Those Words I Dread (Tales of the Tuath Dé #1)

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There was no preventing Ciaran from joining Trent in the shower once they managed to untangle themselves from each other, but Trent didn’t mind. He expected to feel awkward or embarrassed or different somehow. As far as he could tell, the only thing that had changed was that he didn’t tense up when the fairy slipped his arms around his waist and laid his cheek on his back.

Ciaran pressed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder and squeezed him tightly around the middle. “You did very well, you know,” he murmured against the younger man’s skin.

Trent clicked his tongue at him. “Fuck off.”

The fairy grinned. “A bit romantic for my taste, but I understand you needing to get it out of your system.”

“Do you want to die? Is that what you’re telling me right now?”

Ciaran turned Trent on the spot and pushed him back against the tile wall of the shower, giving his chin a soft bite. “This was a favor. Next time I’ll make you beg.”

“You’re assuming there’ll be a next time; that’s cute.”

Ciaran let out a low chuckle, and he leaned up to kiss his lover’s frowning mouth. “You are a treat. Doesn’t anything put you in a good mood?”

“I mean, you not talking always brightens my day.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Ciaran muttered, but he saw the faint smile on Trent’s face.

They switched places under the hot water until they were both scrubbed clean, occasionally pausing to kiss or tease or trade insults, so that by the time the water ran cold, Ciaran had Trent pinned to the wall with a vicious kiss. They barely made it back to the bed before undoing all their hard work cleaning themselves.

Trent supported himself on his elbow to watch Ciaran doze beside him, idly tracing the pattern in the fairy’s gold amulet with one finger. When Ciaran opened his eyes, he turned his head to touch a kiss to the younger man’s wrist.

“What is this?” Trent asked quietly. He didn’t want to speak too loudly for fear he might break whatever bubble they were in, disconnected from the outside world. With Ciaran in the bed beside him, both of them warmed by the other’s skin, he wondered why he ever cared what his father thought of him.

Ciaran glanced down at his chest and lifted the amulet, turning it in his fingers. “Family heirloom, you might say.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Aye. It’s the symbol of Anu.”

“And who’s that?”

“She’s a goddess,” the fairy said, shrugging one shoulder. “Sort of…our mother. Or so they say.”

Trent tilted his head with a skeptical frown. “I thought you said you had children ‘the proper way?’ So is she your mother or not?”

“The mother of all of us, I meant. Ancestrally, like. You know.”

Trent hummed in understanding. “Is it magic?”

Ciaran shook his head. “No. I’ve just had it for a very long time.” He smiled up at the younger man and batted at the jade pendant around his neck with one finger. “What about this one? Any magic in it?”

He scoffed. “Not likely. It’s just old—my grandmother’s. It’s supposed to be good luck, but my grandmother had cancer, so how lucky can it be? ”

“But you wear it anyway.”

“I’ve had it since I was a kid. It was still hers, and she still gave it to me thinking it would keep me safe, so I wear it. A family heirloom,” he said, mimicking Ciaran’s answer.

Ciaran watched him for a moment, and then sat up with the blanket around his waist and reached back, loosening the leather cord around his neck and pulling the gold amulet up over his head. He tutted at Trent to urge him to sit up, and he slipped the cord around the younger man’s neck and tightened it so that the round talisman rested at his collarbone. While Trent frowned at him, he unfastened his silver chain and hooked the clasp around his own neck, pausing to watch for signs of disapproval. Trent only shook his head with a small chuckle, so Ciaran smiled and glanced down to inspect the jade around his neck.

“I don’t want to forget,” he said softly, brushing the pad of his thumb over the smooth green stone. “No matter what, I’ll remember this.”

“And you said I was a romantic,” Trent taunted, and Ciaran shoved him by the shoulder. “So about that ‘no matter what,’ since you mention it. We can’t just stay here. You don’t live anywhere, right?”

“Not as such, no.”

“So, where were you going to go when you got better?”

The fairy shrugged. “Wherever the wind takes me,” he said with a laugh. “Where do you want to go?”

“I haven’t really been too many places except here and Hong Kong,” Trent said. “We went to Australia one summer.”

“Well, spin the globe, a rún, and we’ll go. You going to have that chat with your father, then?”

“I’m glad I don’t have to do it in person,” Trent admitted. “At least this way when he disowns me I can just hang up the phone and throw it away.”

Ciaran paused, watching the younger man’s solemn face, and he reached forward to gently grasp Trent’s fingers in his. “You are going to live well, and fully, and you are going to be so happy that you will wonder why such a small-minded man ever mattered to you at all. I promise.”

“Nobody ever made being homeless sound so good. ”

“So, what are we doing? You want to trash the place before we go, make a bit of a mess?”

“You need rest,” Trent pointed out. “You still look like shit.”

“You really know how to sweet-talk a girl,” Ciaran grinned, but he settled under the blanket beside Trent and quickly nodded off, his breath still sounding slightly labored from his fever.

Trent slipped out of the bed and pulled on some nearby clothes. He would need to pack a bag. His mother had told him to take everything he needed, but what could he really take with him? Some clothes, a coat for when it got cold again, his laptop—he didn’t really need anything else. It was freeing, in a way, to think about all the things he could happily leave behind. His Xbox, the rows of dress shoes and suit jackets in his closet, every textbook he’d ever had to lug across the city on a bus. He made a mental note take his more expensive watches, if only to pawn them when the need inevitably arose.

His closet seemed comically large to him now. Why had he needed so many shirts? Ciaran didn’t even have any of his own anymore; the one he had bled on had been thrown away, and he’d seemed content to wear Trent’s ill-fitting clothes instead. He would buy the fairy at least one outfit that suited him with the money he took from his bank account. Trent idly fingered the gold amulet around his neck as he took stock of what clothing would be best to pack and what could be easily left behind. He actually found himself smiling more often than he was really comfortable with. It hurt his face.

By the time Ciaran woke up again, Trent had filled his unused duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, his laptop, his chosen watches, and a heavy winter coat. The fairy stood quietly in the closet doorway, startling him as he turned away from his newly-packed bag.

“I want to ask you if you’re sure about this,” Ciaran said. “I’m still waiting for you to come to your senses, I think.”

“My senses are fine.” Trent slid his fingers through the other man’s messy hair and bent slightly to touch his forehead to his. “This is stupid; I’ve only known you a week, and you’ve been nothing but irritating the entire time, and if someone had asked me a month ago if I thought that this sort of thing could happen so quickly, I would have thought they were an idiot. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe you are, or both of us. ”

Ciaran chuckled, reaching up to rest his hand on Trent’s caressing arm. “As much as I want to tell you that you’re an idiot, in this case I’m tempted to say we’ve been the victims of fate. She does have a sense of humor.”

“I didn’t even think fate was a real thing. But I’m not going to waste time worrying. You know how to get by, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do by now, yes.”

“And you’re going to take me with you wherever you go.”

“Everywhere and anywhere.”

Trent smiled faintly and moved in to kiss him, lingering a breath away even after the kiss was broken. “Then it’s going to be fine.”

Ciaran pulled back to look up at him. “If you’re trying to spend the day in bed, you’re doing a very good job.”

“I’m just hoping to keep you so exhausted that you shut up every now and then.”

“Oh, you are going to be so sore when I’m finished with you.”

Trent patted the fairy’s cheek condescendingly and brushed by him, heading into the kitchen to find some food for supper. The two of them ate on the sofa—Trent’s meal substantially healthier than Ciaran’s, of course—while the television played catchy intro music in the background.

“Explain to me again what’s going on here,” Ciaran said with a mouthful of spiced cake, shaking his fork at the television screen.

“Oh my God, it’s really not that complicated,” Trent sighed. “It’s a beauty pageant.”

“So they get judged based on how attractive they are, or how much makeup they can get on their faces before it sloughs off in a sheet?”

“It’s lots of stuff. Looks, whatever their supposed talent is, how well they answer pre-written bullshit questions, that sort of thing. Half the time it seems they get points just for not falling over.”

“But why are they dressed that way? They’re children! Who’s judging the attractiveness of a four year old?”

“Pedophiles, probably.”

“And they put it on television?”

Trent shrugged. “They put a lot of stuff on television.”

“Ach,” Ciaran scoffed. He slouched back on the sofa and took another bite of cake, pausing to stretch his injured arm and check its soreness.

“We can turn it off,” Trent offered, but Ciaran snorted at him.

“Not without finding out if Savannah places,” he said as though it should have been obvious.

Behind them, covered by the sound of an overenthusiastic announcer, the front door clicked as Noah turned the handle. The lock slid open at his touch, and he stepped inside with Julien on his heels.

Ciaran sat up with a bite of cake halfway to his mouth as a prickling sensation traveled up his spine. He knew that feeling. He had gotten used to the soft tingling of magic in the apartment that radiated from Trent’s family artifacts, but this was purposeful and sharp. He turned to the door and instantly got to his feet at the sight of the two men in the hall, dropping his plate to the floor.

“You don’t quit, do you?” he sneered at Julien, and he automatically moved to stand between Trent and the intruders. He tilted his head with a small smirk. “How’s that wrist?”

“Don’t talk to it,” Julien murmured when Noah glanced at him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Trent spoke up as he stood, but Ciaran put a hand out to keep the younger man behind him.

“Who’s this you brought with you?” the fairy asked, his eyes on Noah’s uncertain face. Ciaran’s lip curled as he took a step forward. “You’ll hunt me down for existing, and then you bring a witch into this house?”

“Just do it, Noah,” Julien whispered, putting a steadying hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Noah took a deep breath and held out his hands, stopping Ciaran in place.

“You’re playing with fire, a mhac,” Ciaran growled, pulling against the invisible bonds holding him.

Noah didn’t answer him, only shut his eyes and began whispering hasty Latin. He instantly felt the tug in his chest, but he kept going, repeating the phrases he knew by heart. Ciaran swayed in front of him and Trent caught him by the arm to keep him upright.

“What is he doing?” Trent snapped, looking across the room at Julien with panic in his eyes. “What are you doing?!” he tried again when he got no answer. He wanted to call the police, to hit the stranger in the face—anything to interrupt whatever he was doing, but Ciaran seemed to be withering right in front of him. The fairy’s face had become gaunt, and he dropped to one knee as he slipped out of Trent’s grip.

“You’re…mad,” Ciaran croaked. “You’ll kill us both.” His breaths were shallow and labored, and he held on to Trent’s sleeve to steady himself. Trent could only kneel beside him and put a hand on his chest, gripping him helplessly. He wanted to do something, but he was afraid of what would happen if he left the fairy’s side.

Trent looked up from Ciaran’s hollow face just in time to see Julien looming over him, and he was snatched by the back of his collar out of his lover’s reach, causing the fairy to lurch sideways. Ciaran barely caught himself on his hands, but he still managed a snarl as Julien forced Trent easily to the floor, pinning the younger man’s wrists behind his back with his one good hand. Trent fought the much larger man’s weight as his cheek pressed into the cool tile floor.

“Stop it!” he shouted, knowing it was pointless. Ciaran seemed to choke on something, and his green eyes were glassy as he looked over at Trent with a desperate, panting grimace.

Noah grit his teeth through the slow, thudding pain in his heart, his arms growing heavy as the spell flowed out of him and took his spirit with it. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow as he whispered and the trembling in his hands, but it was Julien who noticed the blood beginning to seep from his nose down over his lip. The blood dripped down the witch’s chin to the floor, staining his mouth. His brow furrowed against the paralyzing ache in his bones, squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. He could barely find the strength to keep up his incantation. Noah’s legs gave out from under him as Ciaran slumped to the floor, and he dropped to his knees.

“Noah,” Julien called out as a warning, his eyes on the fading fairy. “Just a little more,” he pressed.

Noah flinched as a weight seemed to hit his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes, but his vision was blurred by tears and his head swam from the pain of exertion. He let out a racking cough, feeling bile rising in the back of his throat. He wasn’t going to make it, but he could do what Julien asked of him. He could do this for him. Maybe he really would take a break when it was done. And they would never have to have that talk. The witch forced himself to speak the incantation louder until the thread of resolve holding him up seemed to snap, and he fell to the floor in a heap. Julien left Trent where he lay and rushed to Noah’s side, lifting the boy’s limp body under his shoulders and shaking him while Trent scrambled across the floor to Ciaran.

Trent tried to turn Ciaran on his back and hesitated at the sudden weight of the fairy’s torso. He felt like a body, instead of the sprite-like lightness Trent had felt in his arms that morning. He turned him over and held his face with both hands, letting out the sigh he had been holding in as he realized the fairy was still breathing. They were shallow, wheezing breaths, and his head threatened to loll heavily under Trent’s touch, but he was breathing. Trent whispered his lover’s name more than once, begging him to respond. Ciaran began to cough, twisting onto his side as he curled his knees up to his chest, and a spatter of blood escaped his mouth and dotted the tile floor—red blood. A tremor of panic brushed Trent’s spine. Why was it red?

“Ciaran,” he said again, his voice wavering. He looked up at the men across the room with a glaring frown.

Julien had his ear to Noah’s chest, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding nearby. The boy still had a pulse, but it was weak, and he was barely breathing. Julien whispered to him in French, attempting to rouse him, but the witch was unresponsive. His pupils had shrunk to tiny pinpricks, and a mixture of blood and saliva dripped from his mouth to the floor as his head fell to the side. He looked back at Ciaran with a scowl twisting his lips. The fairy wasn’t dead. How wasn’t it dead? It was weak now, at least—it would be easy to push the boy out of the way and put a blade in its heart. He could end it. He could put a stop to it for good and make all of this worthwhile. But Noah’s body was heavy in his grip, and Julien could feel him slipping further every moment that he lingered. Noah mattered more.

With a short grunt of effort, Julien lifted the witch over his shoulder with one hand and spared Trent one last glance before fleeing the apartment.

Ciaran struggled to breathe, and more blood spilled from his lips with every cough. Trent stayed at his side, touching his shoulder and hair with a helpless persistence.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered, but the fairy couldn’t answer. Should he call an ambulance? Would they even be able to help him? Ciaran had no injuries that he could see—there was nothing to clean, nothing to help. He could only kneel beside him and keep him steady, wiping the blood from his chin just to feel like he was doing something, anything to help.

Ciaran went quiet after a while, his breath slowly becoming more even, but he still wouldn’t open his eyes. Trent shifted the fairy into his arms, pulling to his feet with significantly more effort than he had needed the last time he lifted him. He was definitely heavier—he seemed an appropriate weight for his size, which was a vast difference. Trent carried him to the bed and laid him down. He stood over him, feeling helpless and frustrated. He had a hundred questions—who had the hunter had with him, what magic had he done that could hurt Ciaran like this, what he should do now to help—and no answers. He was reluctant to leave Ciaran’s side, but he broke away from him to shut and lock the front door again, though it seemed to have been little deterrent before.

He sat on the bed beside the fairy and watched him breathe, an anxious tension growing in his chest every time Ciaran shifted or coughed. Trent barely moved for hours, until the lights of the city outside were the only illumination in the room. He couldn’t focus on anything but Ciaran. He distantly heard his phone buzzing against the counter in the next room, but he made no move to answer it. He held Ciaran’s hand, though it felt cool and clammy in his grip, and he listened to his slow breathing in the silent room.

The sky had begun to brighten outside before Trent realized how much time had passed. He felt stiff and tired. He released Ciaran’s hand only to stretch and twist the muscles in his neck. The fairy seemed to be sleeping now, at least, rather than suffering. Trent left him briefly to use the bathroom and wash his face, but then he returned, taking up his place again at Ciaran’s side.

The injury on his arm didn’t seem bruised anymore. It looked slightly red where the blade had cut him, but the dark veins had disappeared. Trent lifted his shirt to check the fairy’s stomach, and the bruise there had all but disappeared. He frowned as he looked back at Ciaran’s face. What the hell had the spell done to him?

It was well into the day before Ciaran stirred, startling Trent out of his drowsy vigil and bringing him back to attention. Trent gripped Ciaran’s hand and shifted closer to him as he opened his eyes. The fairy looked up at him blankly for a moment before squeezing his hand and attempting to sit up. Trent urged him back down to the bed, frowning at how weakly Ciaran fought him.

“Have they gone?” Ciaran murmured. “Are you safe?”

“It’s fine,” Trent assured him, gently brushing the hair out of his face. “Everything’s fine.”

Ciaran pushed Trent’s hand aside and slowly sat up, looking down at himself and seeming to take stock of the situation. “I’m not dead,” he said as though it was a surprise to him.

“What the hell was that? You called that guy a witch.”

“Aye,” he muttered. He touched his stomach with a frown and lifted his arm, turning to inspect the healing red wound.

“Those look better,” Trent said. “Why would they be better?”

Ciaran didn’t answer him. He lifted his shirt to peer down at the spots of red on his chest and held the fabric out for Trent to see. “Is this from me?” His voice was still faint and weak, as though he could barely find the breath to make the words.

He nodded. “You coughed up a lot of blood. I thought you said your blood was black?”

“It is,” the fairy answered with a furrowed brow.

“So, what, it was a spell to make your blood different? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It should have killed me,” Ciaran said, staring down at the stains. “Why didn’t it kill me?” He looked back up at Trent. “What happened to the witch? The hunter?”

“The one guy looked like he passed out, and the hunter took him out of here in a hurry.”

Ciaran paused. “Maybe he didn’t finish? No; that shouldn’t have mattered.”

“You going to fill me in at all?”

“Sorry.” Ciaran shook his head. “That spell—I’ve seen it a few times before. Very rarely. It’s extremely powerful, deadly to just about everything, but it’s really a last resort sort of thing. The person casting it is just about as likely to die doing it. I didn’t know I was so important.”

“Well the other guy didn’t look great. Maybe he did die.”

“But I didn’t,” he muttered. “Why?”

“Does it matter why? You’re awake and talking. Do you feel okay?”

“I feel…off.” Ciaran shifted his weight on the mattress, bouncing slightly. “It’s like...I’m without, somehow. That doesn’t make sense. I can’t quite—” He stopped bouncing and shook his head. “I’m not quite right, I can’t—I don’t know. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“You’re heavier. When I carried you in here, you felt like…a person.”

Ciaran stopped bouncing and looked over at him. “Like a person,” he repeated with a frown. He sat still a moment, staring down at his hands, and then he shook his head. “You’re right. I can’t do it. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

Ciaran’s brow furrowed. “The magic in me. It’s all gone.”