Three Kings, page 3
Between dainty hills peppered with alder trees and hemlock, Casper appeared. There were square houses painted white, beige, and gray; little cars parked along the sidewalk next to scooters and bicycles; and boats easing into port and bobbing lazily at the docks. Tourists moseyed about as they always did, dipping into the Casper Brewery and browsing boutiques for Icelandic souvenirs. The locals bounced from the pub to the market, nursing cigarettes, manning registers, nannying children, mending nets. Like most coastal towns, Casper leaned toward the ocean, always damp, always creaky, always cold, and like most coastal towns, the folk held a bittersweet love for it. Like a thing they’d fixed, broken, and fixed again.
Ethan made for the herbiary, passing a booth stocked with Casper lilies—fake, of course—bundled in cellophane for naïve visitors. Specter Café boasted their signature maple mocha and sea salt taffy, scenting the air like coffee grounds and vanilla.
Miranda Park, who ran the metaphysical shop above Specter, waved from her balcony. “Afternoon, Ethan! Heard there’s rain on the way. Stay warm.”
“Good to see you,” he said and threw her a smile. “Ah, well, of course there is. I left home, so it has to rain.”
“Of course,” she crowed, laughing. “Bring Peter over for dinner soon, all right? I’ll make bibimbap!”
“Will do, Miranda. Take care!”
The Open sign glowed red in the herbiary’s window, illuminating roses twined with burlap. Ethan gripped the door handle and snuck a glance over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of the dark, swollen clouds rolling in from the sea and thought, Peter, as he always did when faced with a storm. He’d checked the weather though. The sea liked to spit at them, but not every storm was Katia. Still, he heaved a miserable sigh because rain—of course, rain—and walked inside. The bell above the door jingled. An orange tabby napped on a table stocked with beeswax candles, and the person behind the counter tilted their head, sweeping upturned eyes across Ethan.
“Ethan Shaw,” they said, drawing his name between their teeth like syrup. “How can I help you?”
Ethan straightened in place, tugging at the bottom of his coat. “Have we met…?”
“Sure haven’t. But I’ve heard the talk.”
“The talk,” he murmured, snorting defiantly. “And what talk have you heard?”
“That you’re a witch. Seduced yourself a sailor. Whispered to his heart after it stopped beatin’ and told it to start again. People say you got him under some kind of spell too.” They purred, running their hand along the cat’s back. “Got him hooked on you.”
“Well, he’s a captain, actually.” Ethan browsed the shelves, collecting a jar of honey, powdered garlic, a bottle of apple cider vinegar, and dried orange peels. “But the rest is almost true.”
“Which part? You sweet-talkin’ his heart or him bein’ hooked on you?”
“The former. Do you have eucalyptus?”
“I do.” The clerk watched him. Inky curls framed their jaw, and their turtleneck sweater fanned open around a slender throat, ringed with cheap, gold chains. “Rumor has it you’re tryin’ for a baby.”
Ethan wanted to throttle his senseless, trusting husband. “Rumor has it you shouldn’t listen to apothecary gossip,” he snapped lowly, like a wolf. He met their eyes, dark as night, and set the items on the counter. “Eucalyptus, please. Four ounces.”
The clerk’s thin mouth quirked into a smile. “Well, if that rumor’s even half-true, I might be of assistance. Got myself a recipe for baby makin’. You know the kind, I expect.”
Anger and shame twisted behind his belly button. He dug in his pocket, searching for his wallet. “I suspect I don’t.”
“From one witch to another, I’m sure you do.”
He lifted his face, brows cinched, lips screwed into a snarl. “I haven’t a clue what you’re getting at but—”
“Easy.” They reached beneath the counter and retrieved a glass vial filled with sallow liquid and held it between their thumb and index finger. “Harvested from the arctic. Narwhal, of course. Blended with consensually mined marrow. One teaspoon will last an entire night. Add to a drink or swallow straight. Doesn’t matter.”
Ethan stared at the vial. “Marrow?”
“Siren marrow.” Their pierced eyebrow arched. “For encouragement. Voracity, if you will. You’ll be irresistible to each other, and, well—” They cocked their head, considering. “—able to sustain for a much, much longer go.”
Heat blistered in his cheeks. “I’m not sure we need—”
“Need is superficial. You want what this can give you, no?”
Ethan inhaled a shaky breath. In a primal, selfish way, he did. Reluctantly, he nodded.
They grinned, feline and coy, and held the vial out to him. “Take it, sweetheart. I’ll get your eucalyptus. Full leaves, oil, or gel?”
“Leaves, thank you.”
The syrupy substance slid along the glass. Narwhal teeth were particularly sought-after ingredients in witchcraft, but he’d never had the chance to see the material in person. He’d heard about foragers—witches diving into glacial water to scour the ocean floor for discarded tusks—but he’d never gone, and he’d never been privy to the treasure those witches returned with. Usually, alchemists, mystics, and magicians moved through Casper on their way to somewhere else. They came, traded, bartered, slept with sailors, stole lilies, and went on their way. Whoever this witch was, they were the first outsider to linger.
The clerk returned and set a pouch filled with leaves on the counter. Their long, equine face held a prettiness he hadn’t noticed at first. Rich, umber-toned ochre skin. They tapped each item into the tablet-register and turned it around to face him. “Forty-three, please.”
Ethan blinked. “That can’t be right.”
“Consider the marrow a gift. We’re aware of each other now, no? And making someone’s acquaintance can potentially lead to friendship.” Beside them, the cat yawned, stretching its paws over the side of the counter. “People like us need friends.”
He swallowed around an uncomfortable lump. “What’s your name? I don’t recall catching it.”
“Lucia Belle.” Their tone was disquieting. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ethan Shaw.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he lied, then swiped his card, signed with his finger, and took the paper bag they’d meticulously filled. Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he made for the door, brushing past a giant monstera and macrame plant-holders.
“Good luck,” they called. “That marrow calls for a light hand. Too much, and you’ll be awake for days!”
Ethan acknowledged them with a jerky wave and shouldered through the door. Could his face get any hotter? If his damn husband hadn’t blabbed to the gossipy she-devils at the apothecary, he would’ve gone to the herbiary, collected his supplies, and been on his way. But no. No! Of course not.
He kicked a rock and cursed under his breath. At the same time, thunder rumbled overhead. Wonderful. Ethan shoved the bag inside his coat and groaned, tucking his chin toward his chest as the sky opened, drenching Casper in quarter-sized raindrops. By the time he’d jogged back to the lighthouse, he was soaked. His socks squelched in the heeled Chelsea boots Peter had gifted him last Yule, and his binder clung to his skin. He tossed the bag onto the counter and stripped off his coat, leaving it piled on the floor with his sweater and pants.
“Marry a fisherman, Ethan. You’ve always loved being near the ocean,” he mocked, almost toppling over as he peeled off his right sock, then his left. “Casper is such a precious town. Put down roots; make a life here.”
Not that he’d ever leave Casper. Despite the terrible weather, nosey neighbors, and frosty climate, nowhere else would suit him half as well.
The front burner on the stove ignited. Ethan haphazardly lit the corner of a paper towel and threw the flame into the hearth, prodding it with skinny logs until the fireplace blazed. Rain kept falling, and waves grew, crashing against rocky cliffs. He shivered uselessly, still weighed down by his half-tank binder and sopping briefs. He stripped the rest of his clothes away, stepped into a pair of sweatpants, and put on one of Peter’s long-sleeved shirts. Moth-eaten and old, the Henley slouched over his shoulders. He hadn’t realized his phone was still in the pocket of his discarded jeans until the denim lit, glowing on the floor by the coatrack.
Peter Vásquez: That’s not fair
Peter Vásquez: omfg Ethan
Peter Vásquez: More?
Peter Vásquez: p l e a s e
Peter Vásquez: Okay c’mon
Peter Vásquez: You can’t just send a dick pic and then stop responding
Peter Vásquez: Babe please
The next text was a picture taken from above. Peter’s chest, his hand crammed inside his pants, the dirty tile in the tiny rig bathroom.
Peter Vásquez: See what you did? Can’t stop thinking about you
Ethan grinned, pleased with himself.
Ethan Shaw: I prepped dinner and went into town
Ethan Shaw: Show me
Three dots undulated in the text bubble. The next picture jolted through Ethan’s groin. Peter, gripping himself, his cock hard and flushed, wet at the tip.
Ethan Shaw: Better hurry and finish before someone calls for the captain
Peter Vásquez: Help me
Peter Vásquez: Please
Ethan plopped on the floor and snapped several pictures, bending his body into promiscuous poses. Some were okay; some were blurry. The two he chose were the best of the bunch. In the first, he arched, shirt pooled above his navel, tugging at the edge of his sweats. The second was a close-up of his mouth, two fingers curled behind his bottom teeth, tongue pink and wet, throat a dark chasm. He hit Send and pushed to his feet. From the bag, he drew the vial of siren marrow and gave it a once-over. His phone lit on the countertop.
It was a video this time. Peter stroking himself, spurting over his knuckles, shaking and gasping. Ethan played it once, then turned up the volume and played it again, listening to Peter’s shallow breath and muffled grunt. Heat pooled between his legs.
Peter Vásquez: You’re so fucking hot
Peter Vásquez: Be home soonish <3
Ethan shifted his gaze to the vial. Maybe they didn’t need it. Maybe all Ethan had to do was send a few pictures, get a little braver, and ask for what he wanted. He placed the marrow in the cupboard above the kettle and let it be. They could keep it for their anniversary. Or use it on a holiday—the longest night, maybe, when snow piled high against their door. Lick it off each other and fuck until sunrise. Watching his husband come apart in a cramped bathroom was enough to momentarily shoo his doubt. He played the video again, allowing his thoughts to drift, his eyelids to droop, his thoughts to wander.
It was the satchel of orange peels on the counter that brought him back to the present. To the wounded selkie, the unmade salve, the storm that would surely batter the poor thing if it tried to leave. He squeezed his thighs together and set his phone screen-down, focusing on the task at hand: caring for a damn fae-beast.
The salve was simple enough. Manuka honey bound the citrus, eucalyptus, garlic, and vinegar, and turned the mashed ingredients into a chunky paste. He dug spices out of the cupboard, added cloves, anise, and a dash of cinnamon. Stirred slowly. Leaning down, he murmured to the mixture. “To mend,” he whispered, “to make whole.” Lastly, he sent a glob of saliva into the bowl.
Witchcraft wasn’t exactly cute. Spit, blood, semen, bone, flesh, hair. It always called for something.
Like pottery or pudding, the spell would take time to set. A few hours, maybe. He shuffled across the room, opened the door, and peeked out into the rain. The garden shed was firmly shut, but that didn’t mean the selkie hadn’t left. Still, he hoped the mean, stubborn beast—whoever or whatever they were—was safely inside.
Chapter Three
The smell of tangy cheese, rosemary, and cooked pumpkin wafted through the lighthouse. Evening blanketed Casper, deepened by rain and blustery wind. Water streaked the window, and black reigned past the sharp cliffside, blotting out the gibbous moon and the many, many stars. Ethan hated being stuck in weather like this, but he loved the atmosphere. The mood. He lit wicks stacked inside an iron candelabra in the center of the dining table. Tested the gourd in the oven with a fork. Lowered the needle on their ivy-green record player and hummed along to Bon Iver. He paid mind to the salve in the fridge as it turned from a yellowish mess into a mellow, near-translucent paste. It needed a few more minutes, just enough time for the magic to settle. Honey for healing; eucalyptus for cleansing; apple cider vinegar to eat away infection; cinnamon, garlic, cloves, and anise to detoxify; and orange peels to brighten the spirit. Hopefully, the selkie’s wound wasn’t as awful as it’d smelled. Ethan filled the kettle, placed it on a lit burner, and rested his palms on the edge of the counter.
It was then that Peter turned his key in the lock and entered, heaving a sigh. Ethan kept his eyes trained on the window. He watched candlelight warp Peter’s reflection on the glass as he shrugged off his jacket, looped his scarf over a hook on the coatrack, and crossed the room in one, two, three long strides to align his chilly torso to Ethan’s back.
“I brought an octopus,” Peter said. He tucked his mouth against Ethan’s neck. Pressed his lips there, beard scratchy and damp.
“Good. You’ll grill it, then?” Ethan asked. Warmth seeped into his limbs. Embarrassment did too. There was nothing to be bashful about—Peter was his husband—but he hadn’t sent a nude since he was twenty-two, probably. And he certainly hadn’t been that forward with Peter since before Katia.
Peter hummed. “I will, yeah, after you tell me what got into you today.” Playfulness filled his voice, paired with a strong grip on Ethan’s hip and fingertips ghosting beneath his shirt. “They say ovulation can cause a spike in your sex drive—”
Ethan almost winced. “That’s not—I mean, that’s true, yes—but that’s not…” He blew out an exhausted breath and eased away, sidestepping into the center of the kitchen. “Nothing got into me.”
Peter frowned. “Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he insisted.
Peter frowned. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Talk to me.”
Talking was entirely necessary, but Ethan didn’t know how to articulate the feeling wedged inside him. “I miss you,” he said because it was the truth. “I miss being with you to be with you, not being with you to…to try for something.”
Peter’s expression immediately gentled.
“Please, don’t—don’t pity me, all right? I may not be able to carry a child, and I know that; I understand that. I don’t want to give up, I just—”
“Ethan—”
“Don’t,” he said, rushed and breathy. “I just want to be wanted. I want…I want you to want me again. I know I’m running out of time; I know a pregnancy probably isn’t viable, but—”
“You’re twenty-nine,” Peter blurted, exasperated.
“Twenty-nine and wondering if my husband still enjoys fucking me,” Ethan snapped. His face flared hot. Something jagged lurched in his chest. That was the truth, wasn’t it? A petty, squirming doubt he’d almost squashed earlier that day. Looking at Peter right then, studying his strong face and thoughtful gaze, Ethan felt it again—sandpaper on his rib cage, spines pricking his heart. “Well, okay, not exactly, but…”
Peter narrowed his eyes. His shoulders loosened, jaw slackened, and his mouth made the shape of the word what before he surged forward, steady on his feet, and crowded Ethan backward. Ethan held his breath when Peter took his wrists and caged them against the wall, holding him captive next to the pantry. He exhaled as Peter leaned forward, speaking curtly into the space between their lips. “How long have you felt like this?”
Ethan’s throat flexed. “A little while, I guess.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, Peter. Long enough, all right? Since starting a family became a chore instead of a result of us being together. I know you want a child. I want to give you one, but—”
“I’ve loved you for a decade,” Peter snapped, not unkindly. His expression softened, and he bumped his nose against Ethan’s cheek. “Of course, I want a family, but for my husband, my partner in life, to think I… For you to think I don’t want you…? Darling, that’s unacceptable.”
Darling. The timbre of his voice fluttered in Ethan’s chest. “We’ve been obsessed with trying, but I’m the one who keeps failing,” Ethan whispered. The confession ran through him like a bullet. “We’re always talking about new positions, new fertility tricks, and at first, it was okay—it’s still okay—but it’s heartbreaking when nothing works, when I don’t work. I keep disappointing you—”
“No,” Peter said, gripping his wrists tighter. “You’ve never disappointed me. When it comes to this, you can’t disappoint me. It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen. No sooner, no later.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll buy an alpaca, or get a few dogs, adopt a rabbit. I don’t know—I don’t care. We’ll have our family somehow, someway. But I need you to understand one very important thing.” He released Ethan’s right wrist and curled his hand beneath his jaw, framing Ethan’s throat. “You’re the only person I see, Ethan Shaw. I’ve wanted you since I was twenty years old—hardly a sailor, hardly a man, but entirely yours. I think about you constantly. Today I was…” He huffed out a laugh. “I was undone by you.”
“Yeah, I saw,” Ethan mumbled. He hadn’t been held with such possessiveness in months. It set him ablaze.
“The next time you feel like this, fucking tell me.” Peter tightened his hold just enough to shallow Ethan’s breath. “I won’t have an unsatisfied husband.”
Ethan ran his hand along Peter’s knuckles, clasped like a collar around his neck. “I’m sorry,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say. Here was his gorgeous, kind husband, demanding to know the inner workings of Ethan’s insecurities. I’m lucky. He tipped his head, asking to be kissed. I’m damn lucky.
