I rise and slowly walk around to stand in front of him, then ease onto the front of the desk in a casual stance, my hands gripping the edge on either side to hide the way my fingernails have sharpened into points. Staring down at him, I bring up the second—and more important—reason I’m here.
“And did you also earn the right to demand sexual favors from them, then put your hands on them when they said no?”
“That what you heard?” Ralph scoffs like the accusation is ludicrous, his eyes darting around the room and landing everywhere but on me. “They wish. Like I’d want any of their used-up puss—”
I strike, cobra-quick and just as deadly, gripping him by the throat. His Adam’s apple bobs against my palm, and I scent the blood trickling from where my nails pierce his fat neck. I jerk him up and lift him to meet my six-foot-five eye level, leaving his feet to dangle in the air.
Satisfaction flows through me as I watch his face turn darker shades of red and his eyeballs begin to bulge out of their sockets.
Before he has a chance to pass out, I easily launch him across the room. Seamus steps aside just in time, avoiding being the meat in a Ralph-wall sandwich.
I wait to speak until I’m certain I have Ralph’s attention, then usher my warning with a deadly calm. “Insult those women again, and I’ll cut out your tongue and eat it while you watch.”
I wouldn’t want to, of course—not the eating part, anyway—but my reputation in this town as a volatile wild card when offended is well-known, and sometimes examples need to be made.
Ralph is wise to fear me and what I might do.
Except when he pushes unsteadily to his feet, the look on his face isn’t one of fear. It’s pure, unadulterated malice. Interesting.
Tilting my head, I study him like a lab rat choosing to go left when it should have gone right. I would normally just end this and get on with my day, but he’s piqued my curiosity.
“Fuck you, Verran,” he hisses. “I’ve had enough of you threatenin’ me and stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. Now, I suggest you walk outta here, and when the books are a little light, you look the other way. Or I’ll tell the whole goddamn world what you people really are.”
Seamus and I share a brief glance and arch of our brows. Crossing my arms over my chest, I give Ralph my undivided attention, even more curious now. “Which is…?”
Confidence curls his upper lip into a sneer. “You’re a fuckin’ faerie.”
Surprise lances through me, but I’m careful to keep my bored expression firmly in place. “That’s a shame, Ralph. Had I known you were such a bigot, I never would’ve hired you to begin with.”
His sudden confusion is almost enough to make me smile. Almost.
“What? No, that’s not—” He growls, clearly frustrated. “I mean a real goddamn faerie, with the wings and magic powers and shit.”
“Ah, I see now. Seamus,” I say conversationally, “am I sporting wings I wasn’t aware of?”
My adviser clears his throat to hide his amusement. “No, sir, no wings,” he says, switching to the more common “sir” that my people use in the company of humans.
It’s true—it has to be, because lying is the one thing our kind can’t do—I don’t have wings. All members of the Night Court—along with the equally culpable Day Court—were stripped of their wings, and the royal blood lines of both courts were robbed of our magic to manipulate shadows and light, respectively. Two of several consequences heaped upon us at the time of our exile some four hundred years ago.
Since I was born after the banishment, I only feel an objective sense of loss, in that I know I should have them. But for Seamus and the others who hail from Tír na nÓg, I imagine it feels the same as a human after a limb is amputated.
Devastating at first, but after a couple of years—or centuries—you grow accustomed to the loss.
Snapping out of my thoughts, I continue. “And, Seamus, have you ever known me to wield magical powers of any kind? Beyond my reputation with the women for having a magical dick, I mean.”
This time, Seamus isn’t as successful at cutting off his chuff of laughter. I’m not particularly humorous. I’m more of a sharp wit and dry sarcasm kind of guy, leaving the jokes to my brothers, who don’t have the burden of ruling on their shoulders. So, no doubt my magical dick comment took Seamus by surprise, for the humor and the fact that since I took the throne, lunar eclipses occur more often than my dick sees any action.
Sadly, with a kingdom to rule, I don’t have the time to indulge in all of life’s simple joys like my brothers do.
Regaining his composure, Seamus answers. “No magic powers that I’m aware of, sir.”
“Nor I of you, old friend.” I look back to Ralph, whose face is now a bright tomato red. “Guess that settles it, then. No wings and no magic.” Both true statements, if a little misleading.
“You motherfucker,” he mumbles, fishing a small container out of his pocket and unscrewing the cap. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to do this. You’re gonna be sorry when you’re on your knees and helpless as I beat the shit out of you and leave you for dead. And then? Then I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want with every bitch in this place, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it!”
With that, a severely unhinged Ralph cackles with glee as he dumps the contents of the container onto the floor.
Well, well…
Someone’s been doing a little too much googling.
I don’t move, simply arch a brow and wait.
Suddenly, Ralph’s elation dies a quick death as he realizes neither of us has dropped to our knees, compelled to count every grain of salt in the pile at his feet. “I—I don’t understand,” he sputters, panic blooming in his beady eyes as he tries to figure out where he went wrong. “Why didn’t that work? You’re fairies—I know you are. It said pure iron or salt… You’re supposed to be down there counting the fucking salt!”
I should probably care what led him down this path—why he thinks I’m something most humans write off as fictional—but I don’t. It’s already been a long day, and he’s been tapping out an Irish Riverdance on my last fucking nerve since I learned what he’s been up to.
“Poor Ralphy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read on the internet?” I tsk and give him a pitying look. “For what it’s worth, your whole approach was a horrible idea. If you ever suspect you’re in the presence of the fae, the very last thing you want to do is act like an asshole. Word is they offend easily and have tendencies to retaliate in brutal and creative fashion.”