Three Kings, page 10
He took a wine glass from the cabinet and plucked a rosemary stem from the bushel above the sink. Rubbing his thumb and pointer finger over a blackened wick, he stirred a flame to appear atop a pillar candle. “Her name?”
Mary gulped. “Cressida.”
“How long have you loved her?”
“Four years.”
“How long has it been since you lost her?”
The woman sucked in a tiny, fragmented breath. “Three days.”
Ethan silently called for magic, asked for assistance, for an audience, and held the rosemary over the flame. Slowly, it ignited. Magic swirled between his ears, crowded his throat, turned his stomach. He placed the smoldering herb on the table and caged it with the wine glass, trapping smoky plumes.
“Look at me, Mary,” Ethan said.
Mary lifted her face. She was a solemn woman, lined by time but pretty in her plainness. She carried years on her slouched shoulders and cleverness in her eyes. Pain too. A terribly sad anger.
“Nico, open the window, please,” Ethan said, angling his chin over his shoulder.
The latch unfastened, and the window slid open.
Ethan turned over the glass, brimming with smoky tendrils, and held it out to her. “Think of her and drink.”
She blinked, confused. “Drink…?”
“Yes, drink,” he said again. “Now, if you’d please.”
Mary brought the glass to her lips and tilted it, sucking in the smoke. Her eyes welled, and her body shook, and she choked on a stifled sob. Once the smoke was gone, Ethan took her jaw in a firm grip and positioned his fingers like a pinched claw before her lips. Nico made an uncertain noise, but Lucia said nothing, just sipped their tea and waited.
Magic was a fickle thing. Ethan felt it like a quick-footed hare, jostling about inside her, collecting heartbreak and rotten love. Not everything, not all of it. But enough to let her rest until morning. He reached past her teeth and found a tendril of magic wriggling near the roof of her mouth. Come here. Let me be rid of you. He pinched the writhing smoke and yanked, causing Mary to cough and sputter. Finally, the love loosened. Ethan pulled it from her like a smoke-wire and shooed it out the window. The smoke darted about in panicky jolts and finally escaped.
“Shut the window,” he said, sighing.
Nico closed and latched the window. He cleared his throat, face a little paler, pupils a little wider. “Is it…is it done?”
Mary breathed heavily. She splayed one hand across her heaving chest, feeling over her blouse. “Thank you,” she said, surprised. Her throat flexed around a slow swallow. “And this’ll last until—”
“Morning, probably. Lucia can make you an herbal blend for the rest, I’m sure.” Ethan leveled Lucia with an irritated glance. You will, he said with his eyes. Don’t you dare bring her back here.
Lucia Belle tipped their chin in a polite nod. “Hard part is done. C’mon, Miss Whitt.”
Mary stared at Ethan. She was one of a handful in Casper who’d made their way to his lighthouse and asked for a spell. Most people were too superstitious. Too afraid of the necromancer who’d played God. But when comfort ran dry with family and sermons stopped ringing true at church, people always found a witch.
“Only one night?” Mary asked, hardly above a whisper.
Ethan added a spoonful of honey to his tea. “That’s all you purchased,” he said, eyeing her with an icy glare. “Have a good night, Mary.” As she slipped her shoes on at the door, he cleared his throat. “And, Lucia.” They turned, granting him a lazy once-over. “Even friends inquire about proper invitations, correct?”
They snorted and laughed under their breath. “Sure, sweetheart.” They pursed their lips in a quick air-kiss. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The front door opened and closed. Footsteps crunched the gravel, fading.
Nico slurped his tea. “So, that was batshit.”
“Bringing you back from the dead was batshit. What you just saw is a typical Friday.” Ethan drank from his mug, swallowing honeyed mouthfuls despite the heat. “You got your things from the inn, then?”
“Yeah, I did. Paid my tab too.”
“Good.”
“Do you and Peter have plans for dinner?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Nico ran his lip across the edge of the mug, still leaning against the counter, looking comfortable and familiar in the small kitchen. “We could go out?”
“Or order in,” Ethan proposed.
“Or order in,” he echoed. He toed nervously at the grout between tiles and kept his nose tipped toward his tea.
Ah, yes, here it is. The awkward knowing. The unspoken certainty. Nico had kissed Ethan that morning, and Ethan had kissed him back, but the selkie wasn’t aware that Peter had given any sort of blessing. Had encouraged it, even. Watching Nico’s tense expression morph from pensive to worried caused a laugh to bubble in Ethan’s throat.
“What?” Nico barked.
“Easy, darling. Everything’s fine,” Ethan said. Darling. He’d never used the term for anyone except Peter and Miranda’s half-feral housecat. “We can go out if you’d like, but there’s not much to choose from in town. We’ve got the pub, the café, Darika’s food truck, a deli, and Antonucci’s.”
“Antonucci’s is an Italian place, isn’t it?”
Ethan nodded. “Bread baskets, Alfredo sauce, tiramisu. They’ve got it all.”
“I have—” Nico patted his front pocket. “—my wallet back, so I can repay you and Peter for your hospitality—”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I want to.” Nico finished his tea and glanced at the door, jutting his chin. “Peter’s home.”
Sure enough, heavy steps grew closer, and the door creaked open.
Peter sighed. Shrugged off his dewy coat, swiped away his beanie, and said, “Evenin’. Qué tal?”
Nico shifted his eyes to Ethan, a question lingering in his creased brow. Ethan didn’t speak Spanish, but he’d joined the Vásquez family, so he knew enough to get by.
“We’re fine,” Ethan said, answering for them both. “How was the rest of your day?”
“Long.” Peter scrubbed his hand over his beard, smoothing the short, coarse hair on his cheeks and jaw. His eyes hovered on Nico. “Did you get things settled at the inn?”
Nico nodded. “I did. Are you feeling up to going out? Ethan mentioned an Italian restaurant.”
“Sure.” A smile twitched on Peter’s mouth. “Let’s check your bandages first though. How’ve you been feeling? Better?”
“Still itchy but better.” Nico pushed away from the counter and sat in the same seat Mary had occupied minutes ago. “Doesn’t hurt as bad anymore.”
Ethan retrieved the last of the salve from the fridge. “Let’s see, then.”
Nico worked his long-sleeved shirt over his head. His gaze was flighty, flicking between Peter and Ethan. He swallowed hard, and his fair skin reddened. “What is it…?”
Ethan openly stared at Nico, at his lengthy torso and broad chest and rosebud nipples. Peter did too.
Carefully, Peter stepped around the back of the chair and touched the fae markings on Nico’s collarbone. “You’re easy to look at,” he said. “That’s all.”
Ethan brought the salve to the table. “Relax,” he murmured and undid the clip holding his bandages in place. “And stop acting surprised.”
“I am surprised,” Nico whispered through clenched teeth. His brows pulled together nervously, and he worried his lip with his teeth.
Ethan hummed and traced the dent where Nico’s sternum bent inward between his pectorals. “Be still, fae-beast.”
Nico froze. His breath came in soft, trembling puffs as Peter curled his palms over spotted shoulders, and Ethan went to work cleaning his wound. The gash had shrunk to a small, red seam.
“You heal quickly,” Ethan said and framed the cut with dainty fingers. He knelt at Nico’s side, dragging his gaze from the split flesh to his face. “If I stitch this now, you’d be able to swim as soon as tomorrow.”
“Do it,” Nico said, blushing like a damsel, still as a viper.
Ethan nodded curtly, but he couldn’t avoid the splinter in his heart. He’s really going to leave. He forced a smile. “Peter, get my kit.”
*
Antonucci’s Ristorante was always busy on the weekends, but the eatery was particularly crowded that night. Ethan sat between Nico and Peter at a square table draped in a white cloth, sipping cherry wine from a stemless glass. Nico and Peter faced each other on opposite sides of the table, silently scanning their laminated menus. Silverware clanked on fancy dishware, hushed chatter filled the room, and tealight candles flickered inside repurposed mason jars, casting a gilded glow across each tabletop.
Before they’d left the lighthouse, Ethan had sewn together Nico’s busted skin, pushed a needle through healthy flesh, and pulled, resulting in a clean, pinkened line caged by thin thread. He’d flinched, of course, as most people would, but he hadn’t hissed or whimpered. He’d just studied Ethan’s face and stayed still with Peter’s thumbs poised at the notch where his shoulders met his throat.
Ethan wished he could see the future. Find out where the night might lead. Nowhere, somewhere. He took another sip. Wine soaked his tongue.
“What’re you two having?” Ethan asked.
“Risotto, I think,” Peter said, tapping his menu.
“The fish,” Nico said, predictably. “You?”
Ethan hummed. “Ribollita.”
A server brought them a basket of warm bread. After they’d placed their orders, Peter poured oil and inky vinegar onto a plate for dipping, and the trio ate quietly, exchanging nervous glances the same way teenagers on a first date would.
Finally, Peter asked about Nico’s family, his life back home, what it was like to travel alone, and Nico told stories of his mother and his aunt and his sister, women with sharp teeth and sharper minds, and spoke at length about sunning on glaciers, escaping pods of hungry orcas, hunting elk on land and penguins at sea.
“It gets lonely,” he admitted, nodding his thanks as Ethan poured him more wine. “Most of the people I grew up with have paired off and started families.”
“Why haven’t you?” Ethan asked.
Nico shrugged, holding fast to the silence while their food was delivered to the table. “People like us marry young. I wasn’t ready to commit to a life with someone, and now…” He forked his fish into pieces. “I had opportunities—good ones with good people—but I think I’ve missed my chance.”
Ethan furrowed his brow. “How old are you…? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”
“Thirty-three,” Nico said, laughing softly. “I’m an old man where I’m from. Most breeding pairs have two or three pups by now. Like I said, I had the option, just made different choices.”
“Sounds like you might’ve broken some hearts too,” Peter said.
Nico popped his lips and finished the rest of his wine. “A few.”
“Do you still want a family?” Ethan asked.
At that, a hush fell over the table. Nico glanced from Ethan to Peter, and Peter glanced from Nico to Ethan, and neither of them attempted to speak. Starting a family was an off-limits topic. Child rearing was a nonstarter. Ethan appreciated their concern for his bruised heart, yet something like sandpaper still scraped his insides.
“I’m not a baby bird. We can talk about children without me falling into hysterics, can’t we?” Ethan asked, resisting the urge to snap.
“Sorry—yeah, I do,” Nico blurted, face flushed. “I don’t know if I’d make a good parent, but I’d like to try.”
“And there’s no one you fancy?” Peter asked, shooting a cautious glance at Ethan. He spooned rice into his mouth. “From your colony, I mean.”
“No one I haven’t already screwed things up with,” Nico said and forced a pained smile. “And as much as I love my homeland, I think I’d prefer to stay outside the colony. My family’s wonderful, but fae culture is a bit…insular, to put it plainly.”
“Understandable,” Peter said.
The conversation dwindled. Ethan ate slowly, spooning hot soup into his mouth and trying desperately not to think about his own shortcomings. Peter and Nico had been right to try to dodge the subject of children, but he would absolutely not be letting them know that. Save the selkie, Ethan, he thought, chastising himself. It’ll make you feel whole again. He stared into his bowl, fighting against the sting in his nostrils.
“You’ve seen the northern lights, haven’t you?” Nico asked, peeking at Ethan and Peter through his lashes.
Peter shook his head. Ethan did too.
“Even being this close…? What a shame.” Nico tsked. “It’s beautiful. Like watercolors, almost. But brighter, more vibrant. They move.” He lifted his hand, waving his fingers above the table. “Dance high above the horizon and catch on the water. Ice holds the color, you know. Acts like a mirror.” His mouth curved, tenderness like an aura radiating around his face. “I could take you.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like to take you.”
Ethan’s heart reached between his ribs. “I’d like to go.”
Peter nodded. His smile twitched, eyes softening in the low light. “Me too.”
They cleaned their plates, and Peter argued with Nico over the bill. In the end, Nico aggressively stomped to the host station to make sure the bill was charged to his card, and Peter insisted on covering the tip—at least, Nico. C’mon, be reasonable.
Once the squabble was handled, the three wandered toward the rocky beach, minding their feet as they took the stone staircase to the sand. From there, beneath the high, black cliffs, Ethan gazed at his lighthouse—their lighthouse—as the crescent moon skipped across rippling waves. Smoke billowed from skinny chimneys peppering the skyline, and the ocean sang a familiar song.
Ethan watched Peter trail Nico through the darkness. He stood at the edge of the tide as his husband kissed the selkie they’d saved on the mouth, on that beach, on a cold, clear Friday evening. Nico Locke leaned into him. Their noses brushed, and their breath fogged the air. Ethan, he saw Nico say, lips stretched, tongue touching the back of his teeth. How strange to feel his heart rupture and rebel and restart. How comforting to brace for jealousy and find hope instead.
Ethan faced the moon again. He breathed because breathing seemed sensible; he wanted to remind himself it was possible to breathe right then, to inhale and exhale in the midst of change.
A hand—Peter’s hand—found his palm, and lips—Nico’s lips—brushed his temple.
“You haven’t baked in a while,” Peter said, following Ethan’s gaze to the white smile cut across the blackness.
Nico stood beside him, chin tipped downward, watching Ethan watch the moon.
“I could make a Skúffukaka,” Ethan said.
“What’s that?” Nico asked.
“Cake,” Peter and Ethan said in unison.
Nico stifled a laugh. “Cake,” he parroted, nodding. “I like cake.”
Ethan smiled at the sky and stepped backward, making for the staircase. It’d been a long time since he’d made something sweet. Peter and Nico followed him, boots smashing sand then stone, dirt then gravel. After unlocking the front door, shoes were unlaced and kicked away. Coats hung on the rack with flannel scarves.
We could all use something sweet.
“Heat the oven,” Ethan said and rolled up his sleeves.
Chapter Nine
The kitchen became a mess of spices, bowls, flour, whisks, and sugar. Ethan tore open a bag of dark chocolate with his teeth and tempered the chips. Nico leaned over his shoulder, gazing at the melted treat, and hummed pleasantly. His hand was a timid weight on Ethan’s tailbone. Standing in front of the island, Peter plucked jars and vials up one by one, inspecting the faded labels.
“Babe, which one of these is vanilla?” Peter asked, adjusting his glasses.
Ethan poured the warmed chocolate into a bowl with oil and coffee. “Use the Tahitian vanilla. The label is a bit faded, but it should be next to the wax paper. Don’t forget baking powder too.”
Peter made a pleased noise. “Oh, this.” The scrape of a whisk came and went and then the clank of the mortar and pestle. “Anise, right?”
Ethan sucked chocolate from his pinky finger and nodded. He stepped away from the stove and combined the mixing bowls, wet ingredients with dry ingredients, before picking up the pestle. The many-pointed spice gave way, crumbling into a fine powder with every twist of Ethan’s wrist. He dumped the anise into the batter, gave it a quick whisk, then tipped the bowl over an oiled baking tin.
“Won’t take long,” Ethan said and slid the tin into the oven. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
Nico took three mugs off the drying rack next to the sink and pointed to the half-filled coffee maker. “Anybody else?”
Peter’s face lit. “Sure, thanks.”
Ethan almost said yes, but he remembered Nico’s fertility recommendations—stay off caffeine—and shook his head. He couldn’t revolve his life around possibility, chance, lost time. Couldn’t keep himself trapped in the same toxic mental cycle. Maybe this month, maybe next month, maybe a year from now. If I lift my legs higher, if I stay on my back, if I eat healthier. But this maybe, this if seemed insignificant compared to the rest. Something he could try without heartache, like eating the snow plum.
And perhaps a part of him would always try. He knew the bottlenecked fear he’d carried for years had driven him into a spiral, but how does a witch rework a ritual he’d never paid attention to? How does someone snap a heartbreaking habit in half?
Breathe. Peter is right there. Inhale. The sea couldn’t keep him. Exhale.
In the pit of him, buried under magic and memories, Ethan Shaw knew the answer. Let it go. But letting go of Katia, of something that’d been disastrously out of his control, took bravery he never gave himself permission to muster.
Breathe.
“I’ll have some tea, actually,” Ethan said. He filled the kettle and turned on the stove.
While the cake baked, scenting the lighthouse with cocoa and almond, Ethan steeped his peppermint tea, leaned his forearms on the island, and listened to Peter and Nico talk about the ocean, and religion, and magic. He chimed in here and there, sipping, laughing, smiling.
