Chapter Two
Declan
What in the multiple worlds had Declan gotten himself into.
He refused to let the thought be a question. Questions required answers and he, surrounded by scrolls and notes and bits of fancied magic with memories tucked inside, felt fairly sure he’d never find another answer in the whole of his cursed life. In fact, he’d never even leave this room.
One day, some poor soul would stumble over Declan’s bones stretched over a mountain of papers and still stained with ink.
Not solely to feed his own sense of drama, Declan rested his elbows on the large desk in the center of his mother’s library, fingers pressed to his eyes, the very picture of academic despair.
Portrait of Frustrated Scholar in Jump Boots
A lamp near the door flickered on, lighting up the parts of the library Declan wasn’t lurking in. He lifted his hand, eyes narrowed at the sound of light feet and a swishing tail.
“Mother?” Declan called warily, staring in the direction of clicking cat claws. “Did you bring your monster into the library?”
Puck, the miscreant, meowed in his high, bright way. It gave Declan enough time to hastily start tidying the desk, delicate documents tucked away from large paws and invasive teeth.
“Of course I did, darling,” Aisling answered.
She appeared from behind a bookshelf, looking small and delicate against the solid, polished wood.
Like Declan, she wore a minor glamour out of habit, her sharp, too-wide mouth gone smaller and blunt.
“He’s been a wretched creature all day. I’m quite displeased with him. ”
“So, you subject me to his attentions.” Declan frowned at the large cat as it ambled after Aisling.
“You sent me to fetch you an early grave, my precious boy. I’m quite displeased with you, too. What in the world are you doing in here?”
Aisling smiled sweetly at him. Declan’s father liked to say that his ruthless, charming wife’s simper hid steel. Always said with affection.
Declan busied himself with stepping out of Puck’s way, still frowning. What was there to say?
He’d hoped to find something useful, something he hadn’t already read on bonds between fae and humans. They were possible, but he already knew that. Everil and Bo had proven it, and been verified by the Council, even if some pairs had stepped down rather than confirm it.
“Still looking for any details on fae with human bonds. They remain elusive.”
“Pre-Convergence information is scarce, hummingbird. And my beithir associate hoards most of it.” Aisling patted his shoulder. “Even if it weren’t, it’s notoriously difficult to find things on any person’s day-to-day.”
“If you can keep that furry shredding machine alive for decades, why can’t anyone write a detailed diary for the whole of their lives and pass it on to you when they die? Is that so difficult, Mother? A little common courtesy?”
How had such bonds made a life for themselves? Had they been information merchants, Faerie weavers, artisans? Perhaps high-ranking courtiers, back when they had they had Courts and not the Council.
Aisling’s next pat was to his hair. Unlike him, she had no claws.
Perfectly normal nails she didn’t need to glamour to keep from ruining her clothes.
Declan, meanwhile, spent far too much time whittling his six-inch, razor-sharp talons to a more manageable two inches that resembled his teeth more than anything. Crocodile teeth.
“Regarding that awful errand you sent me on,” she said.
“Mother, we’ve discussed this.”
Declan had spent centuries searching Faerie for a bond, only to be greeted by slamming doors and rejection. No one wanted an ambitious sluagh by their side. And, with the Council moving to make it yet more difficult to join their ranks, Declan was running out of time.
“Yes,” she said on a sigh. “We have indeed discussed my son’s desire to find a bond that will shorten his life by uncountable centuries.”
“Regarding the errand,” he prompted.
“I’ve come with two names. Tell me I am your very favorite mother and a gem.”
He wouldn’t get his hopes up. He wouldn’t. A human could turn him down, just as everyone else had. Seven refusals and only Tsuri, the very first option, had bothered anything more than a veneer of polite interest before sending an equally polite refusal.
“How did you manage two?”
“Three, technically. One of them isn’t suitable.
” She clicked her tongue in disapproval, nudging Declan away gently in favor of dropping dramatically onto a newly materialized chaise.
“And I’ve told you, darling: you align with a large number of magics.
You’re a candle in the dim recesses of Faerie. ”
“Which few are keen to burn themselves on,” Declan muttered, reaching for the nearest clutter. Something to keep him busy.
“The sheer number of humans makes it easy,” Aisling continued as if Declan hadn’t interrupted. “I went to exactly two countries. If any of them don’t work out, there’s at least a few extra to look over.”
“Matches?”
“Countries.” Aisling frowned at him. “Keep up, heart of hearts.”
Declan smoothed out the stack of papers he had been putting together, his eyes on the soft edges. He took too long in answering and, worse, didn’t look at her.
“Declan,” Aisling said, achingly gentle. Declan didn’t respond. “Sweetling. Are you getting your hopes up or talking yourself down?”
“I am putting things away,” he replied, glancing up to meet her eyes. “You are my very favorite mother. You are a gem. Tell me about them?”
Aisling worried her lower lip, and he worried she might not answer. They’d argued endlessly over Declan’s plan. Cutting her favorite child’s life down to a maximum of four or so more centuries did not, shockingly, entice her.
“What are your feelings on changelings?”
“On– Pardon?” Declan paused, papers forgotten. “Your barghest friend is … very large? Competent. And Metara’s bond is,” a nigh-unfathomably powerful creature who watched people sidelong and enjoyed parties as much as Everil, “curious. Though I can’t fault his taste in boyfriends.”
Well, he could. Judah’s jotunn lover was nice enough. It was only, Declan always grated under too much nice. Even if they came with impressive arms that were made for admiration.
“One of them happens to be a changeling.” Aisling studied her nails, nonchalant, as if she hadn’t just said something fascinating. And dangerous. Fascinating and dangerous. “We could weather the scandal. And you wouldn’t have to…”
Die. He wouldn’t have to die.
“Tell me everything. About both of them.”
“Just… my love, even a changeling, there’s no guarantee–”
“Please, Mother,” Declan said quietly, holding her gaze when Aisling looked up. “What’s a couple more, if they say no? They’ve been found; you may as well share what you’ve discovered. Indulge me.”
“You’re a wretch.” Aisling sulked further into the chaise. Then she sighed and patted the cushion next to her. “Fine. Sit down, you spoiled child.”
“They’re both a bit intense, love. You must have a type. Don’t look at me like that.”
The first was called Kevin.
Declan had only just settled in at the outdoor bar and ordered his drink, when Kevin appeared like a conjurer’s trick, sliding onto the stool next to his. Which, Declan supposed, answered the question of whether the man could feel that tug at his soul, the way Declan could.
Kevin smiled with his whole face, bright and easy, as if he had a hundred things to grin over. Muscular and tan, in a venue full of like men, as was the standard in Declan’s experience of beachfront parties.
“You’re pretty,” Kevin said, all sun-kissed skin and laugh lines, a good head and a half foot taller than Declan, even with Declan’s boots and Kevin’s boat shoes. “Hey. I’m Kevin.”
“Does the ‘you’re pretty’ line actually work? Truly?” Declan asked, amused despite himself. Large men trying to loom never failed to give him a laugh. One doing it by accident while unironically wearing a fitted, canary yellow shirt with Sun’s Out, Guns Out slapped on, even more so.
Kevin laughed, his head back until it wasn’t, his grin aimed at Declan. His soul, when Declan allowed himself to reach for it, taste it, sang of oilskin, fresh rain, and cedar. The man himself smelled of his mug of craft beer, mild soap, and cigarettes.
“Not really,” he admitted, though the way he smiled said otherwise. Declan suspected those charmed had less to do with the pickup line and more to do with those arms. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. What’s your name?”
“Declan.” Declan raised his newly arrived drink in greeting and took a sip. Kevin watched his mouth, the press of it against the rim and the subsequent curve of Declan’s midnight purple smile. “May I ask you a question, Kevin?”
The smiley face between Out and Guns twisted with Kevin’s swig of beer, fabric stretched tight. Declan floated in thoughts of misting forests and protective coats over small shoulders. Blunt-teethed kisses and painlessness.
“Go for it, Declan.” Kevin said his name like dak-lahn. Hard to start, trailing soft and long, almost twisting to end in a y. Declan, being more of a dek-luhn sort of man, kept smiling.
“Do you consider yourself a nice person?”
“I-” Kevin blinked at him from over his drink.
Then he laughed, lowering it to the bar top with a clink.
He leaned in, so Declan could taste the cedar and mist. “Fuck, dude, if anyone tells you they’re a nice person or a ‘nice guy’, you run for the hills.
That’s a major red flag, the capital N, capital G nice guy. ”
“Oh?”
“It’s like saying, ‘I’m great at my job’, but my job isn’t a personality trait, you know?”
“Do other people think it is?” Declan wasn’t a nice person. The lack, somehow, did count as a personality trait. He was very much like his mother in that, personable but not nice.
“Assholes think it is.” Kevin shrugged. “I’m a person. I try to be a decent one. My friends say I’m shit at conflict. Does that count?”