Chapter Two
Living on an island had few benefits. There was no entertainment to speak of, but he could at least take the sea air on a beach laden with stones.
Few braved the wind in winter, never mind the darkening nights, but solitude was a rare thing to come by as a servant.
Dermot yearned to watch the waves as Aubrey had, else think on their encounter.
He was nearing the place when a woman’s song struck. Her voice, Dermot imagined, was equal to any songstress at the opera frequented by those with the good fortune to afford it. Tantalising, melodic, thoroughly devoid of any sort of lyric.
‘That one is not to my taste at all,’ the woman’s partner said. Her accent was unknown to him.
At that, the singing became louder. Even if it ruined his quiet, Dermot could not begrudge her voice. He stepped onto the shore, content to sit and listen, until the lady beckoned him to the ocean where the pair seemed to be swimming.
Some islanders bathed in the sea during winter; simple masochists who would never know themselves as such. Bemused, Dermot ambled towards her, crossing sand and stone to where she and her friend lay.
Standing so the sea crashed against his feet, Dermot shook his head when the women signalled again. The song ceased, and two icy stares watched him in its place.
‘The sea is not so cold, handsome,’ the singer said, extending her arms as if to embrace him. ‘Come to me. I’ll warm you up.’
Dermot nearly laughed at their earnest entreaties, only restraining himself as to not offend. The women were exceptional beauties, each with dark hair and strong features. Not being handsome like Will, he had never rejected a woman before and did not relish the prospect.
‘I appreciate the offer, but if you’re going to sing, I’d rather stay here. I’ve never been much of a swimmer,’ Dermot said.
The women frowned, looking to one another in bewilderment until they sang again, laughing readily. Perhaps it was a game they played often, secluded and safe from judgemental townsfolk.
Dermot again indicated his refusal as the singer swam forward, hands caressing his own. They had no idea men such as he existed, he was certain. ‘Meaning no offence, I best be getting home.’ Gently prying his hands away, he was incredulous as she pulled back, nails digging into his skin.
‘What is the matter with this one, Thalia? I have never seen the like.’
Disturbed though they were, the pair were still women. Dermot disentangled himself with ease only to find his hand bearing five scratches, each cut beading blood as Thalia came closer.
Eyes flitting between them, Dermot observed their smooth, unblemished skin. Thalia made a grab for him, and as she did, vivid scales met air.
Dermot fell back, mouth fixed in a soundless shout as his feet pressed uselessly against sand. Thalia’s grip on his wrist was uncommonly tight, and her own lips parted to reveal teeth like that of the beasts depicted on Lord Stanley’s walls.
Clasping the hilt of the measly kitchen knife he carried for protection, Dermot swung once in warning and, hearing nothing but mockery in reply, thrust directly into Thalia’s arm.
He’d cut flesh all his life, though admittedly his victims were already dead and on the table.
Piercing a living thing was an entirely different matter.
The squirming was such that all butchers were at once murderers to him.
The creature pulled back but in doing so tore her flesh further. The cut was a ghastly thing; pristine white gone gory red in an instant.
His heel caught on stone and he fell hard onto the beach, the bloodied knife slipping from his grasp. Languishing against the sand for but a moment, he hauled himself up, stumbling back until he was at last near land, and Thalia and her sister had sunk into the waves.
He fell to his knees as soon as he touched grass.
Though folk spoke of beasts, faeries, and even mermaids, he privately thought them deranged.
Being on a windswept island in the middle of a roaring sea dulled even the sharpest of minds, turning them as provincial as the land itself.
But the wailing sea maidens struck true.
The marks stung keenly against his skin where Thaila’s nails had been.
The night was darkening. Getting to his feet, he walked through the countryside like a child, shivering and afraid.
If mermaids circled the isle, perhaps other mythical creatures took breath as well, so he kept himself guarded as the day receded.
His teeth chattered at the mere recollection of his mother’s stories, which she’d read at night.
Each tale had been riddled with monsters that could drive men to madness.
‘Hello,’ a voice called. Light and melodious, sweet as a chime carried by the wind.
Dermot faltered. ‘Who goes there?’ he said.
‘Only I,’ the voice said again. ‘You needn’t be frightened.’
Dermot’s insides seized. Eyes darting about, he came upon a creature that he, a hot-blooded young man, couldn’t hope to recreate in his fantasies. A boy about twenty with hair of pure white curling above his shoulders, sylphlike and of a height Dermot could lift and position with ease.
‘You did us a service by getting rid of those nasty wenches. Many a man lost his life there,’ the boy said, smiling with lips that could inspire a bawdy tale. ‘Come here. I’d like to give you something.’
‘You’re no mortal,’ Dermot said. He’d left his knife bloodied on the beach but couldn’t bear to run. Doubtless the sirens’ victims felt a similar compulsion; at the heart of it, they were no different. Dermot just had a different kind of tempter.
‘No,’ the boy confirmed, stepping closer. ‘I’m one of the fair folk.’
A faerie. The mermaids would have been enough for a lifetime. Now Dermot had to contend with this.
‘What’s the matter?’ the boy said, staring up at Dermot with wide eyes. ‘Am I not fair?’
Dermot startled as he was embraced, watching in disbelief as the faerie stood on tiptoes and leaned forward, entangling them as their lips clashed together.
An unholy union to be sure, but his partner’s lips were full and soft, and Dermot soon wrapped his arms around the boy’s thin frame in return.
It was his first kiss; ambrosia was on his tongue.
Hands unravelling from around Dermot’s neck and slowly trailing his chest until they rested firmly on his breeches, the faerie said, ‘I can give you so much more.’
‘How old are you?’ Dermot choked out.
The faerie smiled. ‘Older than you can fathom. Lie down.’
Legs already shaking, Dermot did as he was bid.
Lying flat on the earth with the realisation the boy could kill him in an instant, cold fingers brushed against skin as trousers were clawed away.
It was madness; to think a man might stake his existence for a chance at pleasure.
No doubt his fellows rested on the ocean floor, else in the stomachs of those women.
Sense returning, Dermot began to rise as the faerie’s tongue teased his aching cock.
It was harder than he'd ever known it, engorged and straining.
The lad’s golden eyes met Dermot’s, and the faerie smiled before plunging forward and licking in earnest, teasing the entire length, peppering kisses on the head like depraved worship.
Better than Dermot’s eager hands rubbing himself raw as he imagined dark hair, a slender form.
But he could not just then recall who frustrated him so.
‘I love human men. You are more impressive than anyone in my realm,’ the faerie said, wrapping thin fingers around the length. And with that, he put his lips on the thing entire.
The drudgery of life was forgotten, eased between the lips of the creature that had become his world. Everyone could burn and it wouldn’t matter so long as the faerie kept bobbing his head, twisting his tongue around Dermot’s length as he jerked his hand in tandem.
Bliss struck, heralding his peak. It was as if he were Lord Stanley, being fussed over like a god. The lad’s hair covered most of his sweet, doll-like face, but between the strands, they glimpsed one another.
‘You’re an angel,’ Dermot gasped. Breath hitching, vision blackening in pleasure, his head hit the ground. The rest of him shuddered through climax. His core pulsed and sang, stopped only by a scream he belatedly realised was his own.
He might’ve died, the bright spark of pleasure all that remained save for fingers weaving through his curls. His brain tingled in delight.
‘Not an angel,’ the boy murmured. Soft lips pressed against Dermot’s forehead. ‘What is your name, hero?’
‘Dermot Hatfield,’ he said. ‘I’m no hero.’
‘You are to me. Such a brave, virile man,’ the faerie said. ‘Few mortals can see us, you know. You have a gift. And a strong hand, at that.’
Dermot blearily opened his eyes. The faerie knelt above him without a single blemish on porcelain skin.
‘Have you enjoyed yourself, Dermot Hatfield? It certainly seemed like it,’ the faerie said. He gave Dermot’s hair a tug before pulling away. ‘Don’t you think you should give me something in return?’
He looked up at the boy and smiled, still a thrall to the faerie that had serviced him.
‘So handsome,’ the faerie said. He moved to sit on top of Dermot so their position mimicked the act. ‘Surely you’d be able to help a poor creature like me.’
‘And what is it you need doing?’ Dermot asked, entranced by the way their bodies moved together.
The boy hummed, and even that turned Dermot to cinder; lovelier in that moment than anything sung to completion.
He procured a vial from his pocket and held it in front of Dermot’s face.
‘Not an epic quest of some kind, I assure you. I merely ask that in a few days, when the bishop comes again to your castle, you pour some of this in whatever you happen to be making. Food or wine, it doesn’t matter, so long as everyone has a taste. ’
Narrowing his eyes at the vessel, Dermot considered. He’d imagined a sexual favour but, as their play became more frenzied, every question was forgotten. No man was wise when there was a chance of losing his virginity.
‘Why?’ Dermot managed.
‘Because I’ve done something for you. Now you must repay me,’ the boy said.
‘What are you, a prostitute?’ Dermot said. When he saw the creature scowl, he realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, love. Clearly you know who I am. A simple scullion used to kitchen humour. No great hero.’
‘By all means, if that’s what you want to be, don’t take the vial.
But I am giving you the opportunity to do something with that life of yours,’ the boy said, now very still.
‘It’s not every day that man and faerie meet.
Even the ones that go to the merfolk know nothing but compulsion.
It is a gift of the blood to even lay eyes on me. ’ The boy moved again, teasing.
Dazed and pleasure-addled as he was, it made a grim sort of sense.
‘What’s in the vial?’ Dermot asked. Black hair and dark eyes played in his mind; the realisation that if not for Aubrey’s sweet voice, he’d give it to the Stanleys without asking, hoping they all choked on it until their bodies succumbed.
‘It’s not poison, I assure you,’ the boy said. ‘A simple concoction full of wonderful things. Flowers, fruit…’
‘Why give it to them?’ Dermot said. Immediately his curiosity was met by chimes of laughter.
‘My motivations don’t concern you. Do as I ask and be glad your task is a simple one,’ the boy said. He thrust the vial into Dermot’s palm amidst loving caresses before shutting his fingers tight over glass. ‘I won’t keep you all night.’
Dermot watched the faerie disentangle himself. He couldn’t imagine how he was perceived, lying naked from the waist down.
‘What is your name?’ Dermot blurted.
The boy already had his back to him, retreating into the forest. ‘Maldred,’ he said.