Three Kings, page 2
The leopard seal, actually. Black-eyed, sharp-toothed, inhaling and exhaling.
“Ethan…” Peter eased toward him, one shaky arm outstretched. “Maybe we should—”
The selkie lunged, snapping at Ethan’s bloody hand. It barked and trilled. Whipped its head back and forth, smacked its muscular tail against the ground, and bared its teeth. Ethan fell onto his rear and scrambled backward. He hardly avoided another snap, yelping as the selkie’s mouth clicked in front of his nose.
Before he knew it, Peter hollered, “Jesus Christ,” then gripped Ethan around his middle, hauling him backward. Peter stumbled and tripped over his own feet. He fell onto the cobblestone path outside the shed, still wrapped around Ethan. The selkie barreled after them. Peter gave a girlish shout and kicked the garden shed door shut, trapping the fae-beast inside.
Ethan snarled at the creaky door. “I just saved your fucking life!”
Thankless little monster. He lurched forward, but Peter held him at bay.
“Surprise, it’s a mean-ass seal,” Peter said. He heaved an aggravated sigh. “Who almost bit you, like I said it would—”
“Do not,” Ethan said, snappish and heated. “It’s a selkie—I know it’s a selkie. A bullheaded, ungrateful selkie.” He kicked uselessly at the shed. He was too far away to land a blow to the soggy wood, but he gave another kick for good measure.
“If you’re right—”
“I am right!”
“Whatever. Just let it rest overnight. Coming back to life isn’t exactly pleasant, trust me.”
Ethan let his weight go heavy against Peter, breathed deeply, and gave a curt nod, resting the back of his head on his husband’s collarbone. For the first time in three years, Peter Vásquez had admitted to dying. Indirectly, of course. But the statement still shocked through Ethan and turned his bones to jelly. “Fine, okay. I’m starving.”
“You’re also bleeding. C’mon, let’s get you inside. We’ve got lasagna, don’t we?”
“Yes, and butter lettuce from the garden. I’ll make a salad.”
“Okay,” Peter said. His breath fogged the chilly air.
“Okay,” Ethan echoed.
Neither of them moved for a while. They sat together in the misty garden, listening to the selkie trill and hoot.
Chapter Two
Ethan stared at the ceiling, lulled by the sea but kept awake by thoughts of the selkie. The beast had gone quiet about an hour ago, its sad cries fading as they sat at the dinner table, picking at leftover lasagna and Caesar salad. Before that, Peter had lifted Ethan onto the countertop and taken his hand in a firm grip, tending to the shallow prick on his wrist with peroxide and bandages. It wasn’t quite a cut, just a small puncture, but allowing Peter the opportunity to mend him put them both at ease.
They hadn’t talked much. Ethan had been wading through the aftermath of the spell, his skull stuffed with cotton. Peter had been wise enough not to say I told you so and fixed them two servings each before retiring the empty pasta tray to the sink. Ethan had nursed a beer, which still sat half-empty on the nightstand, and Peter had taken a shower. He slinked into bed clean and freshly lotioned, lying on his side with his cheek cushioned on a lumpy pillow.
“You’re insufferable, you know,” Peter whispered.
Ethan’s mouth ticked into a smile. “Isn’t that why you married me?”
“I married you for your cooking, clearly.”
“My baking. You and I both know I couldn’t cook a proper meal if my life depended on it.”
He laughed in his throat. “Right…” Peter hummed. “And you married me because I’m handy, is that it?”
“Oh, absolutely not. I married you for your looks, obviously,” Ethan teased, turning to meet his eyes. Truth be told, it was for his heart. Because Peter was kind and good and humble, because he blushed like a raspberry whenever people looked at him for a little too long, because he’d loved Ethan Shaw fiercely since the day they’d met. “I’m handy enough for the both of us.”
“Clearly. Bringing me back from the dead was a little showy though.”
Ethan swallowed hard. There, he thought, finally. He watched Peter’s rich, brown eyes soften and searched his face, waiting for the rest, for the truth.
“We’ve never talked about it,” Peter said and cupped Ethan’s jaw, thumbing tenderly at his cheekbone. “Was tonight some…some attempt at…at control? Some way to do it again, to make it happen on your own terms? Because—”
“Good Lord, Peter.”
“Listen, okay? I know it takes a lot out of you. I know it’s strenuous, but you don’t need to prove—”
“Anything,” Ethan interjected, snaring Peter in a hard glare. “What I did tonight was nothing like what I did to save you. It might look the same, and it might sound the same, but that night on the docks, I had no recipe, no spell, no ritual. I did something I can’t replicate—won’t replicate.” Because it would likely kill him. Would probably strip every bit of power from his bones. “That creature in our shed is alive because of a successful, safe ritual. You’re alive because I could not fathom letting you go. Those are two very, very different things.”
“Tell me how it’s different.”
“I would’ve bled every drop of magic to bring you back. I would’ve killed to bring you back. That selkie got a small taste of me; you were given the opportunity to take all of me. There’s your difference, darling. If that botched ritual had called for a sacrifice, I would’ve slit the first throat within reach. Surely, you’re aware I wouldn’t do the same for a seal.”
Peter’s fine mouth tensed. He glanced around Ethan’s face, tracing his coarse brow, the shell of his ear, and snaking his hand around the back of his head. “So, it is a seal,” he murmured, scuffing Ethan’s lips with his scratchy beard.
“Shut up,” Ethan said, but both syllables were muffled by a kiss. He seized Peter’s jaw and kept him close, demanding to be kissed properly, deeply. For so long, they’d shared a bed, but despite familiarity, he still found himself surprised by the heat of Peter’s breath, the way their teeth clumsily knocked, how his tongue moved sure and slow. Ethan opened his eyes mid-kiss and listened to the sound their lips made when they parted. “One day, I’m going to pack my things and find a sailor who appreciates me.” He feathered his mouth across Peter’s chin. “A good, quiet man who knows when he’s wrong.”
Chirped laughter filled the bedroom. “Well, only a fool would argue with you.”
“Exactly.”
Peter kissed him on the mouth and the cheek.
They slept partially tangled, as they did most nights, with the ocean at their window, shushing and singing.
*
Every morning, Peter woke in the blue hour when night clung to the horizon and dawn gilded the sky. Sometimes, he slipped soundlessly from their bed—started the coffee, cracked the eggs, brushed his teeth. But typically, he stretched beneath wrinkled sheets and reached for Ethan. It was on those mornings that Ethan thought about children and legacies and names. Mornings when they fucked mindfully, like people who were trying fucked, like people who read magazines—Make sure you’re on your back! Elevate your legs! Stay connected after climax!—fucked. On occasion, an orgasm would catch Ethan by surprise, rippling through him while Peter pinned his knees against the bed, widening him, making him accessible, gaping and open. But mostly, Ethan panted and stared at the ceiling. Waited for Peter to pull out, prop him on a pillow, fill his cunt with three fingers, and work him through a routine bout of bliss.
That morning, Peter suckled wetly at his clit. Ethan held on to the sensation, denying himself release until fingers bent, massaging his front wall, and Peter rolled his tongue, moaning against slick skin. He cupped Peter’s buzzed head and cried out, gushing around calloused knuckles, hips jerking, stomach spasming. The pillow beneath him dampened. Sweat beaded on his flushed skin.
Ethan wanted to say again. Wanted to keep Peter home for the day. They could fuck like people who yearned for a child, and fuck like people who wanted each other, and fuck like they used to. The passion wasn’t gone, per se, but Ethan missed who they’d been in the beginning. Insatiable and young and hungry.
Peter balanced on his free hand and lifted his face. “I bought some tea at the apothecary,” he said. When he pushed away from the bed, the heel of his palm met Ethan’s clit. He flexed his fingers. Slid one digit free and reached deeper. “Supposed to help with potency. Lady at the counter said lengthening our exposure time is our best bet. The longer my—” He cleared his throat. “—I’m inside you, the better our chances.”
“I’m quite certain that’s not how it works,” Ethan said, catching his breath. He reached for Peter’s wrist. Gripped around his pulse and trembled. “But I’m not opposed to keeping you here.”
“I have to go,” he murmured, nodding toward the window. He kissed Ethan gently. Pulled his hand free and rubbed downward, teasing at his back hole. “But I think it might be useful to buy a plug.”
“You have a perfectly good plug between your legs.”
“You know what I mean.”
Ethan arched his hips, grinding against Peter’s palm. “Stay. The boat can wait.”
“The fish won’t,” he said and kissed him again. “I’ll be home early, I promise. What should we have for dinner? Steaks, maybe? I can bring back a straggler if the catch is heavy.”
“Pretty sure we still have bluefin in the freezer,” Ethan mumbled. He watched Peter crawl away. Stared at his long, bronze torso, strong shoulders, and the dip where his tailbone curved inward. We’d make beautiful babies. Peter’s handsome genes; Ethan’s familial magic. But for three years, they’d had no luck. No almost. No maybe. Sometimes, on mornings when they tried, Ethan thought back to Hurricane Katia, how he’d given himself over to a ritual he couldn’t control, and wondered if their inability to create life was the payment. He tipped his knees toward his chest and rocked back and forth.
“How ’bout octopus, then?” Peter asked. He tucked an off-white shirt into black trousers and fastened the buttons on his ankle-length coat. “I’ll bring home something fresh.”
The floor wheezed under his socked feet. He appeared at their bedside again, blocking the muted light streaming in through the window. “Ethan,” he said gently, like he always did when quiet stretched too far between them. He took Ethan’s chin between his fingers and forced his gaze. “What is it, querido?”
I miss you, Ethan wanted to say. I’ve been missing you. Instead, he said, “Worried about the selkie. That’s all.”
Peter furrowed his brow and tucked his mouth against Ethan’s ear. “Te amo.”
“I love you too,” he said, sighing into a chaste kiss.
Peter doused his hands in the washroom, filled his thermos in the kitchen, and took a call on his way through the door. Hello? Yes, I’ll be there soon. Ready the crew. Ethan listened to his voice carry through the window. He went limp atop the pillow and allowed his legs to sink. He stared at the pocked ceiling above their sturdy maple bedframe. Reached beneath his navel and covered himself, trapping the mess, and hoped it’d amount to something. He closed his eyes for a long time. Breathed. Settled into the effervescence that typically followed sleep. But before he could properly doze, he was startled by an incessant buzz on the nightstand. He snatched his phone.
Peter Vásquez: Be careful with that seal.
Ethan rolled his eyes, angled the screen between his thighs, and snapped a picture.
Ethan Shaw: Should’ve stayed home <3
He hit Send and silenced his phone, then stripped the case from the pillow, the sheets from the mattress, and trudged through the living quarters. He dumped the laundry into the hamper and himself into the shower. It was a heady type of missing when you missed a person you already belonged to. Loneliness knotted in his chest. He had someone. Loved someone. Honored vows with someone. But he missed the desire, missed being lusted after.
He snorted, scrubbing shampoo through his hair. We aren’t boring. Two weeks ago, they’d coupled on the kitchen floor. On the summer solstice, when they’d argued in the lantern room, Ethan had pushed Peter against the domed glass and gone to his knees. They went down on each other in shared showers and made love on their anniversary. But Ethan missed the rest, the partnership that predated trying for something unattainable.
Not unattainable, he scolded and blew out a breath, jamming his toothbrush into his mouth. Not impossible.
They’d have a family one day. A beautiful, magical, handsome little family.
Ethan could—would—give Peter that.
He toweled off and walked naked through the lighthouse. In the bedroom, he dressed in another knit sweater and straight-legged denim. That damn fae-beast’ll need something to wear too. He pawed through Peter’s old clothes, searching for briefs and something warm—a crewneck sweatshirt and a pair of drawstring joggers. And something to drink. He paused in the kitchen and filled a mug with coffee. Added a sugar cube and stirred in fresh cream.
The selkie hadn’t made a sound all morning. No banging, no trilling, no barking. Anxiety needled Ethan’s throat. What if it’s dead, what if your power failed, what if you’ve depleted yourself, what if the magic left you. He shooed the feeling and made his way to the shed, avoiding puddles left behind by midnight rain. Balancing the folded garments under his arm and the coffee in his palm, he eased the shed door open and braced for a corpse to greet him. Shadows filled the space, split by a streak of sunlight beaming through the shoebox-shaped window on the back wall. In the corner, huddled next to a sack of soil, the selkie peered at him.
“If you try to bite me again, I’ll dump this on you,” Ethan said, lifting the steaming mug. “It’s volcanic.”
The selkie, who hadn’t taken human form, stretched its spotted head toward him and sniffed the air. A soft, chuffing noise rattled in its throat. It favored its left flipper, holding the limb close to its body. Ethan hadn’t caught the scent of anything unusual last night, but right then, a pungent, coppery odor permeated the air. Infection. Like rancid oranges and sour meat.
“If you’re hurt, I’ll see to you…” He eased into the shed, hugging the adjacent wall, and set the clothes on the table.
The selkie didn’t move, didn’t make another sound, just kept its snout pointed toward him, watching.
Ethan wrinkled his nose. “I’m almost certain you're hurt, but if you’d rather go—” He set the coffee mug down. “—then be on your way. But I’d really like to take a look at—”
The selkie snapped its teeth.
Ethan jumped backward. “Right, then. Well, if you change your mind, I’m in the lighthouse. And fair warning, if you try to kill me, my husband will carve you into a new pair of boots. Understood?”
At that, the fae-beast tilted its head but stayed silent. Peter would never, but the stubborn-as-hell selkie didn’t need to know that.
“Good. And speaking of skinning, I don’t want your pelt if that’s what you’re worried about. I have zero interest in dealing with an indentured fae servant. Especially one as friendly as you, so—” He waved toward the table again. “—you’re welcome.”
Ethan resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as he left the shed, closing the door quietly behind him. No hooting followed. No trills or barks or growls.
He paused to dig up two sweet onions and cut a pumpkin off its thick, curly vine, allowing the selkie time to shift, maybe. To dress, appear, and speak to him. To do something, anything. Ethan waited and hoped the creature would come to its senses. But a particularly sharp wind snapped at his face, and he retreated inside, ducking to avoid another chilly strike.
Maybe the selkie wasn’t a selkie at all. Maybe Peter had been right. Maybe Ethan had wasted his energy on a wild seal. God forbid.
Ethan rinsed the onions first. Thankfully, his magicked vegetables hadn’t wilted. In spite of the wintery weather and bitter cold, Ethan’s spell-work had kept his garden bushy and full. He took a knife to the hefty stem jutting from the gourd, sawed a hole in the top, and emptied seeds and guts into a colander. The shed never opened. No knock sounded at the door. After an hour had passed and Ethan had hollowed the pumpkin, sliced the onions, and boiled a pot of long-grain rice, he drummed his fingers on the counter and stared through the window behind the deep farm-style sink, watching seagulls swoop toward the water.
He was absolutely, no-questions-asked positive the creature—selkie or not—was hurt. Badly, if he had to guess. And if it wanted to swim, to survive, it’d need tending to.
“Stupid water dog,” Ethan mumbled and rinsed his hands.
Not my problem, he reminded himself, repeating the statement as he stuffed the pumpkin with rice, goat cheese, tomatoes, rosemary, and onion. He banged around in the kitchen. Crushed thyme and basil in his mortar, nibbled a sharp cheddar square, poured a glass of seltzer, and huffed out a sigh. The grandfather clock across the room ticked. Another hour gone. What now? The weather hadn’t changed enough to warrant re-logging for arrivals and departures, and the lantern was on an automated timer, scheduled to illuminate at dusk. Ethan only had one thing left to worry about. “Stubborn beast.” He hated his achy, lonely heart. Hated caring.
“Well, I can’t let you die again,” he said to no one, to the selkie, to himself, and threw on his peacoat.
If he couldn’t create life, he would damn well protect it. Or try to at least.
Brine chapped his cheeks. He pulled his collar upright and followed the path toward town, trudging through gravel and dirt until his heeled boots met cobblestone. The craggy coastline softened as he traveled inland. Gusty wind bent yellow grass, and smoke billowed from brick chimneys. A mule called to him, stretching over the fence at the Johansson farm. Bells clanked around cow necks, and chickens clucked in their coop. Wildflowers pushed through the fissures in the stone, and weeds climbed mailboxes.
