8
Aire
Not merely a suave voice. No, the owner of that intonation exercised a tongue wrought of spun black silk. Lavish. Sleek. Dark.
His tall, athletic silhouette filled an open archway, unkempt layers of mussed hair brushing his sculpted shoulders. From behind, a corona of firelight poured around him, illuminating his physique.
I would never call myself a soldier who took note of someone’s wardrobe, except when it came to this man. His decadent style demanded attention whenever he appeared, for this celebrity dominated any space he occupied. Seasons, the fiendish bastard still knew how to make an entrance.
An unbuckled coat spilled down the man’s frame, landing at the heels of his raven boots, and corresponding leather pants clung to his toned limbs. Beneath the vestments, a low ivory shirt exposed the outlines of his pectorals, in addition to a collection of overlapping necklaces.
The atmosphere sketched half of his features in darkness, so that only two sources of color radiated from this figure. A set of cunning irises cut from emerald glass, with a dripping onyx spade painted under the right eye, and a scarlet band knotted around his wrist.
He leaned one shoulder against the entryway, the negligent pose matching the devious tilt of his lips. Decades ago, I would have scoffed at such a flagrant display. Now, this pageantry inspired a different reaction.
Amused, I sketched a bow. “Court Jester.”
The man flicked his digits in the air, the fingernails enameled in black. “Try again.”
Straightening, I lifted an eyebrow. “Poet.”
And he returned the gesture. “Aire.”
We moved at the same time. The jester stepped fully into the room, every finely carved feature on display, his graceful stride reminiscent of a panther. Down to the smooth gait, everything about this paragon radiated sexuality, intrigue, and danger.
Spreading his arms, Poet waltzed across the rug. “Couldn’t stay away from us, could you?”
“Well, it has been a while.” I improvised a stern frown while meeting him halfway. “I felt it wise to make sure you were behaving yourself.”
At once, the feigned formality disintegrated. With a fiendish grin, Poet snared me into a hug. Chuckling, we clasped one another, our humor amplifying as Nicu slammed into us, joining the embrace.
“Papa!” As we pulled back, Nicu linked his arms with Poet’s and my own. “Aire followed the ribbons!”
My young liege had been uncharacteristically quiet during the exchange, but now he glowed brighter than the dawn.
The effect proved a blunt contrast to the provocative aura of his father, who could seduce or skewer his enemies with a quicksilver lance of his tongue.
Yet a similar red band encircling Nicu’s wrist marked them as two sides of the same coin, along with their striking green eyes.
I ruffled Nicu’s hair, then second-guessed the action. He was no longer a child. Yet the Royal son merely flashed his teeth in gaiety, the canines more tapered than I recalled, which enhanced his faeish appearance.
“Alas, you exaggerate,” Poet dismissed, tucking his son close. “In this notorious family, we always behave ourselves.”
“I was referring only to you,” I grunted, then jutted my head toward Nicu. “I hardly need to fret about this one.”
“Give me another ticking clock,” Nicu contradicted.
Meaning, give him another few hours. So it seemed I had concerned myself for nothing, thankfully still grasping Nicu’s vocabulary.
That said, his manner of speech had taken on an artful edge.
I regarded him. “You’ve acquired your father’s rebellious nature.”
“Fuck nay.” Poet smirked. “Not just from me.”
“Indeed,” a feminine inflection announced. “I’ll thank you to give his mother some credit for that.”
We rounded on the entrance. There stood the princess, refined and statuesque in a bronze gown accented with small, glittering chains at the shoulders.
Leaf-shaped combs held two ropes of intricately braided red hair from the upper half of her freckled countenance, with the remainder cascading freely down her back.
Likely those combs also concealed a set of thorn quills.
Upon seeing his mother, Nicu radiated with felicity.
Whereas Poet’s pupils flared with a passionate light.
Given Briar’s arrival from the same threshold, the creases in her dress hem, and the unmistakable flush in her complexion, the jester and princess had taken their wanton pleasures somewhere in the corridor not thirty minutes ago. At this juncture, I knew the signs.
The years had been kind to this pair. Now in their mid-thirties, only faint lines skimmed beneath their lower eyelids. Otherwise, these two shone more fiercely than ever. At last, few in this kingdom doubted their mutual devotion, nor their strength as a couple.
Poised in the doorway, Briar glanced between us. Her expression transformed from ardent toward Poet, adoring toward Nicu, and affectionate toward me.
I broke into a stride, then prostrated myself on bended knee. “Your Highness.”
“None of that,” she admonished, enveloping me and then pulling back to squeeze my hands. “You’re part of this mutinous family.”
“Briar,” I amended. “It heartens me to see you all well.”
“What did you expect?” Poet maneuvered behind the princess and slipped a possessive arm around her waist. “My wife and son are immortal forces unto themselves.”
I crossed my arms. “And what does that make you?”
“A fine wine that gets better with age and costs a fortune,” Nicu replied.
Briar chuckled while Poet flashed their son a nefarious look of pride. “My love, have I told you lately how delighted I am that we share the same blood?”
“Sharing blood is a perk. But I was quoting you from yesterday.”
“Mmm. ’Tis why you’re my favorite progeny.”
“I’m afraid my husband’s vanity has not faded,” Briar endeared as she nestled into the jester.
Presumably for everyone’s benefit, Poet leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You love my vanity. It means I’m never subtle. A fact you take advantage of every night.”
“Do not expand on that,” a male baritone warned, the command as chilling as a layer of sleet.
A second couple occupied the threshold from which I’d come, their differences in height extreme.
The man’s head nearly hit the door casing, a tide of dark blue hair fell down his broad torso, and two piercing crystalline irises dissected our group.
A thicket of bristling fur outlined the male’s coat, offsetting the sharpness of his visage, the contours of which could sever an artery from a single look.
Next to him stood a petite woman with cropped dark hair, deep olive skin, and eyes like melted gold. She burrowed against the man, their hands clasping as if they’d been fated from the beginning. One might describe their love bond as a marriage between fire and ice.
However, their reactions could not be more distinct. Annoyance hardened the man’s features, as if such requests were a regular occurrence between him and the jester. By comparison, his free-spirited mate chuckled, the noise inaudible yet visibly evident.
Jeryn. King of Winter.
Flare. Sand drifter of Summer.
“This reunion was going so well,” Poet groaned at the sight of His Majesty, then commented to Flare, “Sweeting, I thought you promised to drop off Doctor Dread at his playground—ahem, the autopsy lab—on your way here.” He tossed the king a shit-eating expression.
“Doesn’t that sound fun? Wouldn’t all those surgical tools and corpses be more fitting company than a meeting for warm-blooded grownups? ”
Jeryn minced that suggestion to pieces. “Call my woman ‘Sweeting’ one more time, and I’ll use one of those surgical tools to extract your tongue.”
“As if that will stop you from being jealous of my dark wit.”
“Fuck your dark wit. And fuck you.”
“Don’t worry,” Nicu confided to me. “This is how they always greet each other.”
Between the castle blackout on Reaper’s Fest, our clan’s voyage to The Phantom Wild, and our alliance with Jeryn and Flare before my departure, I had been granted previews of the love-hate relationship that defined the king and jester.
Nonetheless, considerable time had lapsed since those contentious episodes.
I squinted between them. “And you’re still friends?”
“We’re a situation,” Poet clarified while holding Jeryn’s glacial scowl.
Folding her hands primly, Briar sighed. “Creatures of habit is another term for it.”
A grumble skidded up my throat. Dutifully, I restrained the instinct. In the beginning, I had not trusted the king, much less tolerated his brutal nature. Yet this monarch had redeemed himself, the transcendence chiefly due to his romance with Flare.
I humbled myself to the ground. “Your Majesty.” Then to his mate. “My lady, Flare.”
Uncomfortable with these displays on her behalf, Flare shook her head and flapped her hands for me to stand. And because Winter’s culture prioritized practicality over hyperbole, Jeryn accepted the genuflection without a shred of ego.
He slit his gaze, echoing Flare’s sentiment. “Allies don’t kneel.”
“Especially not to him,” Poet remarked.
Jeryn aimed a flinty gaze at the jester, then speared his attention to me. “Rise.”
Flare offered a kindhearted grin. “Friends don’t kneel any more than allies do.”
Over time, all of us made a concerted effort, learning to read her lips. Nonetheless, it took me a moment to process the request. As I gained my feet, she flung her arms around me with the same vigor Nicu had demonstrated.
Veering back, the lady mouthed, “How was your adventure?”
“There is much to tell,” I answered.
“And there is much to ask.” Briar swung her arm at the table. “We’re on time.”
“No, we are not,” Jeryn refuted. “Where the fuck is Aspen?”
“She’s right the fuck here.”