Move Me (3 page)

Because it was only just, he’d known he
needed to flee the magical world altogether. Dubhghall had been
called spoiled a time or two in his life, but his parents had
raised him to care about their people. For their part, they adored
all their children to a degree almost unknown in Faerie. They’d
hold out against the blackmail as long as they thought Dubhghall
could. If Mor caught their son, however, if it looked like their
baby would be compelled to magically attack his own loved ones, the
king and queen might cave. Only among mundanes would Dubhghall -
and Talfryn - be safe from Mor’s terrible tactics.

As he sped across Resurrection’s Catkin Park
in the dark, the glimmering remnant of a portal caused him to lose
his footing and go sprawling. He cursed at first, then realized his
faerie luck was trying to help. Though not ancient, Dubhghall
was
a prince. Even depleted from the battle, he possessed
sufficient magic to prize the interdimensional door open. He might
not know where he’d land, but that very uncertainty would prevent
Mor from tracking him.

Almost before he could think about it, he
flung up his hand and chanted the appropriate words in the old
language.

Light burst around the portal a second before
it sucked him in.

He was Somewhere Else then, somewhere dark
and musty and hard underneath his butt.

“Crap,” he said, but not without a tinge of
relief. The portal had closed behind him, saving him the trouble,
most likely because its power was close to played out. Wherever
he’d fetched up, he was safe for the time being.

He suspected he’d made it to the mundane
world. His limbs felt sluggish as he pushed cautiously to his feet,
as if the planet’s gravity had increased. He pressed a hand to his
ribs, where the scar from his partially healed knife wound didn’t
want to stretch. He sensed many trees close by, a woods perhaps.
Neither their energy not that of the earth came to him when he
pulled, which meant his scar would be staying where it was for now.
Normally, he didn’t have to think about drawing up healing power. A
faerie’s reservoir of magic automatically renewed itself.
Recharging their batteries was no harder for the fae than breathing
was for others. Faeries embodied magic in a very literal way.

To be cut off from that for the first time in
his long life was disconcerting, to say the least.

You hoped you’d land here
, he reminded
himself.
Don’t start complaining now
.

He’d simply have to be careful not to exhaust
his supply. And there must be
some
magic here. He knew from
his stay in Resurrection that humans with Talent existed outside
its borders.

His eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He
stood in what looked like an abandoned alchemist’s laboratory,
though it didn’t seem to have been used to make gold. Old chalk
scratchings formed a circle around his feet, glowing faintly as the
reactivated portal finished shutting down. Dubhghall stepped over
the marks carefully. The runes weren’t what he was used to, and he
felt safer not smudging them. In time, he might try going home
again, especially if he got what he needed from the mundanes.

The single door to the alchemist’s shed
didn’t want to open for him. Gently, so as not to make too much
noise, he pushed against it with his shoulder. The boards that
sealed it yielded at the steady pressure, nails sliding out of wood
as he heaved. Luckily, they were steel nails. Pure iron would have
taken more of his strength to budge. Satisfied his good fortune was
holding, he stepped into a crisp autumn night.

He found himself in a weedy clearing behind a
human style farmhouse. The residence rose two stories, and all of
its lights were on.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” said a whispery
voice.

Dubhghall spun toward the sound, his hands
raised to defend himself with what magic remained to him.
Fortunately, none was required to counter this threat. Dubhghall
was being importuned by a ghost.

The shade - which had taken the form of a sad
old man in a cardigan - was considerably weaker than the spirits he
was used to. Dubhghall doubted it was up to stirring breezes, much
less harming him. Slowly, he dropped his hands.

“Tell who you’re sorry?” he asked.

“Belle,” sighed the specter, the name
mournful. “She won’t listen to me.”

If she was a mundane, she probably couldn’t
hear.

“Who are you to her?” Dubhghall asked.

“Her uncle.” The specter flickered and came
back, a candle flame guttering. “I left her all my earthly
possessions, but she’s still sad.”

A prickle of an idea stood the hairs up on
Dubhghall’s nape. His luck might have led him better than he knew
when it tripped him over that interdimensional threshold.
“
All
your earthly possessions? You worded it like that in
your will?”

The ghost nodded, then tugged its gray shaggy
hair with transparent hands. “I thought she’d like that. Why is she
still weeping in my house?”

Dubhghall shot a glance up at the lit
windows. Mundane world or no, he sensed a living being within the
walls. A moment’s homesickness sent a pang through his heart. He’d
been away from his family for a long time. When he returned his
attention to the ghost, the lines of its face had pulled down like
a Tragedy mask. Shades’ emotions tended to be simple.

What wasn’t simple was the fae’s ability to
strike deals that benefitted them. Their kind had rules against
outright lying, the penalties for which were uncomfortable.
Trickery, on the other hand, was considered a high art.

“Perhaps I could help Belle find happiness,”
Dubhghall suggested.

“Oh could you?” the specter pleaded, its
hands wrung together before its breast.

“Quite possibly,” Dubhghall confirmed.
“Assuming you tell me everything you know about your niece’s
situation. I’ll need information to accomplish what you wish.”

The ghost pulled its shoulders straighter,
its pride apparent. “I’ve been listening,” it boasted. “Ever since
Belle came back.”

“I bet you have,” Dubhghall said.

~

Belle took twenty minutes to convince herself
she was overstressed and imagining things. The shed was in the Back
Yard, the same back yard where her little brother Danny had
disappeared. Maybe its roof was wet and the light from the house’s
windows created the impression that it was glowing.

Avoiding looking at it again, she ate two
Oreos to calm her nerves, a practice she disapproved of but
indulged in occasionally anyway. Steadier but in need of diversion,
she returned to the upstairs bedroom she’d decided to sleep in.
Though Uncle Lucky’s room had been cleaned, staying there was out
of the question. In her chosen room for the night, she wriggled
into the vintage dress she’d rescued from the attic. It certainly
fit her different now. Belle didn’t think she’d ever looked so
sirenlike. She stood in front of the free-standing mirror,
adjusting the feathered straps, when the downstairs doorknocker
rapped out a sharp rhythm.

The fact that she jumped a foot said she
wasn’t so calm really.

Chances were, her visitor was Susi. When
they’d been kids, Belle’s best friend hadn’t been good at hearing
no
. Belle rolled her eyes at her reflection in the clingy
plunge-cut dress. If she’d had an inch more up top, her cleavage
would have been outrageous. Because she was relatively flat, she
only looked overdressed. She wondered if she could convince Susi
she always primped for pie eating.

In case Susi wasn’t her caller, she grabbed
the Louisville Slugger her uncle kept in the hall closet.
Thankfully, Mr. Tickner’s staff hadn’t cleared out the bat.

“Coming!” she said as the knocker dropped
again.

Holding her weapon slightly behind her, Belle
opened the front door.

Every thought she’d
ever
had flew out
of her head.

The stranger who stood on her porch was well
over six feet tall. His hair and eyes were dark, his shoulders as
broad as a quarterback’s. He’d tucked the well washed cotton of a
plaid flannel shirt into loden green work pants. Though his
trousers weren’t snug, she could tell the legs that filled them
were fit. A battered leather tool belt hung low on narrow hips. His
large feet were clad in work boots with different colors of paint
on them. A sheer but noticeable stubble darkened his jaw.

All these observations, though they sprang
from within Belle’s own head, might as well have been in Latin.

Oh. My. God
, said a deeper and less
rational part of her. This man was too delectable to be real. Her
mouth was literally watering at the sight of him. She wanted to
plant a kiss on his shapely lips - or maybe lick him all over. The
zipper that curved gently around his package seemed a good place to
start. Lower portions of her body grew wet at that idea. He was
perfect without being perfect at all. His nose was a little long,
and some might have objected to the ungroomed shagginess of his
brows. His beard shadow made him look rough and masculine. He had
weary circles under his eyes.

Belle wanted to kiss them too.

“Uh,” was all her brain
or
her
instincts agreed to let her say.

“I believe you’re expecting a handyman,” said
her visitor, hooking long thumbs into his tool belt. He looked
oddly like he was posing, but Belle wasn’t inclined to complain.
His graceful fingers framed his crotch perfectly.

“Oh,” she said, scarcely an improvement on
uh
. She shook herself and swallowed. “You must be John
Feeney. You came tonight after all.”

“I did. Do you have things for me to fix?” He
was looking straight in her eyes. Most men wouldn’t have, given how
she was dressed. Then again, considering his killer looks, women in
skimpy outfits might greet him every day. For all she knew, John
Feeney was Kingaken’s most popular lonely housewife fantasy. He
lifted the metal box he carried by the handle, no doubt showing off
more handyman credentials.

Belle realized she’d failed to answer him for
too long.

“Uh, yes,” she said, stepping backward into
the entryway. “Please come in. There’s -” He’d moved past her, and
her gaze zeroed in on the tight movement of his ass in the dark
green pants.
Jesus
, she swore to herself. “There are a
couple upstairs windows that need unsticking and a showerhead that
won’t spurt water.”

Spurt
was a stupid word, wasn’t it?
Probably she shouldn’t have used it, if only because it made her
think about erections and wrapping them in her hand. Did John
Feeney have a long cock? His feet and his thumbs were big. That was
supposed to mean something.

“I’m Belle Hobart,” she blurted.

John Feeney paused with his paint-spattered
boot on the first stair tread. Her cheeks blazed fire when he
raised his dramatic eyebrows at her.

“I know,” he answered. “You said your name on
the phone.”

His manners sucked as bad as when they’d
spoken earlier. Annoyance helped clear her head. She propped the
baseball bat against the closet door, then followed John to the
second floor.

As she did, her heart barely stumbled around
in her chest at all.

~

Dubhghall’s first stop after speaking to the
ghost had been John Feeney’s house. The “handyman,” a term he’d
learned from watching the Import Channel in Resurrection, had been
drinking cheap canned beer in front of his TV. With the man’s
resistance to enchantment lowered by alcohol, charming everything
Dubhghall needed from him had been a snap.

As long as he was there, he’d flipped through
John Feeney’s collection of “How-To” books. Feeney had taken up his
home repair business recently. If a human could pull this off,
Dubhghall saw no reason why a faerie shouldn’t. Not only was his
race considerably smarter, they were excellent actors. He had no
doubt his impersonation would hold up.

He left Feeney with a magical compulsion to
avoid Belle Hobart and her job requests from now on. The
expenditure from his reservoir was worth it. The fewer
complications he had to deal with, the sooner he’d be out of here.
Thus far, the mundane world wasn’t enthralling him.

Despite the ease of his entrance, meeting
Belle Hobart disturbed him. He’d been expecting someone red-eyed
and miserable, a poor unhappy rabbit of a human. What he’d gotten
was quite different.

Isaiah’s niece was proud and beautiful.

Faeries had a long history of being attracted
to humans. The stability of mortal lives seemed exotic: that each
day would unfold along similar lines as the one before. Human
emotions were warmer than the fae’s, a contrast that acted like
catnip on strong sex drives. Humans enjoyed making love with his
kind, and that appealed as well, because who wouldn’t want to feel
like a god in bed? Add in the lure of the forbidden, and Belle’s
race was hard to resist. Fae and human couplings could produce
children - a giant no-no for a people who valued pure
bloodlines.

Too bad for him Belle Hobart had the demeanor
of one of his world’s queens.

Immediately, he abandoned his plan to get
close to her by playing on her sympathy. This gorgeous woman in her
insanely sexy frock wasn’t anyone’s hand patter. He wished he
hadn’t borrowed John Feeney’s worn work costume. Being underdressed
compared to his quarry put him at the sort of disadvantage he’d
rarely experienced.

The skin along his back felt unnaturally hot
as she followed him up the stairs.

“It’s the windows in my uncle’s room that are
stuck,” she said as they reached the second floor landing. “I’d
like to air it out in there.”

Since her uncle’s room was among the areas he
wished to see, Dubhghall nodded. Apparently nervous, Belle smoothed
the tail of chestnut hair that spilled in front of her left
shoulder. The sheaf was thick and shiny, as straight as if it were
spelled. Its ends hung lower than her slight breasts, drawing
attention to the press of her sharpened nipples on the skimpy black
bodice.