Breaking Ties (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Spencer

December 19, 3:15 pm

Most people hate to see their ex for a lot of different reasons. Maybe they cheated, or just up and left one morning for a pack of smokes and never came back. Or maybe someone got a little too in to a song on the radio and tripped over the coffee table, then slammed into the air conditioner which dropped onto the roof of the super's Benz (purely by accident—the thing really should've been secured to the window better). Me, I have a different reason for hating to see my ex-roommate (with benefits).

“Is this ever going to wear off?”

I'm on my back, my pants around one of my ankles, my shirt hanging from a lamp, plenty of sweat on my body, chest heaving with exhaustion.

Screwing for a couple hours will do that.

To my left is a man who looks to be in his early thirties (though he's much, much older than that); he has black hair with an expertly groomed rogue's beard, firm and taut musculature, dark eyes, plenty of hair on his currently naked body. He leans over to kiss along my neck. “You're the king's chosen consort, so no.”

That means exactly what it sounds like. Rourke, the King of the Phouka, took me (accent on took) as one of the people with whom the king has sex. As a result, whenever he's around my brain suddenly has to deal with having less blood. I can resist it if I try hard enough, so can he, but all too often we just give in, considering it tends to be rather good sex.

“Seriously? Never? You realize that ruins my shot at a relationship with anyone other than you, and we both settled that matter six months ago. Remember? Being around you will get me killed.” I see the vintage furniture, the packed bookcases that line the walls, the large TV I'd convinced him to buy while I was staying here. “Jesus, we didn't even make it past the living room this time.” I look left. “At least we had the sense to close the door.”

“You're a royal consort, Spencer.” He pulls me to him, his body slightly warmer than most humans, but considering he's not actually human, I'll figure it as a feature of being Fae. “I could always give you to the Queen of the Fae if you've tired of me.”

He smirks while my fingers run through his chest hair. I'm bi, yes, but I like my guys masculine, okay?

“How long did we last this time?” He glances at the clock, then at me. “Not how long we coupled, how long we went without…”

“Coupling?” I roll my eyes, start to disengage so I can pull my pants up. “It's been…” I run through my mental calendar, “…three weeks, one day. New personal best.” I retrieve my shirt from the lamp, set to finding my shoes. “I actually needed to talk to you about a few things, and I think I deserve a little credit for not using the sex to get information.” I grin at him. “Not that what we were doing was conducive to conversation.” Conducive, worth seventeen points. Uh…could build it off con since it's more than seven letters and…

Damn it, I'm already hard again. Scrabble works for me the way baseball does for most guys, but it's just not doing it now. I glance at him again. Hirsute. Worth ten, sixty if I use all the tiles and score the bingo.

No, no. I turn away and start thinking of word placements that could net over two hundred points. That always calms me down. James refuses to take me on in Scrabble, despite having been challenged every time he alludes to the fact that he went to college (for one year) while I “only” have a GED. (I have a diploma, damn it! I
did
graduate. It was a late graduation, but still.)

Unfortunately, while thinking about how frustrating that sorcerer can be does get my mind off Rourke, I'm not in the right frame of mind to be thinking about him, considering that now I'm wondering what sex with him would be like. Well, not sex, really. I don't see James and me screwing on a hardwood floor because we couldn't make it to the bedroom. He'd deserve something better, something sweet and tender, with candles and music and…

God damn it, I thought I was past this.

“Did I at least have the good sense to tell you why I came here?”

Rourke seems to compose himself, rolling away to get a pair of jeans, though I don't see a shirt anywhere. “I opened the door, you mumbled something, and then you were running your fingers through my chest hair and moaning.” Right. No shirt. My major weakness with him.

“Could you put a shirt on, please?” Luckily, being half-Coyote means I don't have an ultraheightened sense of smell. I don't know if full Coyotes have that, but I figure it's a given, considering they have snouts. “I've got a couple things, one of which you probably won't tell me, and the other I probably shouldn't tell you.”

“I'm intrigued.” His voice is muffled, but still sends electric tingles through my body. “Go on. Tell me the latter first?”

“I want the former, first.
Quid pro quo
, Rourke.” I'm impressed with myself that I managed to say that.

“Depends on what you're asking about. You can turn around now.”

I do, and he's wearing a black wife-beater that shows the hair on his arms and a peek at his chest. Bastard. “The Cobalt Order. They hit Under the Bridge the other night, and I want to know more about them.”

He folds his arms. “The Cobalt Order. You want me, a loyal subject of Her Majesty's court, to give information on an internal matter to a
Coyote
.”

“I introduced you to the Ra'keth.”

“You told me where he works, and that was payment for another debt.”

Namely, telling me that a lot of vampires in the City are vulnerable to gold or “sunmetal”.

“Have you met him, at least? I didn't even warn him ahead of time that you were coming.”

Rourke sighs. “It would seem that we have met once before.”

Obviously the pause has a bun in the oven.

“Come again?” I need a few beats so I can use my words. “Seriously?
Seriously?
What the hell is it with James and Fae, huh? Huh?” I poke Rourke hard in the chest. “Jesus, his boyfriend's murdered so I tell him to go get drunk and he fucks some sidhe in a Trans-Am like it's Prom Night 1984. I tell him ‘Hey, try to get over Cale, be happy, there's more to life than mourning!' What does he do? Hops in the lap of some Dwarven grease monkey just because he knows what ‘thack-oh' is. And now? Apparently he's fucked—”

My mouth is covered by his hand, his expression rather cross.

“He was a
child
when I met him, Spencer. That is…revolting. Repulsive.” He shudders visibly.

“Well, thank God for that. That'd be… Not that I'd mind if he were older and…” Yeah, that's a lie. Best to get back on track. “Just know that you're not going to trick him, okay? If anyone's going to trick him, it's gonna—” Hand on mouth again.

“I'm not going to trick him, Spencer. I gave him my word.”

“And the King of the Phouka, a clan of tricksters, isn't going to go for an Emerald in the Snow because…?” I just need to keep him talking, let my Bard thing do its, uh, thing. This is probably good info.

“I met him on the Sullivan estate. He was…dressed in a bathrobe, pretending to be a noble sorcerer. A child. It'd been so long since a child knew anything about the Fae that I…misstepped.”

“Misstepped?” I'm more wondering why he'd include the name of the family, but these things you have to handle right. A lot of the time you can steer the conversation if you need to, but you want to be careful and just let it go where it's going sometimes.

“I was tricked, no…I tricked myself, stumbled out of pride into three promises.” He
hmph
s, folding his arms. “He called me a
braggart
.”

“That seems like reason
to
trick him, not leave him alone.”

He shook his head. “He was on that estate, in my fields, on my day. Fate is always working, Spencer, you should be well aware of that.”

“On the…Sullivan estate, you called it? Why does that matter?” I think we're getting there now.

“It's not the Sullivans who concern me, it's the boy's maternal grandmother who does. Bridget Sullivan.” He meets my eyes. “
Nee
O'Rourke.”

Oh shit.

Rourke had a son. A son who was a Ra'keth.

The way Rourke tells the story, his son wasn't always on the road to being a supervillain. He was a good man, once, who fell prey to feelings of inferiority, that he'd never be powerful because of his mixed blood. And he blamed Rourke for that, became something darker, gave in to baser instincts, abused the power he had and was on the verge of bringing about the end of existence. Rourke had to do something.

So Rourke killed him.

He stabbed him in the heart, and held him in his arms as he died. Rourke told him he loved him, that he'd always be his little pup, that no one should ever have to die alone and afraid.

And his son died accepting that.

To show a Ra'keth that they're human, not an infallible force beyond anyone's reach, that's the purpose of the Emerald in the Snow, and that Emerald was the Phouka's first and only.

But there's one part of the story I never asked about.

“Your son, Rourke, I know it's a sore subject, but he did have children, right?” Because Rourke never had children again, and all the Phouka had to come from somewhere.

He nodded.

“So you're not going to trick James because you don't trick…” It finally hits me. “You don't trick family. Because the last time you had to do that…” I don't finish the sentence. I feel bad enough about bringing it up. “So James is descended from your son, a Ra'keth, whose mother was a Ra'keth, so is that why he's a…”

“I have suspicions as to who James really is, given his heritage. Humans have an obsession with cataloging familial records. If he is who I believe he is, that would be enough to bring out my son's heritage instead of my own.” He shrugs. “I would not be surprised if there have been Phouk amongst his family line.” Rourke then sits down on his couch, and I'm getting the feeling that all of this is weighing heavier on him than my own concerns.

So I sit down next to him, no moves, despite what we'd both done on his floor a few minutes before. If you're going to do the whole sex-with-the-ex thing, you might as well make an effort to be one of the good exes. “I won't tell anyone. Or him, if you want. Something like that should probably come from you, don't you think?”

“I told him we would never darken his doorstep. I gave my word.”

I reach over, take his hand. “He doesn't have any family, Rourke. None who know who he is, anyway. Be honest with him, actually honest, not Fae honest. He could probably use that. Hell, I think both of you could.”

“I find it odd that a Coyote would try to talk me into a position where I could attempt an Emerald in the Snow.”

“I'm not. I'm interested in keeping James in a place where he'll never deserve one.” I squeeze Rourke's hand.

A moment passes before he squeezes back. “Spencer, why do you need to know about the Cobalt Order?” He leans against the back of the couch, inquisitive. “They are not an issue for non-Fae.”

I get up to face him. “Because fuck the Feud. That's why. These people are bigots who kill people, and someone should stop them. It's the right thing to do. I'm on the outs with the clan, so I'm a free agent. You know this, otherwise you never would've let me in the door, given our history. For God's sake, Rourke, this isn't a game.”

“But it
is
. A dangerous one, but it is always a game when the Fae are involved. This is a game, and I am a king. Which piece will you be?”

“None of them. I'm not a piece, I'm a hero.”

Well, James's hero, at least.

He sighs at that, getting up as well. “So you're a pawn.”

“I'm
not
a—”

“You're doing this because you were in the right place, at the right time, and you immediately assume that Fate must be involved.” He looks away. “Coyotes. So convinced the world exists to provide them material. You're being moved along your path, never stopping to question. What other piece would you be?”

“I'm not a chess piece, damn it. Being a Coyote means being fluid, adapting on the fly to any trick, not getting bogged down in analogies. You know what happens when you can't make an analogy work? You change your life to fit it, or change the analogy to make it fit you. You come up with exceptions, excuses,
bullshit
, so you don't see you fucked things up eight steps back. And what do Coyotes do? We free you from that bullshit. You think we're idiots, but you should be thanking us. Because at the end of the day, the Feud is just another steaming pile of bullshit people devote way too much of their lives to so they can plant their flag on top. You know what'll happen if I pull an Emerald? The Coyotes will have two, and James will likely be
dead
. I don't give a fuck about the former but the latter certainly has all my attention.”

“Because you love him.”

“Yeah, you'd love for that to be true, wouldn't you?” I roll my eyes. “For me to end up with a Phouk anyway after all this.”

“He's not a Phouk, Spencer, though being a Phouk is much like being a Keth. It's simply in the blood, and if it awakens, it awakens, and you're Phouka. There is no halfway. We are Fae insofar as we pledge fealty to Her Majesty, but not even iron wounds…” He blinks at me. “May you be cursed with the itch and have no nails to scratch with, you sneaky Bard.”

I hold my ground. “Tell me everything about the Cobalt Order, and I don't go shouting
that
from the rooftops.” I force a weak smile. “You wanted me to play the game, Rourke. We could've done this civilly, but you wanted the Feud, so if that means using the advantage Fate gave me, I'll use it. You know I don't want to spread that around. I hear enough down at Under the Bridge about what the sidhe think of the Phouka getting back into the Feud. They don't like it because it invites situations like this: a non-Fae poking his nose into Fae matters. I
felt
Fate tugging my string, Rourke. You know what happens to Coyotes who give Fate the finger.”