Chapter Three
Antonio
A glass calla lily on the hood of his car.
A cloak of iridescent feathers in his closet.
A delicate silver bracelet that rang like bells on his bedside table.
A rain of flower petals when he opened his kitchen cabinets.
Every day, everywhere he turned, Calloway haunted him.
Antonio paced the length of his garage, the doors open to let in the sharp chill of the evening air. He should go upstairs. Rest. Throw on a show. Sleep.
But the gifts were always waiting somewhere in his apartment, and he couldn’t make himself brave the stairs, because he hadn’t found today’s yet.
He picked up a little toy Camaro from a shelf and tossed it between his hands. A gift from the girls. Maybe he’d drop in on one of his sisters. Or go out for the night, find a hookup. Anything but facing another mocking gift telling him he’d never really get away.
“Good evening.” The low, rasping voice interrupted Antonio’s churning thoughts.
He glanced up, ready to explain that the shop was closed.
Then he saw who’d spoken. Pale blue eyes, ringed in ink-dark skin, giving way to milk white.
Wings of bone–bat wings, said his morbid high school self–branching from narrow shoulders.
Black lips and sharp teeth. All of that, dressed in tattered black jeans and a jacket covered in pins and patches.
A fae who’d gotten lost on his way back from a punk show.
The crisp evening air suddenly carried the smell of smoke and something else that Antonio could only think of as “purpleness.” The fae felt purple.
Twice in one fucking week. And all the sick little gifts in between. The toy car clattered to the ground.
“Fucking fuck,” he said. “Is the iron fortress too subtle? Do I need to get a sign? Tell Calloway– Shit, I don’t even know. Whatever he’s playing at, tell him to back off.”
The fae didn’t recoil or step forward. Only looked down at the little car, then back at Antonio, obviously confused.
“Calloway is a prat with little in the way of logic or merit.” That rasping voice had a lilt to it.
Scottish maybe? No. Irish. A fucking Irish fae.
“The day he consorts with the likes of me is the day somewhere very hot turns to snow. I’m not here on his behalf.
Nor do I play a part in whatever plan he may have rattling about in that empty head of his, should it exist.”
Antonio would’ve liked to believe him. But a pattern was a pattern.
Then again, fae were weird about Hollow.
They liked to stare and poke and test their charms. If nothing else, this one got marks for calling Calloway a prat.
Maybe a few extra for being a freaky-looking bastard like the last one.
Better than the airy, impossible prettiness of most he’d met.
“Sure. And the last one was looking for her cat.” He toed the toy car toward the corner of the garage. “Fine. I’ll play. What is it this time? You want a cup of sugar? Need directions to a Clash concert?”
“They’re back together?” The fae almost grinned, a flash of those pointed teeth, quickly hidden. “That’s good to hear. Less so Mother’s recovery of her monster.”
“Pretty sure they’re dead.” Or maybe not. Antonio wasn’t exactly an authority on British punk bands.
“That doesn’t need to stop things,” the fae said with a shrug. “But no. To be quite blunt? I’ve come to inquire about a possible affinity bond. Between you and me, specifically. No Calloway involvement expected, desired, or required.”
Affinity bond. Why did he know those words? They itched at Antonio’s memories as he shifted to lean against the trunk of the Pontiac, his fingers tapping their usual restless rhythm.
Bo. ReelSelf streamer and professional skeptic turned kelpie fucker. Bo and his “it’s not a sex thing” followed by it absolutely being a sex thing. Two souls made one and all that bullshit.
“You want to tell me what part of this,” he rapped his knuckles against the Pontiac with a hollow, ringing sound, “says ‘I’m yearning for a fae soulmate?’ Because I can redecorate if that’s the vibe this place is giving.”
“The ‘vibe’ leans more into ‘shove off, you iron-hating fucks’ than ‘yeah, baby, soulmates apply here,’ I’d say.” This time, when the fae smiled, his lips stayed pressed closed. “Even so, it’s not soulmates. More of a mutually beneficial arrangement? No, ah, mating involved.”
“Sure. Tell that to the kelpie fucker.” Too late, Antonio realized he’d muttered the words, and followed them with a quick, “What, I’m not your type?”
Whatever the bone-winged fae had been about to say, lips quirking up in another closed-mouthed smile, something in Antonio’s comment changed things. Those piercing eyes went searching, and his lips pressed in a thin, too-long line.
“I’m not of the mind to obligate anyone to my bed.” The fae’s words weren’t angry. Just flat. Maybe a little sad, beneath that. “I’m a sluagh.”
Sluagh. Antonio’d never met a sluagh. Didn’t know a thing about them except that Calloway had seemed terrified of them. Grouped them in with all the other death-aligned fae. The ones who wouldn’t be nice to meet.
In Antonio’s experience, the nice ones were plenty cruel.
He stepped out from behind the Pontiac and lifted his hands, palms up and out, like Reece had just a few days back. Before the first of Calloway’s presents.
“Look, man, it was a bad joke. Kelpie fucker aside, ‘let’s tie our souls together’ is too weird to be a pickup line.
” He didn’t apologize. You didn’t apologize to the fae.
But he could try to blunt the edge of whatever’d cut so deep.
“Nothing personal, alright? I just don’t mess around with fae shit.
And I’m not your special match. Guessing maybe you took a wrong turn somewhere. ”
“You were well within your rights to ask.” The fae tucked in those strange wings, held them tight against his back.
“The kelpie and his consort are more in line with the standard. Sluagh are not…” He glanced away, then back again.
“We are not sought after. On that note, I need to admit you are not all that special. Hollow aside, I suppose. You’re the tenth match we’ve found. ”
Something about the fae’s rasping voice gone cool, and the way he stood, bone wings tucked in tight, felt wrong. It made Antonio think of a blank white page, curling with flame or stained black by a spill of ink. Which made no fucking sense. But the image was unshakable.
Antonio walked closer, hands at his sides. Because… Christ, he wished he knew. Getting closer was a shit idea. And still, he did.
“You really need to work on your sales pitch,” he said, because maybe he could at least make the guy smile. “I mean, negging’s one thing, but ‘I don’t wanna fuck you and you’re not special,’ is taking it a bit far.”
The fae didn’t move as Antonio approached. But those blue eyes remained fixed on his face.
“I don’t know what negging is.” And yeah, there it was, the hint of a smile back on those black lips.
“But I said nothing of want. Would you prefer something more impressive? ‘Human I don’t know the name of, I come with the offer of power, a bond-tie to a House, and a chance to take down the Faerie equivalent of The Man.’ I could throw in a bit about being my one and only, but that would only be true after the oaths.
I strongly recommend not requesting poetry. ”
“See, that’s more like it.” When had Antonio gotten so close to the guy? Little more than an arm’s length away now. Antonio forced himself to stop inching nearer, rocking onto his toes to keep from pacing. “And maybe try introductions before the whole, ‘I want your soul’ schtick. Name’s Antonio.”
“I go by Declan.”
Declan the sluagh, sharp-edged and gaunt, with piercing, pale blue eyes and bone-white skin run through with cracks of gray.
“Look, Declan, the only thing I want from the fae is to be left alone. This isn’t me playing hard to get.”
“For what it may be worth, I don’t think you’re playing coy. Though, if I may be quite frank, Antonio, I expected you to close the garage doors in my face. Maybe throw a wrench at me.”
“Yeah, I’ve already got one curse. Not really looking to start a collection.
” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and the horseshoe inked there.
“I don’t want power. I’ve got a perfectly nice shitty apartment.
And, in my experience, taking down The Man gets you an enforced vacation in a 6’ by 8’. ”
Or an overcrowded dorm, guys stuffed fifty to a room. He’d done both.
“Fair enough. I only hoped to meet you and make my offer, which you’ve allowed me to do. No strings.”
It hurt, just looking at Declan. Something about his tight smile, lips drawn over sharp teeth. Something about the careful way he chose his words. Something about soft purple petals, dipped in black, wilting under an unforgiving sun.
No fucking sense. Fae made Antonio crazy. He knew they did.
“Right, well, we met. You made your offer.” Antonio glanced back at the garage he should retreat into. Shut the door and keep the monsters out.
“And you’ve made your answer clear.” Still, that closed-lipped smile. That feeling like dying flowers.
Don’t apologize. He’s a fae.
“Nothing personal. I don’t mess around with fae.
But, good luck with the other nine. Names first, yeah?
Maybe try a handshake.” The fae’s nails were long, curved, and sharp looking.
Black as ink or ash. “And don’t make it sound like you think either of you is unfuckable.
” He didn’t quite look Declan up and down.
Too sharp to be pretty. But definitely hot, with those wings and those bright blue eyes.
“'Murder punk' is definitely someone’s type.”
“I will keep the advice in mind,” Declan rasped. “Maybe even put all the piercings back in. Be well, Antonio. Mother will keep a better eye on her beast next time.”