Chapter Ten
Zyr
He had ruined it. Robin wouldn’t stay. He had stood in Zyr’s heart, listened, and heard the truth of it. And it had unsettled him.
Zyr always had been too much for anyone to tolerate. Too intense. Too himself. Too obsessed. Robin’s aversion was rational. Zyr would not fault him for it. Nor would he brood over the fact that Robin had departed his allotment. That he was somewhere in Faerie, unprotected.
If they were bonded–
No.
He wouldn’t dangle a prize over Robin’s head, not even if it would soothe the need to know where the man was and whether he was safe. Still, he twisted the ring, tempted more than he wished to admit to take it off.
Better to focus on other problems, ones which at least had some hope of solution. His books were still missing, and he had one more contact who might be of some use in their recovery. Hyacinth might not be much a scholar himself, but as the son of Linden’s eccentric House head, he heard things.
He also happened to be the only tolerable member of the House Zyr found himself sworn to.
The walk from his allotment to Hyacinth’s was predictably brief.
Most traversals of Faerie were, but those within a House even more so.
His own storms swept moors and jagged stones gave way to what even Zyr recognized as a modern city street.
Asphalt hemmed by concrete, with tall brick structures on each side.
Stone stoops fronted each building and, in the narrow passages between, black-painted stairways clung to the bricks.
Unsurprisingly, two of Hyacinth’s followers were waiting outside one of the buildings: the cat pooka, in his tailored suit, and the young selkie, wearing his pelt as a leather jacket. Someone must have felt him passing through the local wards and sent them to greet him.
“They all come from chickens’ asses. How can you get more organic than that?” the selkie was saying as Zyr approached.
“I think the organic ones are from the country of Oregon,” the pooka replied, before shifting gaze to Zyr, ears perked. “Zyr! Good to see you. Rethink my offer?”
“I’m not fucking you, Orrim,” Zyr answered, as he always did. Why Orrim persisted in his strange flirtation, he never could figure out.
“No sense of adventure. Sellain, tell him what he’s missing out on.”
“Cries of ecstasy. An ocean of both impressive depth and spectacular motion. A wild ride on a mountain traversed by several and tamed by none,” the selkie said, grinning at Zyr in a manner he probably imagined was charming. “I can keep going. Should I keep going?”
Zyr managed not to sigh. Nearly all Hyacinth’s followers were like this.
Inoffensive for their kind. All seelie, but none of them with that practiced superiority, that way of saying death aligned with a cloying mix of pity and condescension.
But, in place of that usual arrogance, the whole group of them were merely ridiculous.
Sea foam and starshine. All glitter, no substance.
Robin who’d lived only a mortal’s brief lifetime, had so much more to him than the joking, ridiculous pair. Robin, who had left Zyr’s allotment.
He was fine. He was somewhere, and he was fine. He was brother to the Summer King.
“No.” Zyr kept his tone flat. “Is Hyacinth available?”
“Afraid not,” Orrim answered with a liquid shrug. “Off playing in the mortal realm. We can pass along a message.”
He’d expected this. Zyr didn’t often have cause to speak with Hyacinth, but when he did, the sidhe was inevitably somewhere else. Luckily, while his friends weren’t good for much, they could be relied upon to communicate basic messages, so long as Zyr used small words.
“When last I spoke to him, he asked about a text for his ‘little brother.’ Is that still an interest?”
The selkie ran a hand through his long, dark hair, expression settling into something that at least attempted to appear serious. “For Lysander? Or Leo?”
“The Gate. He inquired after a book on Gate history.”
“We like to call Lysander ‘Lysander’ here,” Orrim said. Something in his voice, drew Zyr’s gaze. That ironic lilt felt almost familiar. “But, yes. It’s still an interest.”
But it should be familiar. He saw Orrim often enough, even bothered to remember his name. Only, that wasn’t it. This was a more recent memory.
The cat-sith from the meeting, was that it? Perhaps he’d developed an aversion to all feline fae, and that was why he kept glancing back at Orrim.
“You’re sure you’re not interest in a fuck?” Orrim asked, though Zyr found himself focusing more on the rise and fall of the words than the man himself. “You’re staring.”
Familiar. He had heard that voice, or something near it, at the meeting.
Measured breathing in the dark. Don’t talk about the cat.
Robin wasn’t here. And Zyr, without him, found himself losing himself further within his own thoughts and memories.
Orrim came nearer, and Zyr was oddly glad of it. Perhaps with a bit of closer study…
The pooka kissed him on the tip of the nose, and Zyr came back to the moment with a snarl.
“Fucking cats.”
“I think he’s back with us.” Orrim grinned at him. “But I can do it again to be sure.”
“Try it,” Zyr growled.
The selkie cleared his throat, shooting Orrim a sideways glance with his huge, dark eyes. Clearly, the young selkie was the brighter of the two. Not much of a lift, but at least the he could sense danger. And wasn’t making Zyr’s skin itch with the sense he was forgetting something.
“He’s still interested,” the boy reiterated, with a less annoying smile. “Why are you asking?”
“Someone stole a pair of books from me.” He could have played cagey and round-about on the topic.
But he’d never understood why so many fae felt the need.
“One was on the veil. Which, obviously, means it touches on the topic of Gate history. I need Hyacinth to inform me if he’s approached by a seller. ”
“Someone stole from you?” the selkie asked, in open, unfeigned shock.
A relief, to see it. Not that Zyr believed Hyacinth would be involved. He’d made Zyr the guardian of his memories. And however ridiculous the sidhe was, Zyr had seen the veiled sentiment when he’d brought his father’s books.
He knew what it was to value something that others would dismiss.
“Yes. And I intend to find out who.”
“You’d think if someone wanted to die that badly, they’d just do it,” the selkie said, still incredulous. “Not like it’s hard.”
“It’s amazing how people complicate the simple,” Zyr agreed, now fully prepared to grant the selkie the dubious title of ‘the cleverer of the two.’ “You’ll pass along the word?”
“It may not help.” Orrim’s expression was thoughtful, for a given value of thought. “I don’t think many are aware of Hyacinth’s interest. He went to you because it’s you. But he may be willing to put out the word that he’s in the market. See if anyone comes sniffing.”
“Yeah,” the selkie agreed, frowning. “It’s a weird time for someone to go stealing stuff on veils and Gates, isn’t it? With everything going on.”
Orrim’s tail twitched. Zyr, familiar with the language of tails, knew agitation when he saw it. But agitated at what? It could be that the selkie had said the wrong thing. Or that he’d said exactly the right thing. Or that the pooka was growing bored.
“Everything is always going on,” Zyr said, keenly interested now. Robin was hunting secrets and solutions, and Hyacinth was the nearest thing Zyr had to a connection with the inner circles of fae power. “Which everything?”
Orrim yawned, then stretched, cat like.
“Oh, the usual rumblings, just louder. Close the veil, don’t let the riff raff in. Apparently some very naughty fae have been consorting with humans. Dressing them up in pretty crowns and then … undressing them again.”
“And that was before the party. The one with the duel. Some aren’t happy about a Hollow killing a fae.” The selkie’s smile was back in place, but his jaw was set. “And Danse Macabre hasn’t been in fashion for ages.”
And this was why Zyr didn’t mind Hyacinth and his little collection of glittering, foolish seelie.
It wasn’t that there was no malice to them.
It was that the malice wasn’t aimed in the direction that you’d expect from a group of respectable (or fashionably disrespectable) young seelie with strong ties to the Monarchs.
“Any fae who can’t fend off a single Hollow deserves what they get,” Zyr said, with the barest hint of his own smile. “Tell Hyacinth I want to meet with him. A book on Gate history, post-convergence but rare, in exchange for his assistance.”
“We’ll pass it along.” Orrim took a step closer, his smile insinuating. “You sure you don’t want to come inside, dragon? So to speak.”
“Fuck off.”
The pooka sighed, all theatrical drama, and flopped against the selkie’s side. “I suppose he’s not a cat person. What’s your poison, beithir? Horses? Lizards? Birds?”
Zyr didn’t mean to growl. But he did.
“I think that’s a yes for the fair feathered folk, Orrim.” The selkie’s smile was all vapid cheer again. “Have you met Tsuri? They’re kinnari. Absolute riot. Loads of feathers. Can sing as well as you growl. It’s impressive.”
“Clever birds.” Zyr’s tail lashed in irritation. “I’m unavailable for the next two days. If Hyacinth wishes, he may come by my allotment next week. I’ll show him the books I might be willing to part with.”
And, hopefully, grill the sidhe on what he knew of this talk about closing the veil.