Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
DAPHNE
A pprehension crawls up my spine as I follow Monty to the metal balustrade. As I reach it, I stare down at the crowded floor. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights, for climbing trees and other scalable objects was my specialty as a pine marten. That doesn’t mean I fancy taking a tumble in my seelie form, so I maintain a healthy distance from the ledge, unlike some of the young people at the busier end of the balcony who are perched upon the rail with their legs dangling in midair. At the very center of the floor below is a raised platform. The crowd is dense around it, but the stage is unoccupied. Will this be a performance of sorts? My fascination has grown now that Monty’s here, but the cacophony of chatter and laughter continues to assault my senses.
“You haven’t tried it yet,” Monty says, drawing my attention to where he stands beside me. He leans with his forearms propped on the railing, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his collar open, no cravat or waistcoat. It’s strange being this close to him, with our eyes nearly level. I was a tiny mustelid during most of our interactions and got used to viewing him from the ground. Only once have I been so near him while in my seelie form—on one of the last stops of The Heartbeats Tour, when I donned my humanoid body to participate in a charity gala—but I’ve forgotten how strange it is to look at him head-on.
I’ve also forgotten his question.
“Pardon?” I say, blinking at him.
An amused grin tugs his lips, and he nods at the pink candy floss clutched in my hand. “Your treat. You haven’t tried it yet.”
“Oh, right.” I tear off a piece of the fluffy confection and bring it to my tongue. It’s more flavorful than I expected, blackberry with a hint of something else that warms my stomach…
“Blackberry cordial,” Monty says. “It’s boozy candy floss.”
My eyes widen. Did he remember my favorite drink, even after all this time? He always was thoughtful in that regard, indulging me in my love for sweet liquor even when he himself doesn’t imbibe. Then I recall that he witnessed my conversation with Brad Folger today, to whom I relayed my preference for berry cordial. Maybe that’s the only reason Monty remembered.
He speaks again. “It’s spun with an enchantment that cuts out excess noise. For those with sensitive fae hearing. Or…those who don’t like crowds.”
Now I’m truly impressed. Both reasons apply to me, though the former is less of an issue in my seelie form. The softness in his grin tells me he was more concerned about the latter, and as the remnants of my sugary bite dissolve fully over my tongue, I begin to feel its magical effects. The clamor around me lowers to a muted hum, not obscured in any way, just less piercing. Tension eases from every muscle, filling me with calm.
“You like it?” Monty’s voice remains as clear as before, so the enchantment must not alter sounds in one’s immediate proximity.
“I do, but where did you get it? You didn’t steal it from a sugar sprite on your way here, did you?”
He gives me a wry look, then points to the far end of the building. “Concessions, Daffy Dear.”
“Oh, I want to go!” Araminta leaps between us. “I’ve always wanted to try booze. Might you be so kind as to loan me a few emerald chips?”
I narrow my eyes to slits. “Are you even old enough to drink? And why the hell would I give you money?”
“I may have freshly emerged from my chrysalis,” Araminta says with a huff, “but I was a bookworm for one hundred and twenty-seven years. I’m an adult, thank you very much. And I need money because I don’t yet have a job. Today is my societal debut, after all.”
“Here,” Monty says, handing her a few emerald chips. “Have a blast.”
Araminta squeals as she accepts the currency and darts off. I stare after her as she disappears into the crowded end of the balcony, and I’m struck with a pang of worry mixed with envy. How is she so much braver and more self-assured than I am?
“So, you got yourself a bookworm.” Monty extracts his cigarillo case from his trouser pocket and places one of the slender joints between his lips. He holds my eyes as he lights it with a cylindrical igniter. My gaze falls to his mouth as he takes a long drag and blows out a smoky breath, the air between us filling with a sweet floral aroma. It’s much more pleasant than the cloying tobacco coming from the other patrons.
I realize I’m still staring at his mouth and force my attention back to his eyes. “Infestation at the office. Our bookworms have figured out how to grow wings.”
He chuckles. “I had no idea bookworms metamorphosed.”
“Neither did we,” I say. “We had to bring in a faentologist to consult on where the papery sprites were coming from. We knew bookworms were a type of sprite, so it made sense the paper pixies were book sprites too. Apparently, metamorphosing is a new development for bookworms, and not all of them choose to do so. Thank the All of All.”
He laughs again, but the sound is drowned out by a clanging bell, followed by a cheer. The clamor is so alarming that my entire body goes rigid. Belatedly I realize the enchantment has begun to wear off. I stuff another piece of candy in my mouth, just as Monty’s hand gently braces my lower back.
He points to the floor, cigarillo between his fingers. “It’s starting.”
Something about Monty’s touch settles my nerves and I look to where he’s indicating. A fae male with green skin and a ridiculously tall top hat stands at the center of the stage. If this is about to be a performance, he must be the Master of Ceremonies.
The enchanted confection soothes the harshest edges of sound once more.
The kangaroo fae from the front door steps onto the stage with a glass fishbowl containing folded pieces of paper. The Master of Ceremonies raises a hand above the bowl. Then, with a snap of his fingers, a slip of paper appears in his hand. “Our first combatant,” he says, his voice carrying lightly over the now-softened din as he reads what’s written on the paper, “is Gabby Stabbington!”
A cheer I can only partially hear erupts in the room and the crowd parts to reveal a broad-shouldered fae female dressed in slacks, a short-sleeved linen shirt, and an apron splattered with what looks like blood.
I glance at Monty. “Her name is Gabby Stabbington?”
“No one uses their real names here. Though you might recognize her from the butcher shop on Sixth and Loam.”
I’ve never been to a butcher on Sixth and Loam, for I prefer the one on Third, since it’s closer to home. That does, however, explain the bloody apron. And yet…what am I about to watch? The Master of Ceremonies called her a combatant.
I pluck a fresh piece of candy floss from the fluffy bundle and pop it in my mouth. The announcer places his hand over the bowl again, quieting the crowd once more. With another snap of his fingers, a second slip of paper appears in his palm. “Our second combatant, Marshall Bruisemaker!”
“This is perfect,” Monty says. His forearms are propped on the railing again, which means he’s no longer bracing my back. I’m not sure why that disappoints me. It’s not like I need his touch to calm me when I have my tasty confection to do just that. He flashes me a wide grin. “You’re going to like him.”
I glance back at the stage as a towering man steps upon it, his bare torso rippling with muscles in places I never knew had noticeable muscles. His jaw is square, his cheekbones high. He’s…
“A sexy storybook hero, yes?” Monty takes the words straight from my mouth. The stage clears of everyone but the two combatants and the clanging bell sounds again. At once, the two figures race toward each other. Gabby Stabbington sends a punch to Marshall Bruisemaker’s gut, but he hardly falters, swinging his fist into her ribs.
My mouth falls open. No wonder this is being held in such a suspicious location, on the fringes of the city. I’ve never heard of mixed-gender boxing matches—which is what I’m guessing this sport is. I’ve only watched a few friendly matches and always grew bored when there wasn’t enough blood. I’d seen more violent entertainment on an average Tuesday in the unseelie forest. But this…
This is something else. I’m about to ask why Monty brought me here when my eyes lock on the male fighter again. My focus settles on the flex of his muscles, the intricate dance of the veins that rope his forearms. The fighters turn, exchanging vicious blows, which gives me another angle to admire.
My head swivels toward Monty, my lips spread in an amused grin. “ This is the solution to my model problem?”
“Bare-knuckle amateur boxing,” he says. “A great way to study anatomy, am I right? It’s fantastic entertainment besides. Less rules than a typical boxing arena, save for the obvious: no weapons, no magic, and no fatal blows. But like I said, this is legal. Mostly.”
I almost don’t catch the last part. “Mostly?”
He takes a final drag from his cigarillo, then leans in close, his chest almost brushing my shoulder. I freeze, my pulse quickening at his sudden proximity, until I realize he’s only reaching for the glass tray on the table behind us. He discards the butt of his cigarillo and returns to face the balustrade, oblivious that he gave me a momentary loss of breath. “The organizers behind this operation donate hefty sums to the patrol force, so the officers turn a blind eye.”
I stuff another piece of sugary fluff into my mouth. “Do you come here often?”
“Every Friday. What better way to release the stress of the work week?”
My chest warms as I recall that about him—his love for boxing. I can’t count the number of times he snuck away during The Heartbeats Tour to catch a match. I also remember him getting into a scuffle or two himself. There was even an incident I was involved in, when Monty confronted a lion fae who’d tried to take advantage of an inebriated Edwina Danforth. I’m still proud of the yelp that bastard made when I bit his ankles.
I face the stage again, just in time to catch a spurt of blood flying from Gabby Stabbington’s face as Marshal Bruisemaker’s fist collides with her nose. The crowd gasps, and I wonder if she’s done for. But she doesn’t so much as stumble back. Instead, she swings for his face in return. As he throws up his arms to block her, she pivots and jabs her other fist straight into his gut. Then another. He lowers his arms to retaliate, but her next punch strikes his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side. A final jab to the gut knocks him on his back.
The kangaroo fae hops onto the stage, acting as referee. He leads the crowd in a chant of counting. When Marshall fails to stand by the count of ten, Gabby throws up her fists in victory.
“Good ol’ Gabby,” Monty says. “Always reeling her opponents in by making them feel like they’ve got the upper hand. Only to utterly destroy them in a series of incredibly painful blows.” He cradles his ribs, as if Marshall’s pain is his own.
Applause erupts all around as Marshall slowly eases to his feet and meets Gabby at the center of the ring for a friendly handshake. I frown, watching Marshall and his magnificent muscles climb down from the stage and disappear into the crowd.
I cast a pleading look at Monty. “Wait, that’s all?”
“The night is far from over. Matches continue until midnight, but we have a few minutes until they select the fighters for the next bout.”
That sparks excitement in my chest, and I bounce on the balls of my feet, gobbling up another piece of blackberry-flavored fluff.
Monty chuckles. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Does that mean I’m right? Will this help with your illustration work?”
My excitement dims a little. Even though I found a lot to admire about Marshall’s physique, I’m not sure I’ll be able to recreate it from memory once I’m at my canvas again. Still, I must admit this is the closest I’ve gotten to studying a male body in quite some time. And not just any body. Marshall is a perfect example of one of Edwina’s heroes.
But is that enough to improve my skill?
“I hope so,” I say.
“How did you end up illustrating book covers for Edwina, anyway?”
My cheeks flush. “She found my secret sketchbook.”
“You had a secret sketchbook? Was it smutty?”
My cheeks heat. “Yeah.”
“And you never showed me?” He shifts, leaning his side against the balustrade so he can face me.
Like this morning, I get that strange sensation that nothing has changed. That we’re right back to the easy banter we had two years ago. “I never showed anyone. And she only saw my best sketch. If she saw any of the others…”
With a grimace, I tuck my free hand into my waistcoat pocket and extract the folded-up sketch I placed in there when I went to find Brad Folger. Before I can convince myself not to, I hand it to Monty.
He snorts a laugh as soon as he lays his eyes on it. Then he studies it closer and throws his head back for an even heartier laugh. I don’t know if I’ve seen his eyes crinkle at the corners like that. His cheeks dimple deeper than ever. “This is fucking terrifying,” he says, voice rich with mirth.
I snatch the sketch back, but there’s only wry humor in my tone when I say, “Now you know why I need a model.”
He gestures toward the stage, looking rather proud of himself. “Marshall was perfect, wasn’t he? Did you see those forearms?”
“Oh, I saw them.” My eyes unfocus as I picture Marshall as Alexander from The Governess and the Rake , the book I’m currently working on illustrating. I imagine him in some of my favorite scenes, the way he hoists his lover, Dolly, onto his desk. The way he pins her arms over her head as he thrusts into her, papers spilling to the ground. “He could pin me down so hard with those.”
“Could he, now?”
My cheeks blaze as I realize I said that out loud. That’s something I’d say to Edwina, not Monty. Then again…isn’t Monty supposed to be my friend? The same way Edwina is? Why should I get so flustered over what I say to him ?
I fight my urge to shrink down and meet his eyes with feigned confidence. “Yes, he certainly could.”
For a moment he simply stares at me, as if seeing me for the first time. I note that one of his palms is clenched around the railing, knuckles white, the veins on the back of his hand on full display. That’s the second time I’ve caught myself admiring his hands. They are very much not paws. Come to think of it, Monty’s forearms aren’t too different from Marshall’s…
I tear my eyes away, desperate to change the subject. “How is your new job? And why were you at Fletcher-Wilson with a manuscript for Ask Gladys ?”
“Well, you might not believe this, but I am?—”
The bell sounds again but less piercing this time, thanks to my candy, and the Master of Ceremonies returns to the ring, along with the kangaroo referee and his fishbowl. My excitement returns and I stuff an even bigger mouthful of candy between my lips. This enchanted boozy fluff sure is something. My stomach is warm, my head is light, and the riotous sounds around me are tolerable. Who knew spending an evening out in a crowded, sort-of-illegal venue could be so much fun?
“For our next bout, let’s welcome Grave Danger!” the announcer shouts. A slender male with scaly skin and pointed ears steps onto the stage.
Monty curses under his breath. “Damn. He always fights dirty.”
“As for his opponent…” The announcer snaps his fingers. Opens his folded paper. “Lucky Lovesbane!”
“What a boring name,” I say, peeling an enormous chunk of fluff from my treat.
“Shit,” Monty says. “I’m up!”
I frown, unsure what he means by that. I bite into my candy floss as I glance his way, only to find his face hidden behind his shirt.
The shirt he’s pulling over his head.
My mouth remains stuck open, blackberry cordial and whipped sugar melting over my tongue as my eyes rove over the expanse of skin displayed before me. I’ve always known Monty to be tall and I assumed he was slender. Which he is. But he’s also…
“Muscles,” I say, forgetting the candy floss I was in the process of eating, which now adheres to the front of my lips and dangles over my chin.
Of course, Monty chooses that moment to finish stripping off his shirt and catches me ogling him. Ogling…every inch of his very impressive, very rippling physique. He’s somehow lean yet chiseled, all hard angles, dips, and rises. He even has that V-shaped muscular configuration above the low waist of his trousers, something I’ve only ever read about. I force my gaze to his and find his gray eyes glittering with amusement. His lips quirk at one corner. Then he tosses his shirt onto the table and swings his legs over the railing. I expect him to jump down, but something draws his attention back to me. He shifts to face me from the other side of the balustrade, feet perched on the outer ledge of the balcony.
“You’ve got something, right here…” His fingertips come to my face. To my lips.
I’m frozen in terror as he plucks the chunk of candy floss I had stuck to me. With his half grin still on his face, he brings the fluff to his mouth. Then pauses.
“Ah, right. Booze.” He holds his fingers out to me, the pink fluff between them.
I’m so shocked, so mortified, that I act on instinct alone, leaning in to take the candy from his fingers.
It happens so fast, I can hardly process what I’m doing…
Then my mind catches up with the lips I have wrapped around the tips of Monty’s forefinger and thumb. The tongue that sweeps excess sugar off his skin. I pull back at once.
For the love of the All of All, what did I just do? Should I disappear forever? Should I shift into my unseelie form and run away, never to return?
“Root for me, Daffy Dear,” he says as if we’d just had the most normal exchange in the world. Then he does the last thing I expect.
He licks his fingertips—the very place my mouth was mere seconds before.
A ball of heat burns low in my belly at the sight.
With that, he releases the railing, steps back, and drops from the balcony.