’s been so long,” she said haltingly as if she were carefully constructing her answer. “I don’t think I would recognize the world, if I were to go back. This is more than my home,” she said with a shrug. “It’s my world.”

He paused after gently pushing her chair in, wrapping his mind around her answer. With his hands still resting on the warm metal behind her shoulders, he wondered why her words should leave him so cold.

Dismissing his own wayward thoughts, he began a conversation about the topmost eastern wing and how hotel services refused to go up there for some obviously inexplicable reason and asked her advice on what he should do. They discussed it for a while and moved on to a few other topics before they saw Rowan panting and wheezing while he struggled to keep his pace. Lenten sighed as he saw the boy’s face fall as he approached the hotel’s open gates.

“That…can’t…be,” Rowan coughed out, before stumbling back awkwardly. Shaking himself, he turned around and ran again in another direction.

“Poor boy,” tsked Mei.

“He’ll figure it out soon enough,” Lenten assured, wishing he’d thought to bring some tea along with them. He excused himself to get some, while still they had time. Rowan had just left the gates; it would be an hour or more until he would be back. Hmm. Maybe he should whip together some kind of meal, while he was at it.

The boy was bound to be hungry, by then, having run the hotel grounds at least twice. By then, a picnic at the gates wouldn’t seem that bad.

By then, Rowan would know.

He would know what everyone who came to the Elysium eventually learned. You couldn’t escape. The gates were an inevitability. He hadn’t gotten turned around. He hadn’t taken the wrong path. No matter what direction he were to go, no matter how far he were to run, none of it would matter in the end. Soon enough, everyone ended up back at its doors.

After Lenten poked through Flax’s kitchen—much to the other man’s disgruntled irritation—he gathered up a decent spread. Bundling it up in a basket, he made his way through the empty, sun-lit dining room to his office to leave a message for hotel services to clean up Rowan’s room.

Satisfied, he walked out the large, polished glass-paned front doors and into the sun. For a moment, he stopped to stare at the Elysium, remembering what he’d seen when he’d first arrived—exhausted from running—with Olive asleep in his tired arms.

Four stories of gleaming white brick and sparkling glass, the hotel stood tall and impressive, like the modern cross between a fairytale keep and a Southern plantation mansion. The staircase to the front door was flanked by two wide, white columns, impossibly tall, stretching from the ground to the top of the four-floored, rectangular center building. Four huge, romantic balconies crowned the second and third floors perched along the full-length of the slightly angled walls. Almost blinding in the noon-day sun, the Elysium was elegant and stately, warm and welcoming. Beautiful and striking, the Elysium was home.

As he walked the quiet pastures for the second time that day, Lenten straightened his suit and felt peaceful, once again sure of his world and his place within it.

When Lenten returned to the little table beside the gates, Mei nodded. “You just missed him.”

Fast; it usually took an hour—maybe forty-five minutes—to run the whole of the hotel property. Rowan may be slight, but he was quick to round the area in less than forty minutes. “Ah, to be young again,” the thirty-eight-year-old man groaned heartily as he laid out his fare. Mei, polite as ever, smiled at the joke. “At least, Calla should have a decent running partner now.”

“I don’t know,” Mei said. “I’ve never understood why people run recreationally. Always moving but not going anywhere. How people do it every day! As far as I can see, there’s a difference between that and running to—or from—something. I’d think much of Rowan’s speed and stamina come from his desire to leave here and to go home.”

They ate, talking easily as they did. They looked up and greeted Rowan every time he would appear fatigued, frustrated, and frightened, only to nod politely when the boy abruptly turned to begin all over again. And there they stayed, even after both their food and conversation ran out, patiently waiting for the boy to tire himself out.

The sun was setting when Rowan finally collapsed, exhausted, to his knees in front of the looming iron gates. His body was shaking with bone-deep weariness and sobs even though his eyes were now red and far too dry to cry any more tears.

Lenten glanced helplessly at Mei—sure he was not the right person for this job. Understanding—as she always did—she rose to go to Rowan.

She knelt at his side. “Rowan,” she murmured gently without any response. “Rowan.”

He groggily turned his head to look at her. “Why are you doing this?” he asked pleadingly.

“We aren’t doing anything,” Mei assured. “I promise.”

“Then how is this possible?” he cried before his face fell. He let out a shaky breath before whispering, “Am I dead?”

Mei sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Is this heaven?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hell?”

“I hope not.”

“Then what is this place? Why am I here? Why can’t I leave?” he asked, shaking his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Mei took a deep breath, readying herself. “No guest has ever left the hotel to my knowledge. And to my knowledge, there isn’t a way to do so because this place…isn’t a place. Not really.”

The boy looked up questioningly.

Mei sighed. “Have you heard of Carl Jung?” The boy nodded, then shrugged, and then shook his head. Mei nodded sagely and explained. “Carl Jung was a great psychologist and philosopher who believed that the whole of humanity—cross time and space—was connected psychically. He called this connection the collective unconscious.”

“And that’s what this is?” croaked Rowan.

“No,” she answered with a smile as she brushed his tears from his cheeks gently. “No, the collective unconscious isn’t a place. It’s…an imprint that’s passed from generation to generation. It’s why religion and stories and cultures all over the world share certain themes and features. It’s why Osiris rose from the dead to become king long before Jesus did. It’s why Noah’s flood drowned Odin’s people too. It’s why, even before we can read or even speak properly, we all know—uncompromisingly and unhesitatingly—that wolves can trick foolish, little girls and ghosts hide in the shadows. It’s knowledge without knowing. It is a communal truth.” She touched the poor boy’s hair, her elegant fingers sifting through the soft strands. “It’s how I know how important home is even though I can barely remember my own.”

“What does this have to do with me?” the boy asked.

“This is just a theory,” she warned, “one that has been thought up long before I arrived and will probably evolve endlessly. None of us can prove this, so we can’t be sure, but it’s believed that within this communal truth, wrapped in its stories and practices and principles, is a kind of mental map to this place, this small carved out corner of consciousness.”

The boy looked up and stared at the empty fields that echoed heavily with the ghosts of life just beyond the Elysium’s edges. The boy shivered slightly before stiffening his shoulders. “I don’t believe you,” the boy protested insistently, vigorously shaking his head.

“That’s okay,” Mei said with a shrug, brushing his hair back off his face. “You will. In time.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. Lenten could see hope scheming within the green. “If this place is just some imprint,” he began, “then it’s just imaginary, right? Just in my head.” He shook his head, causing the fiery, still bed-mangled mass to fly in every direction. “This is nothing more than a bad dream or a hallucination or something.”

“No,” Mei said, “this isn’t imaginary; it’s just not quite real either.”

“What does that mean?”

Mei smoothed the delicate patterned silk of her skirt before folding her hands across her lap. “The hotel exists outside time, place, or indeed anything you would recognize as reality.”

The boy pouted, his thin, almost too pretty lips pressing together in thought. “That still doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Mei sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She tilted her chin and looked off into the distance. “When I left China to quite mysteriously arrive here, it was still under the Ming Dynasty, over five-hundred and fifty years before Lenten here was even born. Thirty years ago—relatively speaking, of course, as time passes much differently within the walls of the hotel—he and Olive arrived here from 1950s America. We’ve guests from 1830s France, 1970s Russia, Constantinople, Byzantium, and places your time has not even dreamed of yet.”

Rowan frowned, his brow furrowed deeply. “This all sounds impossible.”

Mei smiled softly, reaching up to stroke the boy’s hair back. “I know.” She tucked a stray strand behind his ear. “Yet since man was first capable of higher thought, he’s dreamt of places, worlds, planes beyond his own. Somehow humanity has always known of this place. It’s had several names, some in languages long dead now, and many appearances, some that would surely be wholly unfamiliar to you. But it has always existed and will always exist for those that need it.”

“But I don’t need it,” Rowan cried. “I don’t even want it.”

“Wanting and needing are rarely ever the same, don’t you think?” Mei said with a sly yet sad smile. “We call this place the Elysium now,” she said, gesturing to the tall, gleaming structure still visible just beyond the horizon behind them, “because it offers peace and safety to those who find it. Elysium means lightning struck. Handpicked by the gods.”

“Yeah,” the boy scoffed, knowing just what it meant to be chosen, “I’ve heard what happens to those favored by fate.” He shook his head. “It rarely turns out well for the mortal,” Rowan reminded.

Mei smiled slightly. “Too true,” she conceded. “And I’m certain that your stay here will be much harder than most of the others’ have been. But this is your home now. You belong here.”

“Don't say that,” he begged. “Please, don’t say that.”

“You belong here,” she began again, “because this place is a part of you. You can’t leave because how do you leave yourself?”

“But my home,” Rowan wept, staring longingly out at the space beyond the gates, “my family.”

“Can’t reach you here,” Mei told him sympathetically and unequivocally, “and can’t be reached from here.” The boy curled in on himself and cried more, his eyes somehow finding more tears. “I am sorry.”

Mei looked to Lenten as she held the boy’s shuddering body in her arms.

Lenten couldn’t take his eyes from the woman and the boy. He couldn’t move or speak or even hardly breathe. It had been thirty years since Mei had given him that speech. Between then and now, he’d given that speech many times to many different guests yet, listening to Mei now, he felt just like he did that first time. The loss. The desolate loss of the world was hitting him again in thirty years worth of waves.

He stared at Rowan’s tears falling in uncontrolled abandon down ruddy, puffing cheeks and felt his own sorrow burning behind his eyes.

Lenten blinked back tears and, embarrassed, he nervously straightened his glasses. “I am sorry, Rowan,” he muttered, knowing just how inadequate the stiffly spoken words were. “We’ll take you back to your room now.”

 

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Growing Pains - GraysMatter Podcast

In the second half of this amazing podcast, we discuss race, sexuality, and growing as people. Come take a listen!

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The Elysium Estate - Part One

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Chapter Two: The Elysium Estate - Part One

Olive Tree: (Olea Europaea) This small, subtropical, evergreen tree is resilient to decay and will sprout a new trunk from the roots of a dead tree. Known for its incredible beauty, it often represents the good and constancy of charity, love, and peace. The wood, the oil, and the olive fruit are often used in mystical rituals to promote overall positivity.

Olive

Olive Lenten dunked the washcloth into the ginger sweet water and squeezed. Careful not to drip on her new, crisp, perfectly white nurse’s costume, she patted the cloth on the sleeping man’s arm, just like Mei had said to do.

“Be gentle though,” Mei had told her, “like with Poppy.”

So she did, just like she would with her little bird and its itsy-bitsy broken wing. Tiny pats and soft sweeps over the awful cuts on the poor man’s arms and legs and face.

He was pretty, she thought as she cocked her head at him, even with the scratches. She reached out to touch his red hair that was as soft as Poppy’s feathers. It wasn’t red like hers or her uncle’s hair. Theirs was actually orange—not really red—like Chia, the large tabby who lay fat on the carpet in the sun next to the big windows in the lobby. The man’s hair was bright, bright red like the gleaming, waxy skin of an apple and, when she leaned in to smell it, it reminded her of cinnamon and nutmeg.

She giggled as she ran the very tip of her finger lightly down the bridge of his cute, pointed nose. He had spots—no, not spots; freckles, that’s what Mei had called them—freckles all over. There were probably a gazillion of them like crumbled bits of cookie floating in the creamy milkiness of his skin and Olive could have spent all day just counting them all.

A squeak escaped her lips as the man groaned, swinging his arm out and almost catching her hand before she jerked it back.

Oh my gosh, he was waking up.

He was waking up!

“Mei!” Olive squealed as she grabbed her doll Daisy and rushed from the room. “Mei! Uncle Lark! Flax! Come quick!”

She tore down the hallway, running right into her uncle’s waiting arms. She looked up into his familiar blue eyes, made bigger and brighter by the slightly smudged wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

“Uncle Lark,” Olive wheezed excitedly as she hugged the doll decked out in a matching white nurse’s dress tight in her arms, “it’s the man. The man in Suite 113 is awake! Uncle Lark, he’s—”

“Shh, I heard, Olive,” her uncle said as he laid a hand on her back. “Could you please get Mei in the courtyard and tell her to meet me in Suite 113? Quietly, yes?”

Olive nodded silently before running down the hallway toward the gardens.

“Olive,” she heard her uncle scold her, “we don’t run in the hallways. You know that.”

She slowed instantly to a clipped walk as she scurried toward Mei, her white Mary Janes clicking down the twisted marble stairs. Once out of her uncle’s hearing, she let out a little whoop as she jumped the very last steps, swinging Daisy around in her arms.

They hardly ever got guests here at the Elysium Hotel. It had been so long since anyone came to stay. Not since Leander and that was months ago. And now there were two in less than two weeks.

First, Calla and now Rowan.

She found Mei in the gardens, sipping tea and coffee with Calla and Mrs. Kinofuji. “Mei! Mei, Uncle Lark says you have to go to Suite 113. The man there, he’s awake!”

“Yes, I heard, little one,” Mei said with a laugh as she twisted her long black hair back into a bun, sticking two chopsticks in to keep it in place. “Okay, let’s go then. We mustn’t keep our guest waiting.” She turned to the other two women. “I’m very sorry, I have to go.”

“No worries,” Calla said as she flipped her shoulder-length brown hair and took another gulp of her whipped-cream-covered drink.

Olive loved the way Calla talked. It wasn’t soft, sweet, and comforting like Mei or Mrs. Kinofuji. In fact, it was lazy and drawling and completely effortless. Like the words just bubbled up and out her mouth—which was probably why everything she said always sounded like a question. She said it was because she was from Oz. But when Olive asked if Calla knew Glinda or Toto, she’d just laughed and ruffled her hair.

“Go see to that poor young man,” Mrs. Kinofuji said with a slight wave. “So unfortunate how he came to us,” the smiling, old woman murmured with a shake of her silvered head as she sipped her tea. “So much blood.”

“Yeah,” Calla said as she licked a bit of whipped cream from her pink-painted lips, “makes you wonder if there’ll be scars.” She looked thoughtful for a second as she set down her oversized mug. “Can we get scars anymore?”

“Come,” Mei said as she shooed the little girl and her doll out of the gardens. Mei grabbed her hand and headed toward the kitchen. “We should bring our new guest lunch, don’t you think?”

Olive nodded her head as she quickened her steps to keep up with the woman’s long strides as they hurried through the hotel. “Is Flax in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Mei said.

Olive liked Flax. He was funny and he talked nice—like Roy Rogers or The Singing Cowboy from TV. And he always smelled like pancakes or chocolate or spaghetti sauce. All sorts of yummy things. And he always helped her sneak treats.

“Flax?” she called as they entered the sparkling black and white kitchen with all its tall, shining countertop and fancy appliances. Olive let go of Mei’s hand and began to hop-scotch across the checkered floor toward the tall man stirring something scrumptious on the stove.

He turned toward her, his black eyes twinkling mischievously as he winked at her. “Hey there, darlin’,” he said, his voice twanging sweetly, “I got somethin’ for ya’.” He dunked a spoon into the saucepan and knelt down to the little girl. “My Mama’s stovetop fudge.” He looked up at Mei as Olive took the chocolatey spoon. “It’s not really, my Mama’s recipe. It came from a delightful young woman who worked in my Mama’s kitchen and was obliging enough to share all her secrets, but it sounds much nicer that way, don’t you think?” he said with that funny smile he reserved just for Mei. And Calla. And Juniper in Suite 315. And Marigold in Suite 216. And Jonquil in Suite 421.

Mei smiled indulgently at Flax as she made her way among the cabinets and shelves, grabbing her things. “We came to get some of my special tea for the new guest in Suite 113. He’s awake now.”

“Is that right?” Flax mused, turning again to Olive. “Well, that’s cause for a celebration, isn’t it, petunia? A feast, hmm? With a big ole baked ham surrounded by apples and caramelized onions. And sweet potatoes with brown sugar.”

“And apple pie?” Olive added hopefully, licking her lips as if she could taste the treat already.

“And warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream,” he said with a wink. “Now get,” he said as he playfully waved them both out of his kitchen, “this ain’t no place for the likes of you. Either pitch in or get out.”

Mei had to walk slowly down the long hallways, carrying the silver tray with the green tea, toast, and soup on it carefully, so Olive and Daisy skipped and danced around her on the way to Suite 113, whistling and humming as they went. When they knocked and opened the door, Uncle Lark was already there standing by the new guest who, while still in bed, was sitting up.

She’d been right. He was pretty. He had the most beautiful green eyes, the color of dewy morning grass that just begged for bare feet to trample through it.

“This is Mei Ying,” her uncle said as he helped her with the tray, “she’ll be taking care of you until you’re well.” She saw the man tip his head toward Mei before turning toward Olive and smiling slightly. “And this,” Uncle Lark said as he gathered her close, “is my niece. Say hello to Rowan Drury, Olive.”

“Hello, Rowan,” she said as she straightened her nurse’s cap and leaned against his bedside. “I helped heal your arms.”

“Er, thank you,” Rowan said as he nodded his head at her. He talked pretty too, she noticed before he turned back to her uncle, prettier than anyone else she’d ever met. He talked the way most people sang. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand. How is it you know my name?”

“All of our guests’ names are in the guest book at the front desk;” Uncle Lark told him before adding with a wry smile, “the hotel keeps impeccable records.”

“But how did I get here?” the pretty man asked as he sipped the tea. “Ow,” he said as he blew on the drink to cool it down, almost dropping the cup. Half the steaming liquid sloshed over the side of the china before he set the cup down and shook his burnt hand furiously.

“Careful,” Mei warned as she checked his hand before wiping up the mess on the bedside table.

“One of our guest,” Uncle Lark continued, “was out for a walk around the hotel grounds and very fortunately stumbled upon you.”

“But how did I end up…” Rowan said before he trailed off. Olive cocked her head when she saw the man’s skin pale and his face go slack. “My family!” he choked out. He started to get up, only to be held down by her uncle. “I have to call my family. I have to see if they’re all right.”

Uncle Lark and Mei looked at each other worriedly. Her uncle sighed. He looked tired. “Olive, why don’t you and Daisy go see what Calla is up to right now?”

She nodded, clutched Daisy, and left, closing the door behind her. But instead of going to the courtyard again, she ran up the stairs to her room. After all, Uncle Lark didn’t really want her to go visit Calla, she knew. He just wanted her to leave. And, in truth, Olive really didn’t want to stay.

Rowan was going to get The Talk.

It happened with every guest.

Olive remembered when she’d gotten The Talk. She’d cried for days. Straight. She remembered that Uncle Lark had too. Mei had been the one to tell them, sat them down and tried the best she could to prepare them for the worst. They were guests of the Elysium Hotel now and had been for a very long time.

And, once you checked into the Elysium, you were there to stay.

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The Worst Kind of Luck

* This is a story I wrote that started out as a companion piece to the fantastic web comic Clipped Wings that my friend did years ago. Unfortunately, we'd both let it slide for a very long time. Years later, I picked it back up again, made some changes, and just ran with it when I needed a distraction after a death in the family. Every time I take a peek at it, I just find this story's world utterly enchanting. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

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House of Glass

Glasshouse: An enclosure made of glass used for the cultivation and protection of delicate plants.

Also called greenhouses, conservatories, and hot houses.

Elysium: A term from ancient Greek mythology to refer to an idyllic paradise where heroic, virtuous souls lay to rest.

Also used in Dante’s The Divine Comedy, as a limbo between Heaven and Hell where souls hover between the worlds.

Also called The Elysian Fields, Paradise, Zion, and Eden

Book One: Checking In

Chapter One: The Worst Kind of Luck

Rowan Tree: (Sorbus Aucuparia) A common wild tree in the British Isles, this small but resilient tree is capable of surviving under the poorest conditions. Often planted near ancient ritual sites, these trees are said to offer protection against evil. They’re often used in rituals as talismans or magic wands because of their density and strength. Dyes are made from the tree’s red berries and used to bind and boost warding spells.

Also known as Rune Trees, Whispering Trees, and Witch Wood.

Rowan

Rowan Drury carefully restrung the violin laid lovingly in his lap, running his hands over the sleek, shiny wood marred only by the long scratch along the side of the instrument from when he’d tripped over one of his cousin Jack’s skateboards. The violin had been forever marked and he’d spent six weeks with his arm in a sling.

Rowan had been sad about the Drury heirloom that had dated back to who-knows-when and about all the worry he’d caused his mother and the rest of his family but, in truth, the whole situation could have been worse.

He stood, clutching the violin by the neck, and stared out the conservatory window at his brothers, sister, cousins, and other assortments of relatives who dwelled in the Drury castle. They were all dressed up, grouped together on the twisted driveway that led down the hill from the castle to town. They were going out tonight. Good night for it.

It was the Midsummer’s Eve and there’d been rituals all day—feasts and gatherings, prayers and parties—all to celebrate the year’s longest day. Rowan loved the Midsummer because he got to spend the whole day with his family outside of the castle. Still on castle grounds, true, but the gardens were beautiful this time of year—all blooming Irish roses and towering ivy. And, in this one day, he would spend more time out under the beautiful Irish sun than all the other days combined. And despite the layers of sunscreen his mother would smother his too fair skin with, Rowan would soak it all in, knowing this rare treat would have to hold him for a very long time.

He lifted the newly strung violin to his chin as he watched the others pile into cars, ready to make their way into the city and make the most out of the year’s shortest night. He nodded as his sister, Willow, and his cousin, Jack, turned to wave at him. Rowan smiled at his mother who—still as pretty as any of his cousins—blew him a kiss as she held his father’s hand. Rowan raised the bow and played a fast and rowdy tune in their honor, closing his eyes as he remembered planning the night with his cousins during supper. They’d have fun in Waterford City. There would be dancing, drinks, and music. With his eyes closed, Rowan could almost imagine it.

There’d been a time—when he was much younger—when he’d longed to go with them. But he was older now. And he understood that he was Widdershins.

He sighed and laid the violin back in its case. Feeling restless, he walked about the stands and cases and shelves of instruments lining the room. Finally, he slipped onto the bench and ran his fingers over the baby grand piano’s keys. The tinkling notes eased the tension inside him.

As his family’s newest Widdershins, Rowan really didn’t get out much. He didn’t go out at all. It wasn’t allowed.

And for good reason.

The people of Redeshire called his family cursed. And they were, Rowan supposed. In a way.

While most of their Drury ancestry—that had inspired many of the myths and misconceptions of Druids, wizards, and witches—had died out a long time ago with the rise of science and the convenience of modern technology—for God’s sake, his father was an investment banker and his mother a software engineer—there were legends and legacies that still lingered.

There was a story his grandfather used to tell him. One of a Drury elder who—for the good of his people—had stopped the hand of fate. This powerful man—a witch, he’d be called today—had cast a protection spell that would pass down through blood. It was the Drury blood that bound the curse and repelled all evil. All those that carried the family name carried with it magic in their veins and a life filled with luck. And, even now, centuries after the spell was cast, the Drury family possessed wealth, success, great love—everything most people wished for and few ever got.

It wasn’t that they got everything they wanted or never had to work for what they had. Just that the little uncontrollables in life, like being at the right place at the right time with the right people, just seemed to happen more frequently to the Drurys. It was as if the invisible hands of destiny were a bit more clear to them. A Drury learned to listen to the way the wind whistled or to track the sun’s progression. A dove in the sky boded well for one’s current plans. Strong sea air brought with it change. One simply learned to be patient and wait at a crossroads for fate to eventually tip its hand.

For the Drury family, there were always signs.

But with every spell comes a price and every Drury knows the balance that rules the world must always be maintained. So, to safeguard the whole family, the elder had sacrificed himself and become the first of the family Widdershins, vowing that another would be born into every generation. That person’s fate—their duty—was to keep the balance. If every other Drury member knew only good luck, then the Widdershins knew only the reverse.

Rowan was the family’s latest Widdershins, his destiny sealed from his first breath. And though he couldn’t say that every breath since had been an easy one, he’d long since made peace with his lot in life.

And so, as the year’s longest day came to a close, he played a song he’d only heard in the farthest parts of his mind, not quite sad but in some way longing. He marveled at the way the music flowed from heart to fingertips to key to air. It was a type of magic. And it was his.

But just as he moved into the coda, Rowan jumped at a loud crash coming from somewhere down the hall. His knee smacked smartly against the baby grand, causing the keys’ heavy cover to slam down hard onto his fingers. Hissing between clenched teeth, he shook his hand vigorously before sticking it in his mouth to suck the throbbing digits.

Rowan looked toward the direction of the noise he’d heard. Everyone should be out of the castle by now, leaving Rowan and his grandfather—the eldest Widdershins—alone.

Poking his head out the door, Rowan peeked into the empty hallway. Knowing Grandda, Rowan figured the old man had probably just knocked something over or tripped on something. He was probably all right, but Rowan couldn’t get it out of his head that something was wrong.

His grandfather, though proud to serve his family as a Widdershins, wasn’t known to suffer quietly. Rowan’s knowledge of Gaelic curses came entirely from his grandfather’s mouth.

But the large stone hallway that usually echoed the slightest sound was silent. “Grandda?” Rowan murmured, the sound reverberating through the now twilight-tinged house. “Grandda?”

He heard scrambling—the slightest squeak of shoes across the waxed tiles. Stepping from the smooth wood and soft cream-colored room and into the lofty gray stone and glass halls, Rowan headed toward the noise and hoped his grandfather wasn’t terribly hurt.

Pausing by the windowed wall that overlooked the castle gardens, he noticed a large crow perched hungrily on one of the eastside windowsills. Its black feathers gleamed a strange green in the sun as the bird pecked viciously at the glass, its beak half-opened in mid-caw as its talons clenched and released in anticipation.

Carrion in an in-between. A bad omen.

Rowan held his breath as he headed east. He turned into the courtyard foyer, opening the door cautiously. “Grandda?”

At first, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Just a feeling that something bad hovered on the edges. Though the room was exactly as it should, an ordered mess of Aunt Gilly’s gardening supplies, Truman’s summer reading, and various bottles of Bella’s tanning oils and screens, the orange hue the setting sun cast made the familiar room seem foreign. He turned toward the tapping on the window and the crow that still beat its beak furiously against the glass.

Every Drury knew a bad omen at an entrance or exit—a suspicious sign within the spaces between one place and another—meant danger close at hand. The in-betweens were places, where if one wanted to know what the future held, warnings waited.

Forcing his eyes from the crow, Rowan tried to convince himself that sometimes a bird was just a bird. But as his gaze swept the room, he took in the overturned pottery and the cracked bottles. He could smell the slight metallic scent of blood mingled with the spilled fragrances mixing together on the floor.

Rowan shivered at the small signs of struggle and knew omens never lied. He turned to face the bird’s hungry, beady eyes as its head tossed back and forth in frustration. He could hear the crow cawing raucously as its wings flapped, desperate for balance, and its talons viciously scratched at the window pane. He turned away.

And there on the scuffed, slightly dirty hardwood floor, Rowan saw his hands first. Burned, scratched, and oddly disjointed—the hands of a Widdershins. His grandfather had always loved to cook despite the obvious and many dangers a kitchen held for his kind, causing scars—from knife-cuts, grease splatter, and burns of every kind—that patterned those recognizable hands.

As Rowan peered forward in the messy foyer, his boots clicking against the now marked varnish, he followed the broken lines of his grandfather’s battered hands to his stretched-out body lying in a cluttered corner among several large, now cracked potted plants. He gasped.

Kneeling at his unconscious grandfather’s side, Rowan cut his hands and knees as he pushed aside some of the mess. “Are you all right?”

This was why Rowan avoided this part of the castle, too many things to trip and fall on. His grandfather ought to have known better. Rowan could see a bit of blood on the shards of terra cotta that littered the floor. He hoped the elderly man hadn’t cut himself too deeply. Groaning with effort, he turned his grandfather’s prone body over.

With a choked cry, Rowan jumped back, bumping into heavily laden shelves, causing more pottery to fall and shatter at his feet. Rowan cringed and curled in on himself.

A crow at the window meant one thing. Death at a doorway.

The crow’s caws grew wild as his grandfather’s body fell face-up on the floor. Rowan squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn’t wipe the image of the dead man from his mind. The body was untouched, just pale and so cold. From the right angle, Rowan could have almost believed that his grandfather was simply passed out. But his grandfather’s face, that in so many ways looked much like his own only many years on, oozed blood, dark and thick as it streaked down his tattered cheeks and around his opened, silently screaming lips. He could still see where the trail of blood met and mingled both into and out of the long, deep slash across the old man’s throat.

But the worst of it—the part that had Rowan panting and pleading to his God—were the empty sockets where his grandfather’s eyes gaped open, bloody and hacked.

Oh, Merciful Mother of God. Who did that kind of thing?

But Rowan knew exactly the type of person who would cut out his grandfather’s eyes.

Most myths, legends, and old sayings had origins in truth. And eyes were in-betweens too. Windows to the soul, as they say. And with no doorway, no exit or entrance, his grandfather’s soul—a Widdershins’s soul—was trapped inside his impossibly still body, unable to pass into the next generation.

Jesus, son of God. Crawling shakily to his knees, Rowan crossed himself quickly and bent his head. He wished he could close the old man’s lidless eyes. Rowan prayed as he draped a towel over his grandfather’s form. May God bless on your journey, Grandda.

Rowan sank down and fought back fear and sadness. He couldn’t afford to mourn long. He had to think.

This was an assault not just on Paddy Drury, but on the entirety of the Drury family. With one Widdershins dead, the balance of luck was tipping. Rowan wondered if his family could feel the change already. He hoped that they were all right, even as he feared the dangers that now seeped into their once impenetrable lives. One Widdershins dead, murdered and mutilated—his soul stuck. Who knew what damage could be done now?

Rowan gasped as a thought dawned on him, for a second drowning out the worry for his family.

One Widdershins dead. One left.

Rowan backed away from his grandfather. Rowan was now the only Widdershins left. Left alone. Left defenseless. With shaky panic, he called the first number on his mobile phone. His nervous fingers fumbled on the keys, but no matter what number he dialed, there was no answer. Rowan looked down at his phone, appalled to realize that his phone’s battery was too low to place a call. Shit. Damn. “Fuck!”

He clapped his hand over his traitorous mouth as he caught that same slick slide of rubber coming from somewhere in the hallway.

The mobile slid to the floor.

Someone was still in the castle and was now headed his way.

Rowan took one last look at his grandfather—hating to leave him—before easing the garden screen door open and stepping soundlessly outside. He could see the woods that bordered the Drury property. He’d never been in them—too dangerous—but his siblings and cousins had said that the hill the castle grounds sat on was flanked by a town and a motorway.

That meant people, right?

Lots of people. Most of whom weren’t ritual killers. Right?

Rowan paused at the large hedges that bordered the gardens about six meters from the forest and wondered what he should do. The shadowed trees looked harsh and unforgiving as their branches twisted in on each other, strangling the light that tried to break through the thick canopy. He began to hyperventilate as he took a tentative step back into the familiarity of the castle. But as he heard the door to the foyer creak open, Rowan took a deep breath and ran.

He turned as a loud flapping flutter of feathers swooped down, its talons and beak aimed for his head. He screamed as he waved his arms above his head, trying to beat the crow away, but it just kept coming. Ignoring the pain as the bird scratched and clawed at his skin, he headed into the trees.

Rowan rushed past low branches and jumped over fallen limbs and when finally the crow’s ravenous caws sounded distant and muted, he slowed, panting and wheezing. He looked around, confused and lost. He had no idea where he was or whether he was even closer to the castle or the road. His body ached, his arms torn and his legs tired, but he had to keep going. He looked around and sighed before limping ahead in a random direction, hoping it led him somewhere safe.

Rowan spun as he heard the leaves rustle behind him before jerking around again at the sound of a snapping branch. He tried to slow his breathing and listen. He could have sworn he heard whispers, but the wind was whipping them in every direction, making him feel cornered.

Trapped.

He started to back away uneasily before tripping on the rocky ground. Grunting loudly, he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the leaves shift. Choking on panicked sobs, Rowan ran.

He could hear the rustling and footfalls catching up to him. He peeked over his shoulder and tried to figure out where they were, but he couldn’t tell in all the darkness. All he knew was that they were close and getting closer.

Pumping his legs, he checked his back again. He yelped as his foot slipped on mulching leaves, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled down the rocky hill. He held out his hands, trying to catch himself before he crashed to the ground. But he couldn’t stop himself from falling.

The last sight he remembered was that of the hungry, black bird perched on a branch above him before his head smashed against rock and pain and blackness brought him down.

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Most Wonderful Time of the Year

On the Highest Bough

Francis shook his wings. As a gargoyle, they were always the first sign that he was getting tired. He stretched them out with a groan, feeling fatigue being to harden them. He either needed another shot of the café’s espresso, that would hold the sun’s effects at bay, or head to the rooftop to sleep.

“Here.” Basil landed to sit on the high ceiling beam next to Francis, a small cup in one hand and a string of garland in the cupid’s other hand. Francis could hear and feel the flutter of the other man’s feathered wings even if he couldn’t see them through Basil’s glamour. “We only have a few more things to finish up, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

Francis inhaled the strong scent of espresso wafting to him and making his wings flutter at the drink. He took the cup, feeling the sweet warmth against his taloned fingers with a grateful nod to Basil before settling on the beam as well. Feeling the stony stiffness in his joints soften, he sipped and looked down at all the hard work they’d put in.

Faere Trade was always beautiful. Magical places tended to be. Even the terrifying ones, full of dark magic and the suffering it inevitably left in its wake, were as awe-inspiring as they were horrific.

But Faere Trade was a place of healing and communion. Offering food and drink meant to help its clientele, from the limitations-blocking espresso in Francis’s hands to a variety of glamour-producing teas to a legendary macaron cookie that could supposedly alter your fate in ways no one but the boss knew how. The café grew most of its own ingredients, so the entire place was a lush garden, with trees and bushes and plants everywhere. The smell of life and growth was infused into the space, always making him feel centered and alive.

It was always beautiful, magical beyond words, but, this time of year, it seemed more so. And it really shouldn’t have. Looking at the silver and gold tinsel he and Basil had draped and the lights and decorations they’d hung up everywhere, it should have looked like tacky, chintzy glitz, but it didn’t. At least not to him. He wondered, as a just-under-three-foot being, if it all just looked more wondrous from this height.

Basil played with the garland in his hands. “I probably shouldn’t — I mean, it’s a Christian holiday — but I love this time of year.”

Francis snorted. “Aren’t cupids associated more with St. Valentine’s Day now than Greek mythology.”

Basil smacked him with the garland. “It’s not really mythology, considering that I’m sitting right here, now is it?” But he shrugged. “Though, truth is, we’re not really either Greek or Christian. Both cultures embraced us, at one time or another, but it’s not as if we belong to anyone.”

Francis nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “Kinda like us.” Gargoyles had an odd relationship to Christianity. Both portrayed as demons and protectors, both feared and revered. But, in reality, they were older than any faith.

Yet, when most people looked at Francis, they tended to think he belonged in some Halloween decoration box with all the other spooks and ghouls and devils. But he always liked Christmas more, preferring the joyous season to jump scares. He’d take twinkle lights and carols over haunted houses and scary movies any day.

In fact, he nudged Basil with his wing. “Is that mistletoe in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Basil, around the same size as him, ran his hands over the garland and gave a small chuckle, truly looking like some cross between a Greek god and a small snow cherub. “It’s actually holly, but most people mistake it for mistletoe.”

Francis grinned toothily and set aside the now empty cup on the beam. “So then, by default, that must mean you’re happy to see me.”

Basil jumped off the beam and hovered in front of him, wagging the garland at him warningly. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re about to fall asleep in mid-air and we still have a bunch of work to do.”

Francis winked at him flirtatiously. “Then give me something to get up for.”

Rolling his eyes at the bad double-entendre, Basil turned to fly away, but Francis caught his wrist. He glided off the beam, raising Basil’s arm over both their heads while his other wrapped around the cupid’s waist. He gave Basil a game look. “Tis the season for giving.”

Basil let out a laugh and shook his head, but leaned into the embrace. “You’re ridiculous.”

Francis puffed up his chest. “One of my better qualities.”

Raising his eyebrow, Basil tsked. “We’ll have to stay late.”

The gargoyle just grinned. “The better to see the lights by.”

Francis could see — could feel — the moment Basil gave in, relaxing completely into his arms. “You are ridiculous.” The words were a whispered smile against his lips.

And then Francis could taste him, warm and spiced like the tea Basil drank for his glamour. Mixing with the espresso already on Francis’s tongue, it ran through him like a rush. He held the angelic man close. Francis wanted to crush Basil to him but, not being a gargoyle too, the cupid felt fragile in his embrace. He flexed his tense fingers so they didn’t dig sharp talons into Basil’s soft flesh. When they kissed, he had to be careful with the man, so his pointed eye teeth didn’t bite. Even his body, dense and hard, more used to being stone than flesh, ached with restraint. And the longing sigh that escaped Basil’s mouth, a sweet sound breathed into Francis, didn’t help. Francis moaned.

“Tell me what you want.” The devilish spark in Basil’s eye and the decadent tone in his voice made Francis pant with want. Excitement and nerves were clear on Basil’s face. Francis understood that; they’d been flirting around sex for a while now, kissing and touching, but it’d never felt like the right time.

Looking around, Francis couldn’t imagine a better moment. Kissing him again, he sighed. “Your mouth.” The phrase came to him like a longing twist in the gut. “On me.” His voice dipped deeper. “And mine on you.”

Basil chuckled low before tapping his chin. “I think we can make that work.” He looked around, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully, before he took off toward the towering, decorated evergreen planted in the back corner of the café.

Francis, curious, followed behind him, diving between the fir branches. He ducked under the string of flickering lights circling the tree, wondering what Basil had in mind. It really was magical, hidden in the pine needles, with the lights twinkling like stars in the fragrant shadows. He breathed it all in, letting it fill and fuel him.

Pointing to a branch above them, Basil tilted his head curiously. “Do you think this branch will hold you?”

Francis shrugged. “It did, when I was hanging lights.” He laughed and reached up to grab it.

“Uh-uh.” The sound was quick and scolding. “Not with your hands.”

Francis looked at the man quizzically. But, when the man just made a twirling motion with his finger, it dawned on Francis. He wanted him to hang from the branch by his feet? Francis frowned thoughtfully. Okay. He couldn’t really see why the man wanted that, but he also couldn’t see why not. So he flew up, grabbing the branch with his talons and letting himself hang down on the branch. He wiggled a bit, making room for himself against the rough tree trunk, bending the other prickly branches with his thick-skinned, dense body. He bent his knees before shaking the branch a bit, making the needles rustle and the lights clank. “Should hold.”

“Good.” Basil flew up to hover by his feet. “Then hold on.” He took the garland in his hand and wrapped it around the branch, then around Francis’s feet, and all the way down his legs.

Francis looked up skeptically, feeling a little like an anachronistic ornament from holidays past dangling on the decorated tree. “I really don’t think that’s going to help hold me up.”

Basil chuckled. “I doubt it will; this is more to remind you to keep a good grip.”

Francis shot him a daring look. “Think you can make me lose my grip?” Cocky cupid.

Waggling his eyebrows, Basil smirked. “Let’s see, shall we?” He reached for Francis’s belt. Francis never really liked clothes. Would rather go without. But Faere Trade was a safe haven for people and nudity tended to make some folks uncomfortable. So he put on the uniform every day and figured it a small price to pay in order to work somewhere he didn’t have to wear a glamour.

But, now, with the metallic clink of his belt and the soft slide of leather sounding loud in the empty café, he kinda got the appeal. Feeling like an odd gift, he felt Basil’s hands push fabric away, reaching into his trousers to pull out his semi-hard sex. Francis inhaled sharply, when Basil ran his finger over the craggy ridges in his curved cock. When he fluttered forward, the slight wind from his wings hitting Francis, and took his length into his mouth, Francis shivered and felt his toes almost flex. He caught himself, locking his knees and gripping the branch again harder. Basil chuckled against his dick, the sound reverberating over the sensitive skin. Cocky, indeed.

Well, two could play this game.

Maybe.

Feeling blood rush to both his cock and his head, he stared at Basil’s zipper. Clenching his talons, he tried to figure out how to undo the man’s pants without shredding them. Shaking his head, he growled. “Take off your pants or walk out of here without them.” Those were the only options.

Basil laughed, keeping Francis deep in his mouth, even as he reached down to let his pants slide off and tumble to the ground. Hallelujah. Francis stared at his rising, rosy sex and licked his lips.

But, on that slick slide, he touched the tip of his canines. Oh yeah. He’d never actually slept with anyone who wasn’t a gargoyle, whose skin couldn’t handle the scrape and bite of talons and teeth. But looking at the long, pink flesh, Francis knew Basil couldn’t.

So, mouth gaping in what he hoped was safely open, he licked the silken skin over Basil’s hard shaft, the contradiction fascinating on his tongue. His taste, his scent, was different too, instead of earthy and rich, it was musky and smooth. He arched his neck, so he could run the full length of his tongue over the full length of Basil’s dick, swirling over the tip.

Basil, midair, faltered, pushing his cock against Francis’s mouth. “Careful.” Francis laid a hand against the man’s hip, to hold him from slipping too close to his teeth. But the touch just made him want to grab and squeeze. If Basil were a gargoyle, Francis would have dug his talons deep, scratched his stony skin, leaving grooves in his wake.

Instead, he tempered his touch, focusing his mind on the softness of the man’s flesh against his. He groaned and felt his palm sink into that give. It was so much like the sliding, yielding warmth of Basil’s mouth on his cock. Francis wanted to feel that slide here too.

But he didn’t know how. Not without hurting this man he only wanted to pleasure. But he wanted to try.

So he let his thumb and two fingers wrap around the man’s heavy, thick sex, making sure their pointed tips avoided the tender length. Tentatively, he moved them over that sleek skin. Hearing, feeling, Basil’s groan in response felt amazing, making him brave. He stroked him again, then again, harder and faster.

Again, the man’s wings flapped wildly, the sound of rustling feathers in the fir rewarding, making his dick thrust against Francis’s mouth. Francis licked his lips, craving that taste. Looking at his hand around Basil’s cock, he bit his lip.

Feeling the threatening tip of his tooth against his lip, Francis thoughtfully bit down. Basil’s body couldn’t handle Francis’s bite. But Francis’s could.

He coughed, his throat feeling tense. “Tell me if this is okay.” Stretching and tucking his lips to cover all his teeth, Francis bent forward and took the tip of the man’s length into his mouth.

Basil groaned, arching into Francis, slipping further past his lips. “It’s amazing. Sleek and impossibly smooth.”

Good. Relaxing, Francis let himself be overwhelmed by the feeling of Basil on him, in him. Inhaling, he felt surrounded by the scent and taste of him. He let the heat he felt flicker within fan into a flame. He felt consumed by it and welcomed it.

Wanting more, he thrust his hips and sucked harder, forcing them both deeper. He felt his teeth sink into his lips, pricking the skin, the small, sharp pain thrilling as it shivered through his senses. His feet clutched the branch holding him up as he struggled to keep his grip on Basil taut but teasing. He writhed against the scratchy garland twisted around his legs, against the sweet-smelling needles pricking him everywhere, and felt his climax barrel close.

He swallowed hard, his mouth loving Basil’s dick. With a grunting groan, Basil tensed, his hips pushing into lips, as he came, spilling himself down Francis’s throat. The bitter, slightly sweet taste filled Francis’s senses and, with his own echoing groan, he came into Basil’s waiting mouth too.

His talons slipped and scraped against the branch, making him falter and fall on a choked cry.

Basil caught him by the ankles before drifting slowly to lay him on the ground. Francis felt the rich soil and twist of roots beneath him as Basil, soft and warm, curled up next to him. He took a shaky breath and held the man close. Looking up at the towering, twinkling tree above them, he sighed. Maybe he wasn’t made for this season — or this season wasn’t made for him — but he really did love this time of year.

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