The door slammed open, hinges twisting with the force of the shining golden body that crashed through it. A flash of gold and steel preceded the grunting battle cries of the Redcaps as they fought against the maniac who charged into the room naked and painted gold.

Blue. Picts were blue, damn it. Doesn't anyone get it right?

Her distraction cost her; the Rodin and the Escher let go. Her favorites. With them floating by her temples the seductive pull to mayhem changed. The two works described and illustrated all her darkest desires. She needed to come up with some way to calm her magic back down or there would be hell to pay.

An image of Micah, naked and strapped to this very table, formed before her eyes. "Ours to do with what we will" whispered the voice of the tiny homunculus over her right shoulder. She groaned with frustration and closed her eyes, but the images still floated before her.

Of course, the shiny golden berserker decided to fight the Redcaps in the portion of the room behind her back. Because the Gods don’t want me to know if I’m going to be forced into a Redcap ménage or having carnal relations with a gold faux-Pict. She pulled at her wrists again and was punished anew with a burning stripe on her skin. Grimacing, she tried to ignore the pain and pull her hands free. No use; even the fabric of her sleeves smoked now, her arms too tired to hold her wrists still in the middle of the shackles for long.

"Hold still, Philly-chick, I’ll have these locks picked in a trice."

Even as she tried to place the vaguely familiar voice piping in her ear the sound of bronze shorn by razor sharp steel rang out behind her. One after another the faux-pict forcibly parted the Redcaps from their grip on the human world.

Then she heard something she'd heard so often in fantasy that she thought for a moment her ears were playing tricks on her.

"Ophilia? Are you in here?"

She opened her mouth to speak, to call out to Micah, but before she could, another sound intruded, a sound that she recognized from watching one too many skeet shoots. Opening her eyes revealed Gelt, cradling a scatter-gun, her good hand on the trigger, her blouse torn, a piece of it ripped away and tied around her head to cover one of her eyes.

"I had a perfect plan, a simple plan, damn it! I would have gotten away with it…”

Phil tried, she really did, but her magic gripped her, feeding her mind with flotsam and jetsam from worlds beyond her own. Before she could blink the image of a big goofy dog floated in the air before her. The dark pull of her magic combined with her own love of the absurd waxed too strong; a little bit of it slipped out. "If it wasn’t for us meddling kids?"

Gelt spun. Phil saw the barrel of the scatter-gun line up on her belly.

“Aw, shit.” Even her magic likely couldn’t stop a shotgun blast at this range. Looked like she wouldn’t be sleeping with anyone but the worms tonight.

***

Micah heard the distinctive sound of a scatter-gun and froze. With the banishment of the second Redcap, the Words dimmed to a dull roar, and he could almost think again. He could certainly think enough to know that talking his way out of being shot would be far less painful than being shot. Then he heard Gelt's voice, harsher than ever, bitchier than ever, coming from the far side of the torture table in the middle of the room. Ophilia made her snarky response, and the world itself slowed to a crawl as the Words screamed through his mind and his heart froze in fear.

Oh, shit. This is going to hurt.

He moved before he’d finished the thought, flinging himself in front of the table, only to be thrown bodily on top of Ophilia by the force of the scatter-gun blast. Once more thunder roared through the room, and Micah's vision went strange. He saw the tattoos on Ophilia's temples floating beside her ears, and he could swear he felt the larger tattoos writhing underneath him. The scatter-gun went clickety-boom once more. He felt like his spine was being torn apart, and a kitten-weak "ow" forced its way through his lips.

Then everything went black.

***

Phil stared down at the dark hair against her bared breasts, dark lashes fanned against bright golden cheeks. Her first thought, Micah was the Pict? was quickly replaced by Micah is dead.

Micah is dead.

Phil looked over her love’s dead body at Gelt, who shrugged. “Oops.”

Serene insanity painted a smile across Phil’s lips. Her tattoos floated off her body one by one, hovering around her like strange, multicolored butterflies. Whispered descriptions of historic and novel tortures were illustrated in the corners of her eyes, whispered to her eager ears, Gelt the focus of each. A quiet, masculine, “Oh, fuck,” reached her ears as the shackles boiled away from her wrists. “You shouldn’ta oughta done that,” whispered the tiny Fae who had unshackled her.

The first hint of unease trickled into Gelt’s face as Phil’s power lifted Micah’s body and gently laid him out on the floor. Tendrils of unearthly green power leaked from her eyes like tears. Mists of unhealthy viridian flowed from her mouth with each sobbing, chuckling breath. Ropes of intoxicating emerald dripped from every wound and pore, surrounding her with a beautiful, captivating cloud of magic.

“There are so few things I care about in this world.” Phil heard the darkness, the madness in her own voice as she rose from the table, her tattoos fluttering around her, power and rage repelling them from settling back into place. “My art… my friends... Micah.” Coruscating green tendrils shot from her body and lifted round handled paint brushes out of Phil’s work area.

She still smiled as Gelt’s body hurtled through the air. The woman’s screams were music to hear ears as the dull wooden handles pierced her flesh; shoulders, wrists, and ankles, pinning her to the stone wall like a pretty Elf butterfly.

“I believe I never introduced myself properly before.” Phil flowed forward, buoyed by power, her bare feet making no sound as they strolled along on a carpet of mist. She stopped within an inch of Gelt’s pale, sweaty face. Her blood-soaked fingers reached out and gently stroked Gelt’s cheek. “The mad cursed with greatness have called me Muse. You may address me as Your Highness.”

Gelt’s eyes widened as Phil’s meaning sunk in. There was only one Princess, Shade or Sun, not currently at court. Only one who claimed the title Muse of Madness. “No! You can’t be her!”

Phil bowed ironically. “Princess Ophilia, daughter of The Morrigan, sixth in line for the Shadow Throne, at your service. Here to service you, at any rate. That is the vogue term Inquisitors use for their actions, is it not? I get so confused as to when it is.” Phil paused a moment, staring at the ceiling as she chased the errant thought of the current year. After a moment she tired of the pursuit of a semblance of sanity. Her attention returned to her pinned Seleigh butterfly. “Feel free to piss yourself in terror.” She wrinkled her nose as Gelt whimpered. “Never mind. I see you’ve taken care of that little detail already.”

***

X worried. Ricky hadn’t come to him, and the the wheels were coming off the carriage. Power filled the air like aethereal caramel, insanity an intoxicating whiff of fermentation. Phil's rage had forced her to let go. If that didn’t get the Dark Queen’s attention, I don’t know what would.

Another measure of how worried he was; he thought in standard English instead of the accent he affected for Ricky’s amusement and his own.

When he saw the carnage in the entryway of the museum he froze in place. “Ricky!”

“Si?”

With a whoosh of breath his wings beat again. His lover lay collapsed against a vase, his legs stretched upwards along its side, his little toes pointing straight up as his lungs heaved. Even his wings drooped, their sparkle dulled to a point that would embarrass the younger Pixie if he could see it.

Xavier flew over, landing softly next to his grinning mate. “You fought well, but we’re going, and quickly. Little Miss has gone and lost her temper.”

Ricky’s pretty brown eyes widened. “Her tattoos, mi corazón?”

Xavier flapped his hands like wings.

Ricky paled. The string of Spanish curses that left his mouth had even Xavier’s mouth falling open in admiration. He hadn’t even known Ricky knew some of those words. Ricky stood and shook himself, his wings beginning to sparkle again as he caught his second wind. “We have to help them, mi amor.”

Xavier watched, full of pride, as his lover fluttered away towards the restoration room, only taking off himself when he saw Ricky’s flight grow steady.

He would take Ricky somewhere warm, sandy, and full of fruity drinks when this was all over. Someplace where he could get manicures and pedicures and wing waxes until his little heart overflowed and their purses were empty.

If they lived that long.

***

Protect the Art.

“There are so few things I care about in this world. My art, my friends. Micah.” He heard the rage and grief in Ophilia’s voice, but that barely registered. Something was subtly wrong with her voice, something his pain-addled brain couldn’t quite place. “I believe I never introduced myself properly before. You may address me as Your Highness.” Dark menace coated her words, sending a shiver down Micah’s sore spine.

Gelt gasped, her voice full of pain and panic, but the sound was so far away he barely heard it. “No way! You can’t be her!”

“Princess Ophilia, daughter of The Morrigan, sixth in line for the Shadow Throne, at your service.”

Micah winced and opened his eyes. He’d known Ophilia was special, but he hadn’t realized how special. He sat up as Gelt screamed.

“Tire irons. So useful. Would you like another taste?”

Protect the Art.

The Words hammered into him. Somehow, Ophilia remained in danger. He got up off the floor, wincing as his back muscles protested. He barely registered the vest lying in tatters where he’d been. He watched Ophilia gently tapping a tire iron against a velvet-gloved hand. Viridian power swirled around her, forming ball lighting whenever it touched the iron in her hand. Her tattoos fluttered around her body like so many broken birds, the Rodin perched on her shoulder like some kind of twisted conscience.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Protect the Art.

“I’m going to make you hurt before I end this, you know. Make you suffer, like he suffered.” Her voice thickened with tears, and rage, and a hunger to inflict pain. Micah’s eyes widened as what was happening to her slowly began to sink in.

Unseleigh. Shade Elf.

Daughter of The Morrigan.

Protect the Art.

Something Evil was coming. Something Unseleigh. Something powerful. Something he had absolutely no desire to meet, thank you very much.

Protect the Art.

Phil swung the tire iron towards Gelt’s face. He knew if it connected, the Evil would find them.

Protect the Art.

“Ophilia.”

The tire iron stopped. The green glow dimmed. The fluttering tattoos got closer to her body.

Micah stepped forward, his only desire to touch Ophilia, make sure she was safe.

Protect the Art.

“Micah?” Her voice quavered, sounding more like his Ophilia.

“Turn around, Ophilia.”

The tire iron clattered to the ground as Ophilia slowly turned, her eyes windows into a beautiful, terrible, glowing green Hell. In a moment, they sparkled like gems. His heart twisted as he realized they sparkled because they were filling with tears. “You’re alive?”

Behind her Ricardo and Xavier inched forward. Ricardo pulled out the paintbrushes holding Gelt to the wall. Xavier used thick cords to bind the Seleigh’s wrists together.

He shrugged. “I’m a lot harder to kill than you might think.”

“Really?” She looked ready to pounce on him, her tears giving way to outrage. Her tattoos pushed away from her again as her emotions took over once more. Faintly, just to the side of her face, a line drawing took shape. It involved him, and... He blinked the image away.

“Why are you so hard to kill?”

He closed his eyes, knowing that once she knew who he was, it was all over. When he’d thought her human, he’d thought they had a slim chance at a happy life together. Now? She was a daughter of The Morrigan. She could have any Elf she desired, Shade or Sun. Most other non-humans would give in to her just for a taste of her power. She could take any human she wanted without a thought. Why would she want him?

He bowed, his best court bow. “Micah di ser Leo de Milan, at your service, Highness.”

Gelt’s disgust filled her voice. “You’re a Puppet?” She looked at Phil. “You realize that’s like fucking Pinocchio, right?” Her eyes went to Micah’s naked body. Her gaze turned speculative. “Then again, he doesn’t need someone pulling strings, does he?”

One of Phil’s tendrils of power shoved a paint splattered cloth into Gelt’s mouth, muffling her shrieks of outrage. Her eyes searched Micah’s face. “I’ve heard of you.”

He winced. “I’ve heard of you.” He took another step forward. “Are you hurt?”

She swallowed, her eyes losing some of the glow. “Not much. I… I heal fast. Except iron burns.” She held out her wrists. A thick band of red welts covered them. He wanted to put his fist through Gelt at the sight of those burns.

“Mmph!”

Micah looked over Ophilia’s shoulder to see Ricardo repeatedly kicking Gelt in the nose and calling her a “Puta”. Xavier laughed so hard he’d fallen onto the workbench.

Shaking his head, he turned back to Ophilia. That confident smirk had returned to her face, and her eyes were once again just eyes. “Don’t scuff your shoes, Ricky, she’s not worth it.”

Micah watched as her tattoos settled back onto her body, writhing into place to settle peacefully against her skin. “I need to call the police, make sure she’s going to spend some time in jail.”

Ophilia looked down. Her lips twitched and her cheeks heated. “Not that I mind the view, but you might want to put some pants on first.”

***

Phil watched as Micah twisted his neck, getting the vertebrae to pop. He looked tired, despite the gold paint. Explaining that Theresa Gelt had hired some goons to trash the museum and collect her insurance money had taken up most of the night. That was the hard part. The easy part had come when Ricky had slipped Micah the doctored surveillance photographs showing Gelt and goons about their merry business.

Add in the lovely torture scene in the restoration room and Gelt’s confession and they had her nailed dead to rights. She was going away for a good long while. Behind nice, thick, iron bars.

Phil smiled sweetly and waved bye-bye to Gelt as uniformed officers dragged her off to the waiting police wagon. The scent of Micah’s cologne wafted up from her arm. He’d taken one look at her bared breasts, growled, and handed her the shirt he’d thrown on.

If he thought he was getting the shirt back, he was nuts.

Micah watched the car pull away, his hands on his hips. His face was once again that stoic mask. His eyes, however, were hot when he turned back towards her. He grabbed her upper arm and gently marched her back to his office. He closed and locked the door behind them. Leaning against the front of his desk, he crossed his arms, bent one knee to put a foot against the desk and glared at her. “Why did you come back to the museum?”

She tilted her head. Her tattoos writhed against her skin; she hadn’t been able to find all her studs. But she was under control. Barely. “Why did you paint yourself up as a glittery Pict? Or were you going for the Egyptian look?”

His eyes narrowed. “I asked you first.”

She snorted. “Oh, well. By all means. Let’s play by the rules of the playground.” Her playground, that is.

She grinned and took a slow step towards him, allowing him to see just a hint of that Otherworld green in her eyes. “I came back to find you.”

“In a skirt, cardigan and sensible shoes.”

“Yes.” She took another slow step towards him, her bare toes finally brushing up against his patent leather shoes. “Your turn, golden boy.”

He reached up and delicately traced the shell of her ear. His face was full of wonder. “I miss your earrings.”

She leaned into his touch, shivering at the erotic sensation. “I miss your skin-tone.”

He grinned, looking so happy her heart nearly burst. “I can fix that, but you have to help me.”

“How?”

He stood, one hand cupping the back of her head and tilting her face up. She pulled away enough to brush her mouth over his in a feather-light kiss that left them both wanting more if the heat in his eyes was any indication. “You’re the artist.”

One hand traced his pectoral muscles. Damn, he’s fine. And I knew he was muscular under those shirts. Yum! “And you’re the work of art.”

He shook his head. “You’re more a work of art than I will ever be.” His lips barely touched hers with every word he spoke. “Make of me what you will.”

She shuddered, her tattoos writhing again at his implication. “Are you telling me I can do anything I want with you? Anything?”

The darkness drifted into her voice again, and she wasn’t surprised when he gulped. “Well, there are a few limits…”

She laughed as her hands wandered, lingering in places. “Don’t worry. I like everything right where it is.”

This time he was the one who pulled her forward, sealing their lips together in a kiss that claimed her as his. Buttons popped as his hands gripped at her borrowed shirt, tearing it away from her.

Her hands were hardly idle, and she was too old to be modest. Before he realized what she was doing, his pants slid down about his ankles. She pulled out of the kiss and pushed him back against the table. Gravity was just a suggestion for her as she drifted down him, her tongue darting out to taste his skin. As her tongue ran across the da Vinci on his chest, she frowned. Ran a finger across his chest. Delicately lapped at the fingertip.

Chocolate? She laughed. “You’re not a Pict or an Egyptian. You’re a foil-wrapped confection!” She fell over backward and lay, sprawled on her back, laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath.

“You’re certain you won’t bite any parts off?”

She giggled harder. Micah sighed, bent down, and lifted her off the floor with careless ease. He placed her on the desk, his hands holding her firmly by the hips as she collapsed in his arms. Somewhere during her fit of giggles, he dressed himself again.

“You’re obviously too tired. We should just head home.”

“Yours or mine?” Her head was against his chest, her legs loosely entangled with his. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. She had no plans to go anywhere.

“Ours.”

She froze. No way. “Ours?” He pulled back and nodded, looking surprised when power flashed through her eyes. I have to pick up more studs. Later. “You think I went through all of this so we could sleep in separate beds? Hell no! I’m wearing angora! Little fuzzy animals were shaved bald just so I could seduce you! Do you want their sacrifice to be in vain?”

He frowned. “You’re tired, Ophilia.” He picked her up in his arms and walked towards his office door. “You need to rest.”

She locked her ankles around his waist and pulled him tight against her. “Darlin’, trust me. I feel fine.”

His jaw clenched, his expression turning stubborn. “Sleep first.”

Not happening, my Adonis. She nibbled on his earlobe and felt him shiver. “Most of my clothes were destroyed,” she crooned softly. At his raised eyebrows, she felt wicked impulses rising within, “You don’t own petticoats,” her voice a breath on his ear, “or bloomers,” her voice a dark whisper tickling his neck, “and your boxers didn’t fit me.”

His mouth opened like he intended to argue, but whatever he was going to say was lost in a gasp when she nipped at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Mmm, chocolaty goodness. She’d have to thank Xavier later for the edible artwork covering her soon-to-be lover.

His breath came in pants as Phil writhed against him. The soft fabric of his clothes was rough against her nudity, teasing her nipples, tickling her belly, clouding her thoughts. Her words left her in a sigh. “Take me, Micah.”

His hands shifted, going lower on her back. One inched its way towards the hem of what remained of her skirt.

Knowing she was winning, she leaned back, giving him a glimpse of bare breasts decorated with a smear of chocolate. She arched forward in his arms and nipped at his chest. “Please.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I need you.”

There was just enough seductive darkness in her voice to finish him off. He slammed her up against the door of his office as he tried desperately to devour every inch of her mouth.

“Been so long,” he gasped.

“Centuries.” She sighed as he settled into her. The coolness of the gold paint annoyed her, though. She eliminated it with a thought and a whisper of magic. His gasp of pleasure as he felt her without the barrier of the paint was music to her ears. “You have no idea what I’m going to do to you.”

She shivered at the promise in his voice. “Later. Impress me later.”

“I’m not leaving an impression? Damn. I’ll have to try harder.” He began to move with a slow, sensual pace that teased without satisfying, testing her ever tenuous hold on sanity. “Hmm. What can I do to impress you, Your Highness?”

She clenched her hands in his hair, teeth bared in a snarl. She felt her eyes leak power as her tats lifted from her skin. “If you don’t take me properly right now I will make you regret it.”

He laughed.

He laughed.

How cool was that?

“I love you, Ophilia.”

Everything in her stilled. Even her tats stopped fluttering. “What did you say?”

Not once did his slow rhythm falter. “I love you.”

She bit his neck hard enough to make him hiss. “Again.”

He began to thrust harder, slamming her against the door as she clung to him. “I love you.”

Her head banged against the door as pleasure tore through her. “Micah!”

***

Micah opened his eyes. Somehow he’d wound up on the floor of his office, Ophilia draped on top of him. She was sound asleep. He reached up to gently rub her back and stopped. He stared, stunned, at the impossibility gracing his arm.

Antonio Canova’s Cupid and Psyche graced his forearm. Cupid bent over his human lover, gracing her with a kiss after wiping the death sleep from her eyes. Soon he would carry her off to Olympus to be his bride.

“Love you, too, by the way.”

He looked at Ophilia. Her smile was soft and warm and full of love. Thank God.

“It’s about time.”

Micah frowned; that voice…

“MOTHER?”

Uh-oh.

“Of course. You didn’t think you could hide from me forever, did you?”

Ophilia swallowed hard enough for Micah to feel it. “Um, no?”

The voice laughed, the sound rich and full. “No. Of course not, my clever girl.”

Micah felt as if an enormous weight was pressed against the inside of his skull for a split second. He waited, afraid that if he twitched his entire personality would be accidentally erased.

“Acceptable. Given how long I’ve waited, I suppose I’ll have to settle. Bring him home for the wedding, will you, dear?”

They looked at one another in wide-eyed surprise as the presence, with a final laugh, disappeared.

“Home?” Micah croaked. Oh, gods, talk about the mother-in-law from Hell…

***

Ricky winced as Xavier hissed, “You contacted The Morrigan? Are you fucking insane?”

He fluttered his hands at Xavier, trying to get him to keep his voice down. “I told you, mi corazón, that I had an idea.”

“No more ideas, Ricky. No more. In fact, stop thinking all together. Bollocks.” Xavier ran an agitated hand through his hair, his face a mixture of disbelief and outright horror.

“But it worked, mi amor.” He batted his lashes at Xavier, hoping to wiggle out of the lecture he knew was coming.

No good. His lover knew him too well. Those blacker than black eyes narrowed. “She knows your name now! What are you gonna to do if she comes callin? Serve her tea? Compare dresses? Do lunch with the Queen of Sheba?”

Ricky waved a hand at the couple putting their clothes back on in the room below the vent he and Xavier were currently hiding in. “Look at them, Xavier! They are finally happy!”

Xavier put his hands on his hips. “You just want the bridesmaid’s dress.”

Ricky shuddered. “No, mi corazón. Hideous pink taffeta? I think not.”

Xavier glared at him some more. “Next time one of these Fairy Godfather gigs comes up, I’m sitting on you until they’re done handing out the assignments.”

“Any time you wish, mi amor. Name the time and place. I’m always willing to have you in my lap.” He fluttered his lashes outrageously, pleased as punch when he coaxed a reluctant smile from his love.

Xavier shook his head sighed. “C’mon, Ricky. Looks like we’re done here. Let’s go home.”

“Si. Our work here is done.” Ricky fluttered off after his lover…

…and darted back for one last, quick peek at the couple in the office. He sighed at the sight of his two favorite people (other than Xavier, of course!) firmly ensconced in one another’s arms.

“And they lived happily ever after,” he whispered as Xavier came back and finally pulled him away.