Hearing that seemed to make Keir relax visibly.
“Exactly,” he said. “And he has a cartoon face.”
I barked out a laugh. This should be good. “What’s a cartoon face?”
With an exasperated twist of his body, he said, “You know,” and twirled a finger in the air. “Everything is too much.” When I continued to look blank, he expounded, “Chin too square. Dimple too deep. Eyes too blue. Hair always in place. Like that.”
“Oh. I see.” And I really did. I remembered a day when I’d seen Aoumeil on the sidewalk with Keir and began trying to imagine life without him. “I can’t stand it when you’re out of sorts. What can I do to make you smile?”
The look he gave me was suggestive enough to set the house on fire.
I chuckled. “So, you’re feeling that needy and insecure, are you?”
“I’m neither needy nor insecure. I’m just a male with a pressing need to re-stake my claim.”
“And the best way to do that is to…”
“Make sure my smell is all over you.”
“You know,” I began as I walked toward him. “There’s something kind of erotic and forbidden about making love to a man with animal instincts.”
He chuckled softly. “Animal instincts, is it?”
After a series of feverish kisses coupled with sincere reassurances that, in my eyes, no one could possibly measure up to Keir Culain, we shared a soapy shower, some laughter, and got ready to go to the pub.
Dinner was later than usual, but my lover was relaxed, cheerful, and full of the self-confidence I was used to seeing him wear like a second skin. It had stopped snowing at dark. Shortly thereafter the clouds drifted away so that the sky was a black background for stars that twinkled more spectacularly than any holiday lights.
We stopped by Lochlan’s house before we set out for the pub so that I could deliver the news that Diarmuid was indeed king and that war was no longer a possibility. My clerk was perhaps even more pleased than I. The combination of personal experience with my neighbors and the informal education I’d received, courtesy of the big book, I gleaned that elves and pixies had a strong preference for good times. And peace is the underpinning of good times. One isn’t possible without the other except for the occasional psychopath of the Batman villain sort, the kind who’d welcome end times.
CHAPTER FOUR Joel Kinnaman
“The spell’s been lifted.”
That was Lochlan’s greeting as my dogs joined their parents on the hill above our shared lane. We must’ve been a sight to magic kind. An elf, a shivering, cold human, and a pack of wolves romping and playing together on the moors in the early morning frost like they thought it was heaven.
“Spell?” I asked absently before understanding his meaning. “Oh! You mean I can read about the Wild Hunt and remember what I read now?”
“Yes. If you have questions, Keir can help sort you out.”
“Keir? Is he an authority?”
Lochlan chuckled. “Perhaps not in the sense that you mean, but the sephalian is associated with Bayune. He’d be considered an insider in most circles.”
“Well, the good luck just keeps coming my way.” That was intended to be a genuinely cheerful observation, but it didn’t come out sounding that way. My elf friend didn’t seemed too distracted to notice. “What am I missing, Lochlan?”
“What? Oh. Nothing at all. At times I’m uncertain about interpreting your side of a conversation.”
“Huh. Is it the snark or the sarcasm?” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Maybe it’s the cynicism.” I snapped my fingers. “No! It’s the stupidity!”
Lochlan looked dumbstruck. It seemed that self-deprecation was even more bewildering than snark, sarcasm, and cynicism.
I chuckled hoping to put him at ease. “Honestly, I struggle with the British sense of humor and slang. It’s clear that’s a two-way road. But since I’m in the land of left side driving, I’ll make a bigger effort to be understood.”
“I’m not a stuffed shirt.” I hated that I’d made him feel defensive. “I understood that joke you made about nobody expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”
I felt a barmaid’s laugh bark out of my diaphragm, and was a little surprised to realize that bawdy sound came from me.
“Lochlan. You thought that was funny because it doesn’t get more British than Monty Python. Believe me, not many Americans are made hysterical by those sketches.” Realizing this was going nowhere, I shook my head and held out my palms. “Never mind about all that. I was being sincere. Having a Wild Hunt authority in the house is a plus.”
“Indeed.”
As was usual I came through the rear of the house after my morning walk with dogs bounding and nipping at each other joyfully. My cheeks were rosy enough that I could pass for pure Irish.
“Keir!” I called as I hung up my wax coat and traded the Wellies for Ugg slip-ons.
“Lair!”
I heard him answer from his room. He’d picked up my joke about calling his room the ‘lair’ and begun using it describe the sports den as such.
He looked up when I arrived at his doorway and smiled. “You look so kissable when you’re rosy.”
“And yet you’re still sitting in your chair,” I retorted.
Feeling invigorated, I dashed away and gave a feeble, mock chase through the kitchen, where Olivia was trying to remove chocolate croissants from the oven, through the living room, but was caught up in a bear hug and carried the rest of the way to the bedroom. He kicked the door closed with one foot, set me down, turned me around and almost instantly rid me of the Lake Country December chill.
When he pulled back from a kiss that’d caused me to forget my name, he said, “There’s a choice to be made.”
“What is it?” I said breathlessly.
“We could go back to bed. Or have coffee and chocolate croissants.”
It was cruel, I tell you. Offering a woman a choice between lovemaking with a walking fantasy in a warm bed with real linen sheets or chocolate? It was just mean.
“Ugh!” I said. “Raincheck until Olivia’s gone for the day.” I could tell by his semi-pout he’d hoped for choice number one. I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m much more uninhibited when I know we have the house to ourselves.”
The suggestion of naughty behavior instantly restored his good mood.
“Chocolate it is then! Not a bad consolation prize. The smell of fresh pastry was driving me mad.”
Olivia politely made herself scarce and went off to attend to other rooms while we indulged in the kind of decadent breakfast dreams are made of.
“The only thing that could make this better is bacon,” he said.
“Bacon?”
I blinked.
He nodded.
I shook my head.
“Bacon doesn’t go with chocolate croissants. Bacon goes with eggs and biscuits. The American kind of biscuits,” I added for clarification.
“Remember what you said to Esmerelda about judging what others eat?”
“No. What did I say?”
“You said, ‘Are you the food police’?”