An Embrace of Citrus & Snow (Fallen for a Fae #1)

12. Bo

Chapter twelve

Bo

‘On the way’ turned out to mean they’d be driving twenty minutes off the interstate and into a secluded, rural area surrounded by pretty trees, birdsong, and little towns that would call Talia ‘honey’ until their cows came home.

Even on the overcast midday, autumn painted the trees gold and bronze and brown in a completely different kind of beauty than Skyler. Only the brightly colored signs with AMAZING ALIEN LANDING A SITE TO BEHOLD - 2 MILES kept Bo from assuming he somehow drove them into the middle of fucking nowhere.

All concerns over going the wrong way vanished once the beat-up parking lot came into view. A seven-foot-tall plaster humanoid held a placard that read: We come in peace! Parking for Allen’s All-Around Alien Adventure up ahead. Open M-F 0800 - sundown, Sa she was also magnanimous. “Do you think they have those tinfoil ones here? It looks like a tinfoil hat place.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Okay, let’s settle for some godawful tourist trap merchandise. I want to get my aunt the weirdest fucking alien hat they have. Or a shirt, if they don’t have hats.” Bo reached up to catch his fingers on some overhead, dangling leaves, still green in the autumn days.

“I can pay if you let me use magic.”

“Everil said–”

The sound of raucous laughter interrupted whatever Bo might’ve said next. Half a dozen teens made their way up the wide path, talking and shoving. Their voices rang loud and bright, except for the one who eventually quieted to take a drag of a cigarette he was too fucking young to have.

“Bo,” Talia stage whispered, wide eyes on the teenagers and their many hoodies. “I think they’re hooligans .”

“Oh, fuck, yeah, no, don’t call them that. That’s not what they are.”

“Rapscallions? Troubled teens.” Talia looked at Bo, her expression the same kind of winsome and pathetic Bo saw on advertisements for colorful stuffed puppies aimed at small children. “Maybe they like plastic castles.”

And then, from the smoking one, now near the tree line, “Wait, shit. I know that dude. He’s, like, on the internet.”

A blonde shot back, “You think everyone’s on the internet.”

“No, seriously. The one who plays shooters blindfolded?” The smoking teen studied Bo. “No. The one who eats bugs.”

“They all eat bugs.” This from a new speaker, small and brown-eyed. Their eyes were on their phone, thumbs flying.

Well, fuck.

Bo gritted his teeth, turning away from them to keep talking to Talia without being called ‘the one who eats boogers’ next. Fuck.

“You want miscreants for your terrarium now? ‘Cause, no, I don’t think they like plastic castles.”

“But I could ask them .”

Bo glanced back at the aforementioned rapscallions again, then raised an eyebrow at Talia.

“Fifteen minutes of troubled teens and I stay over here, not getting recognized. We stay in yelling distance and see the spaceship after. No magic. Everil would crawl out of his fucking skin if he found out I said, ‘Yeah, yes, go for it and frolic about with those kids.’ Which I am not.”

“You’re thinking of selkies,” Talia replied, in a tone reminiscent of Bo’s hermit crab talk. “No magic, fifteen minutes, and I get to tell them you’re the one who eats bugs.” Talia was already moving in the group’s direction, grinning. “And that I own an awesome plastic castle.”

Talia broke away from Bo with that brilliant smile and a bounce in her step, heading straight toward the group of teenagers.

Bo didn’t even have time to get out a full, “Don’t tell them I eat bugs–”

He seriously needed to teach her about things like ‘professional courtesy’ at some point. He also needed to look up which bug-eating guy he apparently looked like and message him.

‘Hey, other content creator. Sorry about that, the kid I pledged to take care of and show around the human realm wandered off without agreeing to not tell them I was you, and I had my fill of talking to people not in my very small circle already that morning. See, I got bonded to a fae, through our souls and shit, and it’s been pretty wild. Don’t worry; you’ll get to see her when she hops on a couple of my episodes as a guest. I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s living in a TV show.’

Talk about fucking awkward.

Bo sighed, falling back to the edge of the path. If nothing else, it gave him the time to answer his texts. Robin, mostly, as Bo refused to look at his Dissent chat or email.

[Robin]: Per AJ: what will kill them if they eat it???

[Robin]: she insisted on 3 question marks

[Robin]: also what they don’t like, doesn’t have to kill them

[Bo]: Fuck. I’ll ask. I know the kid likes hot chocolate, and my friend’s a fan of sweets. But for actual food that won’t send them crawling up the walls… not sure. He’s definitely a meat eater.

[Robin]: thx

[Robin]: lol that’s too fucking easy im not even going to say anything

Bo hadn’t thought to ask Talia or Everil what they liked to eat. There’d been other shit on his mind. Like eating pancakes. Trauma dumping on a stranger. Curling up against a guy whose long, dark hair he wanted to stroke until his skittishness settled. That, or fuck him into the mattress. Both.

He sent, Does Aunt Jan like alien hats?

The leaves somewhere nearby rustled as he sent the message. A flash of bright green, then a flicker of red when he glanced up. Violet, when he turned his head. It tugged at him the way Everil sometimes did when they were apart.

A tangle of colors and curiosity. A fucking cat, that’s what Aunt Jan called him. And Bo took a step off the path to try and catch another glimpse of whatever the fuck those colors were.

Nothing (except pink, just there, but gone again). Bo took another step, hardly clocking the too-heavy weight of his phone as it slipped away. He trailed his hands over tree trunks when he passed them, absently noting the scrape and sting of his palms, how the branches seemed to reach for him, to pluck at jacket and hair. Concerns that passed as quickly as they came.

Robin’s reply pinged in the distance, the telltale chirp of birdsong they’d added long ago. Another flash of color, distracting him from any thought of return. Colors and quiet and that something Bo needed to find .

Almost like Everil. Not quite, but enough. Robin could wait, far back behind the rustle of trees.

The sound of wind without the wind itself. A coaxing susurration and flicker of colors, distant, but growing closer. All the other sounds quickly grew quiet, then gone altogether. No teenage laughter, no one calling Bo’s name.

No worries at all. Not here, where it was so nice. In the forest, he could simply be . Bo could follow that thread of wanting, without the complex layers of reserve. Of confusion. Of maybe and, oh, maybe not.

He stumbled once, nearly. Just once. A branch on the ground too thick to crack under his boots. No gentle touch caught him, no soft murmur of if I may . But there was another branch, rough around his waist, supporting him for a breath.

Here, Bo was wanted. He could feel it, the need for magic, thick on his tongue. Magic, heavy and wild, radiating from the huge weeping willow waiting just ahead. There .

The branches brushed the ground, long and soft looking. Another flicker of color, faded rose, dipped out of view.

But by then, the colors didn’t matter so much. The tree rustled, inviting. Welcoming.

Bo hummed, quiet, slowing to a stop a few feet away to study it. There . A tug at his chest, inviting him closer, where there were no edges to cut himself on or cut others with.

“Under the weeping willow tree,” Bo murmured to the tune he’d been humming. So he may know where I am sleeping , something something, weep for me . An old song, jaunty tune turned quiet and rolling. And Bo could almost imagine the tree singing back. The wind picked up the rhythm and played it with a shushing sigh. And Bo, Bo hummed along and continued walking towards the waiting tree.

He reached out, slow and careful, fingers outstretched to the gold-green-brown-pink-blue-violet drape of leaves and life. The branches of the willow parted, a wordless invitation. One branch, the one he touched, curled around his wrist, and another stroked down his cheek.

Bo smiled, the song on the wind and his lips. A tip of his head pressed his cheek to gentle leaves, even as the branch on his wrist tugged at him, almost impatient. Tempting, to step forward and allow the trees to curl around him as those at Brookhaven had for Everil.

Difference was they’d been Everil’s trees. Everil, lovely and dark with the protective curve of branches and wind, hidden away as they spoke of magic. And Bo, he’d never had that kind of bond with the world. Not really.

Trees didn’t laugh, either, from just out of view. But that didn’t sound leafy enough to come from the willow.

“No, not a great idea,” Bo heard himself say dreamily, even as he dug his heels in, both literally and figuratively. “I always said I don’t fuck around with trees that move. I think you want Everil.”

“Oh,” said a voice, rich as sap and deep as the roots in dark earth. “I had hoped you wouldn’t struggle.”

The branch around his wrist tightened, magic gone from his throat. The others no longer held themselves open; they reached for him, rustling with laughter and creaking like a curse.

Oh fuck. Oh, fuck .

A man–or something like a goddamn man–stepped out from behind the trunk. Bark brown and rough-skinned, his hair a riot of autumn leaves. His eyes were green, green, green, and his teeth very white when he smiled, somewhere between sad and cruel.

A fucking dryad smiled at him, the very essence of fuck fuck fuck , alien and familiar and horrible.

“Oh, fuck no Bo snarled. He scrambled back, tugging at the branch around his wrist, leaning from the one at his face. Alarm lent him the strength to wrench himself back, away from that clutching tree. “Go lick a fucking termite mound, you piece of shit.”

“Hush now. There’s no need for hostility, human.” The dryad shook his head, all unruffled, apologetic inevitability in his words. Fucking prick. “I bear you no ill will.”

“Fuck you and your will.”

Bo’d stepped off the fucking path like some grungy-ass Riding Hood, left Talia, fuck , Talia, and he was going to die because Grandmother Willow was a fucking murderous jackass. He grabbed the branch with his free hand, just above where it clung to his wrist. It broke, even as Bo stumbled, his back hitting something solid, keeping him upright.

A nest of fucking branches, woven now behind Bo like a net. They caught at his clothes, tugged at his hair. Several, horrifyingly, aimed to get some purchase around his neck.

“This is merely a favor to be paid. If you’ll only calm down, I can end it quite painlessly.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bo didn’t want to die .

So he said, “Fuck you and your ‘going gentle into the night’ bullshit,” twisting against the branches as they caught at his hood and twisted at his hair. He clawed at the one at his neck, fingers slipping between skin and wood as he struggled to keep it from tightening.

“Quickly,” said a second voice. “I can only dampen our presence so much. And make it clean. For Everil’s sake.”

“ Everil is going to fucking kill you.” Bo couldn’t jerk free, anxiety building at the sense of walls closing in and coming quicker. He bared his teeth at the dryad, dragging up all the fury in his squishy mortal body, harnessing the screaming soft terror of a creature caught in a web. “ Everil ! Fuck, Everil!”

The dryad said nothing, only watched as Bo struggled. Silent as the branches swarmed over Bo, tearing his skin and growing slick with blood. The bastard looked bored when the branch around Bo’s neck tightened, crushing his fingers. They’d break before he died.

All of it to the laughing voice to the unseen fae and, “Poor creature. It actually thinks he’ll come. I’ve been his friend for generations of your kind, human. You’ve known him for mere minutes. Your embarrassment of a bond won’t reach him if I don’t wish it.”

“I like Declan better.” Hissed words, and probably the shittiest last ones he could’ve made. Anything else that might’ve been said was stolen by the crushing grip on his throat.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Not in the middle of the fucking podunk woods, a fake alien landing site in shouting distance, with two nameless shithead entities breaking him down and taking his fucking voice. The scent of blood, the taste of it, thick as fright and just as present, turned the world hazy gray and purple.

Somewhere, someone crashed through the woods. Too far, and not Everil, couldn’t be, not with the magic that voice boasted about.

Fangs, teasingly clicked towards Bo’s fingers. The playful kelpie, stallion and river both, violence made huge and nickering with amusement. A game, one that left his jacket ruined and skin without a scrape.

Had a fucking kelpie nuzzle his hair and never tasted blood or death. Didn’t feel the sharp pull of torn skin. Bo’d been able to breathe for the first time in a long time, laughing and crying and calling Everil a cheeky goddamn punk.

Everil would’ve come. He would’ve, if he knew.

Dryad fucker needed to stop. Bo wanted that more than he wanted anything else at that moment. (Except Everil, who wasn’t coming.) Wanted and wanted and wanted , an all-encompassing ache to not die .

The world went cold, then hot. The depths of summer, there in the cold autumn woods. Heat, mid-year and humid, the kind of wet that clung, put a wheeze in the lungs, and stole strength from bone. The looming hand of the fucking Reaper, stripped of flesh and picked clean in the high noon sunshine, burning under Bo’s skin, and–

The air warped, and that frantic, clutching heat went out . Expanded lightning quick; the only fucking way Bo could clock it. Shapeless, nearly invisible, just the shimmering haze of heat.

Around him, branches twisted and shuddered. Bark peeled away, burnt, while the wood underneath opened, spotted with what looked like sores, hollowing out and blackening. Withering. Fucking crumbling around Bo, a shower of heat-softened wood. Fell to ash.

Bo gasped, drinking deep lungfuls of air as the pressure gave around him. He sagged against the net, still woven tight and holding firm. His head fucking swam with oxygen and magic, magic , threatening to drag him into an undertow of his own making.

It was almost enough.

Almost.

The questing branches were broken, retreating. But there was still that fucking net behind him. And the dryad’s look of apologetic disinterest was gone. Those green eyes went hard.

“That was unwise,” the dryad hissed. The broken branches split down the center, spears of wood twisting in the air.

Bo’s hands shook with pain and fear. He had no fucking clue how to do the thing with magic again. At least he and Everil made their peace that morning.

Fuck it. May as well go down being a shit.

“Poor creature,” Bo rasped. “Thinking I give a fuck.”

The dryad reached for Bo, so fucking close, those branches curved like scorpion tails poised to strike. Bo, for all his hissing and spitting and fierce words, hid a whimper behind bared teeth.

His mom’d always said the dryads would hurt him if they took him. He didn’t want–

Cold water dripping from broken tree limbs, each drop giving life to the parched mouth below. Lush earth and safety, cool shade, new growth under thinning snow.

Everil slammed into Bo, tearing through the woven net like paper, frost spiraling over every branch he touched. Everil, fucking gorgeous, pulling Bo against him, and Bo’s knees nearly gave as he breathed in relief sweeter than air .

Bo clung, dimly noting the way the dryad recoiled from Everil. The dryad said something, but all Bo heard was Everil’s furious snarl. The lash of Everil’s hand, silver-lined and clawed, river-snake quick.

It happened so fast. The dryad too close to get away, and Everil’s claws tore over the dryad’s bark-like skin, barely marking it. Turned out, that wasn’t the point. A gasping, hideous gurgle as the dryad started to choke. Green eyes wide with terror, and the trees screamed as he collapsed, clutching at his throat the same way Bo just had.

The susurration ended with the dryad’s final, pathetic gasp. Turned out Everil didn’t even need a bathtub.

Bo struggled to breathe, air coming too quickly and too frantic. Everil made it easier, holding him at arms’ length for a full study, like he’d not just offed a dryad and Bo wasn’t halfway to hyperventilating. Bo stared at him and felt his fucking chin tremble.

“Sorry,” someone said. Bo. Bo said. “Sorry. I didn’t– Texted Robin and, I didn’t–”

“Bo,” Everil said, rough, and pulled Bo back into his arms. And, “ Bo. ”

Bo threw his arms around Everil with a quiet, wounded sound. Red and sore hands clutched at those clothes, the fabric loose and giving without tearing. He’d apologize later. It didn’t fucking matter. Bo just needed Everil close.

“Knew you’d come,” Bo said, voice fucking shredded against the curve of Everil’s shoulder. Everil held himself still. Bo shook enough for the both of them, snowmelt on his lips. “Fucking knew you’d come. Told them both. Told them you’d fucking come.”

Everil’s grip tightened further, hand curling around the back of Bo’s head. Long fingers gentle over bloodied hair. Bo hid his face against Everil’s chest, because Everil fucking came for him, found him, and all Bo knew was he was safe .

“Both?”

Bo nodded a little. Just a little. He didn’t want Everil to pull away yet. “Two.”

“I must deal with this,” Everil said, his voice gone as cold as his hands were warm. “It won’t be pleasant. You may go to Talia if you wish.”

Bo’s grip tightened before he forced his hands open. If Everil needed him to let go, Bo could fucking do that much. Painful, yeah, but he managed, fabric falling from unsteady fingers.

“Fuck that,” Bo said. Could say, because he was alive. “Staying with you. I don’t want to go.”

He could feel it, the way Everil’s tension eased, if only slightly.

“My thanks. I prefer you here,” Everil murmured.

Bo started to pull away, remembering, as he did, what the unseen fae had said. Claiming to be Everil’s friend.

Bo didn’t have to tell Everil, not when he’d find out himself soon enough. Bo didn’t want to be the one to give him that news. And fucking still, even he knew that not offering warning was a shit thing to do.

Fucking morals.

“Other one said they’re a friend of yours.” Quietly said, but it was enough.

Sadness and understanding stung the back of Bo’s throat, tasting of stagnant water and poisoned streams.

“Suire,” Everil called, voice as much grief as it was anger, bleeding history. Bo’s hopes that she’d been exaggerating went with it. “I call you by your oath. Face me.”

And there she was, the unseen fae. She stepped through the now-limp willow branches with a soft rustle, smaller and slighter than Bo, all silver curls and full cheeks. Pretty, but every fae he’d seen had been, even the dryad in his strange way.

Bo’s shoulders tightened, but he turned, taking a half step to the side to get out of Everil’s way.

“It was for you,” Suire said, tone caught somewhere between beseeching and reprimand. “It’s a human, Everil. You deserve better.”

Suire had a lovely voice. Bo remembered how it’d sounded when she laughed.

“Fuck you,” Bo said, as much vehemence to the sentiment as his throat could manage. “You knew it’d hurt Everil. You don’t hit someone and tell them it’s to help. ”

“This, Everil?” Suire asked, looking at Bo with utter loathing. Bo glared back. “You’d throw away everything for this ? The last one had pretty manners, at least.”

The last one?

“And how would you know that?” Everil asked, ice water and death.

“What choice did I have?” Suire snapped back. “You abandoned me. Abandoned all of us. All our plans. And for what? One of them ? The creature was making you soft.”

Oh. Oh .

Oh, fuck.

Bo made a mental note to think about that later, when Everil’s friend of centuries wasn’t admitting to doing something fucking shitty, like killing what Bo guessed was Everil’s last boyfriend.

This wasn’t Bo’s to be angry over. It wasn’t. That didn’t stop him from being absolutely pissed off .

“You had the choice not to hurt your longtime friend,” Bo snarled. “That’s a choice you damn well made. You’re an asshole.”

She’d put a mind fuck spell on him, dragged him to the woods, tried to get him skewered, and was telling Everil she murdered his last boyfriend for his own good.

Bo fumed, bristling and angry. Everil put a hand on his shoulder; whether to hold Bo in place or to offer comfort, Bo didn’t fucking know.

“Shut up among your betters, boy.” Suire snapped.

“I could say the same to you, Suire,” Everil growled. “Speak to Bo in that tone again, and I will feed you your tongue. Unless he prefers to do it himself.”

Suire’s eyes widened, her mouth open in a protest she didn’t voice. Bo bared his teeth at her in the distant semblance of a smile. For all that she bitched about the pretty kelpie being ‘soft,’ she’d apparently forgotten he was still a fucking kelpie. Bo hadn’t.

“We tried to make it painless,” she said, as if that should make it all square between them.

Bo leaned into Everil’s hand where it rested, unmoving, on his shoulder. Like the confrontation the day before, Everil didn’t flinch away, his touch solid and present. Protective.

“Tell me, Bo, are you experiencing pain?” Everil asked, his voice very, very dry.

“Yeah,” Bo answered, as if his still rough, uneven breathing didn’t spell it out for the masses. “I’m experiencing some goddamn pain, Everil. Pretty sure I was about to get skewered for daring to fight the fuck back.”

“You harmed my soulbond, Suire. Injured, with the intent to kill.”

“I did no such thing.” Suire countered, her chin lifting. “I opened the way and cast a spell that didn’t damage a hair on that human’s head. No one bonds a human.”

Bo didn’t bother getting his back up over her shitty comment. Not with soulbond ringing in his ears. Everil strode closer to Suire, all wintery determination, his back straight and frost glittering in his footsteps.

Suire stepped back toward the tree, sending the leaves rustling. Bo flinched, and Everil paused, glancing back at him.

Dust and quiet. The comfort of forgotten places. Safe. Bo was safe.

With a silent nod, Everil turned back to Suire.

“Why not? The dryad bonded to a tree.” It’d be funny in any other context. Everil didn’t inspire much in the way of giggles. “Or is it more acceptable when you don’t have a personal stake in the situation? ”

And not for the first or last time, Bo thought: Oh, fuck .

“Everil,” Suire objected.

“That was rhetorical.”

Suire, wisely, shut her fucking mouth, her luminous eyes bright. She couldn’t seem to decide whether to glare at Bo or look reproachfully at Everil.

Bo swallowed hard but managed to muster up the strength to glare back. He didn’t say anything. Even a guy like him, pissed off and ready to spit tacks, could be a little wary when still around the person who brain-fogged them and tried to get them killed.

Everil glanced back again. Angry gray eyes meeting tired blue. Everil’s rage was still there, nuclear winter to Bo’s fire.

When Everil held out a hesitant hand to Bo, invitation unspoken, of fucking course Bo went to him. He shied away from the branches that were once the dryad, steered clear of Suire as far as fucking possible, but he went.

Fingers tacky with blood met Everil’s and held on, Bo leaning in, his forehead against Everil’s shoulder in an echo of the night before. This time, Everil didn’t turn to stone under his touch. Instead, he brushed his fingers through Bo’s hair. Gentle, careful of the cuts.

Bo shuddered hard and felt the cool brush of the riverbank in their bond, thin and soothing despite the tangle of Everil’s anger.

Guilt and hurt, old and new, thick as dust on old sheets left undisturbed. Concern, a fucking staple by that point, flaring when Bo shook against him. All that, and grief.

“Badass kelpie,” Bo mumbled against him, still raw and scared and confused. Everil huffed in quiet amusement, still stroking Bo’s hair. “What happens now?”

“That depends on Suire.” Everil looked back at her, his hand falling away. “Need I ask who put you up to this?”

She glared, haughty and defiant. “You did. Choosing that over us.”

Guilt and silence from Everil. Even so, he didn’t look away from Suire’s accusing stare.

Bo returned her dagger looks with all the mulish anger available to him.

“Are you an actual child? Take some fucking accountability.” Bo tried to scoff. It turned to a painful mix of a dry cough and throat clearing. “Everil didn’t make you do shit. He got into an ‘embarrassment of a bond’ per fucking you, you felt something about it, and you made a fucking choice. You’re as rude as I am. Only difference is you pretty it up to be socially acceptable.”

Bo curled his lip in disgust, anger almost drowned out by Everil’s confusion.

“Hurt feelings?” Suire snapped. “You insolent, ignorant–”

“Enough, Suire.” Everil shut her up with a look. “Name who sent you or bear this yourself.”

Suire lifted her chin, all stubborn pride and an utter refusal to bend Bo knew too fucking well. He’d worn that look more than once in his life.

“As you wish.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, even as she smiled. “I acted in accordance with my oath, in service to my House. Your quarrel, if you have one, is with my liege-lord.”

Bo damn near staggered against the immediate weight of Everil’s guilt, the hit of her words nearly fucking tangible. He’d gone still again, his breathing shallow and quick. It took a moment for Bo to follow. Her liege-lord? Nimai? Or maybe, with Everil frozen and barely breathing as he was, Nimai through his old bond with Everil.

“You’re a bad friend,” Bo told Suire, managing another twist of disdain in his voice. Just that, and he turned to Everil, tried to meet gray eyes fixed on something he couldn’t see. “Everil?”

Everil didn’t look at him. It was as if he’d actually turned to stone, as lifeless as the willow branches scattering the ground.

“ Everil ,” Bo repeated, a fierce whisper. “Whatever mindfuck dose of nasty she just hit you with, we can talk about it. Later, okay? I need you here with me now. Alright?” Bo squeezed Everil’s hand, realizing only as he did that neither of them had let go. (Later. Think of it later, same as everything fucking else.) With his other hand, he touched Everil’s cheek. Gently, and Bo left a brush of red there, but he did it anyway. “We can fucking leave. Grab the kid and go. Or anything else you want to do. Just, here with me now. Okay?”

What Bo wanted to do was rip Suire’s fucking tongue out and hold Everil close and never have been stupid enough to step off the path to begin with. What he could do was this. Offer an out, a safe place to tuck against.

The answer didn’t come immediately. But little by little, Everil’s feelings turned to a sense of bracing . Strange, how just a day and change in, Bo could look at Everil and see past that blank mask. Even without the bond, he could see it. The subtle shifts as his stubborn fucker of a kelpie made his choice.

Everil wrapped his free arm around Bo again, properly this time, his hand finding the back of Bo’s neck. It was a stiff gesture, like on the porch. But he was fucking trying. And Bo, sighing, leaned in all over again.

“My apologies,” Everil murmured. “I’m with you. Only, I must deal with this before we go. I am Suire’s liege-lord. She’s sworn to my House. She is the last of my House. ”

“Oh, so you do remember? I’d begun to wonder.”

Bo ignored her, thumb pressing gently over the kelpie’s knuckles. “No apologies needed. You’re doing good. Here with me and all.” Bo waited for Everil’s nod, hesitant and tentative, before he continued. “Do whatever you need to do. I’ll stick around. I’m not going to limp off without you.”

“You know I’m right, Everil,” Suire said, and Bo could hear the smile in her sweet, coaxing voice. “It’s unfortunate. But this isn’t your world . You have responsibilities. Oaths to keep, like we all do. I’m sorry if it’s not fun as nuzzling a human, but it’s your duty. ”

“Suire.” Everil’s breathing came unsteady and shallow, evening out only when Bo stroked his knuckles again.

“I know you’re angry. But Nimai only did what was best for everyone. The House needed you. We needed you. What were we meant to do? Wait a century for your Laurie to die? Wait another century for this one?”

“ Lawrence. “ The word had the force of an ice jam breaking. Everil’s hand on Bo’s neck stayed light, but his arm pressed against Bo’s back, tucking him in tight.

Lawrence , and so many things made sense. Everil saying, ‘You’re forgetting the part where Nimai will kill him’, Suire knowing what ‘the last one’ sounded like, the previous owner of the estate vanishing from the public after less than a year of money changing hands and a phantom stallion showing up. He’d wondered what might have made Everil lose his temper to the point of tearing his bond apart.

“I don’t know how you remember such things. Come on , Everil.” Suire sounded like an impatient little sister. Bo knew all about those. “I’m bored of this game.”

“Very well.” Everil sounded so fucking tired, for all that the power of finality rang through his words. “The honor of my House is no longer your concern. I release you from your oath, Veralies Aurilae.”

Bo turned in time to see the moment Suire’s world collapsed. It only took a heartbeat, for that surprised, pleased expression at Everil’s agreement to crumble into betrayed shock. Genuine, the way her disgust and anger had been.

“You can’t,” Suire said, frantic. “Everil, I have served for centuries.”

“You have only ever served me ill. And Suire, my House does not grant allotments to the forsworn.”

Whatever that meant, it seemed to dig in the knife deeper. “You wouldn’t. Over a toy? Everil. ”

“We have nothing further to say to each other.”

Suire moved as if to reach for Everil. Bo glared at her sidelong.

“You fucked around,” Bo told her, his voice flat. “You found out. Leave.”

She threw Bo one last scorching glare, and then was gone. No sticks, no sparkles, nothing. What was Suire became nothing but air and the whisper of the woods. Bo and Everil’s breathing became the noisiest part of the small clearing, but Bo didn’t let go.

“What did that mean?” Bo asked Everil’s shoulder, sinking further against the other man. Safe. They were safe for the moment, bloodied and all. “The uh, the oath release.”

Everil shuddered, still holding on. It should hurt, but Everil’s hand felt like cool relief.

“She was pledged to my House and had an allotment of land with it.” Soft, measured words. “Land is dear in Faerie. Very dear. She no longer has any, nor the position she once boasted of as a trusted member of a House.” A slow sigh, and Everil’s hand dropped. “Come. Let us heal you and find Talia.”

Bo nodded, fingers reluctantly uncurling from Everil’s hand. It took effort, blood sticking, but Everil’d been good enough to let him cling already. The kelpie would probably apologize for it before they got to the car. Apologize even though Bo was alive, not rotting, forgotten, under a tree.

He’d survived.

He’d survived Suire.

Everil hadn’t feared Suire. She’d hurt him, yeah, but the way of a friend who knew sore points. He’d not feared her the way Bo knew he did Nimai. He’d seen Everil shrink at the thought of Nimai being nearby, looking beautiful and alone and trying to not shake with it.

Shit.

No. He wasn’t going to think about it. He was alive.

Bo slumped against the far wall of the Amazing Alien Landing Barn, solid metal at his back instead of Everil or a net of branches. The cold pressed close, different than the chill of the outside even as it sank into bare skin from the rips in his clothes.

They’d fix the clothes later. Talia first. He’d said something along those lines to Everil, giddy with the lack of pain after the kelpie healed him. Everil hadn’t wanted to leave him, but there was no fucking way Bo was going back into the forest.

So. Big metal barn. Fake spaceship only a few yards away. No one even glanced in Bo’s direction or called the cops over a blood-covered dude in torn clothes.

Privacy ward, Everil called it.

“Fuck,” Bo said to the air. No one reacted. Bo tightened his grip on his cell, dusty and smudged from the pile of underbrush he’d dropped it in. Where he’d let it fall because he’d been lured into the goddamn woods and nearly murdered.

Even with the people, the world felt too fucking quiet.

(The world had gone silent in the woods too, except for that lulling, whispering song.)

Bo dialed a number in his number spoofing app. One he’d been surprised to find in his email that morning, along with a short message. A name.

“ ‘Tonios,” said Antonio. His voice echoed some, like he was in the barn instead of Bo.

“Can you believe I cuddled a kelpie but almost got shish-kabobbed by a dryad?” Bo asked. “Fae are weird.”

Silence down the line. The distant sound of metal on metal.

“One of those things sounds about right. You good? Need help?”

“Does an affinity bond help the kelpie cuddling make more sense? Because that’s a thing.”

Bo closed his eyes and tipped his head back, pressed it to cold metal as well. Shit like this crossed the parasocial boundaries. Bo was usually so fucking good about not engaging personally past what was strictly needed. But fuck , it felt good to talk to someone who wouldn’t think he was making this shit up.

And possibly, perhaps, Bo wanted to make sure Antonio hadn’t drowned. He’d seen what Everil was capable of, now.

“Got no clue what that means, man. Sounds like fancy words for, uh– Never mind.”

They both knew what the fuck it sounded like. Antonio was just uncomfortable and decent enough not to say it flat out.

“Affinity bond’s like– Fuck. This sounds– I know how this sounds, okay?” Like Bo and Everil were fucking against a magical tree on the regular. Bo drummed his fingers on his knee, and let out a quick, sharp sigh. “Everil also called it a ‘soulbond.’ It’s what hauled his ass out there when I lost my temper like a child. How he knew. That’s what had me calling. I wanted to apologize and feel shitty about going off. I’m okay. Just– Blue screening and feeling guilty. ”

“Nah. S’alright. Let’s, uh…” Antonio stumbled over his words. If he’d not sounded uncomfortable before, he’d managed to dive headfirst into it then. “Never met a fae that wasn’t a bloodthirsty fucker.”

Bo winced. His hand tapped harder.

“He’s not eavesdropping, and we’re not talking about what we were then. But I follow.” He frowned at the ceiling he couldn’t see, and Antonio waited patiently. “You never knew a fae who wasn’t a bloodthirsty fucker and still came all the way out to talk to me.”

“More like, never knew a fae who wasn’t bloodthirsty, so I had to talk to you. Wouldn’t be able to live with myself, I checked the news and saw something about your body turning up by a river, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bo said quietly. “I know.”

A beat. Two. Then, edged with something like dark humor, “Gotta say, it’s kinda a jump, man. Going from ‘I don’t believe this shit’ to ‘the kelpie’s my soulmate.’ You sound pretty all in. Feet first kind of thing.”

“The kelpie is not my soulmate.” After all, soulmates were supposed to be a one and done deal, weren’t they? Bo was definitely not that to Everil. “I sound pretty fucking insane.”

Antonio laughed, sharp and short. “Didn’t say that.”

“It’s not like, werewolf universe stuff. It’s… fuck, like a science thing. Take two elements and they snap together. Not,” he waved a hand aimlessly, as if anyone could see it, “red string of fate under a full moon thing. Wrong place, right time, magic things clicked together in a way that’s slightly less freaky than I made it sound.”

“Right. Got it,” Antonio fucking lied.

“Look, I’m right there with you. I was not prepared for the sudden upending of my life. Again. If not for the fact you saw him too, and that I’m pretty sure my imagination wouldn’t make up a sluagh and kelpie being bros, I’d sure as hell think I was going insane.” Bo laughed, however little humor he found in the situation. “ ‘Kind of a jump’ is a very nice way of putting it. Which checks out, considering you didn’t hang up immediately.”

“Never saw a sluagh,” Antonio replied idly. “The fae I knew, he said ‘those sorts’ weren’t around much. I was mostly around will-o’-the-wisps. Some brownies, dryads, nymphs. Couple of pooka. A dragon, once.” Antonio laughed too, and the sound was bitter. “So trust me, you don’t gotta worry about me hanging up. Known about them since I could walk, and you’re the first one I could talk to who doesn’t think I’ve lost my mind.”

Thank fuck, Antonio didn’t circle back on the ‘soulmate’ thing. Bo didn’t know if he could figure out more ways to say they weren’t ‘fated mates’ without it sounding even more sordid. Everil made it very clear it wasn’t like that by default with affinity bonds (soulbond, he’d called it to Suire).

It’d been easier to believe him before. Now, he had the memory of Everil ripping through woven branches and holding him close, snapping at the other fae assholes. Could still feel the light touch of Everil’s soft fingers over his hair and their hearts beating together in anger and fierce protectiveness. Everil, his presence like a clear winter’s day, there with Bo.

…yeah.

Best to think about the fucking phone call. Bo clicked his tongue and finally opened his eyes to look at the ceiling.

“Usually, I’d be all, ‘holy shit you met a dragon’, but you’ve already established the bloodthirsty thing. You ever hear anything about Gates?”

“Gates? A little.” Antonio sounded confused. Not that anyone could blame him. “I’ve never met a fae who’s big on explanations. Gates are old magic. Wouldn’t bring them up, I was you. Talking Gates to fae is like… talking immigration.”

“Fuck.”

“No kidding. Got the impression most fae’d like to break them, but they don’t know how.”

Bo tried to imagine someone breaking Talia. Trying to. She’d pledged not to use her powers in violence and traipsed around like a kid at a theme park. None of it real. Everything too real. Innocent, in her own way. Fuck.

“Checks out,” Bo agreed, pushing thoughts of Talia hurt from his mind. They’d keep him up at night enough anyway. “One plus one equals being asked if you know math isn’t intuitive and no one is actually good at that. ‘What the hell are you doing with this human , it’ll piss on the carpet’ is definitely a vibe I’ve caught from every fae but the sluagh.”

Talia didn’t count. Non-fae had to stick together.

Antonio laughed. Strained, but it didn’t have the same acrid edge.

“Yeah, I’m familiar. I was a kid. A toy, far as they were concerned. But they’ve got rules about toys. Fucking rules about everything. Be careful, yeah? If the kelpie’s breaking them, well, fae don’t mess around with slaps on the wrist. Toy or not. ”

A kid . Fuck.

“Fucking Protocol,” Bo muttered, instead of talking about bloodthirsty fae when you’d met them as a child . He forced himself to sound less like an asshole when he spoke next. “Going to be honest, I’m shocked you haven’t gone out of your mind. Fucks sake.”

“Did for a little, more or less.” Antonio drummed his fingers on something metallic from his side of the line. “Gets boring. And the food’s shit. Hell, I ate better in prison. Thing is, a dragon’s a dragon. You can sit through all the group therapy they tell you to, take any pill you’re given, no matter where you get it, shrink or dealer. Dragon’s still a fucking dragon.”

And he still came to help Bo. Antonio could say he had to because of guilt all he fucking wanted, but the fact remained that the bastard had brass.

“Dragon’s still a dragon,” Bo echoed, his own fingers still tapping quietly. “Yeah. Pretty good argument for not hallucinating something, when however many pills can’t change a dragon into something else. That what you see? Like, was Everil an actual fucking horse yesterday?”

“Nah,” Antonio said shortly. “I see through glamour. Skin-shifting’s different. The bast– Your guy is, dunno, sharp without his. Lots of teeth.”

Bo didn’t know what to say to that. Declan talked about his aspect being scary. The fuck did a kelpie aspect look like, if not the stallion? Probably something beautiful. But he said, “That’s fucked.”

“That’s the fae.” Antonio didn’t bother to mask the dislike in his voice, hard and unforgiving. “But never mind my bullshit. Old news. I grew up. Stopped being cute. He– They didn’t come around anymore. You’re the one swimming in those waters now. You ever find yourself wanting dry land, you know how to reach me.”

‘That’s the fucking fae,’ indeed. Bo made a quiet noise, a vague acknowledgement or approval. Talia’s familiar voice rang out from near the entry, and an even more welcome curl of awareness pinged with Everil’s closeness.

“I do, yeah.” Bo raised his hand to catch Talia’s attention. Everil looked as well, relief and something not unlike fondness tucked in his expression somewhere. The kelpie was a mess of tangles and leaves. “Thanks for talking about everything. With me. All that. I’m– look, they’re back. I’ve got to go talk about human-sized hermit crabs with our… ward… kid person. ”

“That’s a new one,” Antonio said after a pause while Bo got to his feet. “Surprised my nieces haven’t thought of it. I’d say have fun, but their idea of fun is usually shit. Be careful.”

“I’ll try.”

Before getting into the car, three hats and far too much money later, Bo texted Antonio his actual number. Only a handful of people had it, that shit being too easy to set free on the internet. He didn’t think Antonio would.

That was something to mull over later, maybe. While he was curled up alone, trying not to think about the man in the other bed that’d saved his life and still didn’t want to touch him. The man who’d held him by the river, then again in the forest, like he never wanted to let go.

Curved lips and strong hands, hair loose and dark and soft.

Fuck.