6. Chapter Six #2
He certainly saw Laurent and Evera as obstacles, albeit Evera a little less so.
That should be understandable. Laurent prevented Nicholas and William from seeing each other.
They weren’t even granted a proper goodbye.
But William’s friends and family? People like Henry and Charmaine, obstacles?
He didn’t… he couldn’t… they made William happy.
He wanted William’s happiness, his love, more than anything. Right?
“I won’t hurt him,” he promised, but there it was again; fear.
His breathing staggered and vision blurred.
He took a step back, as if to leave the castle, to return to Faerie.
He would put as much space between him and William if it meant his safety, but then the thought became so ludicrous that he laughed.
Nothing awful would happen. He and William would be happy together, as they always should have been. There was nothing to worry about.
“I am going to see William. Should you bother us, I’ll have your head,” he warned.
“I have no reason to bother either of you. I am here to observe, to make sure you don’t get into trouble,” Evera replied.
“The one most likely to start trouble is you.”
“I can start as much trouble as I want. You’re the one at the end of your leash with your father.”
The world leash irritated him most. Even with this newfound power bursting within him, worry remained that he couldn’t take on Laurent, that there would always be a tether between them.
He wanted to be entirely unleashed, to be free, but no matter what he did, something or someone always held him back.
Shaking his head, he leapt out the window.
Evera became a shadow, much like Arden had been during the war.
He hadn’t heard or seen much of Arden afterward, who immediately returned to Faerie.
Arden’s departure did not sadden or disappoint him, though he was curious what Arden owed Laurent and if their deal had ended.
Mortals wandered the streets of Alogan from home to home and shop to shop. They carried parasols to hide from the morning sun. Ladies fanned themselves outside bakeries, their sweets half eaten. Men bickered along street corners and dirtied children scampered through damp alleyways.
Smog coated his lungs, tasting of charcoal and grime.
Evera’s mug twisted, bothered by it too.
She wiped at her eyes that no doubt burned the same as his.
The air tasted foul. He couldn’t fathom how mortals survived breathing it.
There wasn’t much greenery, save the shrubs allocated to the vibrant yards of nobles at the center of town.
The further from the castle they went, the fewer trees there were until all that remained were weeds sprouting from worn sidewalks or half dead plants struggling to survive outside cracked windows.
The sprites claimed William worked at the Smelly Place.
Their initial descriptions were a hassle to decipher because sprites weren’t known for their exceptional communication.
Many preferred physical confrontation and changing the color of their wings to express thoughts.
They described the mortal world simply, in terms of color, scent, and “near the house with an ugly man who sneezed a lot” or “next to the pretty old lady and her many kindly cats.”
Sprites recognized most individuals through scent.
The sprites described William as clean, yet bloody.
Considering his duties, Nicholas assumed he continued his medical practices outside of the military.
Eventually, the sprites determined the name where William worked.
Nicholas asked butlers at the castle to give him directions, which was how he stood by an ailing warehouse.
The sprites described the clinic well. Smelly was more than appropriate.
His nose curled, and he coughed, overwhelmed by the mixture of blood, body odor, and alcohol.
Like patches of moss on damp rocks, rust grew in spots along the exterior.
The highest windows had a thin coat of grime while the windows in reach were clean.
The street itself did not have the same liveliness as those he had passed previously.
Those walking the streets didn’t carry parasols nor have a natural flush to their cheeks.
Many had pale skin and sunken eyes, clothes dirty and ripped.
A pair of double doors led into the warehouse. One hung open, letting mortals enter and depart. They clutched brown bags and canned food. A man guarded the door, dressed in a thick jacket and with little more than an old knife tethered to his brawny waist.
Nicholas turned to Evera, intending to warn her about following, but she watched from a rooftop, letting him approach the guard alone.
“Uh, sir, you…” the guard stood an inch taller than Nicholas, and yet shrank in his presence. “This is a clinic for the needy. Fae and their accursed deals are not welcome here.”
“Then it is good I am not here to conduct any deals,” he replied. “Will you allow me to pass, or would you prefer to make this difficult?”
“I cannot let you in if you are to cause trouble.”
“I will not cause trouble. I am here to see William Vandervult.”
“Our doctor?” He glanced at the doors that had fewer visitors. Nicholas’ presence thwarted others from entering. Some gathered at the edge of the building, muttering to each other.
“Yes, we served in the war together.” Nicholas thought William would be upset if he harmed the guard, even if he really, really wanted to. Every moment spent speaking with him meant less time with William. It was infuriating.
“Alright.” The guard sighed and shuffled inside.
Past the doors, two nurses sat at a long table filled with the brown bags and canned food. They, too, gawked at him. He waved because he saw mortals greet each other as such. The action didn’t ease their pale expressions.
As they walked away, he overheard one nurse whisper, “The doctor is fae-cursed. We should have known one of the fae would show up.”
The other whimpered. “Do you think he is the one Dr. Vandervult made a deal with?”
“Most likely. Why else would one be here? I should have left the moment I saw his damned arm.”
“I can’t imagine why he would make a cursed deal.”
Nicholas cast a dark look over his shoulder. The nurses squeaked. He heaved a long breath through his nostrils, reminding himself William would be displeased if he made a mess by putting his hands on anyone. Twitching his fingers and cracking his neck, he ignored any urge to maim and kept walking.
The guard guided him past cots, patients, and nurses. Each gave a different reaction than the last, choking, spitting, or squealing. Whispers spread through the room by the time the guard and Nicholas reached stairs leading to an office.
“Dr. Vandervult’s office is up there,” the guard explained, trying to sound frightening. “I am right outside, so should you start trouble, I will know of it.”
Nicholas didn’t care. He hopped the stairs two at a time. He threw open the office door, heart swelling at the sight of William. The doctor sat at a desk overlooking mounds of paper. So many he was hardly visible behind them, save the tip of his emerald eyes more enchanting than ever.
William dropped his papers. “Nicholas?”
“Good morning, my wicked.”